Work Text:
DOORS AT 21:00, MUSIC AT 22:00
It doesn’t take a whole lot of thinking to piece together that this isn’t really his scene. Still, Sol can think of far worse ways to spend a Friday night. Far pricier, too. Three bands, £10 cover or pay-what-you-can, but you can earn yourself one whole drink ticket if you drop your cash at the door. He’d only heard of the headliner before he’d seen the venue’s Facebook post about the show. Well, headliner is a strong word, but they’re the only band in the lineup that has a Spotify page and their name was printed in a bigger font than the other two on the flyer. They’d opened for a slightly bigger group he’d gone to see a year or so ago and they put on a decent show then. The two other acts are up Sol’s alley too, at least from what a cursory scroll of their socials could tell him.
It isn’t so much about who’s playing anyway, or even what they’re playing. Sol never cared much about genres, where the arbitrary lines are drawn that determine what’s real music and what’s dogshit. He just listens to what he likes. Some days, it’s the kind of music his dad would play in the car when Sol was tiny; some days, it’s whatever candy pink, bubblegum pop radio regular that’s become wedged like a splinter in his brain after he hears it for the thousandth time; and some days, it’s the fast, hardcore, headbanger-type shit he’s paying ten quid to see tonight.
Normally, it would be no hardship to round up a couple of the boys for a night out, but Sol’s musical open-mindedness isn’t a shared trait among his friends. Bill, Will, James, Johnny, and Pilk (also answers to Will 2, or Will: Revolutions, if Bill is to be recognized as the primary William) weren’t a picky lot as a rule. They’d put up with near enough anything if it came with a half-decent crowd, half-cheap drinks, and a laugh. Too bad for Sol that he’d gone out and found their collective bridge too far.
He’d sent a screenshot of the show information to the group chat the week prior when he found a free moment at work, captioned with: looks like a proper time yeah? I’m heading down if anyone wants to join. Then his phone went back in his pocket for the remainder of his shift. Most of his best mates were coworkers of his, but the nature of being first responders meant for odd hours that largely kept them apart— that, alongside a fucking Rorshach test of a sleep schedule and a phobia of the words slow and quiet.
When Sol clocked out that evening, he checked his phone to see the customary barrage of notifications on his lock screen. He had to scroll back a good bit to find his last message and what consensus had been reached regarding his proposed plans.
Johnny, right off the bat: working soz.
Pilk, next in line: Bands any goof?
*Good shut the fuck up.
A few minutes allowed for Pilk’s typo to really marinate before James popped in with: hold on let us have a listen. A bit of presumed reconnaissance later, he came back with some takes.
Sol that’s fucking shite.
Fuck sake that sounds like a car crashing thru a mental health ward.
James’s incredible witticism was rewarded with a couple LMAOs and a nahh that’s fuckin wild from the rest— dickheads. The topic then drifted elsewhere until Bill entered the chat some hours after and replied to Sol directly. Sorry bastard must have just woken up for his night shift.
@Solomon Tozer Ah mate wish I could but I’d rather shit in my hands and clap actually.
So, that was them out. Only courteous to ask. Not like Sol has a problem going to the show by himself, anyway. Sol’s just a people person to the core of him. He gets his recommended daily dose of alone time between his shower, toilet, and bed. Well, he’s not alone in bed if it can be helped. Or in the shower, come to think. All that aside, he’s of the mind that anything done by yourself can be majorly improved if done with others. Sol’s never really on his own at work, so he can’t imagine not having someone sitting next to him in the rig or gabbing with him at the station. Drinking’s a better example. Yeah, Sol didn’t need any help getting off his face, but that starts to look like a problem fucking sharpish unless you’ve got some company. Even the most boring or annoying tasks are made better by having a friend to carry on with while you do them. And it’s not like it needs to be said, but a quick toss from your own hand is nothing to a bit of outside help, if you’re catching the drift.
Even if he can’t rope anyone into going with, Sol still isn’t going to be alone. That’s kind of the entire reason behind seeing any live band, finding your piece of community. The venue’s small, a shabby little basement only accessible through a side door down an alleyway. There’ll be a hundred or more fuckers packed in there like tinned sardines. He won’t be able to breathe without inhaling someone else’s sweat and beer breath. The damp crush of the crowd might not be Sol’s most favourite part of these shows— he goes for the music, not to get in a ruck like some— but it’s all part of the experience.
