Work Text:
Dillon finds him in the living room, and knows, in that moment, that Lucas is reliving it again.
All this time, years later, it still passes over his boy like a storm cloud, a dark and rolling presence that eclipses his whole body.
Dillon can always tell when it’s happening.
He knows, when Lucas is sitting at their kitchen island or curled up on their couch, and his fingers trace the silvery scar that stretches along the thin bend of his elbow, that he’s thinking about it. Or when they’re home - home home, in the village, not their little flat in Manchester - and his steps falter slightly as they pass in the direction of the Folly. Or when he presses his mouth to Dillon’s ribs after bolting awake in the middle of the night, a silent apology brushed against phantom bruises that have long since healed.
Sometimes, Dillon can coax him out of it — can pull Lucas’ hand away and tangle their fingers together, can keep his steps steady as he walks beside him, can draw Lucas’ mouth up to his in the darkness. Other times, Dillon can do nothing but wait it out, watching, heart-sore, from a distance that’s existed so infrequently since they were sixteen and seventeen years old.
He doesn’t know if tonight will be one of those nights.
“Babe,” he says quietly, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe to the living room. And then, when there’s no reaction, louder, “Lucas.”
Lucas’s gaze lifts from where he was staring unseeingly at the rug to Dillon with a slow blink. Dillon doesn’t think he even realised he was there.
“Sorry,” Lucas says softly, his voice hoarse from lack of use. He clears his throat before asking, “Did I wake you?”
Dillon shakes his head. “Nah,” he says honestly, slumping more fully against the doorframe. He lets his head loll against the wood as he speaks, “Woke up and you weren’t there.”
“Sorry,” Lucas says again, habitually. The corner of his mouth tugs down slightly in a grimace. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Dillon nods as Lucas’ eyes flit over his face, down his body and back up again. Assessing Dillon for injuries that no longer exist. Dillon waits, making sure to keep his pose deliberately relaxed, his slouching posture and his arms loose by his sides. Tries to silently offer assurances that he’s fine, that he’s okay.
That Lucas didn’t hurt him.
Finally, when he finds nothing wrong, Lucas reaches his hand out with a sigh.
The tight feeling that’s been wrapped around Dillon’s chest since he woke up — to Lucas’s side of the mattress empty and cold — loosens.
Dillon pushes away from the doorframe with a quiet huff, his socked feet muted against the floorboards as he walks towards the couch. Lucas watches him approach without saying a word but his legs spread automatically to let Dillon push in close when he reaches him, his face tilting up to meet Dillon’s gaze. He looks so young in that moment that Dillon could almost mistake him for the angry boy he once was, confused and hurting and lashing out at anyone that got too close.
Dillon brushes the backs of his fingers along the defined arch of Lucas’ cheekbone before cupping the nape of his neck. His thumb presses against the shadowed patch of skin behind Lucas’ ear, warm and velvet soft. Lucas’ eyelashes shiver at the touch.
“Want to talk about it?” Dillon murmurs.
Lucas’ eyes slip shut, sighing deeply through his nose, before he slumps forward, like a puppet with its strings cut, to press his forehead gently against the flat plane of Dillon’s stomach. Dillon hunches instinctively, his spine curving like a parenthesis over Lucas.
Neither move for a beat, the room silent except for their slow breaths and the quiet hum of the fridge across the room. Dillon waits, and waits, and waits.
It’s like a hunger, he thinks, when Lucas gets like this. The desire to consume whatever it is Lucas is feeling in that moment, to starve Lucas of that pain and gorge himself on it instead. It lodges in his throat, obstructing his airways and making him choke.
“Nightmare,” Lucas mutters finally.
The pressure on Dillon’s windpipe eases.
He scritches at the soft strands of hair at Lucas’s nape. “Oh, yeah?” he asks. He tucks his head down, pressing his mouth briefly against Lucas’ crown, the soft whorl of his hair. His nose fills with the familiar scent of Lucas’ shampoo, minty and masculine, dulled slightly by the early hour of the morning and the earlier press of Lucas’ pillow.
Lucas nods in answer to his question, forehead still resting against Dillon’s torso. Dillon sways easily with the movement as Lucas’ hands lift to curl loosely around Dillon’s hips, fingertips edging under the waistband of his pyjamas just slightly.
“Hey,” Dillon whispers after another moment of silence, pulling back to look down at Lucas. He guides Lucas’ head up again with a finger tucked under his chin. Lucas’ neck bends back easily, as pliable as always under Dillon’s touch. His expression is open and honest when their eyes meet again. “ The nightmare?” Dillon prompts softly.
Lucas’ fingers twitch at Dillon’s sides. He nods again.
It’s always some variation of the same thing: that day at the Folly. Sometimes Lucas dreams an exact replica of true events, every moment as clear in his mind as if it happened yesterday. Sometimes, he dreams of alternate versions, conjured up by Lucas’ imagination. In every dream, Dillon is hurt – and in every dream, Lucas is one that caused it.
