Ben crawled in and lay in the bed, facing out.
Jonah blew out the candles and moved round to the other side of the bed, which dipped as he got in. The bed was very cold, except for the almost painfully hot, slightly crispy feel of the linen where the warming pan had rested. Neither of them had a nightshirt—he had a dim recollection of Jonah making some casual remark about lost bags to the landlady. Ben could feel the heat of Jonah’s body from here.
It was very dark, and very quiet.
“Ben?”
He could pretend to be asleep. God knew he was tired.
“Ben,” Jonah repeated.
“Mmm.”
Pause.
“I know it’s all gone wrong.” Jonah’s voice was very quiet. “And I know you probably still hate me—”
“I don’t hate you.” Ben stared into the dark. “I did, before. When I thought you left me because you didn’t love me, or didn’t love me enough. I hated you then, but I was wrong, and I am so sorry.” His voice shook on the words but it was time and past to say them. “What I did in that bloody place—”
“Don’t. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” Ben forced the words out. “I wanted to—to hurt you. Me. That’s what happened to me, that’s what this has done to me. I’ve become the kind of man who—”
“Who doesn’t do bad things, even if he wants to,” Jonah came in swift and sharp. “Have you forgotten that? You never had a reason to want to do something horrible to me before. And when you did, it was a good reason, but you didn’t do it. Look, I know we’ve done things to each other and, even if you don’t hate me…well, it’s not like it was any more.”
“No.” Because what they’d had, that golden idyll, had been a fantasy. Reality lay beside him, flawed and irresponsible and very warm.
“I just wondered,” Jonah said. “Could we pretend?”
Ben stilled. He could hear his own deepening breathing. Jonah’s tension was palpable. “Pretend?”
“Or forget. Or ignore even, but could we not be a thief and a copper, or two people who did bad things to each other? Just for tonight? Could we just be Ben and Jonah, in the dark? It wouldn’t change anything, or mean anything tomorrow. I promise I wouldn’t think that it did. But I miss you.” Jonah swallowed audibly. “I missed you when you weren’t there, and now you are here and I can’t touch you and I miss you even more.”
“I miss you too,” Ben whispered.
Jonah’s body was quivering with readiness, Ben could feel it, but he didn’t reach out, and Ben realised he was waiting. Letting Ben make the choice. Letting him decide if he wanted to be sucked back into the maelstrom that tore his existence apart, over and over.
Naturally Jonah would think this was a good idea. He lived in the moment, never looking ahead. Ben could see consequences looming on every side, and most of them were terrible.
They should split up, that was obvious. It would have been obvious days ago, if Ben had been able to think properly. His mind was clear now, and he could see it all. Jonah would never change, would never be responsible, quite blatantly intended to steal again should it become necessary. Ben couldn’t live like that, waiting for the next disaster, not after Jonah’s love had already plunged him into hell. He’d say goodbye tomorrow, and go, before they hurt each other more. It was the only sane thing to do, for both their sakes.
But if this was to be the last night…
He rolled over, under the heavy bedcovers, and reached out, and felt Jonah’s whole body twitch as his hand closed on Jonah’s shoulder.
“Ben,” Jonah whispered, and then he was in Ben’s arms, and they were kissing.
Jonah’s lips were soft, his beard unfamiliar and prickly, scratching against Ben’s own stubble. His tongue met Ben’s, sweeping round, tasting of ale and himself. His hands came up, running through Ben’s hair, sending shuddering sensation across his skin, and Ben lost himself in being kissed and held and loved.
It was utterly dark in the small room, with its shutters closing out the night. No sight of each other. No sight of the white streak marring Jonah’s hair, or the brutal ridge of scarring on Ben’s face. No evidence visible of what they’d done to each other and to themselves. It could have been five months ago, when everything was innocent, and Ben let himself believe that it was.
His hands were all over Jonah’s skin, remembering by touch, sliding down the muscles of his back, relishing the whisper of the wiry hairs on those strong legs. Jonah gasped in his mouth, tipping his head back, and Ben leaned into the kiss, gripping Jonah’s hips, pulling their bodies close together. They both hissed as cock slid along cock.
“God,” Jonah whispered, speaking into Ben’s mouth rather than breaking the touch. “Will you fuck me?”
“Yes—no. If we leave, uh, evidence—”