Chapter Text
Another day of crimson-covered hands turned to violet bruised knuckles waking up where life is just a broken radio. Everyone’s words are slurring. Life is colorless for a mind without imagination. Tommy couldn’t find the purpose of life again after being rescued. Not that he’s ungrateful to be alive, no. He goes to the cathedral every Sunday, begging on his knees with hands clasped together. It wasn't to pray for the great war, for England's safety, or for living longer in this wretched world. But to find a dead purpose again, the purpose in him living.
Tommy only feels hollow and dark because of losing him in the war, and not being rescued, unlike the soldiers that were clapped on their way home on the train. Nobody even grieves for him, the poor Frenchman among the desperate Brits. A name nobody knows but Tommy has written from dried-up tears and unwinding salt air. No exact days as Tommy lost count along the way. But know that the lucky number seven will soon come to its end It's almost been eight years since he last saw him, Philippe. That was the only word he could whisper to himself as a sacred serenade.
Back in the land, there's nothing tremendous going on. Although this land doesn’t feel like a huge ticking bomb anymore. Loud and thunderous against his ears as it is covered with sand and smothered by seawater.
The salt air still sticks around, since he oddly chose to stay in Dorset. He falls in love with Lyme Regis every time he visits his grandparents there. Tommy's grandfather was a former navy and then a sailor till his death. Tommy continues to fall in love with the sea, always, she who gives beautiful dreams and takes his beloved memories turned into a daylight nightmare.
"The weather's still darning," are morning prayers Tommy chants every other morning. Every day, for the whole five years or so. Even when it gives sun rays of joy where one shall bath in.
He gets up from his simple bed. All are white casings for a tainted man from the war. Except for the flowery duvet, it stays colorful. Oh, the beautiful grey floral navy duvet. The only color Tommy could learn to accept in his life. He tidies up his bed, and there's nothing much to it as there is nothing to his face. No wrinkles, like his white bed, covers he always takes care of. Losing his lover for having not enough care has made Tommy care for everything.
He walks to the window and opens the thin mint curtains. A small hopeful yet devastated smile curls to his face as he looks at the view of the sea and boats. The wind is at its right range to set for an adventure, and the tide's perfect for bringing a companion along. Such lovely sceneries could come true, but Tommy can't speak it with full happy anticipation.
He looks at the three cacti he raises as sons with such endearment of a parent. He grabs his watering can, a gift from his grandmother at twelve years old. When he was young, there were many more flowers and plants he took care of in his grandmother's garden, just behind the house. The only plant he never took care of was the cactus.
It's only been a month since he raised his three cacti sons. Little Tommy's dream came true, and was one of his few sources of happiness. His giggles and grin start and smile just for a tiny few seconds when he starts then stops watering those cacti. They only need so little while Tommy needs his whole world back.
"Hi-de-ho! Then bye again," Tommy mutters lazily. "Oh, do you ever get tired of me? After all I only meet you and you only meet me, and the sun. I can't be your sun, can I, sons?"
He lets out a heavy breath. A howling wind destroyed the silence.
"Well, I can't talk to anyone else as I don't want to either. Don't even want to take some mud with the lads around here." He coughs to hide his feelings. "Anyway it's not all so swell. Maybe you don't know much since it's only been a month. But, you'll know. I'll pour more of my heart's content than water to you."
With a part of something heavy lifted and dropped off his pounding chest, he continues to walk off. He turns around and shoots a final tiny awkward wave at his three cacti.
Tommy opens the white rustic door to his bathroom. It immediately creaks and shuts close as soon as he enters and lets go of the handle. The vinyl composite tiles are like sterling sand. The walls are willow green, and light aqua colors the bathtub.
He goes to the sink to snatch a match. Tommy lights two candlesticks, left and right of the sink. Its essence is like the fire he lost for years as he tries to compensate for it day by day. He then takes a cigarette from an outdated expensive cigarette pack. It's the only fag left. He puts it on a cracked white plate that’s turned a bit beige now. Top of the cherry, a lit-up cigarette among old and dead ones. It's his incense as fire is a war he has been through.
And just like every other morning, Tommy chose to drown in his sorrows. No lights. The tiny window above is slightly opened like a glint of a dream with black shades open. Lush water flows from the faucet of the bath with a hint of salt. He lies in the bath as the water is slowly filling unimaginable emptiness.
As the water turns shallow, acting as the surface of the sand, Tommy turns off the faucet. He turns on the showerhead instead to rinse himself gently with the ever-flowing long drops of water, then turns it off.
His hands travel around his damp voluminous strands of black hair, drawing the opening to his scalp lines. He pours enough shampoo and massages his head as all his hair strands are covered in shampoo. After a few minutes of massaging, he rinses his hair with warm water.
After his whole body is washed delicately with soap, he rinses it with cold water from the shower. He can't handle too much warm water on his sensitive skin. Even though cold water always shocks him, it raises his heartbeat healthily.
The day feels slow in the bathtub. He could stay here forever in this slump, which he has for a couple of times. The ceiling looks the same as always as his desolated feelings for years. Tommy takes one last breath then drowns his whole body in the bath that's almost full to the brim with slightly warm water with closed eyes.
