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Like many things in John’s life, the letter confirming the date of his top surgery couldn’t have arrived without its own set of complications. In an ideal world, it would have been done and dusted years ago - but between picking himself up after coming out (and promptly having no choice except to run), working three jobs to keep a roof over his head during his training, and the long struggle to find a surgeon he trusted (and who would still be in the job by the time he reached the top of the waiting list), it was now long overdue. Now it was confirmed, he scrambled for his diary to scrawl the date down, as if it and the promise of a real surgery, his surgery, would slip away if he waited a moment too long. Only then did he realise that the date lay precisely a week before the busiest time of his working year - Holy Week, and all the chaos that Easter brought with it.
An hour or so later, he found himself on the phone to his bishop, his pride and heart lying somewhere on his cluttered study floor, cheek raw against the cool screen and fingers stinging against the hot mug of tea he’d made to replace the one that had gone forgotten in his panic. He’d gone as far as writing out what he needed to say in advance, his hands shaking as he looked for a way to politely ask for advice, only for it all to fall apart as his voice began to crack. The calm voice asking how long he would need pushed the tears even closer to spilling, held back only by the sharp sting of his teeth digging into his lip. “They said one to two weeks. So just a day too long to cover any of it. I’m so sorry Bishop, I know it couldn’t be at a worse time, but Heaven only knows how long it’ll take if I try to reschedule-”
“Reschedule?” Came the reply, the bishop’s mild surprise cutting him short, “There’s no question of that now, don’t be daft.” John sniffled into his cup of tea, smothering a laugh with a sip. “Now listen here a moment. I know you’re set in your ways and all that, but I’ve got a curate here who needs a new supervisor. He’s only got til summer of his training left, but there was some… argument, something about differences of belief with the last one, and so he’s been sent back to me. Could you put up with some young blood for a couple months, let him help you out for a bit?”
John’s eyes widened at that. He knew full well that he was far from the best of teachers, often too quick to lose his temper, or too set in his ways to nurture a new spark as well as he ought, especially when they insisted on making their sermons several hours too long. But on the other hand, as much as he hated to admit it, he knew he needed the help. “What’s his name?” He asked, trying to keep his tone non-committal without sounding ungrateful.
“Jopson? One of the bucket-loads of Thomases. Bit reserved, but meticulous, likes a job well done. Eager to please. Not the type to throw his toys out the pram at the sight of a rainbow flag if you get what I mean. Makes a good victoria sponge too…”
John cut the bishop off with a tired smile, knowing full well that he could gossip with the best of them given half the chance. “Sounds like we’ll get on alright then. What’s a couple of months anyway?”
“Good! Good,” the phone crackled a little under the weight of the bishop’s voice, before they dissolved into the usual pleasantries, allowing John to relax a little until another bombshell dropped. “You still have those extra rooms at your place, don’t you John? What was it, for the housekeepers in days gone by?”
“I- well yes, I have some spare space.” He replied, confusion creeping into his voice. “I’m not in need of a housekeeper though, I can work a washing machine well enough!”
“Good! Well if it’s not too much of an imposition, I was thinking that we could offer that to your new charge, hm? He’ll never be able to find a lease for that time in your area, not on his salary. Never know, might help to have someone round in case of any post-op wobbles…”
Three days (and some rapid tidying) later, John wondered quite how he’d found himself agreeing to host a stranger, let alone a new colleague, in his home for the foreseeable future. Normally he wouldn’t even have considered allowing it, and yet here he was, waiting for the crunch of gravel to announce the arrival of both bishop and curate. A lemon drizzle cake, fresh from the oven, sat waiting on the crisp tablecloth, a pot of tea ready to go on the counter. Having ducked back to the mirror to check that he looked presentable one more time, he cursed at the sound of the doorbell, hurrying back with his best pastoral smile plastered on. But there was only one man standing behind the door when it opened, an equally sheepish smile greeting him as the bishop’s car rumbled back down the driveway. “He told me to give you his apologies - something about a meeting he’d forgotten about, but Heaven help him if he could remember what it was meant to be about.”
Startled, John couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course he has! That’ll be the cathedral roof again I’ll wager.” He blurted out, before remembering his manners. “I’m John,” he added, sticking his hand out to shake before noticing that both of the newcomer’s were engaged with a suitcase, “please, come in. Is there anything I can help you with?”
Having introduced himself as Thomas, the man hesitated, before handing over his suitcase and reaching behind him for a box. “That’s all there is at least - I didn’t want to put the bishop out much,” he said, stepping inside and deftly wiping his feet on the mat, much to John’s relief after all the time he’d spent hoovering that morning.
Holding back his habitual nervous babble, John led Thomas further into the house, pointing out various rooms as he went. “Well, this is it.” He said, placing Thomas’ suitcase down in his new room before backing towards the door, “I’ll leave you to get settled, maybe put the kettle on if you’d like some tea?” He added, trying not to step on Thomas’ toes as he tried to figure out what the protocol for this situation could possibly be.
“That sounds lovely, thank you. I really do appreciate you doing all this for me, John, especially with your surgery coming up…” Thomas tailed off, the earnest look in his eyes speaking for him. (They were quite unlike anything John had ever seen, but he dared not chase that thought, knowing full well that it would only make him blush.)
“Not at all! I’m just sorry that it’ll come with an extra workload. Make yourself at home.” He stammered out, before fleeing to the kitchen. Leaning against the counter, he covered his face for a moment and smothered a groan. Of all the praises sung about Thomas, the bishop seemed to have neglected one vital piece of information- that he was terribly, terribly handsome.
