Archive of Our Own ^beta

Syracuse shifts uncomfortably in his armchair as he watches his big brother do up his bowtie. It’s odd, seeing Coach in a bowtie. And it’s going to be very odd hearing the priest call him Eoin today; Syracuse honestly cannot recall a time that his older brother went by anything other than Coach. Nor can he remember a time when his older brother was anything other than a great bossy overprotective shite who’s too smart and observant for his own good, but that’s beside the point.

Coach turns around to face Syracuse, a wide grin on his face. “Well? Do I look like a responsible grown man?” he says playfully.

“Not even a little,” Syracuse says truthfully. Coach always looks a little wild; the eyebrows, beard, and cropped hair go a long way towards convincing anyone who looks at him don’t fuck with me. A casual linen suit and bow tie can’t really do much about the fact that he exudes a permanent air of badassery. And honestly, Syracuse likes that. Even in the darkest days of his life he’s always known his big brother can scare away all but the biggest and nastiest of monsters.

Now, however, Coach pouts in response to Syracuse’s assertion that he does not, in fact, look like a responsible adult. “You wound me, lad,” he says with a mock scowl, leaning over and tugging Syracuse’s ponytail in retaliation. It’s an amusingly childish gesture, the kind of thing Coach might do to one of his “boys,” and it makes Syracuse smile in spite of the gnawing, empty feeling in his stomach.

It’s his big brother’s wedding day, and Syracuse has spent too much energy on trying to look happy to actually be happy. He’s been holed up in a castle bedroom with Coach and his other groomsman, Ray, all morning. Ray, it must be said, is not actually a terrible person. He’s nice enough, if you can look past the fact that he’s essentially the executive assistant to a drug lord. Syracuse has carefully kept Annie away from the man all morning, not that it was hard once she met the adorable younger sister of Coach’s fiance.

(Of course, given how bright both girls are, Syracuse can only guess what kind of mischief they’re getting up to…but no…little Olive’s father promised she was a “good kid” and Syracuse is going to trust that. For now.)

Anyway. Ray is not technically the “best man,” that is ostensibly Syracuse’s title, but he may as well be, because he’s organized the entire damn thing right down to every detail. The unfairly healthy menu, the maple-leaf boutonnieres, Olive’s little marigold flower crown, the classical guitarist who will play throughout the ceremony…all planned (and no doubt paid for) by Raymond Smith.

Leaving Syracuse with nothing to do, then, but stand by and hold the rings, and judging by the vaguely threatening look Ray wore when he said to not lose them, Syracuse isn’t entirely sure he’ll be trusted with that the whole time either. He’s surprised Ray didn’t write his toast for him as well. Honestly, he’s surprised Ray hasn’t just settled him in the corner with a coloring book, a Kinder egg, and sippy cup of apple juice.

But—with an effort, Syracuse draws his exhausted body out of the chair and pulls his big brother into a hug—technically, part of this day still belongs to him, not Ray. Coach is his big brother, after all. “I’m just taking the piss, man. You look good,” he promises Coach, and gets a tight squeeze in thanks.

“You do too, mate.” Coach draws away and drops a whisper of a kiss on his temple, a benediction more appropriate, perhaps, from a father than a brother. But that’s Coach for you. Always the team dad. “I mean it,” he adds in an uncharacteristically sweet tone, in response to Syracuse’s oh, stop it handwave. “Staying off the bottle suits you. I’m proud of you.”

Syracuse forces a smile. “Isn’t that my line? This is your day, remember?”

“Gettin’ married doesn’t lose me the right to be proud of me little brother now, does it?” Coach gives him one last squeeze and then lets go all the way. “You’re a good man, you know. Your time’ll come.”

Syracuse tries not to wince. He knows what Coach must be thinking (poor sap, he wants a bride of his own, too many lonely nights for his sad little soul) but honestly, Syracuse could give a flip about getting married. He’s done that once and it ended badly enough that he’s in no hurry to repeat it. What he craves, more than anything, is Coach’s certainty that everything will be all right. His confidence, his security, his commanding nature that seems to make everyone in any given space sit up straight and listen to him…

Syracuse doesn’t want to command a room, no. But it would be nice if more than one person in the whole of Ireland didn’t refer to him as Circus.

“C’mon then, man.” He reaches out and grips Coach’s shoulder, offering up a bracing smile. “Let’s go get you married, then.”