Jumping back into his list of conversations, there was another message notification waiting on him. Sol had seen him lurking in the groupchat, reading everything but never speaking up, as per. Funny habit of his.
I’m free Friday. Meet at the venue?
If that’s cool.
If you’re still going.
All good if not.
It ain’t just Tommy’s habits that are funny. He can be bold as an ox, or flightier than a sparrow. He’s awful sheepish most of the time, like he’s anticipating Sol and them to tell him that his induction into their little group has been one big giggle at his expense. Probably doesn’t help that when he does open his mouth, he’s often met with gasps and celebratory thumps on the back— we forgot you could even speak, lad! Not to say his presence is overlooked. He’s a shy sort, but that makes it all the better when he does get brave every now and then. They all still talk about that one night at karaoke when Tommy, soused to his eyeballs, seized the mic and showed ‘em all exactly what he’s about. The embarrassment might have just about killed Tommy the next day, but what doesn’t bring a blush to that face?
Unlike the others, he isn’t a colleague of Sol’s. He used to be a barista, actually, stuck doing overnights at this 24-hour cafe that was within spitting distance of the station. Lonely gig. Bloody torture, in Sol’s opinion. Tommy looked like a fucking zombie back then, idling behind the counter of an empty shop. His heavy brow shadowed his pale eyes and, if he was really checked out, you could even catch him with his jaw hanging slack. Talk about the living dead. You’d think you stumbled on ground zero of the apocalypse up until Tommy startled back to life at the sight of Sol or one of his crowd coming through the door. He’d become a fixture in their chaotic routines without meaning to, always there to provide a drinkable cup of coffee and a bite of something more substantial than a packet of crisps. There’s also a sort of automatic fraternity established between those who work while most are asleep. Tommy wasn’t hard to lure from his shell after that. He could hold his own when it came to their bantering and easily endeared himself to Sol and his mates. When Tommy let slip that he was quitting the cafe, Sol’s the one who pushed for his details and the rest is history.
Tommy’s got a different sort of charm about him. By all appearances, he’s rangy, glum, and more than a touch awkward. When you put in the work to get him talking, he brightens right up. He’s properly sharp, capable of picking up and memorizing any little details. He’s wicked for it. Plus, he’s loyal, selfless— traits Sol admires and tries to cultivate in himself. And he admires Sol, too. It’s easy to see and does no harm to Sol’s ego.
Point is, Tommy’s good. He ain’t no consolation prize when Sol’s other mates aren’t available. It’s probably best to have him tagging along, since he actually likes the sort of music they’re going to see. He was one of those emo kids back in school, this having been revealed by some forgotten mirror selfies buried in the annals of a long-inactive Facebook page. Sol still wishes James hadn’t shown this find to Tommy. He hadn’t gotten to save the heavily filtered, odd-angled pictures before Tommy hurried to delete them. The only evidence remaining of that time in Tommy’s life now is a tiny spot where his lip had once been pierced and a music library trapped in a 20-year-old time loop.
Sol shot him a message back: sweet as, see you then.
So, it’s Friday and Sol’s loitering out on the pub-lined street, cigarette in hand. He watches as groups of much younger showgoers filter into the bar. He sees their dyed hair and shredded stockings and stompy platforms. Compares them to himself, his basic tee and work boots. Definitely not his scene. Not that he’s too concerned about scenes at his big age. He’s got cash for the cover, two functioning ears— sorry, Tommy— and that’s more than enough to earn him a place here.
He hears Tommy’s trainers slapping the sidewalk before he knows it’s him. He’d texted Sol to apologize for his bus running late like they don’t have half an hour still to go until things kick off. But Tommy’s considerate in that way. He goes for punctuality because he gives half a fuck about your time. And there he is now, doing a gawky little jog toward Sol.
This won’t be the first time Sol and Tommy have gone out, just the two of them, but it’s not their typical way. They’re regularly the last men left standing; when everyone else is down for the count and Tommy’s still matching Sol blow for blow, as if he’s not clearly close behind the rest. Sol should probably tell him that he’s got no one to impress, pushing himself like that, but he does like it when Tommy gets to unwind. It almost makes him lighter, lets him shed the weight of his worries. It takes him out of his head so that he can enjoy the moment and oftentimes, this ends with him knocked out cold and some part of Sol serving as his pillow until the cab arrives.
