Sanders was already in bed when Tom joined him after a hushed conversation with Sue at the top of the stairs. Sanders could not hear what they said, only that Tom did far more of the talking than Sue did.
Joining Sanders after brushing his teeth and dragging London out from under the bed, Tom lay back with no book or tablet tonight. He placed the cat on his chest and rubbed her cheeks with both forefingers while she purred and kneaded his throat with her white paws.
Still holding his tablet, Sanders leaned over him to kiss Tom’s brow, then sat back up. “Are you okay?” Unsure if he should stop reading, he watched Tom staring at the ceiling.
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong then?”
Tom only went on with his mutual kitten massage.
Sanders had turned his eyes back to his screen when Tom finally spoke.
“Sue ... didn’t like what we were doing. She didn’t agree that we should ask them to leave.”
“I could tell.” Sanders pulled off his reading glasses to look down at Tom, though Tom never met his eyes. “Why didn’t you ask her to do what she thought was best?”
“Because what she wanted to do was chat with them.” Tom’s tone was sharp. “Invite them to dinner, hold hands around a bonfire, maybe sing some songs and share a bottle of red.”
“Why not? If ... that’s what spirits are into. I really couldn’t say.”
“Sanders—” Tom finally glared at him, still petting the cat, who had tipped over on her side in ecstasies, sliding down into the crook of Tom’s arm, between the two of them. “This isn’t a joke.”
“I never said it was.” Sanders set aside tablet and glasses on the bedside table. “Which is why we called a professional. Do you not trust her?”
“She’s great. It’s not about that. But this isn’t her house. We didn’t want them invited more in, which is what she meant to do.”
“Perhaps it won’t matter anymore? If her ritual worked...? But I’m sorry you’re upset about it, and that she was. If anything more is needed, might I suggest you not tell her how to do her job?”
“Why wouldn’t I say what we want? Do you go to get your hair cut and just say, ‘Oh, whatever. You’re the stylist. Just do your favourite cut’? No. No one does that.”
“No ... but if I had ...” Watching London, now almost on her back against Tom’s chest and upper arm, kneading the air. “If I had an animal problem. A dangerous dog, say, that chased cars and lunged at strangers, I would call a behaviour expert and ask them what I should do. Because they know and I don’t. If I knew, I wouldn’t have the problem in the first place and would not need their help.”
Tom scowled at the ceiling. “But you’d never do such a stupid thing.”
Sanders could not follow this either. “Call for help?”
“No. Get a dog.”
Sanders sighed.
There would be no winning here. Not even ground gained. All three people involved were unhappy with the way things were progressing with their apparent ghost problem. Yet nothing could be done now. It was over. And it was late. And tomorrow ... day off. Four days in a row, which he needed right now far more than he had realised when he’d made the arrangements.
“It’s fine, Tom. It doesn’t matter.” Sanders slipped down to kiss him again, avoiding the vaguely swaying little paws. He pulled the extra pillow from behind his head to toss on the chaise lounge below the open window, then reached to switch off the light.
In the dark, since Tom was unresponsive, Sanders rubbed London’s neck with one finger, his hand resting on Tom’s arm. He faced them, head on the pillow, level with Tom now in the dark, though Tom still did not turn his head or move.
His finger felt wet and Sanders withdrew his hand to wipe on the sheet. London tended to drool when such fits of joy overtook her.
Speaking softly by Tom’s ear, Sanders said, “Where are we going tomorrow night?”
“Hmm?” Tom turned his head finally to look at him as their eyes adjusted to the dark. It really was dark out here. Hardly comparable to central London’s endless waking hours courtesy of electric lights. But the sky was mostly clear on another vivid summer night, the moon nearly full, and the stars like gems. This light alone shining through sheer white curtains was plenty to see shapes by.
“Our dinner date?” Sanders prompted.
“Dinner? We can’t do that. We have company. We have this whole ... situation.”
“Which seems to be taken care of. I can’t imagine Sue would mind us having a pre-planned meal out. Francesca will look after her for one evening. She is here doing work and seems perfectly self-sufficient. She was outside this morning at dawn without anyone needing to hold her hand.”
Tom was shaking his head. “We can cancel. It’s not a big deal. We’ll go next week.”
Sanders only blinked in the dark for a moment. Not a big deal? Sanders had cancelled a critical call for last week’s. Now their one evening out was not a big deal?
Sanders didn’t know what to say, mind zipping over returned preoccupations of his non-work workday. Did Tom, in fact, not care? Was this fun and games to him like so much else seemed to be? Last week, he had nothing else to do. Of course dinner was critical. This week, a new friend and ghost concern and he could no longer be bothered with Sanders?
He would bounce back, naturally. With the disturbances ceased and Sue gone, Tom would again make a fuss of their evenings together. Until the next more amusing thing came along.