After that first stilted teatime, during which they filled in the gaps in the bishop’s explanations (no, John wasn’t having surgery because he was at death’s door; yes, his congregation were mostly aware, and at least accepting if not outright supportive of his situation; maybe Thomas had started The Argument, but only because he wouldn’t stand for the tirades that his supervisor regularly indulged in, be it about the gays, climate change, or 5G), John tried to install a routine. He was determined to get everything he could organised well in advance, so that his congregation didn’t lose out for his gain. Thus between his services and rounds, he could reliably be found holed up behind his desk, organising music sheets, locating all of the previous years’ orders of service, and writing detailed guides for everyone from the servers and wardens to the organist so that they wouldn’t be left in the lurch. He’d been expecting Thomas to take some time to adjust to being out of his old parish and find his way around his new one, and thus took on most of his workload without a second thought. At the very least, he expected some shopping to be in order to fill the gaps left by the small suitcase - completely oblivious to the fact that Thomas could possibly be accustomed to this pattern of staying just long enough to get comfortable somewhere before ‘home’ decided it should be somewhere else.
And so while John was holded up in the vicarage, Thomas was getting to know the church inside and out. One day he was polishing the brass (far too early in Lent in John’s books); the next laundering, ironing, and generally reorganising the church’s whole linen cupboard (a job that John had been meaning to get to for years, honestly); other days he was resewing cassock buttons, fixing the altar cloths, charming the elderly ladies by helping them move their flower arrangements to exactly the right position… And after all that, he would still offer to cook for them both, that small smile ever ready on his face as soon as John paused for long enough to remember his pleases and thank yous. When they’d first met, they’d agreed that they both preferred to be busy; but while they both were, Thomas seemed to be glowing with it, his conversation light and easy as he spoke over dinner, his eyes dancing whenever he pulled a smile from John. John, on the other hand, was ignoring the sage advice of his doctor to take it easy for the next few weeks, staring at his screen until his eyes were too blurry to read anymore as he wrote, proofread, and printed sermons and services weeks in advance. Occasionally he’d arrive home from his early morning service to find them neatly folded and stapled into booklets, and stacked away neatly where they could be easily located later on. The perpetrator was rarely anywhere to be found, leaving only a half-pot of warm coffee in his wake.
John knew he needed to show his appreciation more, and to swallow his jealousy of Thomas’ easy competence, if he knew what was good for either of them. Thomas seemed to be happy with a simple thank you, but John knew all too well that his tone was only getting sharper with each late night, and that the concern in Thomas’ eyes was starting to be accompanied by a flash of hurt. It came to a head a week before the surgery. As per usual, John had retired to his desk, a couple of aspirin fighting valiantly to stave off the effects of the 5am start he’d had in order to cobble together a sermon worth preaching for that morning’s service. He was rubbing at his temples when the door creaked open, a soft knock followed by Thomas’ head peeking around it. “Whatever happened to the day of rest, John?” he asked lightly, “it’s close to midnight.”
“It got up and went, Thomas, unlike my to-do list, so if you don’t mind waiting until the morning...”
Thomas paused for a moment as he figured out quite how to proceed, before stepping further into the small room and daintily dodging the piles of books and papers littering the floor. “I’m afraid I do mind, John. You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends like this, not with your surgery this close-”
“Damn my surgery,” John spat, “I’ve got a million and one things that need doing before I worry about my bloody surgery!”
Thomas had the grace to look slightly affronted, but also the guts to keep on pushing. “With all due respect, John, isn’t that why I’m here? To take some of that pressure off so that you have time to rest up and prepare?” His voice was crisp and to-the-point, all things John usually admired; but now they only stoked his anger further.
“I don’t need coddling, Thomas! I can cope with running my own parish, thank you very much, and these all need doing sooner rather than later, so if you’ll excuse me-”
“No, I won’t I’m afraid,” Thomas’ quiet reply came, the stark difference in volume forcing John to realise that he’d been nearly shouting. “I know you won’t like it, because sharing the burden isn’t something you’re used to, but I’m not going to sit in your house and let you work yourself into the grave before you get something you’ve waited this long for. I know I’m in the housekeeper’s quarters, but I’m capable of doing a bit more than that.”
John opened his mouth to retort, only for the fight to flood out of him as the church bells began their midnight toll. “Damn,” he muttered, hiding his face in his hands for a moment with a shaky sigh. “‘M sorry, Thomas. You’ve been nothing but helpful since you arrived, and it’s not fair of me to take it out on you.” When he looked up, he found himself fixed with a concerned gaze, the piercing green of Thomas’ eyes seeming to dissect him where he sat.
“It’s not all that fair on yourself either is it though, John? When did you last let yourself think about your surgery as anything but an inconvenience, hm?” The only response John had to offer was a wide-eyed look of defeat, which had Thomas moving around the desk, saving the document on his laptop before shutting the lid with an air of finality. “Come on,” he murmured, “enough of that for tonight. I’ll get the kettle on.”
