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Shagging Tommy Drake isn't all its cracked up to be.
Well, it's not cracked up by anyone really, just Len and a couple of girls, probably. Tommy's a whiny, miserable little git at times, but he's got those big, wide, smiling eyes and a grin to match. When they've had a few drinks after a pub gig and they're stumbling back to their shared room upstairs, Tommy looks at Len like he hangs the fucking moon and presses him back against their closed door, leaning up to kiss him.
Tommy makes him feel electric on those nights. Len knows his comedy shines brightest when that man is grinning across at him, jokes flying back and forth like tennis. It sometimes feels like there's no one else in the room with them, until they remember the soft buzz of laughter emanating around their soft hue.
So, sometimes shagging Tommy Drake is great.
He's Len's best mate, he fits snugly in his arms as they curl up in a single bed together, dreaming about the future. They share the same dreams, wanting something that's big, yes, but theirs. It's shared, for eternity. Cheese and crackers - you can't have one without the other. Shared. For eternity.
Len does wonder about the future, what it holds for them. They have all their dreams laid out and planned, what with Tommy's smart business brain and all, it seems somehow achievable. Together. But sometimes it doesn't feel right. Tommy's so clever and could do so much better, Len thinks as he cards his fingers through Tommy's hair and listens to frantic whispers about contacts and trials and other big words he never thought about paying attention to during school. Tommy would have a fit if he knew Len thought like this, would shoot off some remarks about Len being 'streetsmart' and 'quick as anything with a joke'. He'd just have to tightly interlock their hands, and everything would be fine. His Tommy would turn over in his arms and look up at him, eyes melting and teeming with fire all at once. So much emotion in those eyes that Len doesn't have the heart to name.
Those are the good nights, but there are bad nights.
There are nights Tommy won't look him in the eye after a gig, and leave Len stumbling up the stairs alone and into separate twin beds, mumbling apologies so slurred that Tommy doesn't hear them right. Len feels his heart break on those nights, over and over again, as Tommy looks at him with something like disgust. It sends spiders crawling over Len's body, looking at Tommy looking back at him like that.
Every time, Tommy simply huffs into his pillow and turns over, leaving Len well and truly fucked. It takes ages for Len to figure out what it is, what the thing is that's caused the problem - and again, it makes him feel like a fucking idiot. Nowhere near as clever as his Tommy. This time, there's no one there to soothe that incessant fear, tell him he's good or smart. Len feels like he can't force his words out any more, if he does, they don't make any sense and they come out wrong, and it makes the other man's beautiful eyes glaze over, like a cold, grey morning after a particularly shit gig.
It's the fucking drink. By the time he's got that it was the problem, its too late. His Tommy is now a distant Tom on a good day, or a Thomas most of the time. It hurts, like a stab in the chest every time he has to utter his full name.
Once, he'd even able to frame his Tommy's face with his hands, before leaning in to plant a sweet kiss on his forehead, then cheeks, then lips - in a moment of tenderness between them. It might have just been casually shagging then, but it feels like it was something so much more now, with hindsight.
Something Len has lost before he even knew he had it, because now, he watches Thomas' face with those cloudy, wounded eyes, as he packs up his things and leaves after fucking Len into the mattress for the last time.
He's left with a broken head, a broken heart and a realisation. He never sees his Tommy, or a Mr Thomas Drake again.