Tommy’s not physical like Sol is. Doesn’t matter that Sol yanks him in for a hug just about every time they see each other, he still feels Tommy go rigid in his arms. When he’s tipsy, though, he’s like a cat, bumping Sol with his head in place of words and plainly pleased when he gets a scratch through his curls for it. Meanwhile, Sol’ll get cuddly with anyone who’s willing, drunk or dry. Better for it to be a friend, like Tommy.
“Hey! Y’alright?” Sol calls to him, just as Tommy comes to a stop in front of him.
“Yeah, yeah, you?” He’s out of breath and trying to hide it. It’s not a secret that Tommy’s no olympian. His shirt’s got the sleeves cut out of it, so his ribs and skinny arms are on full display. At least he won’t have any trouble fitting in here with the DIY butcher job he’s got done to his clothes.
“Yeah, can’t complain.” Sol feels like acting a bit of a prick, so he pokes at Tommy’s exposed side, makes him buckle over. “Showing a lot of surface area, eh? Who’s that for?” Tommy swats him away, laughing.
“Fuck off.”
“S’pose every band needs a groupie,” Sol offers him a puff and Tommy accepts, plucking the half-smoked fag from Sol’s fingers.
“Yeah, I’m gunning for an interview. Brought my resume and everything.”
“That’s how you gotta go about it. Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.”
“S’at why you’re dressed like one of Jeremy Kyle’s security?”
Sol claps him on the shoulder for that one, something between a joking reprimand and earnest praise. He always wants to encourage Tommy’s rare temerity. They chat until Sol’s cig is finished between them and then they head for the door. There’s a big ol’ geezer in charge of letting folk in. He’s holding a roll of tickets, one of which Sol trades a tenner for. Tommy gets a little panicky when it’s his turn, digging through his pockets, checking inside his phone case.
“What is it?” Sol asks.
“Sorry, think I left my money at home.”
Nevertheless, the door man waves him inside with a “g’wed”. Tommy seems to remember then that the cover is, in fact, optional. With a mousy nod, he follows Sol in. There’s a tight stairwell that leads to a cramped bar area with a few tables strewn about before it opens to the dance floor. Brick walls, no windows, barely any signage. Fuck me, this is a tragedy just begging to happen. Most of these older spots are. He can imagine being on site when something inevitably catches fire down here— bar way over capacity, people rushing for the one exit in sight, tripping over chairs and each other in the dark, clogging up the only way out long enough for the smoke to start picking them off. It’s not a pleasant idea, but it’s often where his brain goes. Chalk it up as another hazard of the job. Besides, if it was all it took to scare him clear of any building that wasn’t up to the proper codes, he’d be barred from half the places in the city. He makes a note to keep his wits about him, for his and Tommy’s sake.
Tommy hangs back while Sol ducks toward the bar. He gets his quote-unquote ‘free’ beer and, on a whim, buys a cider for Tommy. Sol knows what he likes. He’ll drink what he’s given without complaint, but he’s got the palate of a teenage girl. Tommy likes sweet. Doesn’t make him ill like it does Sol.
“Ey, two for the price of one,” Sol quips when he returns with a can in either hand. He can admit he spotted Tommy a drink, in part, for his reaction. He’s always so stunned in the face of any small gesture. It could be giving him a lift home or loaning him your jacket when he’s forgotten his and he’ll act like you’ve put him in your will. He’s a grown man, Tommy, and he looks it. Even with his pretty-boy face, he’s nearly half a head over Sol with a permanent shadow of stubble on his chin. You’d think it’d look daft then, when he goes all soft and mawkish, only it doesn’t. Only word for it is cute.
“Didn’t have to do that.” There it is, those big eyes. Sol chuckles fondly.
“Alright, not like I bought you a house, is it? Take it. Know you’ll want your hands free to mosh or whatever you do.” Tommy gives in quick after this, taking the proffered can and swigging from it.
“Don’t wanna be the dick in the crowd splashing his drink over everyone.”
Where Sol is more the arms-folded, head-bobbing sort when it comes to concert behaviour— fists in the air, maybe, if he really gets going— Tommy, oddly enough, loves the pushing and thrashing of the pit. He says he gets wrapped up in the energy, becomes one with this living ocean. Makes sense, in a way. It’s another way for him to take a break from being timid, nervy Tommy, to leave his doubts at the door.
“Yeah, so get that down in you,” Sol knocks him with his shoulder once, then twice. “Y’know, if all you wanted was someone to shove you about, I could do that for you, easy.” A third time and Tommy’s driving him back, but Sol’s right up in his space again. “See? Premium shoving, free of charge.”
