I tried to push deeper into his kiss, but my hands were still held above my head. I couldn’t reach up and run my hands through his gorgeous hair, and I couldn’t pull him into me and make him touch me where I wanted to be touched.

What am I doing? I'm lying here with a man straddling me. I'm a sod. Such a sod. I don’t think I’m even ashamed.

The rough wood floor was digging into my back, and everything hurt: my wrists, my back, my hips, my lips, and my lungs. His chest was pushing into mine like he wanted us to morph together and become one, which I probably wouldn’t have minded all too much, but the bliss was lasting too long.

Where is my mother? She would have barged in by now. She hates Tom, and she definitely hates the concept of me being alone with Tom. And if she hates something, she goes out of her way to bitch about it. Well, I don’t hear any bitching!

I made a sound of refusal that got Thomas’s attention and told him to stop. I tried to pull my wrists down, and Tom finally got the hint, sitting up and letting go of my hands. And damn, he looked so nice like that. He just sat on top of me, panting with a slight smile as he stared down at me with those enchanting eyes of his. His milky brown hair was, oh, so perfect, except for the single curl that always hung in front of his left eye. So beautiful.

"Where's” —I took another breath— "my mother?"

Tom looked down at my stomach with a slightly guilty look, but he didn’t answer me.

I groaned and nudged for him to get off, so he swung one leg over my body and sat down across from me. I pushed myself to my feet and told him, “Alright, I have to go check on her, but you, stay here.”

He nodded in agreement and pulled his knees into his chest. I casted him one last quick look before walking out of my room, closing the door behind me. I scanned the seemingly empty living room and found it strange that no one was there. Her bedroom door was open, so she hadn’t gone back in after answering the door. I was puzzled all right up until I heard a voice just above a whisper, “John?”

I walked around the couch and found my mother collapsed. Panic rose into my throat as I fell to my knees beside her and put my hand on her face to make her look at me. "What's wrong, Ma? Are you hurt?" I asked quickly.

She winced as my movements nudged her body. “My hip,” she whined. “I think he broke it."

Tears pricked under my eyes, but I willed them away. My heart didn’t want to believe it, but my mind latched on to the accusation immediately. He broke my mother’s hip; he seduced me and tried to persuade me to turn to his ways. This was the excuse I had been looking for to deny him. I wanted him so bad, but I couldn’t possibly have that if I considered him a bad person. I couldn’t like him if I hated him. And that’s all it took to convince myself that he was the enemy and that I was a victim.

I got up and stormed to my door, practically kicking it down to open it. "Thomas, get the hell out of my house!" I was screaming again.

"What? What did I do?" Tom panicked, scrambling to his feet fearfully.

"You broke my mother’s hip, you fucking bastard."

"She wouldn’t let me in, and when I pushed her away, she fell. I had to see you, and she was never going to let that happen."

"You think that matters? She has to be bedridden for the rest of her fucking life." Rage was laced into my voice like doilies.

He was without words. He kept trying to start sentences to excuse himself, but he couldn't quite finish them. Thomas had basically given my mother the death sentence, and he knew that. A broken hip was the point of no return, and what could he do to ever make up for that?

"I think you need to leave," I stressed in a calmer tone.

"John, please ju—”

"No, Thomas. This isn’t up for discussion. Leave,” I asserted myself, but I was afraid to look up. If I did, I'd forgive him, and I didn’t want to forgive him.

“Please?” he begged me, but I didn’t answer.

Finally, he took it upon himself to show himself the way out. His departure left me feeling unreasonably guilty. I wanted him to stay but knew he couldn't, not after what he had done. Somewhere inside though, I knew I wasn’t really angry at him. I just wasn’t ready to admit that.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

March 14, 1859

My mother couldn't move from her bed, so sometimes in the afternoon, I’d sat with her and read her books. She'd gasp and sigh at all the twists and turns like a captivated audience. Her favorite was Jane Eyre; I remember that.

One day as I was reading to her, she interrupted me to tell me that she wanted soup again. Specifically, she wanted me to make the same soup that I had cooked on the first day I’d arrived. It flattered me really. Subtly, she was admitting that I was good at something, and that made me feel nice. So, I agreed, but I told her I’d have to run to the market first.

It was March, so I made sure to get a light coat. I had bought a new one since I refused to go back to Pen Ink's in the off chance that Thomas was there. It might have been a bit petty, but it didn’t stop me from seeing Tom at all.

I often avoided leaving the home for this exact reason. He was always staked outside of my apartment in wait for the moment I'd leave so that he could capture me. Sometimes I’d peek into the hall to see if he was really still there, but he always was. He just leaned against the wall with a cigarette, smirking like he'd known that I was about to check on him again. No matter how long I waited—no matter how many times I checked—he was there from six A.M. to six P.M.

This time was no different. The moment I stepped one foot out the door, he called out to me, “John! Wait up.”

I didn’t though. I rushed down the hall, heading straight for the staircase. I raced down the steps, hoping to escape him, but his footsteps kept perfect pace with me. I was only inches away from the front door when he caught my arm, spinning me around to face him.

"Please, let me go with you. I may not know where we are going, but let me come," he said softly.

“We’re not going anywhere,” I hissed, but I didn’t mean it at all.

He smelled of smoke, and with each shifting movement, the scent was wafted toward me. His usual dark brown irises were almost black, and he had bags under his eyes. His milk brown hair looked like it hadn't been combed in months.

What if it hasn't?

His whole demeanor had said 'just kill me', and he was holding onto my arm so lightly as to say 'if you want to leave, leave', but I never wanted to leave. I wanted to stay right there in that moment forever. Just him and me. Right there.