Sanders had no doubts about Tom’s returned love. That bond remained powerful as ever. But were love and adoration enough to make stability out of chaos and commitment out of an attention span the length of a kitten’s? A bond powerful enough to be the leading force in both their lives still did not mean both minds thought alike.
If all these dates and future travel plans and local outings were just for his own fun, of course it did not bother Tom to cancel one himself. And Tom had, after all, never implied he thought of them as anything else. He had often said they needed to get out more, enjoy themselves more, trying to make up for a life of limitations for Sanders previously.
If Sanders had read anymore into it than that—some breadcrumb trail of Tom’s with a gold ring at the end—whose fault was that?
London rolled herself onto her paws to climb back on Tom’s chest while Tom still lay looking at the ceiling. Placing one forepaw on her tail to hold it in place, she began licking the long, tabby striped fur with short strokes of her raspy tongue.
She may have been mostly hypoallergenic, but not entirely. Tom still tended to wake a little congested and red-eyed when London slept on him or his pillow. This did not seem to trouble him though.
London sat up tall like an Egyptian cat to make a go of her white chest, but this always strained her balance. After nearly toppling over, she resettled herself in the middle of Tom’s chest, worked over one hind leg with her toes pointed, then curled down and licked along the side of a forepaw before dragging the moistened limb repeatedly over her own face and ear.
With this final face wash cleared away, she finished off the neat ball she had transformed herself into, complete with the crescent curl of her tail around her little body.
The cat’s performance over, Sanders looked again at Tom, noting his eyes were still opened, though he remained unmoving, gazing upwards.
“Tom?” Keeping his voice soft, making London’s ears twitch.
Slowly, as if unwillingly, Tom turned his head to Sanders.
“What else is wrong? What are you upset about?”
“Don’t you ever not want to go to sleep? It was bad enough with the rare dream, but ... lately, being watched on top of that.”
Yes, Tom had not been sleeping well lately. Sanders was unconcerned by the idea that he was perhaps being watched by spirits. If he could tell no difference either way, perhaps it didn’t matter either way? But the dreams ... he had also found those still lingered.
These nightmares had grown worse lately, not better with time. They compared notes and it helped to talk about them. Sanders tended to dream about his own hands being tied behind his back while darkness surrounded him and unseen men stood about with guns in their hands, waiting for him to make a choice. Sometimes trying to call out, to stop something from happening, warn someone, all while he had no voice.
Tom tended to dream about Heidelberg, the bridge, the two of them saying goodbye, but something going wrong all the time.
“No watching anymore, right?” Sanders said. “Not if what Sue did worked.”
“How will we even know?”
“The cat?”
Tom glanced at her. “I’m sorry about dinner. I know you had to go through a lot of trouble to be there last time. It just doesn’t feel right to go out tomorrow. Not while we only have so much time with Sue here and need to make sure this is taken care of.”
Sanders wanted to thank him for apologising, but it sounded so stiff and pompous, even in his mind, he said, “It’s fine. You’re the one who plans them.”
Tom went on gazing at the ceiling.
Only separate mindsets. Perhaps it was part of a cultural divide. Perhaps it was just them personally. Whatever it was, it likely wasn’t going away.
Which was all right, wasn’t it?
Yet lack of any kind of legal connection indefinitely made Sanders uncomfortable. He liked paperwork. He liked things neat and in order. He did not like “winging it”, as Tom enjoyed in so many matters.
Now neither would sleep with Tom apparently afraid to and Sanders still chasing his racing mind.
Sanders kissed Tom’s shoulder, covered by a soft cotton T-shirt, and up to his neck.
“We can’t just not sleep,” Sanders murmured against his skin.
Tom sighed.
Sanders kissed his jaw, easing closer against him, all the way down to their feet.
He wanted to shift the cat away, but had to leave that up to Tom. He need only get Tom hard for Tom to evict London himself, turning all his attention to Sanders.
Tom moved his head to return a kiss, but it was a goodnight kiss, perfunctory, not what Sanders was hoping for. More that wasn’t like Tom. This tension in bed, cancelling dates, now not interested. A first, as far as Sanders could recall.
Sanders didn’t want to push him, but again kissed his neck and lightly stroked his arm below the sheet, ending by resting his hand on Tom’s skin. Nothing.
He eased back, sharing Tom’s pillow, close, but no more.
His mind went on surging over various kinds of unpleasantness until he was drifting off, the long day catching up. He was just reaching that in-between state in which he knew he was falling asleep, when he blinked and registered that the cat was slinking away after all. Not springing off Tom in alarm, but skulking quickly and silently to leap off the bed and vanish with rapid, stiff movements.
Then an Englishman spoke clearly in his ear. “Listen.” And Sanders nearly flew off the bed after the cat.