Then he'd imagine Harold an arm's length away and the feeling would sour.

"There are spare blankets and pillows," said Samuel, opening a dark, polished wardrobe.

Edward couldn't focus. It was almost as he'd pictured — one side neat, the other unkempt. Though he hadn't anticipated the window, almost floor to ceiling, framing the night sky. He wanted to capture that sight forever. It was clear the bed overlooking the city belonged to Samuel. An ashtray on the ledge, a tin of pomade, a glass bottle of cologne. Edward noticed a journal with unmistakable handwriting; he looked away.

What he couldn't see were photographs — not even one. By contrast, Harold's bedside had a framed picture of his mother and a family portrait. Samuel had nothing.

"You can take the bed."

Edward shook his head. "I'll take the floor."

Samuel paused, pillows in hand, a blanket over his shoulder. He smiled faintly. "Ed, you're a guest. You'll take the bed."

"I've slept on worse."

"You are a very difficult person, Mr Baker," he huffed, and the back-and-forth continued with cheeky smiles played on both of their faces.

"Why don't we share it?" Edward concluded. He couldn't deny he wanted to sleep there. "We have done before."

Silence, uncomfortable and unexpected. Samuel stilled, his smile faltered and he became unreadable again. His eyes were blank, void from any sparkle. Faint chatter outside could be heard. 

"No." Samuel's tone was cold and blunt. "You'll sleep in the bed."

He returned to making the bed, fluffing pillows. Edward watched awkwardly, unsure what to do. He wasn't sure how to break the silence.

"Your shoes need to come off." Samuel broke the quiet. "Harold hates shoes in the bedroom."

Harold had sheets of paper stuffed under his pillow, old bottles under his bed. "He does?"

"No." Samuel looked up, eyes softer now. A faint smile tickled his face as he spoke, "But I do."

Edward reciprocated the smile — but he couldn't ignore the tone.

-

Edward and Samuel sat on the window ledge, looking out at the sky, their knees touching. He spotted The Plough and mumbled to himself. It had been a favourite of George's.

"What was that?"

Edward startled; he could feel Samuel's eyes on him. "Constellations. George loved the stars," he began. "Can't see them too well here, mind."

"Did he have a favourite?" Samuel shuffled closer, peering out of the window.

"He did." Edward paused and pointed up. "Looks just like a saucepan, he'd say."

Samuel brought a hand to his mouth, laughter escaping him. His eyes had a crease that made Edward's heart flutter. 

Edward watched as he leaned back, pulling a small silver tin from his pocket. Samuel brought a neat, white cigarette to his lips, nothing like the roll-ups Edward had seen. He lit it with a match and the smell tickled Edward's throat. "Sorry. I'll put it out."

Edward shook his head, reached out — and caught himself. "My family doesn't smoke. George never reacted to it well." He took a deep breath, inhaling faint tobacco and a sweet citrus. "I don't mind if you smoke."

An unintentional emphasis on 'you'. Samuel noticed; his lips curled, his eyebrows lifted. He took the cigarette from his lips, "Try it."

"I shouldn't."

"Once." There was an eagerness in Samuel's voice. "I don't share these with anyone."

"Not even Harold?"

He grinned, "Especially not Harold."

Edward brought his own lips forward, placing them where Samuel's had just been. Fingers grazed his lips and he felt a warmth pool in his stomach. He crossed his leg, listening to the gentle words of encouragement as he inhaled—

Before he spluttered out smoke. Samuel erupted into laughter.

-

"Do you ever think about the future?" Samuel's question was quiet. He lay flat on the floor, glass on his chest, a trace of whisky on his lips.

Edward paused for a moment. "Try not to." He feared the inevitable. "It scares me, seeing my mum and dad get older. I'm afraid of losing them."

A silence followed and he shifted uncomfortably, wetting his lips, before asking, "Do you?"

When he peered down from the bed, Samuel was playing with the silver tin. Then he shook his head, blonde strands brushing his forehead, "My mother has expectations. My future is already planned."

The blunt way of speaking startled Edward. He knew continuing the family line was important, more so to wealthier families — but to prioritise that over happiness? He stumbled nervously with his reply, "What about what you want?"

 A breathy laugh came. "I don't think I'm allowed to want what I want."

Edward nodded. He knew that feeling — wanting something you cannot have.

"But you'll marry, won't you? To Lisa, I mean."

