Chapter Text
Tonight was just another London night. The streetlights were flickering under the heavy downpour, Big Ben chiming as the clock strikes 23:00. Inside a worn down, two-bedroom apartment is a young lad who just turned 25 last month. The war had ended just last May, yet this October evening seemed as gloomy as ever. There was no one in the streets now, only nervous, shell shocked soldiers locked inside their homes, curtains closed permanently.
Tommy didn't like to think of himself as one of those. He had a job at the local pub, wiping down tables and serving up beer to thirsty, middle aged men eager to watch the news for any information on Germany or those bloody Krauts. There were rarely any.
Yet, they seemed to take interest in listening to Tommy's stories of Dunkirk, how it stole his youth in every way possible. He told them of how the water never seemed to leave him alone, not since that faithful week, and any action such as taking a bath turned into a damn quest. He told stories of his mates that got shot, bombed, burned or drowned, of Gibson who turned out to be a fucking frog and vanished before his eyes. He told tales of the planes and their booming engines, dropping bomb after bomb onto the shores of some innocent, French village, disrupting the lives of so many.
However, he never told them the tale of the rude, green eyed prick whom pushed him down on his knees behind a sandhill and made him swallow his cock. And he never told them of how he stuck to his side like a lost puppy until they jumped off the train in London, his arse aching as he limped down the stairs. And he definitely did not tell them how his eyes were red and swollen with tears as they hugged goodbye inside the train station, whispering unimportant shit in each other's ears before parting ways, never to see each other again. He just left out that part.
So, when he returns home to his dark, chilly apartment, he places his jacket over the back of his dad's old, rackety chair, kicks his shoes off and toes them carefully until they are flush against the wall, and then proceeds to lock up. He glances quickly at the picture to his right, above the small potted plant his sister gifted him for his birthday. It was of his mother and father on their wedding day, their wide smiles blinding and beautiful in his otherwise dark apartment. He feels like he should remember them like that, and not like the people whom kicked him out of their family home, frowns on their pale faces as he limps off, his suitcase filled with his most precious belongings. He wants to remember them as happy and loving, not like his father running after him down the road, throwing rocks at him and screaming "you fucking poof" at the top of his lungs. He wants to remember them as mum and dad when he squats down next to their gravestones with flowers in his hands and tears on his reddened cheeks.
He always suppresses these thoughts, however, and shifts his attention over to his fat cat stretching its chubby limbs across the couch, squinting at him as he reaches over to scratch his head quickly. He feeds it, changes the water in his clear glass bowl and feeds him a tablespoon of milk, not willing to waste the little food he can afford. Then, as a part of his routine, he turns and enters his bedroom, stroking his fingers over his framed uniform, letting his fingers stroke across the dark wood. There is an indent where he's repeatedly done this for 5 years.
But this particular evening he had ended his shift early, at 22:00. The owner had told him to take some time off for a few days after he had broken down it a fit of tears and screams as someone fired some firecrackers down the streets. He hadn't protested, just collected his belongings and elbowed his way out of the pub, ignoring the sympathetic looks from his regular customers. He had made it home in 5 minutes instead of ten, thrown his jacket to the floor instead of neatly across the chair, kept his shoes on and poured the rest of his weekly amount of milk into the clear water bowl. It's Tuesday.
When he entered his bedroom, he smashed his fist into the wall and listened to the plaster crackle underneath his bloodied knuckles, his framed uniform tumbling down from the wall with a loud bang. His cat scrambles from the scene, hiding underneath the couch. He takes a few moments to breathe to himself before reaching out with trembling fingers, dusting the broken glass off the moss green fabric of the one clothing item that helped him survive hell on earth. He brought it up to his face and inhaled, closing his eyes and letting the lingering smell of sea water and oil fill his nostrils. His thumbs dig into the fabric harshly as his shoulders shake, his nose finding that one spot at the juncture between neck and shoulder, that one spot that still smelled like his soldier, his Alex, the spot where he had pressed his cheek and whispered for him to come look for him one day, when the war ended. He cried, weeping against the green with such intensity that his cat crawled back over, bumping his fat head against his arm and looking at him with those large, green eyes. He cradled the creature in his arms and wept, petting across the red fur of his only friend in the world.
When the animal moved away some time later, Tommy couldn't help but to notice a small, yellowed piece of paper lying there as a stark contrast to his navy-blue carpet. He picks it up, face matted down with a frown, eyebrows drawn tightly together. On the note was an address, in Manchester, scribbled down in a messy handwriting. He turns it over, his breath catching in his throat as he reads one sentence that makes his heart thud against his ribs.
Please survive, Tom, and then come find me
He scrambles off the floor quickly, his uniform long forgotten on the floor as he nearly tears apart his dresser to find a decent piece of paper, an envelope and a pen, getting comfortable at the kitchen table as he tries to think of all the things he wants to say, everything he never said. He wants to be angry, furiously scramble down every hateful word he had ever thought of Alex and his fucking face that made Tommy into a fucking poof, hated by his parents and family. He wants to let all his melancholy thoughts rain onto the paper like teardrops, expressing the heaviness inside his chest that never seems to give him a damn break, that keeps thudding just to make itself known. But more than anything he wants to tell Alex how fucking sorry he is, how sorry he is for never saying all the things he should have said. For never sharing a moment of comfort to the stressed out, 22-year-old lad that sat across him at the train and huffed in relief and happiness as Tommy read that fucking speech out to him, annoyed looks from fellow soldiers drowned out by the pure peace on his scarred face. He wants to tell him he loves him, or hates him, maybe a mix of both. How his body never seemed to accept that it wasn't going to spend the rest of its time entangled with those long, war-starved limbs every morning as the sun shone through his dirty windows. He wanted to express the need he felt, yet the paper stayed blank. His hand shaking with effort as he attempts to collect his thoughts for just a moment so he can figure out what to write, how to write. But nothing ever comes to him.
He goes to bed 10 minutes later, the note safely tucked into the top drawer of his nightstand, folded in half.
