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William Schofield has known Tom Blake for three years. He knows Tom has a brother, Joe, has a mother, had a father. He knows Tom is almost always hungry, his stomach growling at least once a day as if he were rationing food instead of constantly being found snacking. He knows Tom likes to tell stories. Tom will talk to anyone, starting a conversation with a “that sounds like- “and keeping his audience captivated with the way he can add dramatics to anything. Will has heard so many of his stories, can mouth some of them along with Tom. This only ever earns him rolled eyes and a small smile, and Will knows Tom’s never upset at him for this.
Will knows Tom’s tells for when his mood is souring. When he starts pulling away from people, desperately needing to be by himself to stave off whatever he’s feeling. He can see it in his forehead crinkling, in the way his eyes dull, no longer filled with as much life as they are when Tom’s happy.
And Will knows when Tom’s happy. God knows it’d be hard not to. His smile is a million watts normally, but it grows brighter with his good mood. His eyes crinkle when he laughs. His voice gains a different tune, a sort of song, almost, that Will could listen to on repeat.
Will knows Tom. Could describe him and paint a vivid image of his best friend, no doubt about it.
Or at least, there wasn’t doubt before.
Because right now, Tom frozen, eyes wide as mouth unmoving, Will thinks Tom might as well be a stranger for all that he didn’t see this coming. Didn’t imagine them lazing about in Will’s place, like they did most weekends, only for Tom to look over as Will was rereading Hamlet a small smile on his face that Will had been confused over, had made a noise that carried a question, only for Tom to shake his head and say, loud in the quiet of the room, “I just love you.”
And Tom’s said it before. He’s never been shy with affection, with hugs that squeeze all your breath out or yelling “I love you” when Will’s managed to cook something for the both of them instead of relying on takeout. But this is different. Will’s already looking, can see the way Tom freezes. Can see how the color slowly seeps out of his face.
Can see that Tom, for the first time that Will’s ever known him, is scared.
And it’s that part that makes Will’s blood freeze. It’s the knowledge that Tom never looked at anyone, no matter how big or how tough, in fear, that keeps Will glued to his spot. He can’t possibly have the power to hurt Tom, not like this. He doesn’t want that power. He wants Tom smiling. Wants him throwing his head back in laughter after hearing a joke. Wants him happy.
But Will, for all his love of poetry and books, has never been the one good with words. He doesn’t know how to choke out that Tom’s his best friend, but that he never considered the possibility of them being together. Never wanted for anything more than they have. He can’t lie and give Tom hope but can’t bring himself to be the one who breaks his heart, even just a little.
But Tom’s expecting him to say something. Or, maybe, Will amends with a glance to how Tom refuses eye contact, he’s not expecting anything. No, Will is the only one who wants to fill this silence that’s descended upon them.
“Oh.” His voice is barely more than a breath. He hasn’t actually talked in more than an hour, Tom more than capable of talking for the both of them. “Tom, I don’t, I didn’t-“ know. Didn’t want to know.
“I know. It’s okay, Will. You don’t think worse of me, then?” And Will could never think worse of him. Tom could have a direct hand in Will’s downfall, and Will will probably still think of them as the best of friends. His shock must come across. Tom’s always been good at seeing what Will’s feeling, of pulling words and meanings from each twitch of an eyebrow. But Tom’s not looking at him, still. He’s staring at his phone, thumbs moving with no purpose but to keep busy. “It’s just, we’re friends. I wasn’t going to say anything. ‘d rather if you just forgot it.”
And what can Will do but say, “Of course.” and tell himself to forget it?
Will can’t forget it. Can’t forget any of it. Tom’s all he can think of, no matter what he’s supposed to be doing. He gets away with it, because Will is able to multitask, but he talks with people and leaves the conversations remembering nothing that was just said. He works on autopilot, helping Laurie and her kids without being asked but only being able to think of how soft Tom’s voice had been.
Tom himself has been around. But he’s different. Unsure of himself. As if he doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to be here, to ask Will for his time and company and be given it. He hasn’t been back to Will’s place in two weeks.