"I'm fond of Lisa. Truly. But I can't see myself marrying her."

Confusion crossed his face. Edward sat up and looked down. Samuel remained composed, taking sips of whisky. He spoke casually, as if they were discussing the weather. Questions rushed through his head. "Haven't you had... relations?"

"Lord, Ed. Must I marry everyone I sleep with?"

Their eyes met, but their expressions couldn't be more dissimilar. Samuel was smirking, a playful tone as he openly implied his many partners.

"I thought so," he murmured, eyes dropping to his hands. For Edward, it had always meant something permanent — a closeness only for those you intend to keep. "And a reputation isn't easy to recover."

"Perhaps." A woman's laughter echoed down the hall. "But aren't some things worth the risk?"

"What's it like?" Edward felt his cheeks burn. Samuel hummed in response; Edward tried again, fumbling with his words, "You know... Holding someone."

Samuel propped himself up with his elbows. He paused for a moment before emptying his glass. "It's warm. You're so close that you can feel them breathing."

Edward couldn't speak.

"The first time—" Samuel shuffled closer, glancing at Edward then past him. "You can't replicate that closeness anywhere else."

"Does it feel different?" His voice was croaky. "Depending on the person?"

"Yes," Samuel spoke softly. "You'll know when it happens."

Edward thought of Adelaide. He wanted to picture a future — but he couldn't. 

"What if it never does?"

"It will."

-

Church bells rang through the streets as midnight struck. Edward leaned against the headboard, tapping his head against the wall. Samuel poked his head out of the window, the silver tin tightly in one hand, a fresh glass of whisky in the other. A gentle breeze pushed back stray blonde hairs. Samuel always looked pleasant under the moonlight.

"Andrew never liked the Church bells." Midnight had struck; Edward kept his voice low, "Can sleep through everything but them."

"My father loved them." It was a side of Samuel he had never seen. A voice usually so bold was now small. Edward almost missed it, that past tense. 

"He'd insist on celebrating the same way each year." There was a calmness in Samuel's voice, free from tremors. "A party with faces I hardly knew and an array of canapés. Before midnight he would guide everyone to the gardens."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry, Samuel," Edward spoke hesitantly. He knew the lingering pain of loss that would never give up.

"I don't talk about him much," he whispered in return. "I don't want to burden anyone."

"Can you tell me about him?"

There was a stillness in the air. It was possible that no one had ever asked Samuel about his father before. A private matter managed privately and quietly in an environment where young boys absorb loss and move forward.

"He was ill," Samuel spoke slowly, as if it was the first time he was speaking the words. "For a while before he passed. It wasn't a surprise. I was young but I had time to prepare, and yet..."

"As a boy, he taught me how to play the piano. Mother insisted I learn the violin but I was hopeless. He'd play in the lounge, long past my bedtime, humming along to my mother's favourite songs until she sang along with him." He turned the silver tin over, brushing his thumb across an engraving. "And he had this one cigarette brand. He never smoked anything else."

"Every Saturday we would buy flowers for my mother. And..." he continued. His stories were unpractised — he had never arranged his memories into words. Yet Edward never interrupted, watching the growing smile. "He was teaching me chess. He would let me win, but he wanted me to improve before he—"

Samuel stopped. His lips were parted and he breathed in the night air deeply. Outside, a distant cheer rose celebrating the new year.

"My mother changed a great deal. Grief, my grandmother said — and it was, but my mother became so cold. We no longer ate together or enjoyed music." Samuel took a sip of his whisky; his nose twitched at the taste. "She remarried — rather quickly — and everything changed. Being packed off to boarding school was the last thing I needed." 

Samuel played with the hem of his trousers, a hesitant tone in his voice. "I used to hate returning home for the summer. Until I met him."

Edward knew — this was about the boy.

"My mother and I were finding our way back to each other." The blonde leaned forward, reaching for the whisky bottle. Edward handed it over reluctantly. Samuel swayed, less steady than before. "Everything was going so well and I resented her for ending that. For pulling away from them. For being cold with me."

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was low.

"I hated myself most of all. I wasn't careful." The tin moved between his fingers, opening and closing. "But most of all I hate that I can't even remember my own father's voice. He loved me so much, I'm certain. He must be disappointed in me."