The next morning at 10:00 he makes his way to the pub, begging for his boss to be around doing his daily cleaning before opening at noon. When the broad shouldered, bearded man he spent so many hours talking to about the war that ruined his life finally opens the door for him, his voice catches in his throat. He looks at him, desperate as ever, trying to make him understand what's going on inside his head. The man, Landon, bores his eyes into his pale face, letting his eyes drop to the note clutched in his bony hand. He carefully slides it from his tight clenched fist and reads it, his lips pursed together tightly.
"Take some time off, lad. I'll see you soon," and with that he closes the door, the paper neatly tucked into his chest-pocket. Tommy breathes out, his throat opening up again to allow air to flow through, reminding him that he is indeed, still alive. The war is over, and he can breathe. He hopes to the Gods up above that he isn't alone on that.
He packs his bag then, at noon. Not a lot, just a few shirts and trousers, underwear for a couple of days. Deep down he knew he had to return home, that he couldn't stay. He makes sure his cat has enough food, then talks to his neighbours for a few moments and thanks them when they agree to feed him until he comes back. He sits on his bed for a few minutes, breathing heavily as he kicks at the broken pieces of glass on the floor, watching the rare London sun reflect off of them, creating patterns on the walls. Distraction, that's what he needs. Distraction from the reality, that within the next few days he would arrive at some location in Manchester with his suitcase and a five-year-old memory of some oil slicked, young soldier stroking at the back of his head before disappearing into the flood of people. He feels like a complete nut job at that, and he finds himself pacing the floor before he knows it, pieces of glass sliding underneath the soles of his sock clad feet. He was going to do it.
His head jerks as Big Ben chimes once more, his own clock ticking 13:00. His fingers twitch carefully, sliding closed the latches of his suitcase, the cold metal grounding him from his escaping thoughts. A friendly reminder that he is here, in his room, ready to go off to see Alex. Fucking Alex.
He ends up leaving his apartment 5 minutes later, his suitcase in hand, dressed in a pair of brown trousers and a white and blue striped shirt, suspenders secured neatly at his shoulders underneath his navy-blue coat. He locks the door after him, sliding his key underneath the "welcome" mat outside his door. He had bought that as a joke two years ago, knowing no one would ever visit to read it. He liked to think of it as an inside joke with himself. But as he stood on it, his leather boots glistening underneath the ugly, yellowish light of his hallway, he thought to himself that Alex might, one day. And he smiled to himself for the first time in forever before making his way down the narrow staircase, finding himself out on the streets of London headed for a train that would take him to God knows where, God knows who.
There was a lovely lady that greeted him as he rushed inside to purchase a ticket, her blond hair swept behind her shoulders, held in place by a headband. She peeks up at Tommy through her black coated lashes and flashes him a friendly smile, her dainty hands stamping a few tickets.
"Hello, love. What can I do for you?" She asks, eyeing Tommy carefully as he digs through his pocket and fishes out his money, sliding it across the wooden surface of the ticket booth. She smiles at him and accepts the payment, reaching for a stamp.
"Where to, sir?"
He hesitates a bit, sneaking in a quick peek at the clock hanging on the wall, 13:17. He looks back to her and leans closer, licking his lips.
"First train to Manchester, please. Soon as possible," she nods, looking through the bunches of small tickets to her right. She picks up one between manicured fingernails and stamps it, handing it to him quickly.
"It leaves in an hour or so, platform 2. You off to see your bird?" Her smile is nothing but friendly, yet it stings as her words really sink in. He pushes himself away from the booth and picks up his suitcase in his sweaty palm, coughing awkwardly.
"It's a bit more complicated than that, I'm afraid." He doesn’t say another word as he leaves, eyes scanning the platform to find himself a nice seat where he could wait. He already knew that if he left to waste some time while waiting for the train, chances are he'd return home and forget all about the note, Alex, everything. He'd just go back to his routines as usual, and something inside him itched to explore the possibility of having him, all of him, outside of the constricting hold of the war. He wants the validation he had waited for, the validation that the thing between them wasn't because of war, and if it was Tommy begged for it to not end with the war as well. So, when his train could be heard from miles away, whistling in the distance, he thanked the gentleman to his right for lending him the newspaper he had looked through at least 3 times, yet not read a single word of. It reminded him of that speech, Churchill's speech, and all he could see was the glee in those green eyes as he finished, heavy soldier shoulders light as air as the burden on his back disappeared along with the shores of Dunkirk.
It felt weird as he stepped onto the train, finding a nice spot in the corner by the window, hoisting his bag up onto the shelves above. He looked around, spotting a family of five struggling to get their stroller aboard, the wife hysterical as her two other children disappeared inside the train past Tommy. He hurries over to grab the front of it, assisting her in lifting the child safely onto the floor underneath him, her husband emerging once again with their tickets it hand. He receives a grateful thank you and a bashed request to watch the stroller while they looked for their other two, which he softly accepted. With the stroller at his side he sat back down in his seat, studying the small creature inside it as its eyelids fluttered, revealing a pair of big brown eyes surrounded by long lashes. He smiles softly and lets his hand find its way over to the small hand of the child, stroking across the chubby knuckles, watching the fingers flex experimentally at the soft touch. There is a small teddy bear by its head, brown furred and button eyed, and he reaches for it with tentative fingers. He turns it over and reads the bottom of it, heart fluttering at the sight of a neat hand writing and a small gesture meant for the child, Annabelle. A girl, then. He places the bear back and leans back in his seat, keeping a hold of the stroller as the train starts moving. The woman returns a few minutes later, her hands wrapped tightly around the wrists of two young boys, their eyes cast down in shame as she quietly lectures them. She thanks Tommy again and asks if it's okay that they sit, which he once again accepts. The older one of the two boy's slides onto the seat next to him, feet barely reaching the floor as he swings them back and forth, eyes focused on the scenery outside the window moving past them faster and faster. The younger one sits with his mother, yet his eyes were fixated on Tommy rather than the view. His head cocked, big green eyes shining with curiosity, fingers entangling in each other neatly at his lap. His mother talked to him, telling him how exciting it would be to visit grandma Annie again, after so long, and Tommy allowed himself to peek into the stroller once more, seeing the young girl fast asleep once again.
"What brings you to Manchester, then?"
His eyes meet the ones of the mother, her friendly brown eyes fixated on him as she reaches into the stroller to rock her baby girl, her blonde hair swept into a bun at the back of her head. Tommy moves in his seat, contemplating on what to answer her, struggling to find words that wouldn't offend any of them.
