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Tommy’s not expecting any guests. The lights in the house are out with the sole exception of the tv screen, which illuminates the space directly in front of it with ever-changing images Tommy isn’t even looking at. No one should be bothering him. He strongly suspects that the members of the 118 he’s managed to build any semblance of familial bonds with are rightfully rallied around Evan; besides them, there’s no one in the world who would be even mildly concerned about his state, and he bombed those relationships the moment he walked out of Evan’s apartment two days prior.
The mere idea of anyone caring about his whereabouts is so strange to Tommy that he almost convinces himself that the sound of the doorbell is nothing but a figment of his imagination, a desperate plea of his tired mind to put down the bottle and get off the couch, until it rings again, followed by aggressive knocking. For a moment, Tommy contemplates ignoring it, even though he’s now quite sure that whoever is outside knows for sure that he’s home. He’s in no mood to interact with anyone, especially if they’re there to berate him for his life choices. He knows his faults without outside help just fine.
The doorbell rings again, and someone’s fist lands heavy on the door. Tommy’s head throbs with a dull ache at every thud, and it j u s t w o n ’ t s t o p.
He gets up and walks to open the front door when it seems like the unwanted visitor would rather kick it down than give up and walk away. At this point, Tommy knows he’s probably getting punched before even getting to find out which one of Evan’s friends came to avenge the injustice of their breakup.
In his frustration, he swings the door open with a little too much force, so it almost hits face, but it remains his only assailant, much to his surprise. He doesn’t get punched or slapped, or even verbally attacked, and it almost doesn’t feel right. Some of the tension leaves his body, now that he’s not actively expecting to receive a blow to his face.
“Why are you here?” he asks. His voice is hoarse from unuse. Tommy himself hasn’t heard it since he said goodbye to Evan. It still seems a little surreal - six months gone like they never happened, and he’s back to square one, spending his free time alone in an empty house too big for one man, except now his days of solitude and silence are additionally flavoured with longing for what he himself discarded so recklessly. Before he can get a reply, he speaks again. “Just go. I don’t wanna hear it.”
He’s ready to close the door, but Howie must be able to see this intention in the expression on his face. He steps close enough to stick the toe of his shoe within the perimeter of the house, making it impossible to get rid of him without breaking a few toes. Tommy sighs in resignation and steps aside. The sooner they can get it over with, the sooner he can go back to wallowing in the misery of his own doing.
“I brought takeout,” Howie announces as he steps inside, lifting up the plastic bag in his hand to prove his words are true. He waltzes further into the house like he owns the place rather than visiting for the first time ever, leaving Tommy stunned, standing by the open door for a few more seconds before he’s able to move again.
When Tommy comes into the kitchen, Howie has already made himself at home. He’s pulling out bowls, glasses and silverware, presumably to serve their dinner in something other than paper containers, and putting away the small amount of groceries he’s brought, and it feels weirdly invasive. Evan’s things still linger all around the place, like the reusable chopsticks he bought so they wouldn’t need to go through a new set of the single-use ones every time they ordered Chinese, or several baking pans stashed into random cabinets so they wouldn’t be an eyesore. The freezer is fully stocked with pre-made meals lovingly portioned into containers for days Tommy doesn’t feel like cooking. One of Evan’s many aprons hangs on a hook by the door. Even though it’s in his house, the kitchen doesn’t belong to Tommy, and it feels like an invasion of privacy to have let someone other than Evan use it.
Tommy doesn’t say a word but watches with intent, ready to intervene as soon as Howie touches something he’s not supposed to move. It’s too early. The pain of losing Evan is still too fresh. Tommy knows he will deal with returning all of the items to Evan when he can get himself to put them into moving boxes without spending hours reminiscing about the memories they hold.
Once their food is done, transferred from soaked-through paper containers into actual dishes and by some miracle of traffic violations still steaming hot, Howie puts everything on a tray. He adds two forks and a tall glass of tap water, which Tommy assumes is for him, because the entire house smells like a distillery. With the tray in his hands, Howie leaves the kitchen, unceremoniously pushing past Tommy to get to the living room. Tommy is entirely too confused to protest, even though the state of the place is hardly adequate to receive guests in.
Tommy reluctantly trails a few steps after him, keeping his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. Despite his best efforts, he can’t comprehend what’s happening. Howie seems way too energetic but not at all mad, which would be more than reasonable in his position. There’s no way he doesn’t know about the breakup. Otherwise, he wouldn’t even be here. They’ve been friends for years but never close enough to hang out at each other’s places, so the visit must have been triggered by this extraordinary event. Tommy sees no other explanation.
Which is why Howie’s behaviour appears so out of place. There’s no doubt in Tommy’s mind that Evan is a much more important figure in Howie’s life, so it’s hard for Tommy to wrap his head around why he would be getting treated to a nice meal instead of being torn to shreds.
