The Ticking Heart Page 3

  Suddenly, Vincent felt rather foolish. He fumbled for something to say—anything—and the silence between them only grew, the night air tickling at his skin.

  Samuel sighed. "If you have something to say, you should say it before the pair of us catch pneumonia."

  "I ... I'd like you to come back."

  "I have no interest in being your assistant again."

  "No, not that. As my friend, my ... The house is so empty."

  Samuel tutted, a jaw twitching in his muscle. Vincent had never thought impatience was one of Samuel's flaws, but he certainly looked it now. What did he want Vincent to say?

  Vincent gulped, swallowing his pride. "I'm sorry," he said. "For the things that have passed between us lately. I suppose I've been so caught up in my own feelings I never noticed that you might have feelings of your own." He paused, unsure how to continue or even if he should. "The last time we met, you said you'd been a coward. Now I think perhaps it's me who is the coward, hiding behind his work, for so long I've quite forgotten anything else. I've neglected you, I know. I've neglected everything but my work."

  "I don't expect you to notice these things, Vincent."

  The use of his Christian name brought Vincent's gaze up from the unswept doorstep, into Samuel's eyes, seemingly darker now in the thin light of the crescent moon, and his heart gave a painful squeeze. "I've missed you," he declared.

  "You forgive me, then?"

  Eyes fluttering closed, Vincent sighed. He felt weary, as though sleep still had him in its grasp, trying to pull him back in. "Yes. And you me?"

  Samuel hesitated, eyes flickering backwards into the hallway. Presumably, his mother was still listening. "Yes," he said finally, voice low.

  Vincent smiled, his first real smile in years, and as he did so he felt the weight slip from his shoulders, felt something in his chest ease, unknotting.

  As Samuel made to turn inside, Vincent's hand, almost of its own accord, clutched at Samuel's shoulder, fingers curling in the coarse grey fabric of his coat. When Vincent spoke, his voice was crackled, throat dry. "Do you really love me?"

  Samuel gave a sigh. "Yes, Vincent. Must I really repeat myself? I love you, and not like any friend I've ever had, before you ask."

  "Like a brother, then?"

  "No, Vincent." He pulled Vincent into the hallway, showing him through to a small sitting room cluttered with books, and closed the door behind them. Once the door was firmly shut, he leaned close, lips brushing Vincent's cheek, the exact same spot as before, Vincent was sure of it.

  Barely audible, Vincent had to ask; he needed clarification, needed certainty. "As a lover then?"

  "As someone I would hope to become one, yes." His lips touched Vincent's cheek once more, before finding his mouth and settling there, tentative, questioning.

  Something, like some ancient song, thrummed through Vincent's blood at the feel of Samuel's lips on his, and although his heart thudded out a warning in his chest, a warning not to do this lest he get hurt again, he couldn't help but kiss Samuel back—Samuel, who had been there for him when no one else ever had, despite his misgivings, and who had loved him, for longer than Vincent knew.

  Brushing a hand through Samuel's fair hair, Vincent pressed a small, smiling kiss to his forehead. As he pulled back, he held out his hand. "Perhaps it's time for a cup of tea," he said, hiding the smile that threatened as Samuel nodded, threading their fingers together.

  *~*~*

  He would have to get a bigger bed, Vincent thought to himself a fortnight later, as he shifted onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow.

  Samuel lay beside him, pressed back against the wall, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "You look well," he commented, as if this was something for him to crow about. "A blushing bride if ever I saw one."

  Vincent felt himself redden. "I am not," he said, "your bride."

  "No, I suppose they'd all say you're too old for me." The smirk widened to a grin and Samuel brushed his fingers across Vincent's shoulders, showing the kind of delicacy of touch that he would with the smallest of mechanisms in the workshop.

  "Am I so old?" Vincent asked, feigning misery. He was only seven years Samuel's senior, after all.

  "Not so old." Samuel leaned in for a kiss, his free hand coming to rest at Vincent's waist. He tucked himself closer, eyes fluttering closed, body smooth and warm in the too-small bed.

  Vincent smiled, tracing the outline of Samuel's eyelashes. For the first time in a long time, he felt peace, like something that had long been ticking away inside of him had, finally, stilled.

  Fin

  About the Author

  Sylvia grew up in a seaside town that was popular in the Victorian era and has been in decline ever since. Most of her childhood was spent riding donkeys or horses, running through fields, or sat in a quiet corner with a book.

  She has always been making up stories and was often in trouble for daydreaming and not paying attention in school.

  These days, Sylvia still lives in the South West of England, which she rarely ventures away from, and spends most of her time in a darkened room, bent over her laptop.

  Sylvia both writes and copy edits for Less Than Three.

  She hopes to continue to improve her writing throughout her life, providing she doesn’t run out of tea.

  You can keep up with Sylvia through her twitter account (https://www.twitter.com/WintersSA) or her website (https://www.SylviaWinters.wordpress.com).