"I'm, uh, hoping to meet an old friend. From the war," she nods slowly, one leg crossed over the other underneath her skirt, hands now folded neatly in her lap much like her son's. The older of the boys crawls out of his seat to peek out the window better, brown curls bouncing atop of his head. His nose barely reaches the edge of the window as he stands on his tiptoes, fingers gripping onto the wooden frame. Tommy smiles carefully and nods towards him.
"Reminds me of a friend, the older one. Sweet boy," the lady chuckles and eyes her son fondly, reaching over to straighten out his vest with careful, motherly fingers.
"This little rascal here is Christopher, turned 6 last week. And this," she turns her attention to the smaller one with his knees pulled to his chest in the seat next to her, "Is Edward, he will be 4 in January," he keeps his eyes fixated on Tommy, lighter brown hair swept across his piercing green eyes. "And my name is Sophie," he shakes her hand politely, introducing himself shortly as Thomas. They chat for a little while before her husband returns, lifting Edward into his lap and sharing a quick fond look with his wife before entertaining his two boys with a little game of I spy with my little eye to pass the time. Tommy spaces out then, closing his eyes and attempting to avoid the whole situation he finds himself in right now. He manages to fall asleep, dreaming of green eyes and soft curls.
He's awoken by the conductor, a friendly lad in his late twenties with fiery ginger hair and skin as pale as snow, dusted with tan freckles across the bridge of his nose and neck. He politely hands Tommy his bag and wishes him well on his trip, blowing his whistle loudly after Tommy stumbles onto the platform, the remains of sleep still stuck in his eyes. He rubs at them carefully, reaching into his pocket to pull out the note, mouthing out each syllable of the address that held onto every single dream, thought or wish he had found himself having for the past years. Clutched tightly inside his hand he keeps it safe, hurrying over to the main road to holler for a taxi, his suitcase between his legs. He spots the couple from the train across the road, Sophie and her husband, and thinks about waving to them but decides against it, dumping his suitcase into the car that pulls up in front of him and slides into the vehicle, handing over the note to the driver.
"Do you know this address?" He asks, eyes following the movement of an old lady crossing the street, her cane wobbling along the uneven surface of fresh asphalt, her crumpled body dressed in a cream coloured dress drizzled with images of pretty daises and lavender. However, when the taxi driver nudges at him to take the note back he focuses on the older gentleman next to him, eyes full of glittering hope.
"Yeah, I know it, son. Not too far, nice family from what I have gathered. Lots of visits from family and friends," he muses, checking his mirrors before pulling the car out into the bustling traffic of a city Tommy had never had the pleasure of visiting, yet now that he finds himself here he can't wrap his head around it. His mind is somewhere else, to say the least.
He can't help but to notice that the taxi with Sophie and her family inside is right in front of them, her hair reflecting the sun directly into Tommy's face as they take a left, the car hitting a deep pot hole as the driver speeds up slightly, fingers gripping the wheel tightly.
"You visited them before?" He turns his head to the driver, eyes drawn to the white, coarse hair of his moustache as he speaks, the movement of his lips making the hair growth look awkward and messy. He shakes his head no, leaning back in his seat as they make their way out of the city, cosy little farmhouses scattered along the dirt road. The couple's taxi is still in front of them, maybe 10 meters, ahead of them, but then it takes a right up a steep, narrow road and Tommy loses sight of it. Yet, the driver follows up the same road, giving Tommy a clear sight of the taxi once more. He frowns quickly but brushes it off, picking at some dirt collecting under his fingernails. He still has the note in his hand, probably dampened and splotchy with melted ink from the heat and sweat collecting in his nervous hands, yet he squeezes it a bit harder when he spots Sophie and her husband climbing out of their taxi, the two young boys following suit. He abruptly yells for the taxi driver to stop, their car partially covered by the branch of an old willow tree stretching across the road. He sees them enter the house one by one, a dark-haired lady welcoming them inside with a friendly smile and an apron wrapped around her slender body. He swallows thickly and peeks over to the driver, his fingers holding up the note.
"Is that the address?" He almost curses at himself at how weak and pathetic he sounds as the whispered words travels from his shaking lips to the ear of the elderly man, and his heart pounds painfully in his chest as the man nods, a small smile on his lips.
"Indeed, it is, son," he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, he just sat there with his fingers clenching and unclenching in his lap, the note crumpled by now, squashed inside his hands. The driver cuts the engine and turns to him, almost in a fatherly way, reminding Tommy of that man on the boat, the Moonstone, who welcomed everybody aboard with an unaffected smile and blankets. Tommy would never forget that face, never forget the moment he got kicked out of home and immediately thought of him, wishing he had the time to get to know him before being dragged along to catch that train. But when the driver lays a hand on his forearm and squeezes, he gets pulled out of his thoughts and back into reality.
"Listen, in all my years working as a taxi driver, I have never come across someone as scared as you, boy. But your eyes, they reek of war and sorrow, lad, and whatever is inside that house is your closure, I can feel it. Now, I want you to get out of my car, pay me, get your bags and go ring that doorbell, got it?" Tommy nods quickly, pushing the door open quickly, grunting at the suddenly very heavy weight, sliding some coins into the man's palm when he turns.
"I-I hope it's enough, I didn't, uh, I didn't really think about money when I boarded that train, to be honest," he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, shuffling on his feet before nodding and closing the door, collecting his bag from the trunk, watching as the taxi drove off in the other direction. He looked back down the road where they came from, contemplating on just leaving while he could, running down the road with dust clouds behind him, leather shoes dirty and matte, hair a mess. Then he turned to the house, seeing the soft silhouettes of people moving inside, probably getting themselves ready for dinner. He walked, letting his legs carry him past white picket fences and flowers, daisies like the old woman's dress, a lavender-coloured mailbox. His shaky fingers slide open a gate, fumbling to close it behind him, mainly just to waste some extra time, before finding himself in front of a blue door, a freshly cleaned window covered by soft, lace curtains on the inside, a shiny metal handle. There's a doorbell, yet he settles for knocking, needing to keep his hands occupied for a little bit. He waits, his heart racing inside his chest as he hears a voice approaching, blonde hair and brown eyes, familiar, eyeing him confusedly as the door slides open. Sophie has let her hair down, now, the length of is curling over her shoulders and down her back, distracting him for a moment. There's a smile on her plump, red lips as her hand reaches out to touch his shoulder, stroking from the ball of it up to his neck, gripping it softly.