By the time Tommy has gathered his thoughts enough to express them, Howie has turned on the light in the room and began collecting all of the empty beer bottles scattered around. He arranges them neatly in the corner of the room to discard later before he moves on to screw the cap back onto the half empty bottle of whisky and puts the entire thing away in the nearest cabinet, out of sight.
Tommy can’t take it anymore.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and it comes out more harshly than he intended. “You should be ripping me a new asshole, not cleaning my living room or bringing me lunch. What’s this about? You should hate me for hurting Buck,” he insists. The anger in his voice gives way to pain, and his eyes sting with the threat of incoming tears.
Howie stops mid-step to give him the kind of look Tommy will never forget - for a split second, his friend doesn’t look bubbly or energised but exhausted, and Tommy can never know what’s on his mind in that moment. It only lasts for a heartbeat, though, before Howie continues to walk towards the couch and the coffee table, where he’s set up their dinner.
“I don’t hate you,” he says calmly with his back turned to Tommy as he takes a seat. “Neither does he.”
It feels like a punch to the gut. Rationally, Tommy knows Howie didn’t intend to hurt him, but the mere knowledge that Evan, his Evan that he’s hurt so deeply, doesn’t resent him despite everything Tommy’s done to him is enough to suck the air out of Tommy’s lungs and finally squeeze the tears out of his eyes. For the first time since leaving Evan’s apartment two days prior, Tommy allows himself to cry.
Howie says something Tommy is too shaken up to hear. He needs a minute, a deep breath, a piece of fabric from the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe his face dry before he can sit down and focus on the words being said to him.
“I didn’t come here to judge you. You did what you did, and you had your reasons…” Howie doesn’t sound tired or mad, or even disappointed. He sounds like a concerned friend, and the look on his face confirms it. Tommy nods, taking Howie’s words at face value. “But I think you’re making a mistake.”
Tommy takes a deep breath in, tensing up just as Howie sighs and appears to sink deeper into the cushions of the couch.
“He’s camped out in my living room,” Howie says after a long pause, and Tommy can hear the exasperation in his voice now. “I’ve never seen him like this, and I’ve seen him in all kinds of situation over the years. I’ve seen him after he was left at the airport or dumped because of his job. I’ve seen him crushed by a fire engine and struck by lightning, and he’s acting like this breakup is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.” Tommy has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep himself from shedding more tears as he listens. This calm explanation of the aftermath of his actions is perhaps even worse than a verbal lashing or a physical strike. It gives him the impression that instead of being angry and working through his emotions, Evan has simply given up the fight, and it’s all Tommy’s fault for breaking him so profoundly with just a few words. “I love him. I do. He’s my wife’s little brother, but I wish I could have my couch back, and it doesn’t look like it’s happening anytime soon.”
Tommy doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know if the right words even exist. He can’t apologise because Howie isn’t the one who should be receiving his apology, and he can’t argue because nothing Howie has said deserves to be argued against. He’s not even entirely sure what he’s feeling, but it’s uncomfortable and burns hot in the pit of his stomach.
When he doesn’t get a response from Tommy within a reasonable amount of time, Howie gets up to his feet.
“I should go,” he says, fidgeting with his fingers like he’s anxious all of a sudden. He takes a few steps towards the door. “Buck didn’t want me to come, didn’t want me to bother you. Enjoy your dinner. And don’t drink anymore,” he says, sounding more and more annoyed. Tommy can’t blame him. With his hand on the door handle, Howie gives Tommy one last look. “Fix him. I don’t think anyone else can.”
“I will,” Tommy says quietly, but there’s a sense of determination bubbling in his chest now. The door clicks shut after Howie, and Tommy doesn’t bother to get up to lock it. His hands are shaking as he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone.
There are no calls and no messages, not a single word from Evan. A part of Tommy wants to go back and mourn his losses, but with the lights on, a warm meal on his table, and the knowledge of everything Howie has told him, it wouldn’t feel right.
Tommy knows he’s made a mistake. He’s known from the moment the door to Evan’s loft closed behind his back. The feeling sank deeper as he made his way down the annoyingly high number of stairs and settled cold in his soul when he got behind the wheel of his truck, parked in a spot too good to be true. He should’ve gone back. He could’ve turned around at any moment, but he was too stubborn and scared of the ghost of his past to fight for his future. By the time he made his way back to his empty house, it was too late to change anything.
Maybe he was wrong about that, too.
There’s still a heart attached to Evan’s name in the contacts list, placed there by Evan himself not even a month after they started dating. Tommy hasn’t been able to remove it. Now, he can’t help but stare at it - a reminder of all the joy Evan brought into his life; the nights they spent cuddled up on the very couch Tommy’s sitting on after playfully bickering in the kitchen about the inconvenient setup and the spices Evan had to personally supply Tommy’s collection with in order to make their food “taste like anything other than air.”
Their last text exchange pops up on the screen, with time stamps just minutes before their last conversation. Tommy can’t help but smile, reading Evan’s words, hearing Evan’s voice in his head tell him “it’s your turn to pay for dinner.”
It’s still his turn.
If Evan agrees, maybe he can pay for coffee first.