It’s his sister, too, that finally gets him to try and process it. Her “And what’s wrong with you?” is sharp, non-coddling in the way Will needs. Tom had been too forgiving. Will has been too harsh. He wants, no, needs, to figure out what he wants without getting stuck in this self-pitying cycle that he’s stuck in.
So he tells her. Sits down with her and tells her that Tom told him that he loved him. Tells her how he couldn’t tell him no but couldn’t say yes. How Tom had known and had given him an out that he had accepted. How it seemed like Tom had already accepted what was going to happen before anything had even happened.
“Will.” He looks up at her. A small smile is playing around her lips, even as her eyes are hard. “Have you thought that, maybe, you feel the same way about him?” At his look, she rolls her eyes. “He’s all you ever talk about. You think the sun shines out of his ass. How many stories of his do you know, and how many of those do you listen to just as readily? Will, you love him.” If she were any less his sister, she would soften the blow with a smile. Would give him pitying eyes. How ridiculous that he needed someone else to point it out to him. But she is his sister, is used to dealing with his particular mannerisms as well as she deals with her daughters’ and her own. She gets up, rolls her eyes one more time, and walks away.
Will stays sitting in the chair, face making its way into the palms of his hands, until long after dark.
The next time he sees Tom, it’s as he’s picking up cherries. Tom’s family orchard is one of their biggest suppliers for the shop, and Ms. Blake has him on a weekly schedule of pickups so that the fruit is always fresh as can be. Will’s actually expecting her to answer the door when he knocks, but it’s Tom’s voice that yells out to give him a moment, muffled and accompanied by barks.
He answers the door without looking, apparently, smiling features being morphed by surprise when he takes in Will standing there.
“Will.” He’s smiling, a private little thing that Will doesn’t know what to do about. “You here for the cherries?”
Will nods, making a noise of assent that he hopes doesn’t sound too much like a grunt. He follows Tom in, Myrtle running up to them to be pet before she bounces away. All the cherries are packaged already, put into boxes that are, in turn, bundled in crates. Will’s job is just to put the crates in the car and eventually unpack them at the job. It’s not a hard job.
It’s even easier as Tom helps carry the crates out.
It only gets difficult when they’re done, a silence that makes Will nervous. He’d kill for Tom to start a conversation, but, then, it’s always Tom starting the conversation, isn’t it? And it’s not as if they’re on the same page anymore. Tom doesn’t know about Will’s revelation.
Will needs to tell him. Every cell in his body screams to tell him. Every cell also fails him in stringing the words together. So, instead, he asks, rather simply, “How’ve you been?”
Tom doesn’t laugh at him for avoiding the subject. He doesn’t roll his eyes like Laurie would. He just answers the question, no hesitation in it. “Myrtle’s been driving me mad. I think she’s almost ready to deliver, but she doesn’t want to sit still. She escaped onto the neighbor’s yard, went into that little stream behind the back and covered herself in mud. Wouldn’t get out, either, until I picked her up. If Joe were here he would’a had a field day with how messy I was. At least I cleaned up before Mum got back, right?” Will hums in assent, and Tom smiles at him again. “How about you? How’s the shop?”
The question’s not anything big. But something in Will’s chest clenches at it, as if it’s been years since Tom’s been around. And Will realizes, then, that if there’s this distance now, that maybe it’ll be worse in the future. That Will’s inability to say what he means could reduce the two of them to strangers exchanging pleasantries.
“I miss you.” Neither of them expects those words. But Will’s already exposing himself, already said too much to go back, even if the beginning of a flush on Tom’s cheeks has him blushing himself. “Laurie says I’ve been moping.”
“You always were the dramatic one.” It’s teasing, sure, but a note too desperate. Tom’s still trying to give him an out. Trying to let Will keep whatever secrets he has. But Will doesn’t want Tom spending another second not knowing what he feels.
“Tom.” He reaches out and grabs Tom’s face in his hands. Makes him look at him. Takes one last breath before staring into sky blue eyes. “I love you.”
Tom takes a ragged breath in. He looks like he’s going to cry. But, eyes watery, he smiles. And maybe Will should have known how he felt just by how he’s drawn to each of these smiles.
“I love you, Will.” A response.
“I love you.” A declaration.
“I love you.” A laugh.
“I love you.” A statement.
“I love you.” A promise.