"Thomas? What on earth are you doing here?" She laughs, eyes glinting under the mid-day sun, her hand continuing a route from his neck back over to the ball of his shoulder before descending lower, curling around his stiff hand to shake it softly.
"Are you alright? You look a bit flustered, are you lost? If you have an address I could help you find your way," she offers, and without really thinking about his situation he digs into his pocket and hands her the note with the messy handwriting, watching her eyes grow confused, then surprised, then happy as she looks over to him.
"You're here for Alexander?" She nearly whispers, taking a step towards him to wrap an arm over his shoulder as a tear runs down his cheek, making him reach up and wipe it away before it reached his mouth. He couldn't speak, his voice just wouldn't function, so his breath just hitched softly as he let his head fall forward, leaning on her shoulder softly. The touch of her fingers on his neck was something new yet so eerily familiar, flashes of soldiers rushing around him, rough, calloused fingertips stroking his neck, his hairline, deep, raspy voice filling his ears with a final goodbye. He wanted to sob, wrap his arms around her lithe body and never let go, because she is Sophie, the Sophie Alexander had briefly mentioned on the train back, his sister in London. He wanted to cry against her shoulder and never stop when realizing Christopher, little 6-year-old Christopher with his green eyes and brown curls is his nephew, and the scribbled handwriting on that teddy bear inside Annabelle's stroller is from his soldier, his love, and it all felt like too much.
"I think he would love to see you again, Thomas. If you're who I think you are, he never thought this day would come. He has waited for so long," the words are whispered softly against his ear and he straightens up, allowing her to cup his face and wipe away the stray tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. She gives him a reassuring smile, one that reminds him of his own sister, and grabs his hand, leading him inside the small house and closing the door behind them. After kicking his shoes off and placing his coat over the back of a chair just to give him a feeling of home, he follows her into the living area where Christopher and Edward are sat on the floor, sliding some wooden train models across the hardwood floor loudly. Christopher looks up to meet his eyes and smiles, the same dimpled smile he spent a week with in Dunkirk, and stands up, train long forgotten on the ground.
"You're the man, from the train!" He smiles, husky child voice spilling from his mouth, his right front tooth missing. Tommy smiles at him and kneels down, extending his hand to him slowly, watching as he takes a step closer and shakes it with his tiny hand, soft skin tickling against the rugged hand of Tommy.
"Christopher, right? I must say, you look just like your uncle," Sophie touches his shoulder softly to bring him back up, nodding towards the kitchen where he could see the woman who let them in earlier stirring in a pot, apron still tied around her waist. Up close he could see the youthfulness in her face despite her age, and he turns to Sophie.
"I'm not sure I can do this, he might now even remember me," he whispers softly, words slipping from his mouth quicker than he'd like. He could hear the woman, grandma Annie he assumes, talk to someone in the kitchen, and his throat closes when he recognizes the answering voice, allowing it to envelop him in memories he thought he had long forgotten. It still sounded the same, perhaps impossibly deeper, but the huskiness of it, the deepness you would struggle to find in someone else was still there, just as vividly as he remembered it. Sophie turned him around and walked him forward, deliberately stopping in the kitchen entrance to allow him to breathe in quickly.
He was right there, kneeling in front of the oven with a pair of ridiculous pink oven mittens on, splattered with white polka dots all over. His shirt was folded up to reveal tanned arms, tanner than Tommy recalled, with a few tattoos. His hair was a bit longer, curled at the tips just like he remembers, yet a lighter shade of brown now that it wasn't wet or covered in oil. He speaks, says something to his mother briefly before standing up and placing what appeared to be a roast chicken on the stovetop, sliding the oven closed. He turns, green eyes scanning the room before landing on Tommy, face confused for a moment before the beautiful sight of recognition spiked something in them. The oven mittens fell to the floor, and Tommy already felt the tears running down his cheeks as those strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him in, hand at the back of his neck with fingers stroking small, circular patterns on the skin there, cheek pressed into the juncture between his neck and shoulder tightly. Someone cried, possibly the two of them, yet he couldn't seem to give a fuck as he wrapped his slim arms around the waist he never thought he would hug ever again, eyes pressed closed tightly as he inhaled, the smell of basil and flowers hitting him, with a musky undertone he remembers from his uniform back home. There is a whisper somewhere, close, and he digs his face further into him to catch what's being said.
"Oh god, I never thought I'd see you again, I thought you were dead, I was so sure Tom, I kept seeing it in my head, you dead, I dreamt of your pale face lying there in the bloody pacific and I never thought,- oh god," he rambled on, mouth moist against the shell of Tommy's ear and he rips himself away, not caring who saw them as he grips onto those large, tattooed hands he missed so fucking much and brought them up to his face, nosing against the sharp knuckles there as he breathes in heavily, shoulders shaking from the sobs wrecking through his body.
"No, no, god no, you bloody idiot I'm right here, I'm right fucking here," he whispers, voice shaking dangerously on every syllable as he wraps him up in a hug once again, this time with him on his tiptoes as he embraces his neck, curls tickling his nose as he presses his face into that damn hair he always loved, even when covered in dark oil and slick salt water. They were alone in the kitchen, Sophie having immediately ushered their mother out before sliding the door closed behind them softly, granting them the first alone time they had ever had. Tommy pulls away slowly, his shaky hands stroking over those strong shoulders, fingertips ghosting up the hard muscle of neck before cupping the rough jawline he spent hours just kissing, sucking small love bites into; now all stubbly and rough, grown up. A single tear runs down his cheek now, his eyes scanning over red plump lips, straight nose and settling on those green eyes he himself had dreamed of so many times, nightmares of them lying there in a heap of bloody soldiers, buried in a mass grave somewhere in Germany, alone. They were greener than ever now, shining wetly with tears before slipping closed, moist lips mingling with Tommy's chapped ones, breathing in harshly. He grips his face harder, fingers pulling him in, deeper, needing to feel him pressed against him again, needing to know that this was not some dream about to turn into a nightmare. There is an arm around his lower back, hoisting him up slightly as a rough thigh supports his weight, allowing him to lean against the hard plane of chest in front of him as those lips finally slides deep enough, kisses him with a desperation he had never felt, tongue sliding across his bottom lip sensually, yet sweet enough for Tommy to let out a giggle, a fucking giggle, tangling his hands in dark hair and kissing him deeply, pouring every emotion he couldn't write in that letter into the conversation between their mouths inside this small country kitchen.
