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Chapter Text

There is a house that sits deep in the woods of San Juan. 

No one has ever seen it before, but everyone knows what it looks like. Some say that it's four stories tall and made of the white stone of the nearby mountains. They say that it used to be at the center of a mining facility, but the owner, a sickly looking German man named Mr. Ring, went out of business during World War 2 and decided to use what was left of his measly wealth to build a home from the corpse of his business, far enough away from town to protect him and his family from the prejudice of the locals. 

Others believe that it is a hut like structure built into a hill, much like one of those "hobbit" homes from that charming little book written a few decades back. Eugéne Hinkle, an antisocial fellow, was a well known fanatic of the story. One day, in a seemingly drunken rant, he ran, screaming into the woods proclaiming that he was "going to leave this dull world for Belegaer and Harad". He was never seen again. 

One little girl with pigtails the size of pom poms once drew a picture of it. It is currently pinned on a suberin board in Mrs. Guinivere's kindergarten class. In crude, messy crayon, one can make out a box with shaky lines and a blue triangle on top. A sun with spidery rays take up half the picture, and there are eight flowers that are as tall as the house with smiling faces that stare blankly at their audience. 

A stick figure with two circles attached to her head sits in front of the house, a box to her left and what can be assumed to be a Raggedy Andrew doll with crazy, curly hair and one missing button eye in her right appendage.

And under the jagged triangle grass are words. What is probably her name is completely ineligible, but the word Playpen is written pretty clearly in large, blocky rainbow letters.      

With a town as old as Pagosa Springs, what's history and what's legend ends up being one in the same. No one can be entirely sure of what happened, but all that really matters is that they're here now and something must have happened to cause that. 

No matter what that house in San Juan looks like, tall, short, or drawn in crayon, the truth is that the house exists, but almost in another reality. It's there, but much like a star sparkling in the night, a wave crashing in the middle of the ocean, or a tree falling in the woods, it's separated just enough from everyone that it might as well not.

There is a house that sits deep in the woods of San Juan. It looks like any house that's ever been made. It's surrounded by evergreen trees, grass and wild flowers, and there is a pond too far away to be considered in its backyard. 

And no one has ever lived in it.  

Chapter Text

It could have gone worse, all things considered.

For both Tavish’s mother and Jane, there were ways in which their combined disappointment and general grouchy dispositions could have made this dinner much, much worse. 

An evening of stilted conversation, forks scraping against ceramic, sharp, chewing noises with the accompaniment of Tavish’s nervous babbling interceded with a grunt from his Mum and a short hum from his best friend could be considered a Godsend compared to the calamities that Tavish couldn’t stop torturing himself with in his mind days prior to this moment. 

And yet, Tavish knew, deep down, that their first impressions of each other, outside of his bare boned descriptions he gave of the other through the years, could not have gone worse.    

Tavish downs the last bit of his water, relieved that in just a few short moments, he won’t have to pretend to be drinking anything stronger. 

“Well, Mum, thank ye fer havin us over on such short notice. The food was delicious. My compliments to the chef,” Tavish throws playfully towards his mother’s direction, plastering a large grin hoping his mother could at least feel his goodwill despite being unable to see it. 

She knew that Tavish was planning on coming home for a few days with his friend Jane weeks prior. They all knew for a long time. 

Unsurprisingly, Tavish’s Mum scoffs, “Save yer slobberin fer someone who needs it, boyo. Need the promise of food tae visit yer Mum once every blue moon, yer father be rollin in his grave at yer shamelessness.”

Tavish laughs, albeit more mechanically, “Och, well, if ye ever want me to visit more often Mum-”

“Ye think I wantae be used as an excuse fer yer laziness? May God give me strength, lad. Somedays I question when in the bloody hell ye adopted such a lackluster attitude fer yer work. Christ on a stick, there’s only so much disappointment a mother can take.”

The smile that Tavish barely had the strength to keep up crumbles away like burnt charcoal. Thankfully, his mother can’t see it. 

Suddenly, Jane stands, his fists curled dangerously against the sides of his dusty blue jacket. He turns pointedly away from Tavish’s mother, his scowl heavy and damning under the sharp grey of his helmet that he’s refused to take off ever since they landed in Scotland. 

“Permission to be excused outside, Tavish.” 

Jane’s tone suggests that he isn’t asking. 

Tavish starts to give Jane the go ahead, but his mother cuts in ruthlessly. 

“Just gontae leave without a goodbye o a thank ye, laddie? I may be a blind ole jessie, but this is still me keep.”

Slowly, Jane turns towards his Mum, and Tavish’s guts fill with dread as he predicts what exactly is gonna get spewed out of Jane’s mouth. 