That was what I had been so afraid of. I’d been afraid of seeing him—touching him—because the instant I did, I gave in. I couldn't resist him, no matter how hard I tried, because I didn’t want to resist him.

“Please,” he breathed hopelessly, his hand slowly dropping from my arm in defeat.

Regretfully, I caught it in my own and laced our fingers together, looking down at them while biting my lip. “Fine,” I muttered before walking off, my fingers falling away from his.

He was shocked at first, but once reality seemed to catch up to him, he went after me. That smile was back on his face, and his dimple was back. He looked genuinely happy, and he was full of energy. It was as if I had breathed life into him. The effect I had on him was beautiful really.

"So, where are we going?” he sighed in relief.

"To the market," I replied monotonously.

I saw him nod in affirmation. Then, we walked in silence. I wasn’t all too comfortable, honestly. I felt on edge like any sudden movements would send me running. I was jumpy, and my chest was tight. On the other hand, Thomas was so relaxed. He just sauntered along beside me as if all that mattered was that I let him be there. It seemed that way whenever he reached out the slightest amount to brush his hand against mine. I flinched away from him at the touch, which made him look over at me in concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I said nothing.

The market was in sight, just down the street. It was right there. So close. We only walked a couple of steps before Tom grabbed me by my arm again. I almost tripped over my feet as he dragged me in between two buildings. Once we were hidden in the shadows, he pulled me towards him with his hands on both of my arms. I didn't try to struggle. I didn't want to struggle. I wanted to be there. I also wanted to be anywhere but there.

"Stop doing this," he pleaded as his eyes searching me for any kind of reaction or emotion—any sign that I still cared about him.

"Doing what?" I pretended to be clueless.

"This. Ignoring me. It's been seven months, John,” —he paused to breathe a shaking breath— "seven."

I was staring at the cement as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, but it wasn't. It was standing right in front of me. The thing I wanted most; the thing I didn't want to want the most.

He didn't push me into saying anything; he just pulled me into his warm embrace instead. I rested my head on his shoulder, and one of his hands moved to my head and got tangled into my hair. I could feel his emotions washing off of him; it was all longing and desperation, and it struck me. Tom pulled away from me and grabbed my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him. His breath warmed my face as he leaned in very slowly—so slowly—and kissed me. It was so soft and had me kissing him back immediately. His loneliness spilled over the edges of his soul and into mine, filling me with so many feelings that I didn’t know how to convey. Everything I wanted was right there, and it didn’t matter if I didn’t want to want it; I did, and that was the end of that.

The kiss ended too quickly but so slowly, but as soon as it did, I snapped out of my utopic daydream. This was the real world, and as much as I wanted it, I wasn’t supposed to have it. I pushed out of his arms and hurriedly walked out of the alleyway. I heard his footsteps behind mine for a second or two, but I heard them stop once we were both out on the street again. I kept going, yet he never followed.

I won't turn back; I promise. I can't turn back.

But I just can't help myself, can I?

I threw a glance over my shoulder and saw Tom leaning against the brick, lighting a cigarette with a knowing smirk. His hair fell into his eyes as he stared at me from behind his long lashes. He threw his match down and tucked the rest into his jacket. I watched as Tom took the cigarette into his hand and blew out the smoke.

The market will have to wait.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

He kissed my chest through heaving breaths before rolling off of me to lay on the bed beside me. I leaned my head back and felt the sweat dripping down my sideburns, almost into my ears. We were both just staring at the ceiling in retrospect as we tried to catch our breaths. Tom laid with his hands across his bare stomach, and every once in a while, I would see him squint the sweat out of his eyes. Those goddamn lashes of his.

"So," Thomas panted, "does this mean you forgive me?"

"Fuck you," I seethed with exaggerated 'u's and a grin.

From my peripheral vision, I saw him turn his head against the pillow to look at me. "John?"

"What?"

"Do you, though? Do you forgive me?"

"What? Is that what this was? Make-up sex? You think that that just solves everything?" I was taken back.

"What? No. No, I just... I need to know. I need to know if you forgive me. It wasn't like that, I swear. It just..." he panicked again.

"Okay," —there was a long silence— "I forgive you."

Tom smiled, and I buried my face in the off-white pillow to look at him. He was so beautiful. And I didn’t think that any man looked at other men like this, but I was slowly coming to not care anymore. Maybe it wasn’t that important who I laid in bed with. Nobody else was here, so who was there to judge me?

I pushed myself up onto my elbow to get a better look at him then leaned over to kiss him gently. After I pulled away, I told him, "But you still need to make it up to me as well. And not with sex."

"Okay," he agreed, pecking me on the lips again. "We can still have sex though, right?"

I laughed and hit him lightly on his shoulder, making him laugh as well. When our laughter died down, I was left looking into his dark brown eyes. I put my hand over the back of his neck and softly pressed my lips to his. Tom continued the kiss and moved me so that I was on top, straddling him with my chest against his. I slid my hands up his sides and onto his bare shoulders.

He smelled like smoke and our earlier interactions, and I loved it. Every time our kiss broke apart, we would both gasp for air and become more heated. Each time, I would taste the smoke all over again. It wasn't like the dirty cigar smoke. This tasted fine and sweet. He always smelled like smoke. In that moment, I knew I'd never be able to smell smoke the same again.

Tom brought his hands down to my thighs and moved them more towards his ribs. I pushed off of him and sat up but left my hands on his chest. He groaned at the friction my movements caused.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," I said curiously.

This was no lie. I was genuinely wondering.

"And what would that be?” he strained.

"Where the hell do you get cigarettes from?"