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It isn’t that Tommy doesn’t want people to know.
He loves Evan like all hell; the kid showed up almost two years ago now, all boyish grins and frat-boy humour and the beaming sort of confidence that Tommy has never quite mastered, and that was it. That was the end of the story, because Tommy never stood a chance against any of it – no matter how hard he tried, he still found himself entangled in the beautiful mess that is Evan Buckley.
And he’s not mad about that.
Mostly.
Well– he isn’t mad. He’s a little jealous, of the way Evan is so easily able to carry himself, and frustrated with his own inability to even be public about his relationship. In all honestly, he’s scared; scared of himself, of Evan. Of what this relationship could do to the life he’s so precariously built on lies.
Evan doesn’t get it. Which is good.
That’s good, because the way Tommy struggles isn’t something he would wish on anyone – least of all on someone as bubbly and bright as Evan. He doesn’t know what the disappointment, the anxiety, the weight of his situation would do to someone like his boyfriend, and he has no interest in finding out.
All of it, though, came to a head early in the morning, before their shift. Evan’s been spending almost every night and following mornings in Tommy’s bed, and it’s been incredible; it’s been holding each other in bed late at night and going for a quickie in the shower before work and making breakfast together, despite Evan’s bare-minimum cooking abilities – though Tommy and Bobby have been teaching him.
This morning was different.
Tommy thought it would be a good morning; he was up a little earlier, made breakfast for them both and plated it up right as Evan stumbled out into the kitchen. He was wrapped in one of Tommy’s hoodies, and a pair of his own boxers, still sleepy and soft with a good night’s rest. It was the perfect image; one that, on days where he’s a little more optimistic, Tommy can imagine waking up to every morning. Every morning, for the rest of his life.
And the entire thing had fallen apart the moment Evan opened his mouth. I think we should tell people about us.
Tommy said they can’t. Evan asked why. He couldn’t explain it.
Because how would he, to someone who hadn’t seen it? Who hasn’t been the person he has been? Between his father, the army, and Gerrard, Tommy considers it lucky he’s even willing to date a guy in private – going public, especially in his workplace, with guys who’ve known him since Gerrard was around… that’s a complicated can of worms to open, and Tommy’s not ready for it.
Buck, wonderfully, still has his youth in so many ways; he’s a bright personality, always on the move, and he’s a few years Tommy’s junior. It’s not an issue in the relationship; open communication, clear intentions, and balanced power, that’s all they need to make it work. Tommy repeats it like a mantra when the gap comes to mind, and he’s right. It’s all true.
Except– Evan’s youth has its one flaw; with that youthfulness comes a college-aged lack of communication. Things like swallowing his problems down instead of voicing them, or, in this case, pulling up a cold shoulder rather than tackling the conversation.
Not that Tommy doesn’t understand Evan’s frustration; he’s frustrated, too, with himself. They’ve known each other over a year, been together for almost one. Of course he wants to tell people.
But it’s not that simple.
Which is how they ended up this way; Tommy, in his usual seat in the engine, knees pressed against Eddie’s but averting his gaze indelicately. Chimney makes some comment about from the cabin about how quiet everyone’s being, but Tommy ignores it, eyes fixed outside the window. The rattle of the engine, combined with Hen and Chimney’s quiet conversation, is enough to cover over the silence – and Tommy’s grateful.
Even though it stings in his chest. Even though he’s had girlfriends, boyfriends before, and a fight has never felt like this. Even though the day he lost Abby– all he felt was numb. All he wants, now, is to feel numb; is to feel like this moment, this argument, this tension with Evan, doesn’t matter. None of it ever mattered before now, and he was used to that.
It wasn’t pleasant, but it was comfortable.
“Okay, what is it?” Eddie asks, tone thick with accusation. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you guys, but Buck has barely spoken all day, and I don’t think that’s ever happened before. Tommy, man, what the hell is going on?"
“Nothing’s going on.” Tommy denies immediately; he swallows, nodding slowly in insistence, but averting his gaze from Hen’s. He barely looks at Eddie, instead turning to glance past his shoulder before returning to his mission of staring resolutely out the window.
Eddie scoffs. “That’s bullshit. Look, all I’m saying is, Buck looks miserable and you look miserable. And we all joke about you guys doing everything together–”
Tommy’s cheeks redden. He willfully keeps his gaze fixed outside.
“-But this is next level, man.” Eddie finishes.
Tommy stares at him, eyes glassy and expression bland. There’s panic simmering under his skin, and he feels just about ready to burst with the frustration, nonetheless keeping his voice stony as he speaks. “Fuck off, Eddie.”
After those words fall from his lips, three things happen in quick succession.
First, Eddie opens his mouth to say something. To respond, somehow, to Tommy’s harsh words and snappish tone. His eyes are a little wide, surprised at Tommy’s unusual rudeness, and he looks somewhat defensive– affronted, even.
Second, Tommy contemplates confessing. He thinks of what would happen if he did; of the way Chimney would look at him, all confused, and the way Hen would support him even through barely-masked surprise. The way Eddie would probably just pat him on the shoulder and move on with his day.
But before he can think of what Evan would say, the third thing happens; there’s a loud noise, and a bright, bright light through the window and the seatbelt over Tommy’s shoulder digs into his flesh through his tunic as they brake heavily. The engine jolts to a stop, and someone outside lets out a scream – devastating and heavy, the sound only physical agony draws from a human.
