Chapter Text
Eoin is half way through an episode of Bake Off that he's seen half a dozen times before, when a text message comes through.
He glances down idly, expecting nothing in particular, and freezes.
After four years of total silence, Paddy Mayne has sent him a seven second video of a twelve-inch Christmas tree dancing in a shop window and a message that says, Is this cursed do we think?
Breath so shallow that it barely counts as breathing at all, Eoin writes back, I think you'll need an old priest and a young priest.
Aye, as I thought, Paddy sends back almost immediately.
There's nothing else. Eoin clutches his phone, Bake Off forgotten, and stares at the message screen, waiting.
When still nothing comes, he realises it's up to him.
Where did you see that, then? he asks.
It's where are you? and it's not subtle. It's no real surprise that Paddy doesn't answer.
***
Eoin doesn't tell Ambrose that Paddy has reached out. It'll only get his hopes up and he'll only be hurt when nothing comes of it. Eoin knows this, because it's how he's feeling now.
Two days later, he walks past a WH Smiths on the High Street and spies a row of those same dancing Christmas trees, all lined up in the windows. They aren't dancing now, but there's a sticker on each of them that says, press me.
The idea that Paddy must have pressed one to make it dance is inconceivable, but neither had he turned it off. He'd stood there and filmed it then sent that to Eoin. That has to mean something.
Eoin snaps a photo of the little Christmas tree army.
They're multiplying, he sends to Paddy, along with the photo.
There's no response by the time he heads into his lecture, but half way through, his screen lights up with a reply.
Saints preserve us, says Paddy, like he's Eoin's grandmother. Like he believes in any Saints at all.
***
Buouyed by his success, Eoin sends Paddy a photo of a cute dog that he spots on his walk home.
Paddy responds with, It's cold out. That wain should have a jacket.
It isn't particularly cold where Eoin is, even up here in Edinburgh, but maybe it is wherever Paddy is. He doesn't ask, not wanting Paddy to go silent again.
The next day, Paddy sends him a photo of one of those bomb sniffer dogs they have at airports and concerts.
A dog with a job! Eoin replies, delighted.
Aye, even he is subjected to capitalism, is Paddy's reply.
***
They fall into a pattern. Eoin will send Paddy pictures of things he thinks he'll like. Paddy will send him back entirely random things like half drunk coffee in a paper cup or a fallen leaf.
Try as he might, Eoin can't piece together any clues about Paddy's life or his whereabouts from the photos, but God does he try.
He doesn't realise that his trying has him as distracted as it does until he finds himself standing in front of the sink, water pouring from the tap into the kettle and overflowing down the sides, and his flatmate waving a hand in front of his eyes.
"Shit, sorry, I'm here," Eoin says, turning off the tap and emptying half the water back out of the kettle. "Really. I am. Sorry."
"You all right?" Dave asks him.
He takes the kettle out of Eoin's hand and sets it on the stand to boil.
"Yes, fine. Sorry." Eoin scratches the back of his neck. "Just thinking."
Dave looks at him for a long moment but doesn't ask.
Dave is a great roommate. They're not on the same course and they don't have many of the same friends; they don't have much in common at all, except that Dave is from Liverpool and spent a lot of his holidays in Belfast as a kid. But they met in Freshers' week and they clicked and that's all Eoin has ever asked for in his friends.
"Sit down and I'll make you a cuppa," is all Dave eventually says.
Eoin does as he's instructed.
He snaps a picture of the packet of biscuits that Dave delivers along with the tea and sends it to Paddy.
Digestives. Nice. Good for dunking, Paddy says. So Eoin takes his advice and dunks one.
***
Ambrose calls him the next day. Eoin's not surprised and he can't be mad about it; Dave has free rein to call him, if he's worried, which is probably a good thing. Eoin himself would rather be dead in a ditch than worry his family.
They don't talk about either of their healths, of course, and Eoin still hasn't told Ambrose about Paddy. So they talk about their various courses, their siblings and niblings, going home for Christmas, next month. All the usual things.
"You're taking your meds?" Ambrose asks, after Eoin has said goodbye but before either of them has ended the call.
"I am," says Eoin. "You're doing your physio?"
"I am," says Ambrose.
There's a pause, a space that either of them could fill by asking a real question about how the other really is. Neither of them asks.
***
"Dave's worried about you," says Bill, over drinks at the student union, because Bill thinks that dancing around things is bullshit.
"I know, he's already set Ambrose on me." Eoin sips his vodka tonic. "I'm fine. I mean, I'm distracted, but I'm fine."
"You're taking things easy?"
Eoin rolls his eyes. "As I easy as I need to, aye. I'm fine. I promise, this isn't like last year."
Bill gives him a tight nod. "Good, because I'm still paying the therapy bills from that."
Eoin thinks he's joking. Thinks. Doesn't ask.
The music is loud, louder than it would normally be this early in the evening. Eoin is determined not to let that ruin his night, no matter how much the bass tries to take up residence behind his eyeballs.