Dillon brushes his thumb against the swell of Lucas’ bottom lip. “It’s been a while,” he muses, his eyes following the movement of his finger. “Know what caused it?”
Lucas’ tongue darts out, tracing the path of Dillon’s touch briefly, before he pulls his lip into his mouth. He worries the flesh between his teeth, rose skin blanching white, until Dillon gently pulls it free with a soft tut.
There have been a lot of triggers over the years, ranging from the obvious to the seemingly nonsensical. A glimpse of a man with hair going silver at his temples or the unexpected lilt of an accent. The specific colour of a necktie or the earthy smell of moss and dead leaves. A golden chain and the crisp white collar of a shirt.
Dillon always assures Lucas that it’s perfectly natural for this to happen, that it’s expected given what he went through. He knows Lucas’ therapist tells him the same thing, during the occasional appointment Lucas still has with her. But Dillon also knows it frustrates Lucas to no end, the way his body and mind still carry the weight of everything that happened after all this time.
“Do you know what day it is?” Lucas asks eventually. He sounds tired, world-weary, each word scraping over his vocal chords. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
The question catches Dillon off-guard. He glances at the opposite wall, above Lucas’ head, to where the clock sits above the kitchen sink. Its hands grin at him as it slowly creeps towards 2am. “Monday?” he asks, confused.
Lucas barely suppresses an eye roll at his answer. Warmth licks at Dillon’s rib cage instantly in response. “What date , Dillon?” Lucas amends.
Dillon blinks. He mentally flips through his calendar, through his work schedule, through birthdays and holidays and - oh . His eyes snag on the calendar by the fridge, the bold lettering barely visible in the dim light. Anniversaries.
The warmth in his chest dissipates, replaced by a creeping frost, ice lancing through each capillary of his lungs.
The realisation must show on his face, as Lucas rolls his lips into his mouth, eyebrows twitching up in resigned concession. Dillon’s brain supplies the memory of a sixteen year old Lucas in a white hoodie, alcohol on his breath and Dutch courage in his bloodstream, looking despondent after Dillon had pulled away from him — the only time Dillon had been the one to pull away first.
“I didn’t realise,” Dillon says lamely.
Lucas’ thumbs sweep soothing arcs over Dillon’s hipbones. “I know,” he says easily, without resentment.
It’s not something Dillon thinks about often. What happened at the Folly. Not because he wants to pretend it didn’t happen — because it did, there’s no point in acting otherwise. But because their relationship is so much more than that, made up of thousands of moments over the years that make that one horrible memory pale in comparison.
It unspools like a movie reel in Dillon’s mind. The first time they met, an angelic face marred by a scowl and a soft voice hardened by harsh words. A summer that dripped slow like molasses – a paradox of endless possibilities and mind-numbing boredom – and the tacky press of skin as arms were thrown over shoulders, elbows nudged into ribs. The twist of their fingers, stiff from the cold, on a winter’s night, the feeling of rough brick against their backs through their jackets. What felt like a hundred almost first kisses, and the yearning that hummed through Dillon’s veins for months on end. Their actual first kiss, the starburst of fairy lights in the corner of Dillon’s vision. Their first time. Their first (second) I love yous .
Everything that came after that. The spill of hot tears over Lucas’ cheeks when Dillon left for uni. The peal of Lucas’ laughter echoing through the train station as Dillon span him in circles when Lucas followed him to Manchester a year later. The taste of vodka on Lucas’ tongue, bass vibrating through their bones and the press of bodies on a dance floor. Slow mornings on their couch with old reruns on Netflix, dregs of tea in their favourite mugs and toast crumbs on the coffee table. Family FaceTimes and weekends away, long car journeys and grocery shopping, five-a-side football games and babysitting their niece.
Their life .
Dillon made his decision the same day he left the hospital, ribs broken and heart shattered. He hasn’t changed his mind since: he’ll stand by Lucas for as long as Lucas will have him.
He’s thankful to whatever higher power is at work that Lucas hasn’t changed his mind yet either.
Dillon drops to a crouch, making space for himself to press his shoulders firmly against Lucas’ knees. The soft cotton of Lucas’ joggers whispers against the bare skin of his arms. “It was a long time ago, babe,” he whispers.
“I know,” Lucas repeats, voice rough. His eyes sheen with unshed tears, and Dillon never wants to see his boy cry again for the rest of their lives. Lucas lifts a hand to push Dillon’s hair away from his face, fingertips dragging softly against the shell of his ear. “But I’m still sorry.”
“I know,” Dillon echoes. He pushes himself up, hands braced on Lucas’ thighs, to bring their mouths together briefly. He feels more than he hears the slight hitch in Lucas’ breath before their lips touch, the same way Lucas’ breath has hitched every time they’ve kissed since that first time in an empty classroom.
Lucas’ hold keeps him close when they break apart, and he nudges the tip of his nose against Dillon’s. “I love you,” Lucas breathes.
A grin stretches across Dillon’s mouth. “I love you, too,” he says. “Now let’s go to bed.”