"I never thought I'd see you again," Alex whispers once more, his forehead sliding across Tommy's messily before he steadies himself, kissing across bony shoulders. Tommy doesn't answer, just slides his hands over his shoulders and hums, his heart beating painfully inside his chest, his breath coming out in hurried little pants against Alex's cheek. They were chest to chest now, Alex pushing between Tommy's thighs as they fell open were he had been hoisted onto the kitchen table, tattooed fingers gripping tightly onto his legs for support, mouth continuing its little path from his neck to his jaw and back down again, across collarbones. Tommy forced himself to grab onto his face and pull him up when a wetness spread itself across his left pec, pushing long curls away from tight knitted brows to land a kiss on swollen, red lips, sighing softly.
"Your mother would be horrified if she found out you nearly shagged a guy over her dinner, mate," that rips a small laugh out of Alex and Tommy feels satisfied at that, lacing their fingers together slowly, squeezing softly, feeling his heart stutter when that steady pulse beats against thumb. He's alive, he's fucking alive. He's strong, well fed and so damn handsome, and so much older than Tommy ever imagined. He never imagined Alex old, as gloomy as he was on that beach, with all good reasons.
"You'd be surprised at what my mother never finds out," comes the answer a few moments later, and Tommy slides his arse off the table softly to stand in front of him, noticing the height difference that never struck him five years ago. He felt small, for once, overpowered and small, Alex looming over him like a dark shadow under a ray of sun, but he forgets all about it when a rough palm cups his cheek and soft lips touches his cheek, hushed words spoken.
"Stay for dinner."
Tommy ended up staying for longer than dinner, because Alex's mother turned out to be the sweetest lady he had ever laid eyes on, feeding him for hours on end after he had unbuttoned his shirt slightly and accidentally exposed bony shoulders and hollow collarbones. He ate nearly three portions of roast chicken before kissing Annie's hand softly and thanking her for the meal and her hospitality, telling her he should get going so he could find a place to sleep. He received a kick in the shin from Alex at that but he ignored it, feeling tears prickling in his eyes when she offered him the couch for the night, her fingers stroking through his hair softly when he hugged her, thanking her once again. Alex watched him the whole time, a fond smile stretched across his face, making his dimples pop obscenely. He followed Annie to the basement and helped her carry pillows and sheets upstairs to the guest bedrooms, a foldable baby crib hooked over his arm. And when he descends down the stairs again and into the living room, he's met with the sight of Alex seated in the tan chair in the far-right corner, Annabelle propped up on his arm with his lips pressed to her forehead, dark voice rumbling out the distinctive words of a nursery rhyme. Tommy leans against the doorframe and watches, chest tightening as Alex pulls her close to his chest and rocks her, fingers stroking over a sock clad foot. He sneaks closer, gripping onto the sides of Alex face to tip his face backwards and place a kiss on his lips, smiling widely. He feels those warm, silky lips respond to his smile with a grin of their own, parting softly to let their breaths mingle. Tommy shuffles around the chair and kneels next to it, stroking his hand over her chubby leg, feeling the warmth of her. Her eyelids flutter at the feeling before she settles back down, limbs curling in on themselves, making both Alex and Tommy coo softly.
"You want to put her to bed?" Alex whispers softly, leaning back in the chair, his hair spread out across the back like a halo, like an angel. Tommy mentally curses at himself for the cheesiness.
"I've never put a baby down before," he whispers back, letting her small hand wrap around his pinkie finger like a vice, squeezing hard, fingernails the size of a grain of rice. He leans down to plant a kiss on her knuckles, letting the warm smell of infant envelop him for a moment as they sit there together. Alex moves to get up and Tommy lets him, watching him cradle the baby tightly to his chest as he turns to him and smiles that crooked, dimpled smile, making his heart beat just a little bit faster. The older lad nudges at his arm softly and nods, slowly placing her into Tommy's arms, his hand supporting the back of her head and placing it down softly in the crook of his sharp elbow, watching her stir softly before nuzzling her face against his chest.
"She's beautiful," Tommy mumbles, smiling nervously at Alex before ducking down to brush his lips over the top of her head, over the anterior fontanelle that had yet to close up, the soft patch of skin giving in under his gentle touch. Alex's hand skids over his shoulder and tickles at the base of his neck, their forehead leaning against each other for a few short seconds before they pull away when someone makes their way downstairs, the two of them moving to stand a respectable distance away from each other. Sophie's blonde head of hair peeks into the dark living room and she smiles when she sees them, her body clad in a silk night gown with a thin organza robe flowing around her legs, tied at the waist. Her skin was paler than Alex's, yet when he looked at her he couldn't help but to see the striking resemblance, wondering to himself how he didn't notice it before, on the train. He should've realized. She wraps an arm over Tommy's shoulders and squeezes softly, lips pressed together in thought as she watches her baby girl curled into a ball in his arms, peace written across her features.
"We'll put her down, Soph," Alex whispers and leans over to kiss his sister's cheek, his large palm resting over her smaller one, squeezing softly. She smiles gratefully at the two of them before landing a small peck on Tommy's cheek and bidding them both goodnight, her nightwear flowing after her up the stairs with a remarkable grace. Alex motions for him to follow him upstairs, sliding open the second door to the left, Christopher and Edward fast asleep in each their bed. While Tommy rocks the infant in his arms, Alex fixes up her bed a little, arranging the sheets properly and propping up the little bear from her stroller. Tommy lies her down gently, careful fingers placing her head onto the soft mattress, trying not to wake her. She doesn't, luckily, just takes a deep breath through flared nostrils and settles down quickly, fists clenched as she dreams vividly, legs twitching. Alex moves over to the two boys and kisses each of their foreheads, smoothing their hair from their foreheads as he whispers something to each of them that doesn't quite reach Tommy's ears, and the two of them leave the room quietly, the door slightly ajar. Tommy peeks at the clock up on the wall, 22:08, and turns to Alex, smiling softly when his arms circle around his waist, moist kisses pressed silently against his jaw.
