Chapter Text
The bell above the door rings uncomfortably loud as he slips into the small shop. It’s an old, sizeable thing, which seems to almost defy gravity where it swings wildly on a tiny hook. The thought of it falling on his head crosses his mind – a certain concussion – but to his relief the bell eventually stills and continues to hang on the wall. The ringing stops with it a moment later and an almost just as uncomfortable silence replaces it.
Throwing a glance around the almost eerily quiet room, he realises he’s alone. Despite the unlocked door and the "open" sign in the window, it almost feels wrong to be standing in here, like he picked the lock on the door and waltzed right into someone’s home. There’s just something about the room that feels homey and personal, and Tom feels very much like he’s standing uninvited in someone’s home.
The fact that he’s dripping all over the floor like Myrtle after a mud bath doesn’t help.
Still, what really makes this place seem like someone’s home is the room itself, if one just ignore the cash register on the counter, the unnatural amount of shelves – for a home at least – and the price tags scattered about. It has a certain aura; a homey, welcoming one that makes him want to sit in the dull pink, flower printed armchair and read one of the many books from the nearby shelves. He’s never been one to read much, but the old feel to the room makes him want to do something suitable for the time he feels as if he’s gone back to. It just doesn’t seem right sitting in one of the cushioned chairs by the dining table and whipping out his phone.
The floorboards creak under his feet and he feels even more like an intruder as he tiptoes further into the shop. He avoids stepping onto any of the carpets – patterned and framed with tassels – with his wet shoes. Too late does he realise just how dirty they are as well, and he’s halfway through the shop by then, standing between a shelf full of old toys with their paint flaking off, and another full of records and other random trinkets. A trail of wet mud leads back where he came from. He doubts the mop in the kitchen section he passed by a moment ago is usable.
"Hello, can I help you?"
The voice scares him more than he likes to admit, which he realises is stupid because why would anyone leave an antique shop unattended of all places.
The man – his name tag is too little and too far away for him to read – stands a few metres away, a smile on his kind looking face, and Tom wonders how he could have snuck up on him like that when he himself had sounded like a right elephant stomping through the place. Then again, he could have been around the entire time as far as he’s concerned.
He’s got a certain look to him that seems to fit right in among all the old, elegant pieces of antiques, with his almost historical facial structure, soft knitted jumper and khaki trousers. Tom can easily imagine him enjoying a good book in one of the armchairs, or perhaps standing by the window and watching the rain, a record playing in the background and a cup of tea nestled in his hands.
He opens his mouth to respond, to tell him he’s just here to get out of the rain and wait until the worst of it is over, as that is exactly why he’s there, though he cuts himself short. The least he can do right now after the mess he’s made is at least pretend to be interested in buying something. He’s fairly sure he’s got a few pounds on him and his mother would probably appreciate a little gift of some kind. Maybe some earrings?
"No, thank you. I’m just looking," is what he does say, hand waving in the direction of one of the shelves. "Alright, I’ll be by the counter if you need me." The man doesn’t move immediately, seemingly stuck somewhere between walking away and staying, between speaking up and staying silent. Tom is at this point occupying himself with a random record from the upper shelf, but doesn’t fail to notice the slightly concerned glances. He’s fully aware of the fact that he looks like a drowned rat.
The man lingers for a moment, but eventually leaves, floorboards creaking under his nice, brown shoes.
Outside it’s still raining cats and dogs and the amount of time he’s spending between those two shelves is borderline ridiculous. He skips through the records by vaguely familiar artists, toys with a once functional old radio placed on a small, wobbly coffee table and sits down to see what else there is to look at. If he leans enough to the left he can spot the man by the counter.
Eyebrows furrow in concentration and gentle hands toy with something or another. It must be interesting, judging by the lines on the man’s forehead. Even as Tom squints, hand on the floor to support himself as his body tilts further and further to the left, he still can’t see what it is.
He has to admit he’s always been a bit inquisitive, annoyingly so according to his brother. He’s gone on a few adventures into his brother’s room over the years, snooping around in his closet, under his bed and in his drawers. They never really ended well as he’d somehow always leave a trace behind, whether it be an open drawer or a stolen – borrowed – comic book left on the kitchen table. Though most of his nosiness is shown through the excessive amount of questions, this according to his mother. Not to mention the prattling, his brother had said, the never ending prattling.
"What’s that?" The question slips past his lips without intention and as a pair of eyes meet his own, he realises it’s too late to retreat now. The man’s eyes visibly soften, brows relaxing and a hint of a smile forms on his lips as the concentration vanishes. The way he looks at him sends an oddly warm sensation through his otherwise cold body and Tom forgets he’s crouched behind a shelf like an actual creep for a moment, wet hair stuck to his forehead and clothes damp. Eventually he does get a hold of himself and hurries to stand.