By the time John had extricated himself from his chair, ignored the cacophony of crunches and aches that came with it, and made his way to the kitchen, Thomas had two cups of tea on the go. He looked so peaceful to John’s tired eyes, his shirt sleeves rolled up, all snug in his slippers with a lock of hair escaping over his eyes as he made up their tea. Hearing his footsteps, Thomas turned to place one mug in John’s place, then fixed him with a look. “Get that in you at least,” he murmured, “and let's take another look at that list.” After a bit of cajoling, John found himself with a new to-do list, Thomas’ neat handwriting making his own look like his biro had simply rolled over the paper and called it a day. Now, instead of every other entry being marked “urgent”, it was divided into “Things I HAVE to do this week”; “things I’d like to be done before my op”, and “things I can ask Thomas to do if I can’t”. Thomas had his own list, taking on some of the services with the most consistent formats, tackling the filing system, and solving the latest spats between the organist and the lead soloist, as well as the new rift between the ladies who organised the tea, and those providing the flowers. “They know you’re a softy, and that’s why they’re running circles ‘round you,” He’d reassured John when he tried to dissuade him from that task in particular, “they’ll be too embarrassed to be petty in front of a stranger.” The tired smile that gained him was enough to give him one last push. “Now that’s settled though, it’s time you did something about the rings under your eyes, John. No more looking like death warmed up tomorrow please. I don’t want to see you up until I’m back from morning prayer, alright?” With a wry grin, he reached over and squeezed John’s shoulder, then pulled himself up and offered that same hand to John.
John looked at him steadily for a moment, before holding his hands up in defeat, “There’s no point arguing, is there?” he asked, accepting the hand with a sigh. As he hauled himself upstairs with more weight than he would’ve liked on the railings, he found himself glad for Thomas’ steady presence behind him when his knees turned to jelly. He turned to look at him once he was safely on the landing, a blush on his cheeks as he spoke once more. “Thank you for everything tonight, Thomas. I’m sorry I was so rude earlier, I don’t know what came over me-”
“It’s alright, John,” came the soft reply, “you’ve been in over your head. Just remember it’s okay to ask for help before you’re at your wits end, hm? And get some rest.” With that, he reached for the lightswitch, smothering John’s yawn in the darkness, “Goodnight John. Sleep well.”
~~~
The week that followed was calmer than John could have hoped for, especially after the week he’d just had. With his growing frustration and anger out of the picture, he finally relaxed into the rhythm of having someone else in the house, finding himself taking his turn in making mugs of tea, and padding through the house to deposit one by Thomas’ side as he worked. Their evenings devolved in taking turns to cook when they felt like it, John now finding the energy to put effort into his cooking once more. The weather had taken a sudden nosedive during the week, and John had found himself offering Thomas one of his jumpers to work in, knowing how cold the house could get. But by Friday, most of the work was done. The evening found them sat on the sitting room floor, a pizza box between them as they sorted through the masses of paperwork needed for the next few weeks well in advance so that Thomas would have a smooth run into the chaos of Holy Week. As the piles of paper found their homes in their respective files, the conversation shifted away from work into something lighter, John hanging on Thomas’ words as he stacked the files and tried not to think about how cosy Thomas looked in his jumper, his hands twisted in the excessive sleeves as he got comfortable. His eyes danced in the low light, his smile softening the mischief in them as they joked around, Thomas’ impressions of their superiors earning him a solid shove and a resounding chuckle as John relaxed in the knowledge that tomorrow could finally be a day off. With the night still young, the suggestion of a film came up, the two of them perching closer on the sofa than John had anticipated. After some time, he realised that he’d barely looked at the screen, instead watching Thomas’ face as he relaxed back into the sofa. He bit his lip, looking down into his lap as he fought down a blush, hoping that Thomas hadn’t noticed. Later, he’d write it off as jealousy of a kind, or at least a yearning for the effortlessly masculine air that Thomas seemed to carry with him. The end of the film in sight, he quietly left to make their evening mug of tea, slinking back in just in time for the credits.
Thomas looked up at him fondly, reaching for his mug with a soft murmur of thanks. “You’re very quiet tonight, John… Time for an early night?” He asked, peeking over his mug as he blew on his tea to cool it.
“Mm, it wouldn’t hurt I don’t think,” John replied, grateful for the diversion, “Got a hospital bag to pack in the morning after all.”
That seemed to spark Thomas' memory if the way he perked up had anything to say about it. “Speaking of, have they given you any idea of when you’ll be free to come home on Monday?”
“Mid-afternoon I should think. Why?” John asked, guarded. “Do you need me out of the way for a meeting or something?”
Thomas simply stared at him for a moment, baffled. “No, I meant so I know when to pick you up!” He replied, only looking more incredulous when John dared to still look confused, and even more so when he attempted to protest. “You didn’t think I was just going to leave you there, did you? How else were you planning to get home, flying carpet?”
“Thomas, there really is no need, I’ll manage someho-”
“Gonna teleport yourself straight back to your bed?”
“Thomas please-”
“I know you can’t drive after an operation, so what else are you going to do? Fly?” Thomas’ eyes were dancing as he grinned at John’s flustered expression, his teasing running rings around him and leaving him trapped in his kindness.
“Thomas, I- what am I supposed to say to that?” He asked finally, his brain grinding to a halt.
“Well I’d suggest “Thank you Thomas, I’d say around X o’ clock”, but it’s up to you.”
Met with that impish grin, John couldn’t help but shove him with his shoulder, revelling in the victorious laughter it drew from Thomas. “Well, if you’re sure… thank you. I know your schedule must be packed, so you don’t need to go out of your way for me-”
“What kind of friend would leave you stranded there, hm?” Thomas replied, and although John managed a smile in reply, that word “friend” needled at him for the rest of the evening, raising all sorts of questions for which he had no answers.