"You should sleep with me, in my room. There's plenty of space," he offers, wiggling his eyebrows with a laugh bubbling from his chest, making Tommy blush softly and avert his gaze, inhaling softly. He likes this, the warmth that radiates from the 27-year-old man in front of him, his heated palms pressing persistently at his waistline through his thin shirt, ice cold fingertips a stark contrast. He allows Alex to tip his head back softly and kiss at his throat, teeth nipping at his Adams apple as he swallows, a soft noise slipping from his lips.
"Would be a little too obvious, don't you think?" Alex doesn't seem satisfied with the answer as he sinks his teeth into the spot directly below his left ear, Tommy's fingers gripping at his forearms tightly, body going rigid as there's movement in the room to their right. He pushes Alex away just in time for it not to look too suspicious when Annie steps out of the room and lets the door shut softly behind her with a soft click, her kind eyes inspecting the two of them. Tommy awkwardly brings his hand up to scratch at his neck, silently praying for it to be free of bite marks or hickeys, yet Annie doesn't seem to notice anything as she kisses Alex's cheek and bids him good night, doing the same to Tommy before descending downstairs to her own bedroom. Tommy breathes out heavily and slumps against the wooden chest decorated with a lace doily and candles behind him, arse propped onto the old wood as he rubs at his face. Alex grins cheekily and unbuttons his shirt slowly, each inch of skin revealing tattoo upon tattoo, swallows on his chest, butterfly on his stomach; Tommy is mesmerized. Alex backed up slowly, towards the end of the hall where his bedroom must be, shrugs his shirt off and throws it inside, his eyes watching the lanky, awkward boy as he lifts himself up slowly and makes his way over, nervous fingers skittering across the warm skin of his abdomen, hair tickling at his nose. He inhales the smell of him, dragging a paw across his head to grip at his hair, teeth nipping at the shell of his ear, his earlobe; Tommy's breathing is nearly laboured at this point. He tips his head back then, kisses Alex softly, softer than he ever had, fingers removing themselves from his chest, arms now resting against his sides.
"Goodnight, Alexander," there's a slight playfulness to his voice as he leaves, the back of his head disappearing as he descends down the stairs and heads for the couch, already made up for him by Alex's mum. Alex himself closes the door to his room behind him, falling asleep faster than he had since the morning he got shipped off to Dunkirk 5 years ago.
Tommy, on the other hand, laid comfortably on the plush couch, arm propped up behind his head and his eyes focused on some stained water damage in the ceiling. This whole thing felt unreal, like some very vivid dream that he would someday wake up from and it would all be a lie, a figment of his imagination still clinging onto a sliver of hope that war had yet to rip away from his fingers. When he closed his eyes all he could see was tattoos, long wisps of curly hair behind tanned ears; a grown-up face, the real version of the face that had haunted his dreams for too long. He fell asleep quite quickly after that, the soothing ticking of the clock above him lulling him into unconsciousness.
He ended up staying the next day as well, Thursday, Alex and him taking the boys with them into town to do some shopping, ending up down at the pier with ice cream cones in their hands, sitting close together on the dock, thighs pressed against each other. The boys were playing down by a small strip of sand by the shore, chucking sea shells into the dark water, the strong wind blowing their wild mops of hair into crazy shapes. Alex chuckles at them and swings his legs, his hand grabbing onto Tommy's for a split second, fingers stroking across his knuckles. He tells him how he always wanted kids, yet he didn't see the possibility of ever having any, and Tommy told him he had no experience with children being the youngest child of an older couple. Alex informs him that children are great and proceeds to drag him and the boys along to the park, the two of them pushing the boys along on creaking swing sets, not having being used since pre-war.
They nearly doze off at the dinner table that night, Annie ushering them out of the dining room as she cleared up, and Tommy didn't even think twice when he followed Alex up into his room, bidding the family goodnight once more. Sophie's husband gave them suspicious looks, but they seemed to disappear once Sophie leaned over to whisper something in his ear, hand delicate on his forearm. Tommy never asked, but he somehow knew; what they're doing is under no circumstances okay, he knows that, Alex knows that, yet when he looks at that face he forgets everything about standards and drunken homophobic slurs when he worked late nights at the pub. Instead he falls right back into those strong arms and allow him to take him to bed, hands roaming his chest, back, his thighs; fingers making quick work of buttons, clothes sliding to the floor. They should be careful, yet Tommy can't bring himself to protest, he just lets Alex do as he pleases, body writhing on the mattress in the pitch-black room, Alex's hand covering his mouth to muffle any noise that might wake up the other's, whispering words in his ear that no man should ever whisper to a fellow lad, filthy language dripping off his tongue and onto Tommy, his head spinning. His body is yelling at him, for what he doesn't know, but he pulls Alex to him and pushes his face into his sweaty neck, digging his fingernails into every expanse of skin he came across, emotions heightened dramatically as Alex pulls his fingers away from him and lands a kiss on his mouth, tasting of minty toothpaste and cigarettes, the taste intoxicating enough for Tommy to initiate another kiss, curled up against his naked body, Alex's hand stroking soothingly across his hair, his cheeks. They whisper back and forth, none of them really paying attention to the conversation, too tired to put their minds to it, but when Alex whispers out a sweet "I love you, Tom" he's awake enough to crawl closer and lean their foreheads together, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose, his hushed response of "go to sleep, Alex" barely reaching the other man before he's fast asleep, eyelashes fluttering closed.
Tommy awakes the next morning to the feeling of heady smoke filling his lungs and nostrils, which causes him to bolt out of bed and onto the hardwood floors, breathing panicked. He looks around the room frantically before feeling the tell-tale fluttering of embarrassment raise in his chest when he realizes it's only Alex, one arm behind his head for support as he balances a cigarette between his fingers, a smirk on those kiss swollen lips. Tommy huffs quietly and crawls back onto the bed, skittering his fingertips across the never-ending plane of soft stomach, tanned from the summer sun and inked black in the shape of a butterfly, which looks kind of ridiculous yet amazing. His eyes meet green ones, and there's a small flash of something there, concern perhaps, before it disappears to be replaced with humour.
