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Tangerine wakes with a start. It takes a couple seconds of lying there in the dark silence to reorient and place himself in his bedroom in the flat in London–not a safehouse in Fukuoka, not a hotel in Ginza, not on that fucking train–
He sharply sits up, ignoring the way the blood rushes to his head when he swings his legs over the side of the bed and leans forward, bent nearly double, pressing the bases of his palms into his eyes. The hammering of his heart doesn’t fade with consciousness, and if anything only picks up as the incomplete images from the dream are converted into hard memory–harsh pink-blue lighting, wet heat of his own blood underhand. Even worse pain of his heart ripped from his chest not ten minutes earlier.
Unconsciously his hand drifts to his neck, skin bristling at the contact when his fingers brush against the raised scar tissue there. Still hasn’t gotten used to it yet. Not sure he ever will, reminder that it’s become.
He blows out a harsh breath; then curses into the quiet room when it catches in his throat, adding more heat to it like that way he might regain some control over the body that seems to fail him at every opportunity since the–since.
With the same rough intensity Tangerine pushes himself to his feet, crossing a few paces to the window. The glow from the cityscape visible through the wide gap he left in the curtains bathes the room in a low haze; lights from the buildings and the construction site on the other side of the river stare back at him. Between them, the Thames, little more than a dark, black mass in the night, silently writhing in uneven reflections.
Never admit it even under pain of death, but Tangerine’s never liked the dark; he never could get used to the kind of bone-deep black they experienced in the jungles of Bolivia and the like. Too used to the sirens and the streetlamps just outside the window growing up, maybe, the constant reminder to never get too comfortable.
London does its best to ground him, but the city’s too far off, too quiet, and the separation between the little dots across the river and the tower block he watches them from gets under his skin. Been a long time since he heard any sirens.
Blowing out another breath, Tangerine decides for sure he’s not getting any more sleep anytime soon–doesn’t want to, thanks very fucking much–so instead walks back over to the bed, grabs the book from the top of the stack on his bedside table and strides through to the kitchen.
He turns on just the counter lights, on autopilot as he flicks the kettle on and leaves the book on the counter while he grabs a mug from the overhead cupboard. It’s only when he’s chucking a teabag into it that he notices the background noise coming from the TV in the connected living room, jolting a little at the realisation.
Fucking sloppy, that is. Must be even more shaken up by that bloody dream than he thought, or at least that’s what he plans to blame it on. He turns around to see Thomas the Tank Engine’s smirking face lighting up the dark room–because what else–an episode playing on the TV with the sound turned right down to a low mumble.
The sight makes something in Tangerine’s chest go very tight, marble counter top under his hand that much more noticeable than before, even as he mentally curses Lemon out for leaving the fucking TV on again.
Again.
Fucking hell.
Tangerine sharply turns to glare at the kettle, then after a second changes his mind and spins back to the TV, because now he’s noticed the soft noise from the show he can’t un-notice it, and he’s not going to let Thomas the fucking Tank Engine be the thing that tips him over the edge, so starts towards the living room intent to find the remote and turn it off.
Only then there’s movement from the sofa in front of the TV, and a second later Lemon’s head is poking over the top. He blinks blearily in Tangerine’s direction, obviously just woken up.
“Will? That you?” Lemon calls out. Something shifts in Lemon’s dark eyes when he catches sight of Tangerine, even through the heavy-lidded drowsiness in his gaze.
Yeah, Tangerine wants to reply, or maybe sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up, or even turn the fucking telly off before you fall asleep, fucking hell it’s not hard, but in the moment he can’t say anything. Opens his mouth, but can’t get his voice to form around any of the words.
The scene is so fucking normal, for a second Tangerine could almost believe the past month itself was nothing more than a bad dream. But the look in Lemon’s eyes reflects Tangerine’s own–knows it’s everything but, and might never be anything approaching normal ever again, now the floodlights have been thrown onto the shaky ground they’ve always been standing on, always in the dark, just pretending not to see.
Tangerine edges back and grips the counter top tighter until the edge is digging into his palm. He suddenly feels exposed, standing there in only the boxers he was sleeping in, even in the dimly lit room; not that Lemon gives a shit about that, but it’s the fucking principle. Put on a suit and a tie and a flash watch even when only going down the shops and he can at least pretend that he has it together, tailor his image into what he wants himself to believe.
But there’s nothing to hide behind in the dark stillness of the early morning. None of his usual fail-safes to fall back on, no barriers to keep the memories of the Shinkansen job from coming up into full view, more clarity to them than in the nightmares, even, when he sees Lemon’s questioning gaze looking back at him.
When Tangerine doesn’t reply that expression turns to concern, and Lemon gets up from the sofa. “What’s wrong, mate?” he asks as he walks over to the kitchen, voice quiet like it never is in the day, softness in his eyes much the same.