~~~
By Sunday, he was all but ready to have it over and done with. There were only so many well-wishes he could cope with, and having seemingly shaken every hand in the congregation by noon, it felt more like he was expected to climb Everest than be operated on. Having cooked them a roast for lunch, Thomas sent them both deep into a food coma for most of the afternoon, before rustling up a pile of toast while John checked and rechecked his hospital bag to make sure that all was as it should be for the morning. After they’d eaten, Thomas continued to sit very still, looking several shades of sheepish until John asked what he was hiding. Out from behind the throw cushion came a hand-wrapped parcel, replete with a neatly tied string bow. “I know it isn’t much, but I thought you might like this. ‘S just a little care package, something to get you through the next few days…”
John’s eyes welled up as he stared down at the mass of brown paper in his lap, filled with little treats and creature comforts, and even a tiny teddy bear nestled beneath them all. “Thomas this is- I don’t know what to say,” he said, honestly, his voice cracking a little at the end, “this is so thoughtful of you, thank you, I-” he babbled, breaking off as one of Thomas’ arms snuck around his waist and pulled him in.
“It’s okay, John. You’re welcome.”
John would be lying if he said he didn’t cry a little then, dabbing at his cheeks as it all came tumbling out. “I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done these last few weeks, it’s-it’s been above and beyond what you needed to, what with pulling me out of my gloom and taking on those services and-”
“It’s what I’m here for, John. I’m right here to do whatever needs doing. You don’t have to carry it all alone anymore.”
“I’d forgotten what it’s like to not live alone, you see,” John babbled on, “It’s been so long, and even when I did, it’s not like they’d even use my real name and it’s just.... Good. ‘m glad to have you around.” It was far from his usual eloquent self, but if the sympathetic squeeze he received from Thomas was anything to go by, his meaning came across loud and clear.
John wasn’t expecting to feel such a sense of loss when Thomas moved away, a chill springing up where his warmth had been, and his scent clinging to John’s jumper even as they went their separate ways.
It wasn’t until the lights were out that John’s mind began to turn. He had been expecting to be nervous, but this anxiety wasn’t so much about his operation as it was about the feelings beginning to churn up inside him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Thomas’ earnest, open expression, his eyes wide enough to drown in, his soft lips and skin begging to be touched, worshipped, loved… He’d assumed for some time that after everything that had happened, he wouldn’t want anyone like this anymore, let alone a- he cut that thought short, telling himself sharply that now was not the time for a sexuality crisis. Yet his mind didn’t follow his orders to simply shut up and sleep, and after what felt like hours of tossing and turning, he gave up, switching the lamp back on and reaching for his bible to settle his mind, hoping to drown it all out with the familiar words. Partway through John’s Gospel, he heard movement, followed by a soft knock on the door. “Can’t sleep?” came Thomas’ voice, thick with tiredness, his usual crisp accent giving way to something much less chiseled.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” John asked, taking in how Thomas looked with his hair all mussed with sleep, all his clean lines softened in the lamplight. “You don’t have to be up just because I am.”
“You need anything? There’s some chamomile downstairs, or we can talk about it, or…”
John smiled softly up at Thomas, noticing how he worried at his sleeve where he stood. “I’m okay, really Thomas. Just a lot on my mind, that’s all.”
It wasn’t enough to stop Thomas’ stream of offers, hesitation writ large across his face as he pushed the boundaries a little further. “I can pray with you, if you’d like? Whatever helps the most.” John simply gestured to the bed next to him in response, and ignored how his chest seemed to ease once he felt Thomas’ warmth next to him again.
Neither could tell how much time had passed as they offered their petitions up together, a comfortable silence filling the space between each one until they had run their course, and moved on naturally into the age-old words of the compline. As they reached the final “amen” together, John reached out, placing one hand over Thomas’ folded ones and squeezing gently. “Thank you for this, Thomas. It means the world.” He regretted it almost immediately as Thomas’ eyes opened, almost hypnotising as they were darkened by the low light, and oh so close for a few moments, until he moved back to meet John’s gaze more comfortably.
“You’re welcome, John. ‘m just glad I can help.” He murmured, making to leave before noticing how John shrank in on himself as he did so. “Is there anything else I can do, John? Anything at all?”
John’s mind whirled as he crushed all the thoughts that were not welcome in his mind just then, the ones begging Thomas not to go, to stay with him, to hold him-
“Would a hug help, maybe?” Thomas prompted, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes and stepping in. John nodded mutely, reaching up before being hugged tight, his face buried in the crook of Thomas’ neck, the tension bleeding out of him as he suddenly remembered just how safe this kind of touch could make him feel. “Thank you,” he whispered, trying not to sag too heavily against Thomas as he revelled in the feeling. He was so wrapped up in it all that, for the first time in goodness knows how long, he didn’t even notice how his softer chest felt pressed against Thomas’ lean one, even without the safe barrier of a binder between them. For now, he was just one man, feeling safe in the arms of another. And that was enough.