~

The castle grounds are absolutely beautiful. Just outside in the gardens, not fifteen feet from the door, a little altar has been set up, three chairs set before an archway of white silk flowers and ivy. The leaves of the trees burst against the afternoon sky in brilliant shades of orange and gold. It’s cloudy, because it’s fucking Ireland and it’s always cloudy. But it’s beautiful, all of it, and Syracuse is at least thankful it’s not raining. He’d hate it if rain ruined his brother’s wedding.

It’s a very small party. Dwayne, Coach’s American fiance, was adamant that they not have a big wedding. He actually wanted to elope just the two of them; this was truly a compromise. His parents, Richard and Sheryl, and his uncle Frank, sit in the little row of chairs. And that’s it. The fourth space is set aside for Annie’s wheelchair, and Syracuse is relieved to see that someone (most likely Olive) has already put her there.

The registrar, a stiff-faced man no doubt chosen and vetted by Raymond, stands under the arch waiting for them. The guitarist begins to play, some soft, sweet, melodic thing that does not sound like Coach at all, and it’s time to go. Ray and Syracuse each take a side, as if standing guard, to walk Coach down the aisle. “No need to look so serious,” he chides them. “It’s a wedding, remember, not me funeral.”

Syracuse can’t help but laugh as he drops his head to his brother’s shoulder. “I love you,” he says, and it’s sappy and stupid but it’s true.

Coach spares a moment to give him a quick side-hug, no words needed. On his other side, Ray rolls his eyes. “I hope your groom-to-be has a sense of humor. For his sake.”

“Oh, he does. Black as night, too,” Coach replies cheerfully. “All right then, gentlemen…shouldn’t keep our guests waiting, now…”

So they escort Coach to the altar, and then it’s Dwayne’s turn. Syracuse watches as the young man (Jesus, he’s really young, that sweet little thing can’t be more than twenty, if that!) walks down the aisle on the arm of his preteen sister. He really is awfully cute, Syracuse thinks as the smiling Olive gently nudges her blushing brother the last few steps to the altar and then takes her place just behind him. It’s just that if he could’ve handpicked someone for Coach, Dwayne Hoover would probably be the last person Syracuse would’ve considered.

He’s spent a bit of time with Dwayne, of course, over the last year. The kid is quiet and serious, barely speaking ten words a day if that, but his face speaks for him. He’ll ignore the most explosive chaos happening around him, only to zero in on Coach and cling to him like he’ll never let go. Syracuse doesn’t mind that. What he does mind is the dyed black hair, the dry sarcasm that emerges on the rare occasions that Dwayne does speak, the cool, calculated way he looks at people. It’s unnerving, and Syracuse has no doubt whatsoever that Dwayne is genuine, that his feelings for Coach are real…but he radiates pain, the poor kid, and Syracuse knows enough about that to recognize it.

Truth be told, the boy reminds Syracuse a bit of himself, and he doesn’t want to think about what that means. Don’t pick someone so damaged, he longs to beg his brother. I wouldn’t inflict my own company on someone as pure as you. Please, please don’t think you can fix him. You can’t. Whatever hurt him, you can’t scare it away.

But it’s not his place to say any of that. So he stands there smiling as Coach passionately speaks his vows to the young man, swearing loyalty and love to him to the end of their days, and obligingly chuckles when the younger man asks in throaty murmur, “Now, how can I top a speech like that?” Syracuse hands over the rings when prompted, claps when the registrar announces you may seal your vows with a kiss. But the whole time he feels hollow, and he hates himself for it.

He wishes, passionately, that he could be happy for his brother, that he could mean it when he toasts them at the dinner with an old Irish blessing and says he’s glad Coach found someone who understands him as well as Dwayne. (He’s lying through his teeth and he feels Ray’s eyes on him and he prays Coach didn’t see through the lie as well. But that’s a problem for the Syracuse of tomorrow.)

The dinner is tasty, if not exactly the rich and heavy fare that Syracuse would’ve picked, and Dwayne rolls his eyes at the silliness of the cake-cutting ritual but he goes through with it and smiles for the pictures…and then Syracuse’s heart melts when Coach snarks, “Is that plastic fake smile the best you can do, sweetheart?” and boops Dwayne on the nose with a fingerful of frosting, drawing a genuine giggle from the younger man.

It’s the first time Syracuse has seen Dwayne laugh, really laugh, and it makes him feel better about things.