“Sol— stop, you’ll spill it,” Tommy tries to keep his drink upright, but there’s a bubbly dribble running over his knuckles already. That’s Sol’s money going to waste there, but he finds it hard to stop messing with Tommy like this. It’s different with him than with their other mates. They’re a rowdy lot, Sol being the worst of them when he starts up, but the others’ll put up a fight with him right away. All friendly, of course. It’s easier to know when the fun’s over with them, too, because you’re either gasping for air or someone’s bleeding. Tommy doesn’t resist much when Sol gets unruly with him, if he resists at all. Despite the height he has on Sol, he’s not got his bulk. He goes where Sol throws him and stays where Sol pins him. It should be less tempting than it is— what’s a bit of horseplay if it’s one-sided— but he can hardly hold out against the chance to roust Tommy about. Still, it’s left up to Sol to rein it in, so he lays off to allow them both to polish off their drinks before they proceed over to the tiny stage.
They place themselves strategically in the amassing crowd. Tommy’s jammed in just in front of Sol, right on the cusp of where the pit usually gets going. Sol plans to stay out of the fray, but close enough so that he’ll be able to catch a glimpse of Tommy here and there. Their timing’s ace— they’re not situated long before multicoloured lights flick on and the first band’s taking the stage. They’re schoolboys, spotty faces and all, only missing the uniform. Sol’d be more surprised if they were even legal to get into a place like this. They get a lukewarm cheer as a greeting and get to playing without much preamble. Right thing.
Their music’s rough around the edges and it’s mostly covers, but they play with more confidence than Sol would have expected out of them. They do motivate a few folk to get moving, but they don’t quite have the speed to get people properly riled. It’s simple, sweet, and over in under an hour. There’s a short gap between them and the next band, which Sol uses as an opportunity to grab another beer. By the time he’s back to the floor, the crowd’s filled out a bit better and there’s a couple meters between him and Tommy. He can see the top of his head, though, and that’s enough for Sol’s peace of mind. Tommy can take care of himself just fine, besides. It’s not his first rodeo.
The second band is more so what the attendees are looking for. They’re called something weird, something in another language. The singer’s local accent surely bastardizes the pronunciation to the point where Sol can’t make out what’s being said. No one seems to have any questions about it, anyway, not once the guitarist starts shredding. They’re not even a minute into the first song and there’s a fast-expanding pit forming up ahead. It sends shockwaves through the crowd, hurling bodies into each other and sending boots skidding. Sol’s planted firm where he is, a sturdy support beam in the wall separating the moshers from the rest. He’s got his beer protected against his chest like an injured duckling— nothing’s gonna hurt you, my love, not on my watch— and he’s fine. Better than fine. The punch of the kickdrum rattles his bones and the band’s fire is infectious. It’s how he likes his music, full to the brim with vibrant life. His free hand is over his head in no time, howling his praise between numbers.
He’s almost inclined to throw himself into the pit with Tommy, as if that wouldn’t get old right the fuck away. He gets clips of him sometimes. Tommy’s not an easy thing to miss. Built like a birch tree, he is. When Sol does see him, he’s fucking shit up and grinning like a jackal all the while. That’s good. Tommy deserves this. It warms Sol up inside, if he’s to be honest about it.
The stage really keeps a hold on Sol’s focus. The band plays like they’ve got a whole stadium chanting their name. Real showmen— showpeople? The singer’s a beast, bouncing back and forth on the little riser she shares with her three bandmates. She screams through song after song with no sign of slowing down. Sol’s certainly impressed. Their set winds down— “three more, ‘kay?” the singer calls. “Then it’s time for the main event!”— it’s almost too bad, but they give this finale their all. Their last surge of energy invigorates the crowd even more somehow. The pushing gets rougher and the pit churns faster, but Sol’s paying little mind to it—
Until, out of nowhere, someone lands on top of him. It almost barrels him over, but Sol keeps them both from getting trampled to death underfoot. His beer takes the greatest hit. In the scuffle, the can is knocked from his hand, but not before spilling its contents all over Sol’s shirt. He was having a great time two seconds ago. Now, he’s fucking raging, quick as that. It’s made all the worse by the fact that the person responsible doesn’t have the decency to ricochet off him and back into the stir, either. They’ve themself draped limp over his shoulder, showing no signs of moving on anytime soon. Physical as he is, a sweaty body plastered to his uninvited is not something Sol’s really a fan of at his best. He’s about to give them a helpful-slash-irate prodding when he sees the tangle of curls in his peripheral.