Tommy holds himself there for a whole ten minutes. He can still feel the smell of the cigarette smoke, a slight reminder of a life-and-death situation he's been through. Countless times, almost lying dead and burning in the middle of the ocean. Today, it reaches a bonus of twelve seconds in water, where his eyes are open, on the brink of suffocating or rising up of the water dramatically. Surely, he takes the latter. Tommy almost jumps from the water, gasping for air. He splashes water into his face and wipes it with his friends.
Stepping out of the bathtub, he snatched the towel hanging dry to clean his whole body. He places it wrinkly and messily on the edge of the bathtub that's draining the water. He takes the white and cheap bathrobe hanging behind the door and wears it, tied loosely in the front.
He looks in the mirror with a long thick strand of his hair hanging in front of his forehead, and its end kissing the tip of his nose. It tickles a bit. He looks down at the sink and chuckles dryly. Looking back, Tommy gets his blue toothbrush that was standing tilted in a glass cup. He brushes his teeth through all the gaps. Two minutes later, he spits them, wiping the white marks around his lips.
The door creaks open and intensely closes with a loud thud. He walks leisurely to his room. His hands go through many clothes in the wardrobe, then reach the bottom shelf. Dozens of ultimate pirate shirts with different patterned laces and various big sizes of puffs are placed neatly, and beside it are a stack of brown and black trousers.
He grabs one and one, throwing those onto his bed. Tommy unties his robe and drops it to the floor. Suddenly, he hears familiar voices walking and possibly passing in front of his open window. It's his baby cousin and his friend. Tommy dunks down and stalks them (out of love) from an angle of the window.
"The wind is really greeting us wonderfully this morning," George says with his usual soft voice.
Peter chuckles in agreement. "True, that. Are we going to the bay down in Lyme then? Sail around together, George."
The black-haired boy clicks his tongue. "Meh. The sun stings so eagerly at the moment. I can't handle it."
Startled, the blond boy tries to compromise. "Oh. Umm… Perhaps we can do something else?"
George cracks a mischievous smile and bursts out laughing with his head back. "Ha! Look at your face! Peter, of course, I'd always love to sail far with you."
Peter winces quietly in embarrassment. The hot summer air turns his cheek far more scarlet than it usually is. "Gosh, Georgie. It's because I don't know what else to do without you and the sea."
"We'll conquer the seas one day, mate. So, where to, today?” George embraces Peter with an open arm hanging by the shoulders. They look at the end of the streets, the only place they ever know, to the sea.
"Wherever you want to go. We're in this together. Everything, at this point." Peter tilts his head and looks at his dearest friend.
George chuckles dryly, looking at the pavement, then meeting Peter’s eyes. "You’re not wrong."
Peter crosses his arms and bites his fingernail into a tiny crack. "Also, I checked today's schedule. There's a ship from France coming."
"Woah! That's fuckin' fantastic!" George jumps in glee with a smile.
"Right! Tommy would be ecstatic." Peter jumps along excitedly.
"Yeah, he would take any chances." Such a bittersweet statement, quite reluctant to even come out of the boy’s lips.
"It's been years… How many?"
"Hmm, eight years." Everyone came home but Tommy felt alone for so long. No one can replace the company of Philippe. Especially when they’ve been through so much, just the two of them.
"So long. I wouldn't possibly wish to lose you for that long."
"Thank God, ey?" And with the warmth of the thousand blazing sunlight against George’s red cheeks and the thousand winds blowing through his dancing soft curls of black hair, Peter can’t take God enough. The coastlines will never part them. Peter shakes off the terrifying possibility to lose him. Because the present is perfectly livable with George around.
"Thomas, Tommy!" George shouts at Tommy’s open window. His thin mint curtains are such a distinct color around here. The wind blows the pretty colored curtain softly, like blowing a delicate dandelion.
"Tommy! 'Re you awake there?" Peter joins in to shout at the open window. His arms casually rest around his friend’s shoulders.
Still quite naked (he covers himself with a loosely worn bathrobe) and hiding from the window frame, Tommy shouts back. "Peter? George? Yeah, I am! What is it?"
"Let's take a sail from Lyme, yeah? It's perfect out here," George offers. He covers his squinting eyes with his open palm as a shade.
"The seas are opening their arms to us!" Peter dramatically explains with his arms embraced towards nothing.
"Are you sure that you're not asking me just because Mr Dawson said you need supervision?" Tommy asks with a suspicious voice. The boys would imagine that one of his eyebrows is raised.
"You know we can't lie! There’s no other gentleman to call." George pouts.
"Well, Alex is probably still in the pub. His lazy head is lying on someone's puke after a failed attempt for a one-night stand. Collins and Farrier are always gone in a blink of an eye. They’re riding to the stars, I assume." Peter lengthy explains about the other possible gentlemen to call and can be of use, besides Tommy of course. Tommy is the best option out of all. And it’s definitely not because he’s always alone at home.
Tommy shakes his head in disbelief. "Very honest, boys. Anyway, I'll join you in a jiffy. I won't be long."
"Promise?" The boys ask in unison with great expectations, and with a commitment to the seas already and to each other.
"Promise. Now, get along boys." Tommy shoos them with care. "Together, heh." He whispers endearingly under his breath.
"We'll wait for you down the dock!” George waves enthusiastically at Tommy’s window. The latter could see it from the edge of his window and smiled to himself. The two boys run hand in hand to the docks, as always. Now Tommy can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever experience such togetherness with Philippe. If that boat from France will ever come.