~~~
When Thomas dropped him off in the hospital car park the next morning, it was all he could do not to cling on to him, the anxiety beginning to build in earnest and urging him to run. But he held fast, forcing himself to let go when he felt Thomas start to pull away, and even managing a smile as he waved goodbye. Once he was in the hands of the nurses, and being given simple instructions, it was so much easier to stop thinking and do as he was asked. As he sat waiting in his hospital gown, the weight on his chest seemed heavier than ever, as if it knew this was its last chance to cause him harm. He tried to think of Thomas, hoping that would ease his mind - but instead, all it brought were more ‘what if’s, as he wondered how much he’d regret it if he’d just thrown away his last chance to say anything of those tiny feelings that were just beginning to spark within him, especially if they might have been reciprocated... But then the anesthesiologist was introducing herself, and everything afterwards merged into a blur.
The sun was painting the room golden by the time he began to come around properly, his eyes fuzzy and mouth dry. After a few blinks, he caught sight of someone in the chair beside him, a familiar book in his hand. Thomas was back, in his sweater again no less, the bright colours of the queer poetry book in his hand clear even to John’s foggy mind. He did his best to croak out Thomas’ name; and regardless of how little it might have sounded like it, it did the trick in catching his attention, his concerned expression clear as he reached for the cup of water on the bedside table. His words sounded distorted to begin with, but the soothing tone was enough until he had some water in him, Thomas’ warning to take small sips not falling on entirely deaf ears. Once the pain kicked in, however, things took a little longer as Thomas called for a nurse, making sure he got the relief that he needed. Once he could think of anything but the pain, he reached out for Thomas’ hand where it lay beside him, and squeezed it gently.
“Hullo you,” Thomas murmured, smiling warmly down at him as he shuffled his chair closer. “Do I ask how you’re feeling yet, or give it a few more minutes?”
John was awake enough to grin at least, before he finally dared to look down at his chest. He knew he’d never be able to describe that kind of relief to someone who hadn’t felt it, but the tears on his cheeks seemed to tell Thomas what he needed to know, followed by his hoarse whisper of “‘s done. ‘S finally done.” Thomas was there to stop his attempts to brush his tears away with his hands, protecting the lines still piercing them with a practiced hand before easing John back against the pillows and wiping them away himself, brushing the hair back from his forehead as he settled.
“There now John, you’re alright, see? How’s that for a weight off your chest?” He joked, not really expecting a response.
“Y‘ve no idea…. They’re a pain in the back. And the neck. And the…. Everything.” John gestured vaguely, his voice still hoarse. “Bloody melons. Dunno what all the fuss is about.”
Taken by surprise, Thomas couldn’t help but giggle, the relief flooding through him that the John he knew was safe and well within his prone body.
“Never saw the attraction myself, I’ve got to say!” He replied, wondering what was going through John’s mind as his eyes flickered between his face and the book deposited in a heap in the table - wondering if he was conscious enough to be making the connection.
The silence stretched on long enough that Thomas wondered if John had fallen back asleep, only for his dopey voice to pipe up again. “Y’know what’s really a weight off my chest? Apart from my tits?” He asked, Thomas biting his tongue at the combination of John’s dead serious tone and his thoroughly out of character language.
“What’s that, John?”
“Having you here. ‘M glad everything’s in your hands. You’re a good man, ‘nd I trust you. Know you’d keep ‘em safe ‘nd happy ‘f something happened t’ me.”
Thomas’ breath caught in his throat, feeling thoroughly taken aback at the weight of that statement. Just a few weeks ago, John had fought tooth and claw to keep as much control over his parish as he could, but now…
“‘nd I know you’d be good to me ‘f something bad did happen.” John continued, his voice soft as he rambled on sleepily, “Y’ wouldn’t leave me to get worse alone or ‘nything.”
“Of course I wouldn’t, John!” Thomas interrupted him, horrified at the thought, “I know how much we all need you too much to let a single thing happen to you, how much everyone at church needs you-” he broke off, tucking that one lock of hair back again as he considered holding his tongue “- how much I need you. Not just for my job and all but as a man. As a friend or- well, a companion or something.”
His tongue tied itself up in knots as he tried to speak, and he gave up as he felt John’s hand holding tightly onto his again. His blue eyes were still hazy with the drugs they’d doubtless pumped him full of, (and how quickly Thomas had to push that thought away, thinking of the amount of times he’d sat with his mother just like this in her final years), but there was something behind the haze, emotions flickering too quickly for Thomas to understand.
“D’you think I can go home soon? Wanna be back home with you not… like this.” John murmured, a crease appearing between his eyebrows even as the tiredness seeped into his voice.
“Soon, John. I’ll get you back as soon as I can, alright?” He murmured, stroking John’s hair back as he frowned tiredly at Thomas’ non-answer. “Just rest for me now, Johnny,” he murmured, watching how John’s eyelids fluttered shut at the gentle touch so intently that he didn’t even notice the nickname as it slipped out.
John’s mind was filled with a thousand thoughts just then, all sorts of longing and confusion and questions swirling up together, and then immediately being dispersed by a simple touch. His chest ached, and his heart did too as Thomas’ voice lulled him to sleep, the nickname falling over him like a dream as he dropped back off into the darkness.
~~~
The next 48 hours were something of a blur to John; after all, medication this strong was a foreign entity to him, leaving his days marked either by waking up to the pain, or to Thomas’ soft voice as a parade of soups and medications passed through his room, easing things a little more each time. It was rare for him to wake alone in that time (a fact that would’ve surprised him if he’d been able to string a coherent thought together just then, knowing full well just how much was on Thomas’ to-do list) - yet it seemed to be that he’d find him there every time, sometimes sat at the small desk by the window, his eyes glinting in the sun as he worked through emails, or sketched out vague ideas for the mass of sermons he’d need for the coming week. Other times he’d wake just as Thomas arrived, mugs of tea in hand, perhaps a couple of get well soon cards and baked goods to accompany them, and a warm smile that put him at ease in a way he hadn’t expected. So much for not wanting to be coddled, he thought one afternoon as he dozed in the sun, the familiar scratch of Thomas’ pen racing across the page lulling him to sleep. As he started to adjust, however, he found himself getting more and more talkative, not wanting their time together to be over when his alarm told him it was “meds o’ clock” once more, and chattering over it to delay the disruption a little longer.