Tangerine shakes his head; leans in when Lemon’s arms wrap around him.
His head falls easily into the space between Lemon’s neck and shoulder, hands moving up to pathetically grip the fabric of his T-shirt. The chain around Lemon’s neck brushes against his skin when Lemon shifts slightly, where it's riding up over the neckline of his shirt. Tangerine hasn’t asked for it back; shut Lemon down pretty definitively the one time he offered. Maybe he thinks there’s something in the way his chest caves in on itself whenever he catches a glimpse of the gold, stark against Lemon’s skin. Or maybe it’s that he thinks it probably should’ve been there all along.
Tangerine thinks then about Lemon’s head, falling forward against his chest like it used to when they were twelve years old and stayed up late watching the same five films they had on DVD, shoulder to shoulder on the floor leaning against the sofa, and how Lemon would always fall asleep first then too—only it wasn’t like that at all, ‘cause he was too still, too quiet, and somehow just by seeing him Tangerine knew. He thinks about the same gold chain under his fingers as he looped it around Lemon’s neck, pressing the medallion to his chest with a silent prayer to a god he’s not sure he’s ever really believed in, like if he couldn’t be there to protect him in life at least he might be able to buy safe passage for him in death. He thinks about the moment he was about to die, and how part of him didn’t really care, because he already sort of knew there was no way he was getting out of that fucked up situation alive, anyway, and he figured that at least on the other side they would be together.
He thinks about Lemon looking out the window of a safehouse in Fukuoka, and the change in his eyes when his head turned to Tangerine, old and new and stripped away to bone.
All it takes is that one second, and his whole body’s shaking against Lemon’s as a sob tears out of his throat. Can’t bite back the tears that follow once the first door has been breached, either, and the immediate urge to push Lemon away flares up in his chest; but Lemon holds tight, and the better part of Tangerine is grateful for it.
“Will,” Lemon mutters against Tangerine’s hair. He can feel the words as vibrations in Lemon’s chest, pressed up against him. “Fuck, mate, gonna start me off in a minute like this.”
Tangerine barks out a laugh against Lemon’s neck; it’s not funny, but maybe something about the whole thing is. Life’s worth of doing the very worst things to the very worst of people, and this is what gets to him: breathing in the scent of Lemon’s T-shirt, low sounds of Thomas the Tank Engine from the living room TV barely audible over the kettle coming to a boil.
It’s too much to put name to; the memories still too raw to poke at. Tangerine’s not sure if he’s ever going to be able to confront all of it, definitely never put it in words, nothing in him wants to, anyway.
They’ve never been good at that, talking. But showing, action—that’s the one thing Tangerine can honestly say he is capable of. He’d put his life in Lemon’s hands a hundred times over, no hesitation. Must be worth enough for Lemon to be able to understand him through that alone.
But in the still-dreamlike haze of the early morning there’s something in his chest clawing at his insides, tearing him up from within and telling him if he doesn’t let it out now he may never get another chance. So Tangerine takes a shaky inhale, breathes out “Love you, Cal,” on the exhale, though really it’s more of a gasp, like finally coming up for air. Can’t look him in the eye when he says it, but Lemon’s never minded that. “Thought I’d–” Tangerine tries to continue, but his voice gives out, and all he can do is roughly shake his head, determined this time to not let the tears out. Not like it fucking matters anymore, but still.
Lemon takes a couple of deep breaths, and for a second there’s only the hum of the kitchen lights and the murmur of Thomas from the living room and the feel of Lemon’s long fingers carding through his sleep-mussed hair. “Yeah,” he finally replies, voice rough and more than a little unsteady. “Same here.”
They don’t say anything for a long while after that, but the silence isn’t an uncomfortable one. Like staring a little long at a bright light, the impression left on the back of his eyelids when he closes his eyes and lets himself relax into Lemon’s arms.
“Should go back to bed,” Lemon murmurs. Tangerine hums noncommittally, tiny spike of anxiety in his chest that he’s praying Lemon won’t notice before Lemon continues, in a lighter tone, “Your place or mine?”
Tangerine huffs against his shoulder; doesn’t need to look up to imagine the grin on Lemon’s face. He leaves a few seconds before answering, “Yours.”
“Still want your tea?” Lemon asks, drawing back to glance at the mug Tangerine got out earlier.
“Nah, fuck it,” Tangerine mutters in reply. Can’t say the idea of waiting out the night with a cup of tea and some heavy literature was ever all that enticing in the first place. He’s the first to break away, and though he immediately feels the loss of Lemon’s arms around him, doesn’t show any hesitation as he starts towards Lemon’s room. “Turn that shit off too, yeah,” Tangerine adds, nodding to the TV over his shoulder.