“Tommy?” he barks over the music. Sure is. Tommy lifts his head and, with some assistance, pries himself off Sol. It’s just enough for the strobe lights to reveal his face in streaks and just in time for a river of blood to start rushing from his nose. Sol freezes up. Jesus Christ, okay, look alive. Tommy’s dazed, slower to react, so Sol grabs him by the wrist and all but slaps him in the face with his own hand. Thankfully, Tommy gets the memo and tries to catch as much of the blood as he can. What the fuck happened to him? Whatever, Sol can ask him that later. Next step is to get out of this crowd.
“Stay close to me, right?” he shouts in Tommy’s good ear, takes his free hand without waiting for an answer, and makes to drag him out of there. Sol’s bowling into people and he couldn’t give a shit. The faster they’re out of the scrum, the sooner he can tally up the damage. The music that he was just nodding along to becomes an unbearable, aggravating racket in the blink of an eye. It’s almost impossible for him to piece even a single thought together. They’re just breaking free when Sol sees the sign for the toilets. He checks back on Tommy to find there’s blood seeping through the cracks between his fingers and dripping on the floor. Absolutely fucking wonderful. He trudges to the men’s toilet, flings the door open, and hauls Tommy, tripping over his feet, to the sinks.
“Christ, what’ve you got done to yourself?” Sol demands. He’s worried and pissed and not sure who he should be pissed at. Tommy hunches over one of the basins, bleeding freely down the drain, and he burbles something Sol can’t quite pick up over the muffled roar of the show outside. “What’s that?”
“Mb’fine, Sol.”
What a fine time for Tommy to get heroic. At least Sol knows who he’s pissed at now. He huffs and yanks a bit of paper towel from the dispenser to wet it in the other sink.
“Here, wipe yourself off,” he slaps the brown-grey clump into Tommy’s stained hand. It’s disintegrating from the moment Tommy starts scrubbing at the creases of his palm. “Did you smack into someone?”
Tommy shakes his head.
“Somb twat,” the blood on his lips warps his words and spatters on the steel basin. “Swingin’ his armbs, bunchin’ beople… f’no fuckin’ reason.”
“Right. Ain’t that what you were up to? Bit of a ‘fork found in kitchen’ situation?”
“Nuh-uh, got my armbs li’ this.” Tommy tucks his arms in closer to his chest. “Broper way, like. ‘E wad bein’ a fuckhead on burpose.”
“There’s etiquette rules in the pit, eh?” Sol knows there is. He’s just acting obtuse. He knows there’s some kind of name on it, too, when folk start whirling around like a fucking helicopter purely to cause as much harm as possible to those around them. If he had to put a name to it, he’d call it complete and utter cunt behaviour. He rips off more paper towel. It’s about as soft and absorbent as gift wrapping, but it’ll have to do. “Pack these up there.”
Tommy abides, scrunching the rough tissue until it can fit up his nostrils. Once it’s lodged in far enough, Sol beckons him again.
“C’mere, now.” Tommy straightens up and turns around, leaning back against the countertop so he and Sol are level with each other. He looks like absolute hell. The fluorescents do him no favours, carving out his shapes, washing out his colours. His chin is still coated— he’s even got it on his neck— and the paper towel tash growing out of his nose is doing a predictably godawful job of damming the flow. His eyes are watery, but he’s not crying. Sol’s been cuffed across the face enough times to know that’s just what happens. Doesn’t make the sight of Tommy all tearful any better. Fucking hell. He reaches to pinch the bridge of Tommy’s nose. “That hurt?”
Tommy’s gasps, his face screwing up. There’s his answer.
“Ow— yeah.”
“Not broken, though. Pretty sure.” It’s difficult to see if anything else is wrong with all the blood, so Sol wets another bit of toweling. He steps closer, Tommy’s knees bracketing him, gets Tommy’s jaw between his thumb and forefinger to hold him still, and sets to cleaning him up.
“We can go back ou’, then?” Tommy asks between brisk swipes over his mouth. “When this stops.” This buys him an incredulous stare.
“Uh, no the fuck we can’t. Night’s over for you, sweetheart.” Tommy tenses under Sol’s touch, so he lifts off for a moment. “Oof, got your lip, too, did he?”
