December 31, 1898

It finally happened.

I had sent a message for Thomas at his home. Surely a young man of his social class had already made formal plans to welcome the New Year months ago. All the same, I requested the pleasure of his company and suggested we try to track down Arthur and Roger and enjoy another raucous night at the White Lion. It had been some time since our night there, and remembering Thomas’s smile as we spun and danced to the choir of cheers and singing had me sure that he would not be able to resist.

All day I waited and all day I was left disappointed and painfully bored.

Around eight p.m. I finally decided I was being foolish. Sitting about like a sad puppy waiting on its master to return.

So I readied myself for a night of debauchery, with or without Thomas. I slathered my neck in oil, combed and fluffed my ever-curling locks, put on my favorite pant and vest pairing of emerald velvet with a cream-colored button-down. And I must admit, I looked even more dashing than was my usual standard. I certainly would not be spending the first moments of 1899 alone. Out into the cold final December night, I was headed to find a good gin, some mild entertainment, and an attractive bedfellow to keep me company.

But I did not even make it outside my door. I nearly had—I was reaching for the copper doorknob when I heard a soft rapping against the door.

Soft as it was, the surprise gave me a start as I jerked my hand away. Even with the barrier of the wood, it felt as if whoever was standing on the other side could see everything I was doing. I felt thoroughly naked—and not in the way I enjoy.

I paused a moment. Maybe I had been mistaken. I mean, aside from Thomas, who did I really even know in London? The simple answer: no one. Sure, I have had my fleeting dalliances to pass the time, producing an occasional acquaintance (or two) here and there. But none so familiar that they would venture back here uninvited.

And then my steadily beating heart froze—of course it did not actually, otherwise I would not be writing this currently—as I pictured my mentor standing behind the door. Paolo had not informed me of a trip to London and would likely not arrange one until after Wighton has concluded his string of performances at the Egyptian Hall.

But was I so foolish that I had never considered the possibility of Paolo dropping in on me unannounced? Why, the element of surprise is not so uncommon a tool for a prestidigitator, and it would be the perfect opportunity for him to catch me wasting my time away along with his money, which is doubtless what he assumes I am doing here in London.

Another soft knock forced me to face whatever, or rather, whoever was waiting out in the hall. I twisted the doorknob and swung the door inward, bracing myself for the words of contempt my mentor surely had ready for me.

It was not Paolo.

It was Thomas.

The hallways in my building are improperly lit—by this I mean they are not lit at all (this has made for more than a few unpleasant returns from a night of drinking)—and the dark of the hall was touched with only the slightest measure of winter moonlight from a nearby window, making the boy’s already pale skin seem like marble.

He looked delicate and chilled to the bone, and I felt a sudden urge to run my hands rapidly over his arms, warming him with the sweet, intimate friction. But instead I flashed him a genuinely surprised smirk.

“You sure do like to keep your distance.”

Thomas smiled. He looked into the apartment, and it was in that moment I realized he had never actually been up here…only ever outside the building. I moved aside so he could step in, and as he did, it looked more like he was crossing an invisible barrier rather than a simple doorway.

He was trembling, but I have found that that is often the case with Thomas—his natural physical state. Still, he did not say a word. His eyes inspected the walls, the floor, even the ceiling, looking anywhere but at my eyes.

“Once again, I was starting to believe—”

But before I could finish my sentence, he was standing right beside me, mere inches away—skin upon skin, so close I could feel his breath on me each time he exhaled. I was taken aback by his sudden show of boldness. Even I would not have advanced so quickly. My plan had been to move slowly…steadily. But here he was, the shy poet, taking what it was that he wanted. For a few moments, my mouth just hung open, unsure of how to respond to his newfound boldness. In my astonished state, I stared at him, his already bright eyes illuminated by the traces of moonlight filtering in through the window.

“Thomas.” I had intended to speak his name at full volume, but it came out as nothing more than a whisper.

He answered this by tracing his fingertips along my cheek. It was a struggle not to flinch away from his touch at first. His skin was as cold as ice, though, just as I had at Christmas, I could feel a current of warmth pulsing underneath. Luckily, I was able to keep myself still at the strange coolness of his touch. Withdrawing would have only caused Thomas to do the same.

There was uncertainty in his movements. They were stagnant, trembling, and not entirely graceful. I could feel the tremors that his nerves were causing just below the surface. Somehow, his fear was all the more endearing. It showed to me just how hard this all was for him but that, to him, I was worth the effort.

I had been in this position many times before, and my standard play is to run a hand through my partner’s hair gently before tightening my grip and pulling them in for a tender kiss. But Thomas had already taken the lead, and I wanted to follow him, wherever he wished to take me. Taking control now would have robbed him of courage I had not yet seen from him.

He hesitated a moment longer. Briefly, I feared that he had changed his mind and would not go through with it. The thought alone set off a painful, hollow feeling in my heart, but it was short lived. Before I could ask if everything was all right, he had one hand on my shoulder and used his grip to pull himself nearer to my own height as he pressed his lips against my own.

His kiss was more firm than tender (certainly not what I had been expecting). There was a want, a need, a hunger—a hunger I was more than happy to satiate.

We stood there for minutes, my door still hanging open. Another tenant could have walked past and spied us, but neither of us seemed to care. We were too busy getting properly acquainted for the first time since our meeting in Manchester Square. We moved in a steady rhythm of pushing and pulling as our lips made their way over every corner of the other’s. I parted his lips with my own.

I was not sure how he would receive the move, but he did not pull away. Instead, he mimicked my actions eagerly, wrapping his arms around me and clasping them against my back.

Such boldness! This whole time I had been so positive that I would be the one to initiate any kind of physical intimacy. But here he was, having traveled through the city on this winter night for the sole purpose of kissing me.

When he did finally pull away, my mouth just hung open, mostly from the pure shock but also from wanting more.

In the aftermath, we stood and stared into each other’s eyes. Then something beautiful happened, possibly even more beautiful than the kiss: we laughed.

We just stood there in the doorway, laughing like fools. In that moment we had connected, and it was a shared knowledge that neither of us was laughing because anything about the situation was particularly humorous. It was more of…a release.

The tension between us had been building for so long, and now it had finally come to a head. We were finally allowing ourselves to be comfortable around each other.

It was divine.

Thomas left some time shortly after ten bells, and I am alone in my apartment now, scribbling away by candlelight.

Midnight has not struck. It is still 1898 and, as it turns out, I will be welcoming the New Year on my own, in my own bed.

But this does not sadden me.

Tonight was a success, in every sense of the word.