Those words broke something in Edward. He knew that pain, a type of pain that time couldn't heal. The person who had helped him unknowingly was now carrying his grief all alone. He reached out, taking Samuel's closed hand. "You can't know that."

Samuel smiled something weak that didn't meet his eyes. "I gave up on my happiness too easily — without a letter or a rose," he whispered and Edward froze. "I won't hide that part of me again."

Then Samuel's hand opened, lacing their fingers together.

-

Somewhere between midnight and the last bit of whisky, they found themselves on the floor, backs pressed against the wooden frame. Their legs were loosely entangled.

Edward recalled the New Year in 1940, the last one the Baker family had shared. Florence and her father had joined them that year. He smiled at each detail, recalling his parents dancing, Andrew's awful singing, and Florence's homemade biscuits. "Everyone was so merry. George even pulled Florence's dad for a dance, singing 'Auld Lang Syne'."

"George always sounds so fun."

"He is." Edward didn't realise his mistake. "The night was a drunken mess, but he cheered everything up." He leaned his head back, resting on the bed, before turning to face Samuel. He noticed those eyes watching him. "I overheard them a few times, Florence and George. At the end of a long night, she would still call him the most beautiful man. He'd get all flustered."

"You mean handsome?"

"No. Men can be beautiful." Edward kept his eyes on Samuel. "You are."

The words landed in the room and stayed there. There was a moment of silence and light eyelashes fluttered erratically.

Samuel's expression shifted into something quiet; he let out a breath, "You're drunk."

"Haven't had a sip since the pub."

Samuel lifted to his knees, shaking his head. The space between them narrowed. "Harold will be back shortly."

Edward stayed silent, admiring Samuel, taking in every detail. He knew he should look away, but he couldn't. 

"Stop," Samuel said softly.

"What?"

"Stop staring."

"Why?"

Samuel sighed and ran an unsteady hand through his hair. "Because... I'll do something we'll both regret."

The words caused Edward's heart to hammer against his chest. He worried Samuel would hear it, yet he continued to hold his gaze. "We won't."

Then Samuel kissed him.

It was so brief that Edward wasn't certain it had happened. A touch so warm and impossibly soft. Samuel's lips were parted, an apology forming. Edward couldn't think, his mind consumed with one word.

More.

His fingers curled into Samuel's shirt, closing the gap. It wasn't gentle — teeth knocked, noses collided. He didn't know what he was doing. But Samuel made a sound, low and startled. A hand traced Edward's jaw, tilting his head to part his lips. Fingers threaded through copper curls. Samuel led, setting the pace.

Edward's breath hitched. He moved his hand, trailing across Samuel's chest. He could hear Samuel's breath each time their lips separated. This closeness was as Samuel had described. This particular warmth — Edward wished for more. His hand moved, brushing buttons, until he met something warm and smooth that made Samuel groan. It startled Edward; he realised that he was doing that — he was the cause. The same heat rushed through both of them. It encouraged Edward, tracing along the curve.

Then a finger brushed against the waistband of his trousers. Barely a touch, barely a question, yet Edward felt his throat tighten. A pause. The hand moved gently back to his waist. A choice had been made. Samuel wanted everything, but asked nothing of him.

That kindness was what broke Edward.

Uninvited thoughts arrived. Lisa's laughter echoing through the cobbled street. The way she'd balanced on her toes under the lamplight. And Samuel's eyes, opening mid-kiss.

Edward pulled away. The taste of cigarettes and whisky lingered on his lips. He stared down at his hands, unable to look up. His stomach turned at the sight. Samuel was with Lisa. He knew that.

"Ed? What's wrong?" Samuel spoke with a careful whisper. He reached out; Edward pulled back, not a flinch but close enough.

He heard Samuel exhale, long and unsteady, muttering something incoherent. Edward couldn't bear to be the reason for it. He moved to take his hand, but Samuel was a beat ahead:

"I think you should go." A clear voice. "Please."

The words caught him off guard. Edward lifted his head and saw Samuel's expression. The openness was gone. Edward had done that. He wanted to explain that this was what he wanted, and that he didn't know how to want it without guilt. But he didn't know how.

Instead, he reached for his coat and crossed the room. His hand hovered over the doorknob, cold beneath his palm, and he swallowed hard. For a moment, he turned back, hoping, foolishly that Samuel would meet his eyes. But he didn't. 

Edward twisted the handle and walked into the dark and cold hallway.

He had ruined everything.