“I-I dunno. M’nose isn’t broken, though, righ’? I’m good,” Tommy tries to dry his tears, fluttering those long black eyelashes, spiked-up wet. Several of their mates’ girlfriends have expressed jealousy that a man should have lashes like that when he has no use for them. Well, Tommy’d have plenty of use for them, if he were the type. Could get anything he wanted if he bat them at the right person, Sol reckons. “Don’ wanna miss the last band, yeah? You paid for it.”
“It’s ten quid, Tommy,” Sol mops at his cheek. “I’ve already got my money’s worth, far as I’m concerned.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“It’s slowin’ down already."
“Ask me again and I’ll break it for real,” Sol deadpans, and that shuts Tommy up for a bit. It lets Sol swab up the majority of the drying blood on his face. For all his protesting, Tommy behaves himself. He allows Sol to turn his head as needed, doesn’t squirm much, doesn’t whinge. Almost like he likes being fussed over, in spite of his busted-up face. Guess that’s good for the both of them, then.
“Y’didn’ see ‘im?” Tommy waits until Sol’s moved to his neck before he speaks again. Sol feels the buzz of it through the skin.
“Who, the arsehole who nailed you? No. He’d be left a lot worse off than you are now if I had.” Sol’s only posturing, but it gets him a little smile from Tommy. “What was it, ‘lookin’ like Mel Gibson’s Jesus’? That’d be him.”
Tommy laughs— that was Sol’s goal, after all— flashing the rusty tint over his teeth, the red pooling in the dips between.
“‘E was g’nna hit you,” he starts to lift his chin up, baring more of his throat to Sol.
“Keep your head down, ya div. You’ll choke,” Sol scolds him. He’d heard what Tommy said, but he wasn’t really listening. He’s more focused on getting a good evaluation of the state Tommy’s in. “Lemme see you.”
Sol’s tidied him up as well as he could with what he’s got. He steers Tommy by the jaw, tilting to one side, then the other. Everything’s where it should be, no odd bony bumps anywhere. He’s not bruised yet, but he’s flushed. His whole face is, blooming red and rosy. Sol must’ve rubbed him raw with that toweling, even though he’d been trying to be gentle.
“Wouldn’t’ve been able to brace y’rself. Least I could,” Tommy mutters, like he’s confessing to something. That Sol hears loud and clear, and if Tommy’s inferring what Sol thinks he is, he better fucking not be. He squares up tall, drops his hands, and puts on his I-know-we’re-all-mates-but-I’m-still-your-crew-commander-so-start-acting-right-before-someone-gets-killed voice.
“Tommy, you best not be saying you took that hit for me.”
But Tommy’s not one of his crew, so the voice doesn’t fully work on him, aside from getting him to meekly lower his gaze.
“Would’ve hit you a lot harder. More time to wind up, righ’? I jus’, y’know,” Tommy does a half-arsed little pantomime of how he dove in front of that fucker’s fist, “got in between ‘fore he could.”
Sol never asked that of him. Never asked anything of him. Tommy’s grown. He can make his own choices. Hell, he’d all but signed up to be battered about tonight, so why does Sol feel like it’s his fault? He brought Tommy along for a night out and he’ll be sending him home with a bloody nose that had Sol’s name written all over it. He’s still sober, so that’s no excuse. Why didn’t he see it coming? Why couldn’t Tommy have been watching the show instead of watching him?
He wants to yell. He wants to give Tommy another clout, just in case the first one didn’t do the job. He wants to give him a shake to find out if he’s even got a brain rattling around in there. Deep breath, in and out.
“You’re a fuckin’ idiot, y’know that?” he grumbles instead. Like he’d ever be able to hurt Tommy. “What’d you go and do something like that for?”
“Didn’ really think abou’ it.”
Heaving a big sigh, Sol plucks one tissue from Tommy’s nose. There’s bloody mucous left around his nostril, but the active bleeding’s stopped. He removes the other one and bins them both. Tommy sniffles, audibly dislodging a clot somewhere in his sinuses. It’s not a pretty picture. Enough to curl Sol’s lip, but miles away from the most disgusting thing he’s seen or done himself.
“Clearly. Learned our lesson, though, haven’t we?” He dampens another piece of toweling to get the last bit of blood.