"Morning," the voice was so incredibly deep, rumbling through his chest like the song of an opera singer, tingling through his muscles like feathers, only to settle comfortably in his stomach, making him feel like a love-struck 14-year-old all over again. He reaches over and snatches the fag out of his fingers, placing it between teeth mid-suck, the smoke curling through his lungs. He didn't really smoke, not anymore, all it did was remind him of war and death and all his mates with their desperate eyes and reaching hands as they disappeared into flames, skin melting on bones in a horrible stench. He scrunches up his nose and inhales once more, forcing the images away, opting to look at Alex instead, linking the feel of nicotine to the chiselled face in front of him, covered in a dark layer of stubble all along a sharp jaw line and dimpled cheeks. He passes the cigarette back and pushes a few stray hairs away from his own forehead as they tickle at his eyebrows, his naked abdomen littered with goose bumps as cool air flows through the window, plaid curtains dancing in the wind. He moves to close it, sliding the latches shut tightly before crawling back into bed, lying comfortably on his side, face towards Alex. He watches him for a second, licking his dry and cracked lips, sliding his hand over a strong, muscled thigh, squeezing.
"I have to go home, today," it hangs there in the air for a while, neither of them saying a word as the statement sinks in, reality creeping up on them finally, shaking them out of the love trance they have found themselves in for the past two days. Tommy knew he had to leave at some point, return to his old life of wiping tables and taking orders, serving up drinks to men whom cared so little about him and his wellbeing that they kept reminding him of the seven days of nonstop hell he went through, and they did it with such ease it made him sick to his stomach, his eyes watering at the thought. Damn Landon for paying him such good money, or else he'd be gone a long time ago.
"I know," Alex answers after a few minutes, his eyes fixated on the apple trees outside in their garden, red fruits glistening with early morning moisture, green leaves rustling as another heavy breeze flows through them. Tommy stays silent, reaching a hand out to wrap around his waist and pull him closer, lips pressing small, apologetic kisses to his chest and neck, hair tickling at his chin. He doesn't have to look at the older lad to know that he's smiling, his arm slung casually around Tommy's shoulders, fingertips sliding across his soft, untouched skin, the one place where the war failed to mark him up permanently. Alex inhales deeply, his body shaking softly, fingers reaching over to the nightstand to put out his cigarette before he rolls on top of Tommy and kisses him, large hands framing his face and holding him there, mouth relentlessly attacking him with small bites and swipes of his tongue, his upper body flushing a light pink at the assault. When he's let go, Alex moves off the bed to slide on a pair of pants, navy blue ones, shoving his white shirt into it messily before pulling on a pair of socks, hair tumbling into his face as he bends over. Tommy saunters over to him and lands a quick, playful smack on his behind, a large smile covering his face when Alex emerges to scold him, an embarrassed smile on his face.
"I'm starving, get your arse dressed for breakfast. Sneaky bastard," he points a finger at Tommy before leaving the room, the clattering of pots and pans being heard from downstairs along with quiet murmurs and the static noise of a radio. Tommy digs into his suitcase and pulls on his last outfit, a pair of grey slacks he usually wore to work, held up by a wide leather belt to prevent them from sliding down his slim hips. He tucked a blue shirt into it, rolling the sleeves up slightly above his elbows before running his fingers through his hair a couple of times, detangling it. He joined the others shortly after, surprising himself and everyone else when he lifted Edward up and placed him on his hip, ruffling at his shaggy sleeping hair quickly with a small smile on his lips. Sophie glanced quickly at the two of them and sipped her tea slowly, her husband Linc sitting down in the chair next to her with Annabelle on his arm, her eyes wide open as he tickled at her belly softly. There was tension, Tommy could tell, but when Alex entered from the kitchen and bid them all a good morning with Christopher propped up on his back, Sophie cracked a small smile and chuckled softly and they all settled down by the table as Annie brought out the fried goods. Tommy came to realize he had grown remarkably fond of these people in two very short days, the two boys bickering over who gets the biggest piece of bread, Annabelle's nonstop babbling when no one paid attention to her; Sophie who kept subtly touching him to make sure he was alright, eyeing him with such affection his heart swelled painfully underneath the confines of his ribs. And when he looks up from his teacup and his eyes meet Alex's, he understands that returning to his dim London apartment was going to be a challenge his body would not take well to for a long time.
Alex helped him pack, after breakfast. They did so in a comfortable silence, Alex folding his shirts neatly, pressing them to his chest before sliding them into his suitcase. Tommy watched him for a while, fingers preoccupied with tangling his suspenders around his wrist before sliding them neatly down on top of his shirts, arm brushing against the other man. Alex was the one who closed the case and slid the latches closed firmly, his hands lingering on the weathered leather.
"You should come back sometime," he states, more of a command than a question in all reality, and Tommy felt his throat close up and that, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. Alex looks up at him, green glazed wet as he straightens up, a deep frown settling between his eyebrows, his hands reaching out to Tommy. He glances at him, throat still clogged up, but he takes his hands in his and brings them to his face, kissing each of those prominent knuckles slowly, lips lingering on warm skin. He wanted to cry, he could feel it tightening painfully in his chest and jaw, yet he just pushed his face into Alex's neck and breathed in the smell of him, fingers dropping his hands to grip at his shirt. Strong arms wound around his lower back to hold him close, fingers tugging his shirt out of his pants so they can stroke across the warm expanse of his hips, short clipped nails dragging at the skin. Tommy's eyes slide closed, a rugged breath forcing itself past his cracked lips as he works out something to say, anything.
"I love you, too," Alex's shoulders shake slightly as Tommy admits it, not having answered him last night, too tired to comprehend the feeling in his chest that he could no longer deny. He had loved him the moment he grabbed onto that hand and pulled him out of the water, away from his certain death of getting crushed by that ship. When those eyes locked with his and didn't rat him out for hiding away with the frog, he knew he couldn't leave that boy, so he found something to grasp onto and he didn't let go. Not even when his soldier let him go at that train station and disappeared amongst the other soldiers, cheeks wet with both Tommy's tears and his own, did he stop loving him. He never would, probably.