He’d never expected Thomas to be this hands-on with his care, expecting him to keep a colleague-like distance at very least. He’d been tutted at for that, Thomas’ hands batting his away when he tried to insist on handling his own bandages. “Acts of service aren’t just for Maundy Thursday, John,” he teased in the hopes of easing the frown on John’s face. “I won’t if it really makes you that uncomfortable, but I won’t let you hurt yourself if it’s a struggle, hm?”
John knew full well he couldn’t have argued with that, even if he might’ve tried had his mind been clearer, letting his hands drop to his sides as he felt the twinge from stretching his stitches too far, too soon. Defeatedly, he let Thomas move him around as he needed, feeling more like a bag of wet sand then himself in the moment, biting at his lip while Thomas checked over the incisions with gentle hands, and feeling his heart picking up at the feeling of someone else touching him there , where barely anything but his binders and surgeons had been in years. He’d shut his eyes, trying to focus on Thomas’ soothing voice as he reassured him that it was nearly over, swaying forward every time he found himself in this position to rest his head against Thomas’ shoulder, shutting his eyes against the dizziness.
By the end of the first week, it had become almost routine; Thomas would bring their food up to John’s room, throw his dog collar down on the desk, and they’d talk through Thomas’ day as they ate, John determined to keep up on the local gossip that seemed to spiral on, day in, day out. If he tended to drag the conversation out in order to delay his bandages being changed, he wasn’t going to admit it any time soon - just as he wouldn’t admit that it did feel better for being done. This particular Sunday had been Thomas’ first big service of the Easter week, and it had almost been uneventful (that was, once he’d found the ‘safe place’ that John had stored the palm crosses for the morning services). John was eager to know how it had been, living vicariously through Thomas’ account of one of his favourite moments of year. The light of the sunset danced over Thomas’ face as he spoke, drawing John’s eyes to all the places he’d promised himself not to look, from the soft curve of his lips to the strip of skin peeking out from beneath his unbuttoned collar, his eyes shooting back up to meet Thomas’ whenever he caught himself. After they were finished, Thomas had led them in a short communion service in an attempt to help John feel more connected to the rhythms of the year that he was missing out on, their hands brushing unintentionally at every turn.
It was his hands that held John’s focus the most as the evening wore on, following their journeys through various gestures, and the occasional shift to tuck back that ever-errant lock of hair whenever it chose to escape again. Now that the pain was less overbearing, John finally felt the warm, soft skin of his palms as he gently supported his bared back, his deft fingers working the bandages as if it was second nature to him, and the hidden strength that showed itself as Thomas eased him back against the pillows. Even then, his hands continued to move, settling John’s t-shirt back into place, tucking the blankets around him, and finally reaching up to smooth his hair down once again, his soft voice like silk as he murmured “there, John. All done.”
Before he really knew what he was doing, John reached up to catch hold of Thomas’ wrist as he began to pull away, holding his palm against his cheek for a moment and leaning into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut as he savoured the brush of Thomas’ thumb over his cheekbone. Then, naturally as breathing, he turned a little further, and pressed his lips to Thomas’ palm. Only then did his conscience catch up with him, his eyes flying open as he realised what he’d just done. He flinched back quickly, his gaze not quite reaching Thomas’ face as he avoided the look of disgust, or worse, pity, that he knew would be there. “I- I’m so sorry Thomas, I don’t know what came over m-” he sputtered out, his cheeks flaring and stitches cringing as he moved to sit up, a sharp gasp acting as his body’s warning him that he was in no state to run from what he’d done.
But then Thomas’ hands were back, one pressing flat against his sternum and urging him to lie back down, the other hovering hesitantly by his side. John’s eyes were wide, and his breathing rapid as he was gently guided back against the soft pillows, just waiting for Thomas to tell him that it was the meds talking, and that he should get some sleep and let them both forget this ever happened and-
“Breathe, John,” came that soft voice again, even as John tried not to flinch away from what was coming. He couldn’t help holding his breath as Thomas’ hand drifted towards his face, then berated himself for even thinking that he might slap him. This was Thomas, after all, and not his family. “Look at me a moment?” Thomas tried again, the lilt to his voice transforming what might have been a command into something closer to a plea. When John hesitated, Thomas’ fingers drifted over his cheek, featherlight on the delicate skin before they settled back to cup it once again. “It’s alright to have what you want, Johnny. You only needed to ask.” He added, feeling John’s breath catching under his touch and realising that, for now, it was on him to take the lead. Ever so slowly, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to John’s forehead and letting it linger as he felt his brow tense against his lips before relaxing again. “‘M here, John. If that’s what you want, I’m here. And I know I certainly wouldn’t say no if it is.”
John’s chest was heaving by the time Thomas pulled away, his mind running through question after question as he tried to decide if this was really happening, or if was just his medication and latent touch-starvation driving him mad. “Th’mas?” he croaked out, peeling his eyes open to meet Thomas’ gentle gaze, searching his face for answers, before whispering out all he could think of - a simple “please?”