There’s no first dance, none of that, because Dwayne didn’t want it and Coach, as he put it, wasn’t too fussed about dancing in public. But after dinner and cake they all go back inside and settle in the sitting-room together, light a fire, and sit around drinking tea and coffee and sharing stories. Dwayne laughs aloud for the second time that night when Frank animatedly shares the tale of little Olive’s first (and last) state beauty pageant, when she obliviously danced to “Super Freak” in front of a bunch of prissy stage moms and the whole family ended up onstage with her.

“You should’ve seen Dwayne,” he adds to Coach, who’s already chuckling so hard his face is turning bright-red with the effort of not exploding into laughter. “He did the most delightfully awkward pelvic-thrust you’ve ever seen, right in the direction of the pageant judges. You’d’ve been proud, man.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.” Coach slides an arm around his husband’s shoulders and squeezes tight. “Standin’ up for your little sister like that…brave man, aren’t you.” He kisses the side of Dwayne’s face and makes the younger man blush.

Olive, who’s been playing checkers with Annie on the coffee table, pauses to listen to the story; when it’s over she adds with a grin, “That’s nothing. You should’ve heard what he did to the guy who promised to take me to my first school dance last year and tried to back out at the last minute. I swear he peed his pants.”

“Olive!” Richard scolds her.

Olive shrugs, unashamed. “Well, he did, Dad.”

It’s domestic and it’s sweet and suddenly Syracuse can’t take it anymore. He abruptly stands, and Annie’s eyes shoot over to him; he can see the distress in her face and he hates that he has to do this to her, but… “Annie, love, it’s time to go,” he tells her. “Dad’s got an early morning.”

Annie pouts, and the others try to persuade him to stay; there is, after all, one empty room left at the castle. But Syracuse knows too well what will be happening in at least one of those rooms tonight and he can’t take it, being around so many happy couples in love is just…not something he can be asked to deal with tonight.

He’s not craving sex himself. That’s hardly been on his radar since his divorce. Love, well, he’s almost able to believe in it when he sees the way Coach and Dwayne look at each other, but that’s for them, not for him; he’s convinced he’ll never have that again. But to have someone standing beside him, ready to catch him when he inevitably falls…that sense of safety, of mutual respect and trust that Coach and Dwayne obviously have for each other…that’s what he wants. And he knows deep inside that he can never have it, and it breaks what’s left of his raw, bruised heart.

He reluctantly deposits Annie at her mum’s and tries not to throw up when his ex-wife snots, “Have a good time at the so-called wedding, Circus? Must be great to watch your brother swan-divin’ into hell, eh?”

Homophobic bitch, Syracuse wants to say. Goodnight, he says instead, and goes back to his lonely cabin on the lake, plans to steal Annie away from her mother and bring her up right swirling in his head, along with the crash of guilt that comes when he inevitably has to face the reality that he’ll never be able to carry out any of them.

~

Syracuse was not joking about that early morning.

He rises before dawn and dresses, with some measure of relief, in the thick layers of his fishing clothes, leaving behind the flimsy black suit he wore to his brother’s wedding. He knows they’re having some kind of brunch today, some little elegant morning soiree no doubt dreamed up by Ray, but he has no interest in going and watching everyone else drink mimosas and hear Frank and Ray ribbing Dwayne and Coach about what they may or may not have done on their wedding night.

Instead, he goes out on his boat, letting the routine of it soothe his soul. There’s something meditative about fishing: drop nets in, wait for the pull, reel it out, curse when you see there aren’t enough fish to pay your electric bill, repeat process. Syracuse loses himself in his work, and tells himself it’s better this way, out here alone on his boat, tasting the spray of the salt and feeling the sway of the sea and answering to no one and nothing but nature itself.

He was lonely last night, and it took him a long time to fall asleep. He dreamed of a black-haired boy with fiendish dark eyes making love to him, and woke at two A.M. with his heart pounding. Unlike Coach, who half the time seems to forget gender is even a factor, Syracuse has never made love with a man. Hell, he’s never even looked at men that way. 

He’d think it was some odd misplaced fantasy about Dwayne, about selfishly taking what his brother has for himself. But he knows, with the same certainty that he knows the court will never give him back Annie, that the boy was not Dwayne. Dwayne’s eyes are green like the sea on a clear day. The nymph in the dream had dark-amber eyes that were at once warm and fierce, looking through Syracuse with a soul-piercing intensity that left him weak…

He shakes his head and refocuses on his fishing. None of that, now. Doesn’t matter what gender they are, Syracuse is not fit to belong to anyone, and he knows that. Better to not pine for what he can’t have. He learned a long time ago that even if true love exists, he will never get a taste of it.