Alex rides with him to the train station, accompanied by the rest of his family in a different taxi. They stay silent the entire ride, Tommy smiling softly to the taxi driver, the same one that had dropped him off just two days ago, his moustache now clean shaven and baby smooth. He just nodded a quick goodbye to them when they reached their destination, winking quickly at Tommy before driving off.
"When does your train leave?" Alex mumbles softly, his hand clasping Tommy's suitcase tightly in his fist, knuckles nearly white. Tommy checks the ticket he just bought, lips pursed tightly as he hears it approach.
"Ten minutes," he answers, shoulders tense as he looks down at his shoes, trying his best not to cry in front of the large crown of people around them. Alex shuffles closer, the large sleeves of his jacket concealing it as he reaches over and links their fingers together, his cold fingertips stroking over Tommy's knuckles. Annie comes rushing over with Christopher and Edward trailing behind her, Sophie and her husband paying the taxi driver with Annabelle tucked into her stroller.
"Honey, do assure me you'll be back some time, yes? It's been such a pleasure having you over," she reaches for him and hugs him tightly, motherly almost, her arms tight around his neck. He slides his hand from Alex and wraps them around her waist, pulling her close to him as he nods feverishly, tears threatening to spill.
"Yes, yes, of course. Going to miss mother's cooking, right?" There's a glint in her eyes that can only be described as affection as she cups his cheek and smiles, moving to grab a hold of Edward's shoulder when he tries to scamper off. Sophie approaches him quickly, stroller left behind with Linc, and she kisses his cheek softly and runs a hand through his hair, eyes wet with tears. She doesn't say anything immediately, she just links their arms together and stands at his side, a heavy silence between them as the train arrives, steam curling at their feet. Christopher kicks at a rock on the ground before looking up at Tommy, his eyes squinting at the relentless autumn sun, his fingers tangling in his sleeve.
"Will you be back, mister Tommy?" He asks, 6-year-old innocence glowing like a beacon at Tommy as he crouches down to poke his nose, crooked smile shining brightly.
"Of course I will, buddy. Your uncle Alex would never let me hear the end of it if I didn't," he's rewarded with a large grin and a giggle before he stands back up, sighing as the conductor blows his whistle loudly, the last remains of passengers crowding onto the train. Annie bids him a last goodbye before taking the boys and Linc with her, making their way towards the grocery store across the street. Tommy looks after them before he turns towards Alex who is staring defiantly at the ground, jaw locked tightly, green eyes hidden behind closed eyelids. He reaches out to touch his arm, his eyes finally opening to look at Tommy, sadness filling them to the brim as he moves closer and wraps him up in a hug, cheeks pressed together. Tommy holds him close, smiling softly as Alex lands a soft peck on his cheek when nobody's watching before pulling away, hands lingering on his forearm.
"I'll see you around, yeah?" Tommy can't find it in him to answer so he just nods shortly, watching Alex back away slowly with a sad smile on his face before turning around, running across the street to join his family, Annie's hand rubbing at his back with a concerned look on her face. There's another whistle from the conductor, the last call.
"You better get on the train, love, or you're never getting home," he turns to Sophie who's still there next to him and smiles softly at her, bending to pick up his suitcase from the scratchy asphalt. She loops an arm around his neck and hugs him quickly before grabbing his hand, slipping something into his palm. He looks down at bites into his lip as he recognises the yellowed piece of paper with smudged ink on it, handwriting curling delicately across the surface, and when he looks up at her again she's nearly crying, arms wrapped around herself tightly.
"You saved my brother more than once, and for that I will be eternally grateful. What you two have might not be considered... correct, but as far as I'm concerned you're just staying alive."
The statement hangs in the air as she whispers a soft goodbye and walks away. His feet carry him to the train just in time, squeezing in past a group of teenagers settled on the floor, finding a seat in the very corner of the cart. He leans back against the leather and exhales softly, his suitcase placed securely between his knees, his head leaned back. The train whistles loudly as it picks up speed, leaving Manchester behind.
His apartment seemed even darker than usual when he entered, coat thrown over the chair and shoes toed flush against the wall. He lights a candle in the living room for once, settling himself down on the couch after chucking his suitcase into the bedroom, feet stepping onto the forgotten pieces of glass scattered across the carpet. He'd have to clean that soon.
His cat saunters over, stroking his at body across his leg before jumping up on the couch next to him, ginger fur unusually fluffy between his fingers as he scratches behind his ear, listening to the deep purrs erupting from the creature. Those green eyes peer up at him, making his heart swell, and he leans down to kiss its head softly, murmuring against his skin.
"You didn't break anything, did you, Alex?" It seems ridiculous to call the cat by its name now, not needing an excuse to mention that name on a daily basis thanks to the war fucking him over all those years ago, but he shrugged off the thought as the cat snuggled into a pillow and fell asleep, toes curled tightly against the scratchy fabric of the couch. He gets up and enters the kitchen, seeing the bowl filled to the brim and his water clean and still cold, mentally thanking his neighbours before sliding the fridge open, grabbing a beer from the back. He intends to go back into the living room, read a book or something before hitting the sack, yet the pen and paper from two days ago still laid out on the kitchen table catches his eye, ink untouched by greedy animal paws. He pops his beer open and sits down, eyeing the paper slowly before reaching for the pen, smooth ink staining the paper as he writes, occasional sips of his beer spilling droplets across the white, yet he doesn't stop, not until he's filled two and a half pages of his deepest thoughts, everything he was too quiet to voice to Alex all those years ago, everything he had wanted to say when those pink mittens fell to the kitchen floor and he was met with a man so different yet so alike from the man he parted from in Weymouth. He folds the papers neatly and stuffs them into the envelope, sealing it shut before placing it on the table, taking a long swig from his beer, his brain going over all the hurried words he had scribbled onto that paper, smiling slightly to himself as he realised Alex would probably think he'd gone mental, reading all the words he finally found it in himself to write down. He went to bed then, thinking about the letter, getting up to toss it in the trash at 3. Waking up at 5:30 to place it back on the table. Got up at 9 to get ready for work, stared at the envelope. Tossed it again, only to pick it back up 10 minutes later. He left home at 11:30, heading for work.
He stopped by the post office on the way there.