Thomas ached to tease John then, but the openly terrified look in his eyes told him not to risk it. Slowly, he leaned in closer, gently bumping their noses together as he whispered, “Please what, Johnny? Please this?” Then, holding his weight carefully to keep the pressure off John’s chest, he pressed their lips together, reaching out to hold John as he felt him sag against him, overwhelmed.
John knew that there was plenty that he’d missed out on in the time he’d spent struggling to stay afloat in the years after he’d come out - but he’d never imagined it could feel as good as this. He couldn’t help the choked whimper that he uttered into Thomas’ mouth as he tried to haul himself closer, the need to feel his warmth taking over everything else. His fingers found their grip in Thomas’ dark hair, disturbing it from its precise styling as he pressed up against him, chasing him as if he were breath itself. By the time they broke apart, panting, Thomas’ lips were swollen with it, framing his broad smile. John couldn’t help but giggle then, all the mixed-up feelings of fear, of guilt, of yearning, of relief escaping in the bright sound, and echoed by Thomas. “Y-you meant it? Really?” He asked once he’d regained himself a fraction, blurting the words out before he could swallow them back down.
“I did, John. There’s plenty more where that came from, don’t you fret.” Thomas replied, shifting up the bed to hold a rattled John against his chest before that vulnerable look could even think about returning. “And yes I’m sure, before you start down that route.”
“I-” John started, before giving up with a sigh and nuzzling in against Thomas’ chest. He was just as warm as he’d hoped, hauling himself closer with an arm around his waist and breathing in his scent as he let himself process that this was really happening.
Thomas gave him all the time he needed, leaning his cheek against John’s hair and feeling the rapid pace of their hearts finally beginning to even out as they settled. He did his best not to jump when John spoke up again, his voice slightly muffled with what sounded like nerves.
“I ought to tell you I’ve not done… this before. With anyone. I was never brave enough.” he said, his blue eyes guarded as he looked up to Thomas in the low light.
“We can figure that out, Johnny. There’s no rush now. We’ll take it at our own pace. ‘Nd if there’s anything you’re not ready for, now or ever, then there’s no need for it here.” John’s eyes shone in reply, his mouth hanging slightly open as he tried to figure out how on earth to respond to that.
“Whatever did I do to deserve all this?” He murmured, before reaching up for another kiss, sweet and soft as the smile it left on his face afterwards.
“You waited. Trusted. Did all the good you could in the meantime. Now let me give some of that good back in return, hm?” He replied, his own honesty startling him, and earning him a starstruck smile before John tucked himself back against Thomas’ chest and blinked up at him tiredly.
Later, he’d turn that gaze on Thomas again as he asked him to stay with him that night, knowing full well that they couldn’t risk it while his stitches were so fresh. But even if he couldn’t stay all that long, Thomas held him until he was asleep, feeling the tension drop from his shoulders as he coaxed him to rest with soft whispers and touches, and then eased himself away with a final kiss to John’s forehead, his expression relaxed and open in his sleep.
~~~
In hindsight, Holy Week was a terrible time to be starting something new; but, Thomas reckoned, it was good to have someone to come home to. John did his best to help, despite the scoldings it earned him, responding to emails when Thomas was deep in writing something much more solemn, and slowly easing back into walking as the week went on. By the time Good Friday rolled around, he was beginning to feel restless with the whole situation, especially as he saw how Thomas was simultaneously beginning to tire. Having persuaded him into eating something to settle his stomach, John sent him out with a reassuring kiss, his own stomach clenching at the idea of missing something so important. Left alone in the kitchen, he turned to baking to occupy his mind and keep himself somewhat in the rhythm of long service of the last hours. By the time the clock struck three, his hot cross buns were ready to go in the oven, their pattern meticulously neat through no small effort. By the time they were on the cooling rack, John was paying less attention, one eye on the door even as he glazed them, the syrup glistening, marking his progress as he moved along the rows.
It wasn’t the usual, bright Thomas that eventually dragged himself through the door, and although this was no surprise to John, it still pulled at his heart to see him like this. Silently, he took Thomas’ coat, hanging his cassock beside the door before reaching to unbutton his collar, tugging it free as he pressed a kiss to his cheek. “That’s the worst of it over now, love. I promise it gets easier from here.” He murmured, taking his hand and tugging him through to the kitchen where their tea was waiting.
“Is it always harder on your own?” Thomas asked softly, his eyes following John around the kitchen, “and those better not be homemade, Reverend Bedrest.” John couldn’t help a cheeky smile at that, pressing a kiss to Thomas’ cheek as he placed a bun down in front of him, butter melting deep from its surface.
“It’s never any fun, if that’s what you mean. But after this year, hopefully you won’t need to go it alone again.” He answered honestly, knowing full well the weight that tended to follow him round for the afternoon after that service. “And would you really turn down the fruits of my labour if they are?!” He teased back, glad to see some life coming back into Thomas’ eyes as he bit into it, his shoulders dropping a few inches as he began to eat.
Once he’d torn Thomas away from the minutiae of preparations for the next few days, John insisted on holding him for a while, his hands rubbing the tension from his shoulders as he kissed the new lines on his forehead. “You’ve time to rest for now, Thomas. Don’t throw that away, hm?” He murmured, smiling against his skin at the muffled accusation of his own hypocrisy. It didn’t stop Thomas from snuggling closer as he dozed - and if he stayed right where he was until dawn broke, then he’d put it down to his own exhaustion, and not at all to the feeling of safety and protection he found in the circle of John's arms, or to the soft pleasure on John’s face when he woke with him by his side, tucked up warm and safe against him.