Lemon’s room is pretty much identical to his in furniture and layout, but Lemon definitely has more stuff: a couple of framed vintage posters, bookshelf full to the brim with trainspotting books and a vast collection of Thomas memorabilia, or crap, as Tangerine usually puts it.
Tangerine’s never been much of a materialistic person himself, save maybe the clothes and the watches, but even then. They never really know when they might have to up and leave, and having a lot of useless shit around the house has always seemed antithetical to that. Even the books he devours in the downtime they have between jobs he buys from charity shops, then gets rid of in turn–wouldn’t know where to fucking put it all if he bought for keeps.
But it’s with a fondness that’s never been there before that Tangerine now stares at the shelves of little plastic toys as he sits down on Lemon’s bed. He still doesn’t get it, even now, but there’s something about it that’s uncompromisingly Lemon.
(Reminds him, too, of the little bloodstained sticker they gave back to him at the hospital with the rest of his ruined shit, but he tries not to think about that. Tells himself he’s just going soft, instead.)
Lemon walks in only a minute after him, and Tangerine latches onto the distraction. “Might be beginning to regret this, actually,” he says to Lemon, making a show of throwing aside a pillow shaped like a tube station logo.
“Deal with it, babes,” Lemons says as he clambers under the covers and pulls Tangerine into his chest, placing a kiss against the side of Tangerine’s head. “You’re always gonna be my number two.”
Tangerine jabs a weak elbow back into Lemon’s stomach. “So glad to know your priorities lie with a fucking anthropomorphised train and not your partner who was on death’s shitting door,” he replies dryly.
“And who was the one biting my bloody head off a couple weeks ago for treating you like it?” Lemon replies lightly. “‘Sides, all fine now, innit?” he says, and before Tangerine can properly register it Lemon’s lips are brushing against his neck, right over the newly healed scar tissue. Tangerine freezes, breath caught in his chest.
Lemon draws back, round eyes searching as they roam Tangerine’s face. “Alright?”
“Fine,” Tangerine mutters too fast, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Just…”
He can’t finish that sentence; doesn’t know for sure what he wants to say. Lemon drops it without him having to explain and instead wraps his arm back around Tangerine’s shoulders, hand raised to brush a couple stray curls from his face. Tangerine leans in a little so their foreheads are just about touching.
“Will,” Lemon mutters then, tone in his voice that he only uses when he knows shit’s serious. Tangerine raises his eyes to meet Lemon’s as his hand brushes over his cheek, a certain reverence to the simple touch that pulls at something in Tangerine’s chest.
There’s a question in Lemon’s voice and something in his eyes that’s approaching guilt–like he’s wanting to say should’ve told me it was this bad, but thinks better of it. They both know there’s no answer to that, or least none Tangerine is willing to give, because it was never going to happen.
And it hasn’t gone unnoticed to Tangerine the number of times Lemon’s stayed up after he’s decided to call it a night, telling him he’ll only be ten minutes and then still be there in the mornings, sometimes, when Tangerine comes into the kitchen to make coffee. He figured it was probably just so Lemon could commandeer the telly and watch whatever shit he wants to after Tangerine’s gone to bed, but part of him always knew that was only half true.
Tangerine hasn’t said anything about that, and he’s almost certain Lemon’s noticed the fact that he’s getting through a pack of fags a day, constantly in and out the flat and coming back with pocketfuls of crap he neither wants nor needs because he never bothers to look at what he nicks, but Lemon hasn’t said anything about that, either.
He knows they’re probably going to have to talk it out properly at some point, because playing at normal clearly isn’t fucking working. In the moment though, it feels like maybe it’s enough: for once not hiding from the light of the early morning. Lemon’s always been good at filling in the gaps, besides.
Tangerine cups a hand against Lemon’s cheek and leans in to kiss him. It’s firm, doesn’t linger, and Lemon must take that as answer enough because he doesn’t say anything else; just tugs Tangerine closer.
Tangerine only notices he’s dropping off to sleep again when Lemon moving against him breaks him out of a state of half-consciousness. Lemon draws his arms back, extracts the necklace over his head and places it on the bedside table before switching the light off.
“C’mere,” he says when he lies down and loops his arms around Tangerine’s waist. Tangerine makes an annoyed noise at being moved, but doesn’t protest with the full breadth of Lemon’s chest at his back.
“Love you, Will,” Lemon mumbles sleepily against his neck, soft breath tickling his hair.
Tangerine hums something in reply, or at least thinks he does, but after that doesn’t remember much of anything except Lemon’s arms around his waist and Lemon’s chest against his back and Lemon’s legs tangled up in his, before he falls back into mercifully dreamless sleep.