"Some rings we just got in from an auction up in Colchester." He stops at that, but Tom can tell he wants to go on. "You can look at them if you want," he says, most definitely noticing his squinting. "Though, I haven’t decided on a price yet." Doesn’t matter, Tom thinks, knowing he’s barely got ten bob on him, hardly enough for old rings.
Once again he is very aware of how dirty his worn shoes are. Would it be odd if he took his shoes off? Well, he thinks to himself, it’s either that or dirtying even more of the floor. Without a second thought he slips right out of his shoes and wanders over to the counter to stand in front of him. The first thought that comes to mind is that he looks even better up close. He brushes the thought away before it can get any further.
There’s something about him that makes Tom feel oddly comforted and safe. Maybe it’s the gentle eyes looking at him as if he’s a friend, the welcoming, friendly impression he gives him, or the calm movements he makes as he hands over one of the rings. The sleeve of his jumper rides up to reveal a watch. Like the ring, it’s old and worn. Tom picks the ring out of his hand, skin barely touching his palm, and looks up to smile politely at him.
"Will", his name tag says in fancy writing and the name fits just right. Simple, yet quaint and charming. He looks like a "Will".
He turns the ring over in his hand and watches the light reflect off the few clean spots. Something’s engraved on the inside, but it’s unreadable, letters long since faded and dirtied. Will’s lips part, as if to speak, but they quickly close. "How old are they?" Tom asks as he continues toying with the ring. Absentmindedly he slips it onto his finger – his ring finger. It doesn’t fit and when he goes to take it off, it slips right off and falls into his other hand. The eyes on him visibly light up with something Tom can only describe as enthusiasm.
"A hundred years or so, I believe. I’ve yet to read the documents they came with." Will sets down the other ring and watches him slip the ring onto his middle finger. It fits like a glove, staying as he gives his hand a little shake. "It’s very dirty, innit?"
"Yeah, I think it’s blood." Tom is quick to pull it off again at that, holding it out between two fingers. Will chuckles, letting him give it back again. "I’m only joking, don’t worry. I think it’s dirt and you know… time." An "oh" forms on his lips, and he watches Will scoop the rings up and place them aside. The smile he gives him is warm, friendly and very much contagious.
"Anyway, I’m sorry if that bored you. I can get a little carried away sometimes." Tom is immediately ready to tell him that it’s fine, that it’s very interesting and that he’d love to hear more, but he doesn’t get the chance. "Did you need help with finding anything?" Once again he is reminded of the fact that he’s been here for like an hour by now and the only thing he’s been doing is standing by the shelves like an idiot – and a right creepy idiot at that.
"I was thinking about getting my mum something actually," he says and Will smiles sweetly. "I can help you with that. What were you thinking about getting her?" Tom finally breaks eye contact to dig around in his pockets. "Nothing too special. A figurine or some earrings, something like that." A few coins is all he finds, counting five in total. Five pounds. What’s he going to buy with that? A hundred year old dust?
Will is silent for a moment, seemingly counting with him. "Does she wear brooches or pins? We recently got some nice flower ones." He disappears behind the counter so suddenly Tom nearly jumps. "I haven’t had the time to put them out yet and price each of them. They’re in very good shape. Early 1950s I think." It’s silent again and Tom is tempted to lean over and check on him. "Sorry, like I said, I get carried away."
He appears as suddenly as he disappeared and this time Tom does jump, just a little bit. "There’s this." A small pin is placed in front of him on the counter in a gentle, soft movement. A rose, soft red and gold in colour. It glistens in the light from the lamp hanging above them. "And this." The second one is smaller and Tom immediately recognises the flower. A faded, yet still bright, pink cherry blossom pin is gently placed beside the first one.
Will doesn’t get any time to continue as Tom points that one out. "She would love this one. We’ve got a few cherry trees, you see. She always complains about the flowers never blooming long enough. Says the cherries don’t look as pretty." He stops himself from continuing. "Anyway, how much is it?"
"Five pounds."
Tom dumps the coins onto the counter. He doesn’t catch the small smile on Will’s face as he takes them into his own hand, one by one. "I hope this one lives up to the real thing, then." Putting the money away he gets to wrapping the small pin and putting it in a small bag. He folds it neatly and Tom feels a little bad as he shoves it into his wet pocket. "I’ll let you know if it does," he says before he can catch himself, but Will smiles and tells him he hopes she likes it.
"I’m sorry about the floor," Tom says as he’s pulling on his shoes. He eyes the dried down trail of mud and hesitantly meets Will’s eyes. "It’s fine. I haven’t washed the floor in weeks. It’s in need of a good scrub." He smiles at him and it has Tom feeling all sorts of things – gratitude being one of them.
As Tom walks through the shop he does his best to step only where he’s stepped before, avoiding making any new footprints. By the door he turns to say goodbye, smiling as he does. Will smiles and waves, telling him to have a nice day. And once Tom’s outside he barely acknowledges the rain.