“...Thank you, Mrs. Demoman, for serving us the inedible garbage of your backwater country alongside the disgraceful words you keep shooting at your son throughout the entire time we’ve been here. I am leaving now because mother of my friend or no, I will not hesitate to shove my American boot up your ass so hard-”

“Jane, just leave,” Tavish nearly shouts, shutting Jane up. His fingers dig into the dining table to stop himself from impulsively doing something he’ll regret. 

Jane snaps towards Tavish and something in his expression crumples, perhaps with shame or, worse, disappointment. Tavish doesn’t have long to look too deeply into it before Jane is stomping out. The sounds of the door opening and slamming close indicates his departure. 

Tavish turns towards his mother, unsure whether to start begging for her forgiveness or to shout at her for putting him in an impossible position. 

Both options are unacceptable, so Tavish stutters out, “Mum, I-I’m so sorry. Jane is- He can be… Be mad at me, but-”

“Him, lad?” Mum asks quietly, her face directed not at Tavish, but at the space where Jane once occupied.

“...What?” Tavish asks. 

“...Damn, lad. What a fool I raised,” Mum chuckles bitterly. 

Tavish’s face scrunches even more, feeling more lost and upset than he has in the longest time. No matter how old he gets, he will never understand his mother. 

No matter how much he loves her, she will never love him nearly as much. 

“I’m sorry, Mum,” Tavish says brokenly. He isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for, but it encompasses many things all the same. 

His Mum stops laughing and tilts her head towards his voice. 

Mother and son sit in silence for a few seconds: Tavish, desperately trying to think about what else he can say to salvage the broken remains of… what the hell even was all this, and his Mum, studying him in a way that balances on judgment and resignation. 

“...Ye should leave, Tavish. Make sure yer… friend gets to where he’s stayin safely. Hearin the language he uses, somethin tells me that he should avoid locals else he gets gutted in the streets,” Mum grunts as she stands. 

Tavish nods and coughs in his fist, hoping to clear away the wobbling crack in his voice. 

“Right. I’ll check on Jane, but I’ll be back soon.”

“...Truly an airheaded fool,” Mum sighs, exasperated as she makes her way to the living room.

Tavish ignores the sting of her words, making sure that his Mum is comfortable despite her half-hearted complaints before heading towards the exit. 

“Lad.”

Tavish clutches the door, his heart jumping at the tone his mother uses. It’s one he hasn’t heard before, or perhaps one he hasn’t heard in a long time.

He can’t see her from where she’s sitting on the couch, but he catches a glimpse of her curly buns shifting as she gets comfortable. 

“...Bring an umbrella. Ye’ll shame our entire lineage if yer the first Demoman tae die from pneumonia.”

“...Right, Mum.”

Tavish grabs the nearest one, an ancient looking thing with a long, curved wooden handle and black, unmarred cloth before rushing out the door. 

He gets pelted with heavy rain the second he steps out. 

It doesn’t take long for Tavish to catch up to Jane. Carrying the umbrella over his head and jogging with it is cumbersome, but Tavish is used to carrying much heavier instruments when he’s on the battlefield. 

He spots Jane standing near the edge of the evergreen forest, a few paces away from the hill that DeGroot Keep rests on, in the opposite direction of the local town where he’s staying. 

“Jane!” Tavish calls out over the pounding rain. Jane doesn’t turn to acknowledge him, but Tavish knows that the older man has heard him from the way he stiffens. 

The American is completely soaked to the bone. His light blue jacket turned almost navy, water sliding off of his shoulders in little rivers. 

He continues to drip even when Tavish shyly holds the umbrella over the both of them. 

Tavish stares wordlessly at his friend, his fist periodically squeezing the handle of his umbrella. 

“Jane, I’m sorry.”

Once again, Tavish isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. At the very least, he knows he doesn’t like seeing Jane upset.

Jane scoffs, “Why are you apologizing, Tav? There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. If anything, I should be sorry. Is that what you want to hear?”

Tavish sighs, “I would nae waste my breath with me Mum, Solly. After what you said, she won’t be acceptin any apology from you anytime soon.”

“Good, because I’m not sorry.”

“Ye just said that ye were!” Tavish yells, exasperated. Jane shakes his head, continuing uninterrupted.

“And if you weren’t such a coward, I would have let her feel the full force of my mighty American spirit.”

Tavish sharply glares at Jane and pushes himself into his space, “Jane, tha’s my mother. I donae care if ye don’t like her, but I won’t have ye badmouthin her in front of me.”

Jane sneers, “Your pansy British insults don’t scare me, son. They never have and they certainly won’t now after I was forced to witness that pathetic display. You have disappointed this unit.”

The seed of bitterness from dinner sprouts, and Tavish threateningly tightens his fist into Jane’s shirt, making sure to scrape his nails against the American’s chest. 

“Take. That. Back,” Tavish growls.  