Evan.
The panic that was sitting before, hot and steady just beneath Tommy’s skin, tightens around his throat and grips at his lungs. He pulls in a tight breath, undoing his seatbelt and stumbling out of the engine, almost falling down the step.
Hen’s hand catches on Tommy’s shoulder, holding him upright and holding him still; they both stand behind the engine, watching the ladder truck creak, easing down heavily. Glass splinters across the sidewalk, glittering reflections flames on the truck, and it’s all accented by horrified conversation, a backdrop of intermittent gasps and screams.
And as the flames ease, as the light flickers down, there’s a silhouette slung across the asphalt. A silhouette of gelled-down hair and a lean, toned torso and broad shoulders. A silhouette twisted on it’s side, one leg still beneath the truck. A silhouette that must be–
“Evan,” Tommy breathes, pain bleeding into his throat. It’s thick, heavy on his tongue, and sharp with every breath. “ Evan!”
Stepping forward, Tommy moves to run; everything in him wants to run, wants to be at Evan’s side – wants to take back the morning, the fight, the last eight months of hiding, the last thirty-two years.
Because none of it was right if this is how it ends.
If this is how his heart breaks.
Another silhouette stumbles forward. A silhouette that looks like a teenager that Tommy is sure he’s seen before, angry and bitter and pulsing with hatred; Tommy’s been that kid, yes, he’s had that sort of anger. But there’s something darker, too, in the way every step crunches on the glass. Something Tommy never reached.
Something that he almost had; something that Sal, Howie, Hen, Evan pulled him away from. Something he’s lucky not to have found.
Something hateful.
Tommy starts forward again.
Until there’s a hand on his wrist.
“Tommy , you can’t go over there,” Howie grabs at him, pulling him back. He’s a considerably smaller frame than Tommy, but he’s got grip like hell, and the instruction in his voice is a reminder of why he was selected for interim captaincy. It’s commanding, certain. Tommy couldn’t do that – not at a time like this.
Thank God for Howie.
“I have to,” Tommy murmurs; the kid starts yelling, something about the captain, and then it’s Eddie on Tommy’s one side and Hen on the other and Howie is stepping out into the mess, talking to the kid. Trying to talk him down, but he’s getting angrier, and the blood dripping down Evan’s temple is thickening, and his cries are getting weaker.
So much is happening. Tommy doesn’t know where to begin.
“No. No, I don’t want you,” The kid insists. Wires are crossed and twisted in some configuration across his chest, something that looks fairly legitimate and definitely like a bomb – and considering what happened to the ladder truck, Tommy would put money on it being genuine. The teenager isn’t just angry, he’s raging; and he’ll do whatever necessary for his own sake. “I want Captain Nash.”
There’s movement on the far side, and Howie’s hands are raised, and the kid is shaking so hard that Tommy is worried he might bump the trigger on that bomb – but before he can really ponder that thought, before he can think anything more than Evan, Evan, Evan, Bobby steps out of the crowd and walks into the clearing.
Tommy doesn’t know what he says. He doesn’t listen.
Blood rushes in his ears.
Evan is bleeding on the ground.
Freddie is tackled, and Tommy is running.
Running, running, running.
Evan is bleeding. Evan is dying.
The damn truck, it won’t move. Tommy wants to help. Tommy wants to stand up with his crew, wants to put every hour that he’s spent in the gym, pour it right back into this moment. Lift the truck – for Evan, he would move mountains, let alone ladder trucks.
But when Tommy starts to pull away, Evan’s grip tightens around his hand. His fingers twitch, digging into the skin a little, and Tommy stills. He kneels at Evan’s side, holding delicately onto his hand, and he presses a kiss to the back of his knuckles.
It doesn’t matter who’s there. It doesn’t matter that he can still hear Freddie yelling at the cops, or that there’s blood all over his uniform, or that Hen and Howie and Bobby, people he was scared to be honest with half an hour ago, are crowded just a few feet away. It’s not important, not to Tommy. Not right now.
Not when Evan needs him.
But Evan needs more than just Tommy right now.
Tommy doesn't see who steps out first, but someone does, out of the crowd; then someone else, and then the barricades come down. Members of the public flood the intersection, crowding the engine and gripping the weight, Howie and Bobby instructing them into position. There’s a loud, collective heave, and Evan’s groaning, and it’s not high enough. Tommy’s heart drops into the pit of his stomach.
“Again!” Bobby hollers, and there’s a desperation in his voice Tommy’s never really heard before – not from his captain, at least. But it works, it must work, because the crowd lift the ladder just a little more, just a little higher.
The agonized scream that Evan lets out is enough to remove any image of grandeur that the public display of support instilled, and Tommy turns back to him, his fingers nearly numb from how tight his boyfriend is gripping them. “Evan, I’m right here. I’m right here, baby, you’re going to be okay. I’m with you, okay? I’m here, you gotta stay awake for me, sweetheart. C’mon, look at me. Look at me.”
Tommy can feel eyes on him, but he ignores them, leaning delicately over Evan as the younger man blinks slowly, a harsh sob rattling his frame. “It– hurts , Tom.”
“I know.” Tommy tightens his grip. “I know, but I love you, and you’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”
The words sound almost fake, falling from Tommy’s lips, but he tries to believe them anyway. Because it’s going to be okay; because Evan will be okay. Because Evan will survive.
Because he has to.
Because if he doesn’t – Tommy won’t.