Work Text:
‘I’ve always wanted that, y’know…’ the lad says, lying in bed, staring straight at the wall, ‘that kind of - kind of easy intimacy. I dunno how it comes so easy to either of you.’
Alexander cocks his head to one side, leaning on one of the pillows that’s propping the lad up, watching him with eyes that glimmer like tidepools. Thomas’ eyes glimmer just the same, though they are greyer than Alexander’s, shining like slate in the rain. The light is low, between the three of them, dancing off the high points of the older mens’ faces, and the sweat-damp plane of the younger man’s brow.
‘Ye can have it, lad,’ Thomas says softly, breaking the silence with a voice carved from granite and pipe smoke, ‘the both of us are right here, an’ we’re easy as anything, eh?’
Thomas winks at Alexander, and Alexander tsks him with an indulgent smile.
‘I know you are,’ sighs the lad, who’s never been sure of a name that doesn’t make him jump out his skin at the surprise that someone knows him, ‘but I can’t get to you, can I? I’m just here, stuck.’
Alexander brushes his fingers through the lad’s red hair, seeming not to mind the grease and dandruff that’s built up in the days he’s not been able to wash himself, ‘You don’t need to get to us, pet, we can still help as we are. Just as you help us as you are, tapping away on that device of yours.’
The lad smiles, weakly, ‘It’s called a laptop.’
‘Aye? Well I suppose that makes some sense, given that it sits atop your lap,’ Alexander smiles, pinching the lad’s apple-cheek like an elderly grandmother. The lad’s smile widens a touch, before petering out like an old, forgotten fire.
‘I’ve never felt comfortable around anyone, y’know,’ he murmurs after a moment, shuffling back to prop himself up further on the awkward tower of pillows he’s constructed behind himself - too afraid to ask for help with them; too scared of being seen as an ugly, lumpen thing that wants, or even needs. ‘Not for lack of trying, but every time people are near me they just seem so difficult, like a puzzle i can’t crack, and then I get sad, and then I get angry, and then I have to go away so I don’t become the problem. I try so hard….’
His voice trails off, as if it’s difficult to convert quite how difficult he finds other people to be around, despite desperately wanting it to be easy.
‘That’s a crying shame, lad,’ Thomas rumbles, after a moment, breathing out a steady stream of pipe smoke, ‘there doesn’t seem to be owt wrong with ye, besides maybe needing a bath.’
The lad snorts, and Alex throws a glare over at his companion.
‘I can’t shower for another,’ the lad pauses to check the date, ‘nine days, I think. I’ve got some wipes and a flannel though, so I don’t smell that bad.’
‘Oh aye?’ Thomas asks, with a toothy grin, ‘who told ye that?’
The lad laughs softly, pale eyelashes casting long shadows on the roundness of his face, ‘Well my mum hasn’t said anything at least, and she would say something if it was really bad.’
‘You’re fine, love,’ Alexander murmurs, ‘just fine, ignore the old man.’
Thomas huffs out a laugh, ‘Which old man would that be, dearest?’
‘The nasty, horrible one who keeps blowing pipe smoke all over this lovely room, that’s who,’ Alexander grins, winking conspiratorially at the lad, who is watching them both with a softly rapturous expression.
‘I didn’t think people spoke like this to each other, not outside of books or films anyhow,’ the lad says, almost to himself, ‘you make it look so easy.’
‘Maybe you just make it hard on yerself?’ Thomas says, not unkindly despite the warning look that Alexander gives him, ‘ye’re good with yer words, aren’t ye?’
‘On paper, kind of,’ replies the lad.
‘Well now, paper’s the one most people struggle with, so ye’re already a step ahead of ‘em,’ Thomas grins, chucking the lad under the chin, scratching at the pale autumn beard that’s been growing in for 18 months and still hasn’t shown any sign of order or neatness.
‘Most people I know are really good at the paper bit, to be honest,’ the lad sighs, ‘and they’re good at the talking bit, too. I feel like someone left me out of a big conversation about how to write really well, and how to talk really well, so I just have to sit here somewhere in the middle, being sort of okay at both, but not exceptional. I don’t even have the energy to try and be exceptional.’
Alexander strokes his hair, and presses his lips to his bare shoulder where the bright-coloured shirt hangs loose, away from the tight, chalk-coloured vest he’s wearing beneath it.
‘I’d say you’re more than sort of okay, pet,’ he says, warm as summer and just as bright, ‘you’re a marvel, just look at you.’
For a moment, it’s like the lad is outside of his body (finally, free from the nagging pain and the twitching incisions and the too-small skin for a too-big nervous system). He sees himself, bracketed by the two men - one grizzled and grinning, the other soft as silk with a smile to match. He sees the hair that covers his arms and legs, the tattoos beneath the hair, and the stretch marks and scars beneath the tattoos. Layer upon layers of a lifetime of choices, both in and out of his control (mostly out, if he’s honest with himself; he tries to be). Most of all he sees the shape of himself, the fat on his legs and arms relaxing like dough in the sun, the roll of his chin adorned with golden-red hair, the small bones of his fingers now aching from overuse; his whole body peppered with gold freckles and white-pink scars. A pleasant enough colour scheme.
‘You’re a marvel,’ says the lad, quietly, stubborn in his dislike of himself, ‘I’m just lying here, and I’ll stay lying here after you’ve both left, and no-one will come and see me because nobody who cares is close-by. I’ll be alone.’
Tears prick at the lad’s eyes now, green irises glinting with tiredness and dismay. He knows the two of them will be gone soon; he’ll be too tired for them to stay.
‘Don’t be daft, chuck,’ Thomas murmurs, as his body starts to shimmer and shift in the sinking sunlight, ‘like it or not, ye’re never alone. We’ll keep an eye on ye, eh?’
Alexander nods, and strokes the lad’s cheek with long, dancing fingertips, ‘That we will, pet, and we’ll pop in when you need us, or when we need you, hm?’
There’s a mischief in Alexander’s voice that makes the lad’s eyebrows twitch upwards, and that makes Thomas guffaw, and the room (blue walls, white ceiling, sagging curtains) - for a moment - does not seem quite so small, or quite so lonely. He appreciates that, does the lad, who’s never found a name that doesn’t make his nerves run cold with fear of being seen.