The other man meets Tavish half way and pokes his chest harshly. A cruel grin spreads across his face. 

“Make me.”

Somewhere off in the far distance, thunder rolled and crashed heavily, the sound shaking the earth. The rain falls harder, turning the dirt into cakey mud. A perfect surface for Jane to slide on as Tavish tackles him to the ground. The umbrella goes flying, and within the sounds of pelting rain Tavish’s screams and Jane’s shouts, along with flesh hitting flesh, could be heard. 

“TAKE THAT BACK!” Tavish shrieks, punching Jane across his jaw. He hits him twice, hitting hard enough to leave a wall of bruises, before his wrist gets grabbed in Jane’s meaty palm. The older man brutally twists his arm to the point where Tavish feels his bones shift.

Tavish is yanked into the ground, his face splatting into the mud. He tries to get up, but Jane is on him in seconds. The older man still has his arm in a devastating hold, which he now has twisted and pinned behind Tavish’s back. With his other hand, Jane rips off Tavish’s beanie and buries his hand in Tavish’s curls. He yanks the younger man’s head back only to shove it into the muddy ground, over and over. 

Tavish struggles uselessly underneath him. He tries to shake his arm loose, but Jane’s grip is ironclad. Jane shoving his face into the mud isn’t painful so much as bloody humiliating. All the while, Jane hollers above him, above the rain, the thunder, the lightning, the entire cruel world. 

“WHY THE HELL SHOULD I?! You let your mommy say it all the time! Hell, I bet you even say it to yourself!” 

When Soldier lifts his bruised and muddy face from the ground, Tavish spits out some dirt, “FUCK YOU!”

Tavish braces himself for another mouthful of dirt, but it never comes. Confused, Tavish opens his eye and realizes that Jane isn't on top of him anymore. Slowly, he stands, absentmindedly brushing the dirt off of him. He turns, his body twisting all the way around, but he can't see Jane anywhere. 

"Jane? Jane? Where did ye go?" Tavish asks. His voice echoes emptily through the light mists of the moors. It appears that he is completely alone. 

Unexpectedly, he gets an answer. 

"But I already did, Tavie. Did you forget?"

It's Jane's voice, down to the guttural growl and natural loudness of his cadence, yet Tavish's stomach flips. Every nerve in his body screams WRONG so loudly it echoes to the very tips of his fingers. 

He doesn't turn to look at the presence he feels behind him. It pays his stillness no mind, choosing instead to saunter to him instead. Booted feet crunch into the grass. One step. Two step. A man presses himself directly against Tavish's back, breathing deeply against his neck and ear, leaving goose pimples with each exhale. 

"How could you, Tav? You never forget your first time, especially when it was with your best friend."

A series of words and certain phrases fly through Tavish's mind, but something forces him to speak the last thing he wanted to say. 

"I didn't forget. How could I?" he whispers, more so breathes out. Tavish isn't sure if he even said anything at all, but Jane's voice chuckles in response, and thick arms wrap around his middle pulling him even closer to the solid body behind him.  

Tavish is limp in the other man's hold. His arms are dead weights by his side, and due to the height he has on the other, he's partially slumped, legs bent awkwardly against the floor of grass and cement. 

His world is a mixture of industrial grey and Scottish summer blue. A loose curl that escaped his beanie waves with the wind, but he can't feel the breeze. 

He does feel the man blow seductively against the shell of his ear, "I made sure you couldn't forget. You can't forget me, Tav. Never in a million thousand years. Just how I can never forget you. Your cyclops face, the smell of your vomit in every bathroom, the way your whore hole squeezes the life out of me. You're many things, son, and forgettable is not one of them."

A hand with beefy finger and a wide palm wraps around his cheeks and chin, turning his face around. His neck creaks in protest, and a dull sort of funny thought appears in Tavish's head that he's about to get his neck snapped. 

Unfortunately, that doesn't happen. Jane who's not Jane to him but everyone else smiles crookedly at him. The older man cranes his neck up just as he forcefully pulls Tavish towards him. Their lips meet, gentle and loving with a soft sound. 

He hums and talks while kissing him, "You think I taste bile whenever I kiss you, you drunken alcoholic?"

"I hope so."

He kisses him again, "You think I do this all the time to shut you up, you Scottish son of a bitch?" 

"Probably."

The final kiss ends with a sharp bite to his bottom lip, "Do you think I'll stop?"

Tavish swallows more bile and his voice comes out a pathetic puff, "No."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"...No."

Soldier's smile softens, making him look almost loving. He rests his face against Tavish's neck, pecking little kisses on his jugular before chewing on his flesh. 

"That's the best answer you gave, Sweetheart."

Soldier, with the brazen fanfare that he upholds at every waking moment of his life for the many years Tavish has known him, lets him go.

And he falls.