~~~
And then, sure as the sun rises, Easter morning was there again, and not a moment too soon in Thomas’ opinion. John had surprised him with a basket of chocolate eggs in his place at the breakfast table when he returned from the earliest service, before serving up fluffy scrambled eggs (with a side of terrible egg-based puns to fit the theme, all but forcing Thomas to kiss him quiet), to get him through those that remained. Thomas didn’t dare ask how he’d managed it all, knowing that some things would always remain secret in a parish this close-knit. “Mind an eggs-tra seat filled in your service this morning, vicar?” John asked as he stood to clear the table, his tone teasing as he turned away.
Thomas groaned in defeat, jokingly bashing his head against the table before he stood, following John to wrap his arms around John's waist, and press a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t think anyone could stop you once you’ve made your mind up, John, and you know that just as well as I do!” He teased, resting his face in the crook of John's neck before continuing, “But it would be nice to have you there, if you’re feeling up to it?”
Two hours later, and John found himself looking across his church from a decidedly different viewpoint. Like Christmas, Easter tended to bring a wide variety of people from beyond the usual congregation, giving him a chance to catch up with those he didn’t see all too often. One of the more elderly ladies, renowned for her scone-making skills across the county, was particularly interested in what had brought him down from the altar, and even more so in his replacement. “He seems like a charming young man,” she’d told John in the half-hour before the service began, “don’t suppose he’s single with looks like that now, is he?”
John bit down on his tongue to avoid grinning too wide as he replied, “I’m afraid not, Mrs Bennett. That one’s well and truly taken.” By me , he added mentally, nodding sympathetically as she cursed her luck, before toddling off to inspect this year’s floral offerings.
Once the service began, however, no-one else’s opinions seemed to matter. The bright morning sunlight flooded the whole church, setting the gold embroidery of Thomas’ robes alight and making his eyes shine as he addressed the congregation. John couldn’t take his eyes off him, relieved he’d sat in the front row so that no-one could see the proud, lovesick look on his face as he hung on Thomas’ every word. He knew full well that he couldn’t have handled it better himself, and would make sure that he’d told Thomas so once they were safely home and rested. His voice, strong and clear, commanding each word of the gospel, his strong tenor leading each hymn with ease, each blessing warm and deeply felt. If pride was a sin, then John was willing to go down for it as he watched on, drowning in his admiration of the man he was now allowed to call his own. He only just managed to coax himself through the sea of well-wishers and pleasantries after the service, his eyes sweeping the crowd to search for Thomas’ bright smile at every opportunity, and slowly edging himself closer to his side.
After the church had emptied, John took on what he could in the near-privacy of the vestry, carefully folding the special Eastertide robes just as Thomas liked, and tidying away the remnants of a packed week of services. He turned back to find Thomas signing off the last segment of the record of congregation numbers, his signature just as precise as the rest of him. Sliding a hand under his jacket at the small of his back to feel his warmth, John rubbed a soft circle there as he ran his eyes over the familiar format, noticing the stark difference between Thomas’ neat writing and his own mathematician's scrawl with a fond grin. “You ready to go home now, love?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to Thomas’ cheek and feeling him lean into it.
“More than ready. Need home, food, bed, ‘nd you. Well, you with all of them, preferably, but-” John cut off Thomas’ rambling with a swift kiss, feeling daring for doing so in the church where they could potentially be seen; but for now, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Offering his arm to Thomas in lieu of holding his hand just yet, he gestured to the door. “You’ve got me, darling. Lead on.”
And so off they went, out into the bold noon sun, John leaning on Thomas as he began to tire, but still pausing to collect a sprig of blossom by the gate of their home (and it was theirs now, at least for the time being), tucking it behind his ear along with that one lock of hair, and kissing his nose as Thomas blinked confusedly for a moment before grinning back at him. “Well, we made it!” he said as he unlocked the door and gestured to John to step in first.
“What a month, honestly. Whatever comes next can only be boring in comparison to all this!” John replied in kind, turning to face Thomas before reaching out to hold him for a moment, pressing their chests together with barely a second thought. He felt Thomas’ arms squeeze tight around his soft waist, and melted into the touch as he spoke.
“Not boring, I don’t think. Can’t possibly be boring now we’ve got each other, hm?” Thomas’ mouth quirked against his shoulder as John desperately searched for a retort, only to kiss him soundly instead, buying himself some more thinking time, and smiling against his lips until they paused for breath.
“Oh of course, I’d forgotten my calendar is still completely booked up!” He said, eyes gleaming with his own bashful cheekiness as he grinned down at Thomas. “Let me see now, what have I got on? I need to… make Thomas smile? Kiss Thomas goodnight, and good morning, and good everything-in-between? Fall even more in love with Thomas? Count how many freckles Thomas has in summe-” It was his turn to be kissed quiet now, his high spirits leaving him laughing openly as Thomas hauled him down onto the sofa and into his lap, where John settled himself with a contented hum.
“Sounds much more fun than last month, Johnny. When can we get started?” Thomas asked, gazing up at the flush gracing John’s cheeks.
A few hours of laughter, kisses, and closeness later, they both decided that right now had indeed been a very good place to start.