Chapter Text
It had become a bit of a known thing that, if Tom was inviting them over for dinner, that meant that Sam would actually do the cooking. Of course, that was part of the pleasure of it. Sam loved to cook, so when he got sick of eating Tom’s really not all that great food, he had turned up three hours early for a dinner date with a bag of ingredients. Jay and Pip had ben chatting in the lounge whilst Sam had dragged his friend into the kitchen with him, and together they’d made something actually nice. If asked, Tom always made out that he was deeply offended that Sam thought so little of his ability, but, obviously, that was all joking and posturing. It reminded him of when they’d been at university, only now they had the freedom to buy the nice stuff and really enjoy it. Pip, also, seemed very pleased that Sam was teaching their husband how to make more than three meals on rotation.
Of course, he’d insisted, more than once, that Sam was coming over to have dinner, not cook dinner, but no matter how many times he said it…
“Honestly,” he sighed, as Sam went into the kitchen with his bag of groceries, “I really did have something nice planned for dinner. I was going to cook it. Myself. In, y’know, two hours. When you’re meant to be here.”
“It’s nice to see you too.” Jay gave him a hug, which he, of course, automatically reciprocated.
“Pip’s in the lounge.”
“I have wine!” they called out, and Jay beamed, bouncing off into the cosy space. They were used to this by now, enough so to make preparations for them; not that it needed to be much, with them being such close friends.
“I’m sure you were,” Sam said, with his usual cheeky grin, “But I saw this stuff when we went to get wine, and, well, you know I can’t resist a reduction.”
Tom sighed. Tilted his head back. Pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Alright, fine.” he allowed. “What are we making?”
-
Tom was, with all due respect, actually pretty good at cooking – although Sam entirely laid that on the feet of his training. Since university, he had been doing his best to give his friends at least some skill in the kitchen, and cooking together was always fun. He’d excused himself to go to the bathroom, once the plates had been cleared away to the kitchen; the atmosphere was warm and comfortable in the flat, just friends hanging out, everything how it should be. As he washed his hands, Sam paused, looking in the mirror. He tilted his head back and forth, looking at his beard, realising that in his trim before he’d left, he’d missed a chunk. How long had that been there? Damnit. He knew the others wouldn’t care if he was a bit messy, but, well, now he’d seen it he wasn’t going to be able to avoid thinking about it.
He’d borrowed Tom’s razors dozens of times. As long as he was careful, he was sure it wouldn’t be an issue.
Eyes scanned over the countertop; neat and tidy, organised in a way he could never quite manage even with Jay about. Where were they? He opened the cupboard behind the mirror. Spare deodorant, hair stuff, soaps, painkillers… he found a sealed pack but he didn’t want to go around opening stuff. Finally, tucked right into the back, his hand brushed a familiar plastic stem. Huh; he was pretty sure Tom didn’t use single use razors, he had some fancy clipper-y thing. Still – maybe it was used for emergencies? As he pulled it out, bright orange, the exact same cheap Bic razors he’d used in university, Sam ran his eyes over it. Looked unused, actually, but – it was broken, he realised. The little rubbery paperclip bit had come loose, and the blades weren’t held properly. One had fallen out entirely, gone. Probably down the back. He’d have to warn Tom to be careful…
Ah, but if he mentioned it, that would mean he’d have to admit to going through his cupboards. Hm.
Tucking it back down where it had been kept before, Sam decided to keep that to himself, giving up on his search for the clippers. He would just have to fix it when he got home or in the morning. They’d already gone through all of their dinner with this wonkiness, and if Jay hadn’t mentioned it, surely it wasn’t all that noticable? Fluffing his beard one more time to try to hide it, he took one last glance in the mirror and then left the room, pushing the oddity out of his mind.
“Does anyone want dessert? I have some cheesecake in the fridge,” Pip suggested, and everyone made the polite objections… and then gave in, as they always did. Tom smiled widely at him over the plate, eyes sparkling. It just felt nice to remind themselves that they were all friends, still close, still people who cared about each other beyond a job. With good food, and decent wine. Tom adjusted the sleeves on his shirt; he tended to look a touch more casual at home, but his comfortable on stage was still his comfortable elsewhere, so Sam wasn’t all that surprised to see him wearing his deep red button up; he’d worn it all through the cooking, even though the kitchen was warm. Sometimes he wished he could carry off that look, but, well, it was something Tom was very much good at and less Sam’s thing…
“So, what are we thinking, later? Mario Kart?” Sam suggested, prompting a groan from everyone else. “Or Karaoke?”
“No, I’m not having my neighbours complain I’m drowning cats again.” Tom rolled his eyes, scratching at his arm over his sleeve, “Nothing is worth that.”
“Yeah, but that was because of your singing, not mine.” Sam said. Tom scowled, even if he had a half smile in place.
“Karaoke isn’t meant to be good, it’s just meant to be fun.” Pip pointed out, and Sam snorted a laugh.
“True words of the non singers.” he grinned as all of the others threw rolled up napkins at him, waving a hand in the air to defend himself, before they all fell about laughing.
-
Pip was asleep.
He padded into the bathroom, the uncomfortably full sensation making him feel more and more sick. It would’ve looked weird to refuse the cheesecake. Sam had portioned him a massive plate of the dinner, too, and there were too many eyes to not clear his plate, like he used to. Now his whole body felt off. It was so much easier to restrict when people weren’t looking. His skin was itching all over. The bathroom cool, welcoming. Sliding off his long sleeved sleep shirt, he took a breath. Popping the razor blade out of the back of his phone case, he placed them cautiously on the edge of the bath.
Red scratches lined the inside of his left arm, from wrist to elbow. Half healed, fresher ones in the gaps in between. He was running out of space to avoid cutting over what was already in place. Moving to the back would be risky. It was tricky enough hiding them when he could tuck his wrist in against his torso, but if he started to cut in such a clear and obvious location… it would be shirts all the time. Not that he wasn’t automatically covering anyway, unwilling to be revealed on the stage…
Fuck it.
He shuddered as the blade drew across the untouched skin on the back of his arm. Fresh and unscarred, like the rest of him, the sharp edge tore through with ease. He felt the bite, where he got the angle just right, splitting fresh lines. The sting was delicious, making him shudder. More. He needed more. He needed to see hot red blood against his white skin and needed to feel, it was grounding, it made him feel solid and real and – he wished he wasn’t crying, trying desperately to be quiet. The last thing he wanted was for Pip to worry, after all.