It’s exceedingly ordinary, when it happens. A tug on his net. Familiar, easy. Oh, it’s heavy, hard to raise, that’s a good sign. He reels in his catch with relish, and then freezes when he sees that it is not fish inside his net. It is…however shockingly…the hunched, shivering form of a human.

Syracuse has never moved this fast in his life. He dumps the net onto the deck as gently as he can, untangles the person from its sodden grip—it’s a boy, he realizes, one with coal-black hair and nearly translucent porcelain skin—and he brushes the damp hair from the white face with care, leans down and checks for breath. He rests two fingers over the pulse point on the slender neck and oh, oh, it’s faint but it’s there…but there’s no hint of a breeze coming from the young man’s nose.

He doesn’t remember the intricacies of CPR. He does, however, know how to do this much: he hauls the fragile, lithe body into a sitting position and whacks the thin back until the boy sputters and spits seawater all over himself. “Easy, easy,” Syracuse soothes the young man. He pulls off his own coat and drapes it over the thin shoulders. “Easy, now. You’ve had quite the near miss.”

The boy sputters and shivers and instinctively leans into Syracuse, seeking his warmth. “Fuck,” is his first choked, inelegant word. “I mean. Fuck.”

Syracuse knows he needs to find out what happened, how this fragile-looking young thing came to be floating out here in the sea, only to be caught up in the net of an old, tired fishing boat. He ought to find out whether the boy is in some sort of trouble, if he’s underage, if he’s a runaway, if he’s hiding from the police. If he is even real.

But when the boy’s body-wracking coughs subside, he pulls his head out of Syracuse’s chest and looks up to meet his eyes…and…and…

Oh.

Deep, clear amber irises—currently surrounded by broken blood vessels and obscured by tears from coughing, yes, but recognizable nonetheless—stare out from beneath perfectly-curved black brows. Droplets of water cling to the boy’s flawless lashes like little glass beads, adding to the mesmerizing effect, and Syracuse feels the air leave his lungs in a rush. The boy looks stricken too, and another cough jerks from his throat before he manages to ask, “Who the hell are you? Where are we?”

His voice is choked and raspy, but it’s deeper than any voice belonging to such an angelic face has a right to be, and the sound wraps around Syracuse’s heart like a vine. “You’re all right,” he tells the young man. “You’re safe now. You’re on the coast of Cork, in Ireland, and I found you in the sea. You almost drowned, love. But you’re all right now. You’re going to be fine. Nothing’s going to happen to you now. I’m here.”

The young man blinks, sending streaks of water down his face from those long lashes. He looks searchingly into Syracuse’s face, as if trying to read his mind, and he looks…troubled. Not angry, not scared, as Syracuse would certainly be in his place. Just a little lost. “I came here,” he tells Syracuse, “because no one wanted me back home. You shouldn’t have saved me,” he adds, as if testing Syracuse. “I’m actually really bad. I’m not worth saving.”

It’s the matter-of-fact, emotionless way he says it that absolutely tears at Syracuse’s heart, the familiar ease with which the words leave the boy’s perfect lips. He knows a lost soul when he sees one. His heart pushes against his ribcage, as if trying to pull out of his chest and seal itself to the damaged soul in his arms, and he remembers, almost feeling as if he should laugh, that just yesterday he wanted to tell his brother you can’t fix that boy, you deserve better.

Because all he can think about now is how badly he wants to protect the broken creature staring haughtily into his eyes, as if daring Syracuse to save him.

“Neither was I,” he tells the young man, offering a sheepish smile. “And yet, here we are. C’mon, lad…up you get…” He stands, gently lifting up the thin young man in his arms and setting him delicately on his feet. “My name is Syracuse. What do they call you, love?”

Defiant amber eyes lock onto his and won’t let go. “I’m Kevin. Kevin Khatchadourian.”

Syracuse has never heard that name before. But he knows, wholeheartedly, that it should mean something to him. That this is the boy from his dream last night, and he never believed in premonitions but now he thinks maybe he does.

“Come on, Kevin,” he says, leading the boy into the cabin of his boat. “Let’s go home.”