Thomas was late.

They had agreed almost every evening to meet at half past midnight. Now it was quarter to one and he was certainly fucked … and not in the manner he wanted.

He was in love with Philip. Completely, utterly in love, like no one else ever before.

They had seen each other over the course of a long, steamy July in London. As their paths crossed everywhere from dinners (Thomas serving, Philip eating) to polo matches (Thomas serving, Philip playing), whenever Thomas glanced in Philip's direction, he would catch the nobleman staring at him with a tiny bemused grin playing on his lips. The footman always broke the contact first, suspicious that the Philip was in some way teasing or testing him, waiting for him to slip up and report any indiscretion to Lord Grantham, but he couldn't get the elegant doe-eyed man out of his mind.

One evening during one of the seemingly endless parties, Thomas stepped outside into a courtyard for a cigarette, in desperate need for a break. Because fresh air is better for you when inhaled through a cigarette, he had once told William with sniff of superiority. William had walked back into the kitchen simply shaking his head.

Thomas cracked his neck and leaned against a stack of crates, looking up into the sky in vain for stars as thunder rumbled in the distance, bringing with it the scent of rain. Earlier, he had gotten close enough to Philip to take in his essence, a combination of cigars and expensive cologne and something primal. Something that Thomas couldn't begin to describe or completely understand.

Thomas had lit his cigarette and was inhaling deeply when a voice soft as velvet spoke behind him, "Good God man, I don't know how you do it!"

Thomas jumped and held the smoke in his mouth, afraid to exhale. He began to cough and sputter as he dropped the cigarette and tried to crush it with his foot.

"Oh, I am so sorry! I didn't mean to frighten you!"

Thomas managed to turn to see Philip through watery eyes. "'Tis quite alright, y-y-y-your grace," the footman wheezed as he wiped his eyes. In his bespoke tuxedo that fit his lithe figure perfectly, Philip would have taken Thomas' breath away if he had any left to give. As he tried to straighten himself, Philip began slapping him on the back.

"Oh, please, call me Philip. Those dreadful sisters are too busy arguing inside to hear. Mary and Edith … they're like a couple of hens pecking at each other."

Thomas was shocked that a duke was so scathing and unguarded. He was glad that his coughing fit covered up his unease … although he was secretly delighted that the miserable bitches were being insulted by one of their own class. (He only had O'Brien to commiserate with.)

"How can you bear having to listen to them squabble all day long and keep a straight face?" Philip asked as he eased up and patted Thomas softly.

Thomas smiled but didn't risk saying a word as his coughing subsided.

Philip stopped and then let his hand linger a bit too long on Thomas' back. Thomas could feel the heat of Philip's palm though his livery, and although the night was stifling, the footman shivered. They stood that way for what Thomas thought was an eternity. He was afraid to move or speak and simply breathed in Philip's warm scent.

Philip slowly began to move his hand in gentle circles on Thomas' back, making soft swooshing noises against the fabric. Thomas swallowed a cough and tried to remain calm, closing his eyes and daring himself to believe that what was happening was actually real and not a cruel joke.

Philip leaned in, his lips ever so lightly brushing against Thomas' earlobe and whispered, "I was hoping to catch you by yourself, and now here we are."

Moments later, Thomas was standing alone up against a wall as the rain began to fall, in desperate need of finishing himself off, a house number burned into his mind. What the hell just happened? Thomas thought as he tried to conjure up the most horrific sight he could imagine to quell his desire: the Dowager, naked, squatting over a chamber pot. His lips were swollen and painful. He dabbed his mouth with the back of his hand and was surprised to see a bit of blood from the spot where Philip had decided to sink in his teeth. Phi-lip. Lip. Lips. Maybe my secret name for him can be Lips, he chuckled. He then quickly corrected himself, Stop being such a ninny and get your arse back inside before Carson hands it to you.

It wasn't the first time he had fallen so quickly and completely. No, his heart had once belonged to a she … a stray cat he had befriended for a whole fortnight when he was nine. The cat would hide in the box hedges and spring out meowing when she saw Thomas meandering his way home from school. She was black with tiny white paws and a white mark on the top of her head. Thomas thought she looked like she was wearing a crown and gloves and therefore needed a name reflecting her royal resemblance. Thus, Princess it was, even though Thomas had no idea if the cat was male or female.

He started saving bits of meat from his lunch to feed Princess. She would circle Thomas' legs, meowing and begging for attention. Thomas would always sit on the ground and the cat would climb into his lap, purring happily while he scratched her under her chin and softly told her his secrets. Then, every time (and Thomas never knew when it was coming) Princess would suddenly twist her head and bite him or take a swipe with her claws, hissing as she ran away, leaving him wondering what it was he had done wrong.

To Thomas, the physical pain of every scratch was nothing like the loneliness he had felt for almost all of his nine years. Having some affection—even just a little bit for a little while—was like a tonic. It made him feel lighter, and almost happy for once.

Now Thomas tried to avoid colliding with packs of drunken noblemen while tearing through the darkened streets to Philip's house in Mayfair. Pleasing him was all Thomas had on his mind; it wasn't always easy or pretty, but it was the only thing that brought Thomas joy.