“S’not that bad.” Tommy’s acting nonchalant to the point of comedy. Sol snorts, no small part in exasperation. This time, he allows Tommy to tip his head back for his own ease of access. It’s only now that Sol thinks Tommy could be doing this himself. Nothing wrong with his hands, is there? He doesn’t need Sol mothering him. Whether or not he tolerates it isn’t the question, because he’s more than tolerant. He’s downright pliant, going wherever Sol moves him and staying wherever Sol holds him. And it’s not about Sol’s convenience, either, because he’d do this forever if he had to. It’s the way he is. Tommy just brings that out in him.
“Oh, yeah? A real hardman, are you?”
Tommy shrugs while Sol sizes him up one more time. He’ll still need a proper wash, but he won’t look like a murder victim until he gets one.
“Could probably take a hundred more of ‘em for you,” he says then, simple as anything, “and I don’t think I’d mind.”
It should read like a joke. It’s got the set-up, the punchline, the right amount of absurdity. Tommy weathering a cartoonishly over-the-top pummeling with no problem, so long as Sol’s the one he’s taking it for. It’s absolutely mad. It should be funny. Sol should laugh and that should make Tommy beam with pride. There’s something about it that is, however, distinctly not funny. Maybe it’s the utterly plain delivery. Maybe it’s the words themselves, what they mean. Maybe it’s how tight they’re standing, with Sol’s hips pressing Tommy’s thighs apart. Whatever it is, Sol can feel the weight of it— the truth of it— thickening the atmosphere.
Honestly, he should have figured it out ages ago. Embarrassing, that, especially with how familiar the shine in Tommy’s eye is. He’s seen it a thousand times— over a cafe till or across a bartop, peering over the edge of a pint glass, often paired with a shy grin or a bitten lip. Of course, it’s never occurred to him until now that he hasn’t ever seen Tommy look at anyone else like that. It’s intense. Needful, like. Pleading, almost. Not like Sol’s got anything good to give him, but it’s not that kind of wanting. He’s always thought of it as admiration and it is, sort of. At a glance, that’s what it looks like. He’s starting to think that a glance must be all he’s ever spared Tommy, because the only other explanation for how he missed this is that he’s legally fucking blind.
You know when you’re watching a movie with a twist at the end and they play a little montage of all the moments you’ve seen before that should’ve spelled the whole thing out for you? Sol’s never been good at picking up on those hints, so he’s pretty well always floored when the big reveal hits. He feels a bit now how he does then. Fuck, they’ve been mates for years. That’s the problem; day one, Tommy got sorted into the little bin in Sol’s brain labeled my mates and that was that. In any other context, a sweet thing like Tommy could have had Sol wrapped around his finger. Moments he’s never given a second thought to pop back up in a highlight reel of missed connections. It’s things like how Tommy’s always there, always in arms reach. How he always has time for Sol. How Tommy’s never really cared when other people talk him up or tease him or touch him. It’s only Sol. It’s only ever been Sol.
He could be getting ahead of himself, but he isn’t. He knows he’s right on the money because of the way Tommy reacts when his own words finally catch up with him. He can’t hide it. Smacks him properly shocked, the realization that he’s shown a bit too much of his hand. He doesn’t budge. He can’t; Sol’s got him boxed in and he’s too busy manually cranking the gears in his head until they hopefully churn out something useful. If that’s what they’re waiting on, they’re going to be here a while.
It doesn’t help that all Sol can think about is blood. The sink basin is still full of it. It soaks the pile of crumpled toweling in the bin. It’s splattered all down the front of Tommy’s shirt, crusting the fabric as it dries. He thinks about where it came from. The cunt who did this is probably out there having himself a lovely night. Sol hopes he’s already gotten what was coming to him, that someone else has taken it upon themselves to give him what he deserves. Still, who the fuck sees a fist cut through the air and their first instinct is to put their head in front of it? Apparently, it’s Tommy’s.
Well, an important part of that equation might be how Sol was originally on the receiving end of that punch. That makes the whole thing even fucking crazier. Whatever Tommy’s being nursing for him, it’s never been acknowledged, not once. Never even been noticed ‘til today. He can throw Tommy a scrap of attention here and there and somehow, that’s enough. It’s enough for him to get his face smashed in with his only consolation being that it’s his blood on the floor, on his clothes, in the sink, and not Sol’s. That’s all he needs.
