Chapter Text
We just have to face it, this time we're through
~ Knowing me, knowing you - ABBA
When Adam woke up, his limbs were tangled up in Fergus', who was also resting his head on Adam's chest. They definitely hadn't gone to sleep like that, they'd had their backs turned away from each other, leaving a cold and infinite expanse of mattress between them. He shuffled his back up so he was in a sitting position, wanting to laugh at how Fergus barely even stirred at the movement. On the bedside table, the ancient digital alarm clock read 07:28. Since being on the night shift, his sleep schedule had maintained a steady but high level of fucked. If anything, this was a lie in for him. He'd spent far too many nights awake in the early hours of the morning, his mind plagued by thoughts about work. These thoughts often trailed into thoughts about Fergus, because all aspects of his life seemed to connect to a ginger lib dem with asthma and social anxiety. Not that he particularly minded, although dwelling on that for too long messed with his head.
“Good morning boys” Mrs Williams had poked her head around the door, clutching two mugs of tea in her neatly manicured hands. Despite his significant lack of self respect, Adam felt himself blushing with embarrassment (an unfamiliar concept). Seeing your one and only son asleep and tangled up with another man was probably slightly challenging, no matter how accepting Fergus’ mum was of his sexuality. It probably wasn't helped by the fact that Adam looked naked, since only his top half was sticking out of the covers and he wasn't wearing a t-shirt, only a battered pair of pyjama bottoms. Fergus, although wearing a top, was in his pants.
“Morning. You didn't have to make us tea” he said weakly, trying to avoid eye contact with her.
“Nonsense. You're both very kind, letting us stay here. Arthur wanted to book a hotel, but we hardly see Fergie as it is, so I insisted.”
Adam couldn't quite get over the nickname, and resolved to tease Fergus about it mercilessly once the visit was over.
Pausing before closing the door, she turned around to address Adam again.
“Fergus and his father don't get along very well, even before Fergus…came out. I know it's hard for both of them, doing this, but I don't want them to regret it later. My husband may say things sometimes, but please don't take them personally. It's not a reflection on either of your characters.”
Adam would argue that blatant homophobia was definitely a reflection of someone's character, but instead smiled and nodded as if he thought it was a totally reasonable statement. You had to appreciate the effort, occasionally.
—
The Tate modern was busy, because it was a Saturday, and also because it was always busy. To Fergus’ exasperation, his parents had insisted on Adam and him visiting with them, despite his insistence that he and Adam ‘didn’t give a shit about art’. This earnt him a disapproving glare from his father, either because of bad language or lack of culture or a mix of both.
They were up on the second floor, wandering around one of the exhibitions. Fergus' dad would stop to intensely stare at the artwork and make a gruff noise of appreciation, whilst Mrs Williams would mutter something like “isn't this lovely, dear” to apparently no one in particular. Fergus and Adam would glance at each other, Adam tapping his foot enough to cause a minor earthquake, and Fergus digging his nails into his palms - a habit he reserved for uncomfortable social activities.
They then encountered what can only be described as the piece of art you would least like to see with your parents. It was a small room leading off of one of the others, painted completely black with cocks, vaginas, and arses scrawled over the walls in chalk. There was a large white sign reading do not touch. Adam thought that he couldn't possibly imagine the type of person who would want to touch it.
Being the immature 38 year old he was, he had trouble suppressing laughter, it combined with the shock to make a sound as though he was choking on a particularly dry piece of cake. Fergus let out a yelp of sorts, and immediately turned around to leave the room. Whilst this could be considered an overreaction, a morning of staring at various art pieces he wasn't interested in, including a photograph of a pub urinal, and the tension of being around his father, led him to push past his dad, a little roughly.
Fergus was immediately followed by all members of the party. Awkwardness crackled in the air, and Fergus was desperately avoiding eye contact with everyone
Pulling Fergus to look at him, his dad had a face like thunder, and he quietly spat,
“You, son, are a disgrace. You are nearly forty years of age, and yet you struggle to control your emotions, like a teenager. I've had enough. Whenever I see you, you act immature and sensitive and frankly unpleasant. Do you know how hard it is having to call you my son, having to tell people who I respect that my only child is a faggot”
It was all said in a whisper, but his voice trembled with rage and that last word rang Fergus’ ears, again and again until he wanted to scream. Adam had gone white, shellshocked: the reaction seemed unwarranted, extreme. It wasn’t. In the Williams family, Fergus Senior was known for his temper, outbursts were frequent. And yet, he’d never called his son that before, at least not to his face. Any pretense of civility had been shattered.
At that moment, Fergus realised that he had had enough. Why was he bothering with his family? At this point, why was he bothering with anybody? No one ever seemed to get it, everyone and everything was just shit, what was the point? Even Adam, who sometimes seemed like he knew Fergus better than Fergus himself, even Adam didn't fucking get it, didn't understand what he wanted.
Fergus turned and left the exhibit, cursing under his breath, leaving Adam to awkwardly chase after him. He had almost made it out by the time Adam caught up, grabbing his shoulder.
“Fergus, mate, I'm so sorry. He's…he - fuck - he shouldn't have said that.”
“Don't you dare start!” He snapped, his voice edged with anger.
“Start what? Look, I'm sorry, but don't blame me for something I didn't bloody do!”
“It’s not fucking that, it's… it’s…”
“Mate. Spit it out then. It's my job to help you, after all” Teasingly, a familiar joke between them: Fergus' inability to function without Adam. Adam was trying to bridge the gap, to comfort Fergus, in his way.
It didn't work.
“Don't call me that”
“What? Mate? What's your problem with that? God, you can be bloody sensitive” Adam still had it wrong, a part of him was truthful and the other joking, but Fergus wasn't in the mood for jokes. He was too riled up to realise Adam was kidding, missing all the usual social cues.
“We're not mates!”
“What did you think we were?” Suddenly Adam didn't feel like joking anymore.
“Don't give me that bullshit. We were more than just mates!”
“It's not like we were … dating. We were just pretending for your parents, apart from that it was just sex. It didn't mean anything more than that!”
“Maybe it did mean more than that to me!”
“What're you saying?”
“Maybe I'm saying that I fucking loved you! Maybe I fucking did!”
Adam seemed struck dumb, his eyes were wide with shock.
“Don't panic, I don't anymore. I'm going home.”
He left, not stopping to think about anything other than his white hot anger at it all. He didn't think about how his mother would cry herself to sleep for weeks afterwards, grieving for someone that wasn't even dead. He didn't think about how his father would stay up late, shunned by his wife, staring out to the dimly lit street, thinking about how he'd turned into his own dad, powerless to stop the one thing he had tried to avoid. He didn't think about how Adam would scream into his pillow before bed, cursing his ignorance and his life and his loss