It fucks with how Sol feels, too, even if it really shouldn’t. He’s still not thrilled about how their night’s played out so far, but something about this idea he’s dreamed up sends him running a little hot. Someone— or, it’s not just someone. If anyone else did this, he’d likely lecture them until they wished they’d minded their own in the first place and let him get the shit-knocking he’d been promised. It’s Tommy acting stupid and reckless with no expectation of thanks or anything, doing it all for the possibility of getting Sol’s hands on him, if only for however long it takes to clean up the gore.
“You…” Sol speaks before he knows what he’s going to say. He debates asking for some clarification. It’ll give Tommy an out if he needs one. What? Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that. You thought I was gone on you or something? In the end, there’s only one thing he can say, only one word for it: “you are fucking mental.”
Okay, not his best work. Tommy’s brow knits. He’s confused and he ought to be. The signals Sol’s putting out are mixed to hell at best. Seems like all he has are contradictions. He’s absolutely certain that Tommy’s a fucking headcase, yeah, but he’d sooner eat his boots than give up the way he’s got Tommy wedged in the tight space between his own body and the sinks.
“I’m— what?”
“I mean, you are certifiably, sectionably mental. Like, straight-jacket, padded-room mental.”
Clearly having no idea how to respond to that extremely delicately-made point, Tommy just gawps at him. Sol wouldn’t be surprised if he was reconsidering some life choices right now. He probably should be. Sol’s surely reconsidering some of his own.
“Are you… are you mad at me?” Tommy asks in a breath.
Sol shifts forward, propping himself up on his knuckles. Tommy blinks back, pink-cheeked and dumbstruck. Yeah, this Sol could get used to.
“Livid.”
They’re close enough— Jesus, they’re close— for Sol to peep the red speck trapped in the dimple of Tommy’s lip ring scar. In fairness, this isn’t the first time he’s caught himself staring at Tommy’s mouth, either. Tommy’s not hard to look at, never has been. Maybe that’s why he didn’t take note of Tommy’s staring before. Too busy looking elsewhere. A mop of dark ringlets hanging over brilliant eyes, full lips parting to a slight underbite, knobby shoulders, strong hands, narrow hips. Just because Sol never considered Tommy was an option before doesn’t mean he couldn’t consider it now.
He wonders if he were to kiss Tommy, right here, if he’d be able to feel out that little scar, if he’d taste the iron in his spit. It’d be nothing to find out. Funny, how one slip of the tongue could get him thinking about… well, the slip of Tommy’s tongue.
The door slams open with a bang and Sol and Tommy both jump clear out of their fucking skins. They’re only spared a second injury by Sol’s reflexes, as he’s able to juke back before Tommy can scramble his arse up off the counter. Although, strange as it sounds, it might’ve been kind of nice to share a pair of matching bruises tomorrow. The lad who inadvertently interrupted whatever was just about to happen doesn’t so much as squint their way before he marches over to the urinal. Jolted back to the real world, Sol realizes that the music’s stopped. The next band should be on in a few, but he really, really doesn’t care. He just wants to ignore anyone else who walks in and get back to it with Tommy. He can’t, though. Tommy at the very least deserves something better than a round of sucking face in a dingy club toilet soundtracked by piss hitting porcelain.
“Shit,” Sol scratches at his scalp. Another group comes falling in through the door. That’s their cue, then. “I s’pose we’ll get out of here?”
“Yeah, if you want, uh— yeah,” says Tommy. He doesn’t quite have his bearings about him yet. Sol always liked the sight of him ruffled, wrong-footed. Perhaps that’s something else he should have examined a little more closely before right this second.
Sol gets a hold of Tommy, squeezing him to his side, and tugs him along. It’s a close fit getting out the doorway and weaving toward the exit, but Sol doesn’t think much of letting Tommy go. Doesn’t seem right to leave him trailing behind anymore. It’s a test, too, so Sol can feel out how well Tommy slots against him. For Sol, it’s working just fine and, judging by how loose Tommy’s gone with one big mitt spread over his waist, he’s got no complaints either. Where exactly they’re heading off to after this, they’ve likely not one clue about it between them. Sol could walk Tommy to the bus stop and they could split just as they met up earlier— friends, no more and no less. At the same time, he could just as easily wait with Tommy and accompany him back to his place, but Tommy’s got flatmates, one of whom gets stroppy about nighttime visitors. Sol’s place is further out. They’d have to cab it, like Sol thought he’d be doing alone, but they’d not be bothered, no matter how late they stayed up. There’s probably going to be a long chat waiting for them when they get in, or maybe they could do away with talking, just for now.
Whichever way they go, there are definitely worse ways to spend a Friday night.