"Well, hello, look who it is," says an incredibly English voice behind Eoin, before John Tonkin drops his lanky, hipster self into the spare seat at their table. "How are you chaps?"
"We chaps are spiffing," Eoin says, which makes Tonkin laugh and give his arm a shove. "Any idea what's going on in here? Looks like they're getting read for a rave."
"The gal on the door says it's drag queen brunch," Tonkin says, getting foam all over his moustache, when he takes a long slip of his beer.
"It's nine at night," says Bill.
Tonkin shrugs one shoulder. "Freshers don't get up for brunch, so they adapted, I suppose."
"It's sounds so fun," sighs Eoin, who already knows he's not going to be able to stay for it, not if he wants to be any use tomorrow.
"I texted Johnny while I was queuing at the bar to tell him about," Tonkin tells them. "He says he's on his way, so he'll probably get here at some point before it's over."
Over in the corner, a sound check starts up, interference crackling through the mic in a way that goes straight up Eoin's spine.
"All right?" Bill asks, when Eoin flinches.
"I'm fine," Eoin says and pushes his glass away. "Probably shouldn't be drinking."
"Want me to get you some water?" Tonkin offers.
Eoin doesn't know Tonkin all that well, but he's the only friend Bill has brought into their group, so he must be worth it. "Thank you," Eoin says, rather than giving in to his instinct not to bother anyone.
While Tonkin is battling his way back to the bar, Eoin gets up from the table with a, "Going to the loo. Back in a sec."
He knows that Bill watches him walk away, but he doesn't follow him, so Eoin will take that as a win.
He pisses, washes his hands, holds cold fingers to his eyes. Out here in the light and the quiet, the pounding in his head is fading, but when he thinks about going back inside, he finds he really can't face it.
Fumbling out his phone, he texts Bill to say he's going home and slips out the back way, onto the little side road behind the student union building.
He's not even reached his street, which is less than five minutes away, before he hears, "Hey, wait up!" from behind and Bill joins him.
"When I said I was going home, it wasn't an invitation," Eoin says, trying to sound teasing rather than annoyed.
He's not sure he hits the mark, but Bill still says, "You should be so lucky," and falls into step beside him.
***
As much as Eoin wants to shut the door in Bill's face when they reach Eoin and Dave's flat, Eoin just isn't made that way.
He's almost - almost - relieved about that, when he realises Dave isn’t home yet.
Bill doesn't say anything, just watches as Eoin putters around, fetching himself water from the kitchen, brushing his teeth in the bathroom, swallowing a couple of painkillers just in case.
By the time he's changing into his pyjamas, he's so tired that his hands are shaking and his knees feel like water, but he powers through anyway, crawling into bed and laying his hot face on the cool pillow.
He's been there a long few moments, before he realises he hasn't shut the curtains. Before he can do something about it - cry, possibly - he hears the swish and click of them being pulled closed.
He blinks one eye open, barely seeing Bill through the dark.
"And that's why you're pleased I'm here, and why I'll be staying tonight," Bill tells him, before going off to brush his own teeth.
By the time he comes back, Eoin is really starting to feel the effects of the painkillers. Which means that as soon as Bill gets into the bed, Eoin curls in against his side, pressing his forehead to Bill's shoulder.
"Hello," says Bill.
"Drugged," says Eoin.
"So I see." Bill pats his hair in a way that might be affectionate, might be sarcastic, and knowing Bill is probably both. "Are you going to tell me what's got you so stressed out, then?"
"Oh no, it's mean to ask that, when I'm high."
"Why do you think I waited until now?" Bill pulls him in closer, letting Eoin drape himself across him, which is just cheating. He knows Eoin is weak when offered affection.
"There's a lad, I used to be… friends with," Eoin says, hoping the pause can be blamed on the painkillers thickening his tongue. "Haven't spoken to him for years, but we've been back in contact the last few days."
"Is that good?" Bill asks.
"Of course it's good," says Eoin, as if it isn't actually very, very complicated. "It's nice to be in touch with your friends, Bill."
Bill hums. "Ah. Right. I forgot it must be different when you like people."
"You like people," Eoin reminds him, hiding a smile in Bill's shoulder. At Bill's unconvinced noise, he smiles wider. "You like me."
"Nah," says Bill, "I just tolerate you because you're nice to look at. So, if being in touch with this lad is good, why's it got all you stressed?"
"I'm not stressed," lies Eoin. "Well, I am, obviously, but aren't all third years? No, it's nice to hear from him. It's really nice. He's just… He mattered a lot to me, so I'm trying not to sound too eager to talk to him and that's stressful."
"Trying to curb your instincts to be the friendliest man in Scotland," Bill says, mock-seriously. "I can see why that would give you a migraine."
"Fuck off," Eoin grouses. "I'm going to sleep now and just for that, I'm going to drool all over your t-shirt."
"I'm used to it," Bill says, and pulls the duvet up over them both.
***
When Eoin wakes up in the morning, Bill is gone. Eoin has a very blurry memory of being poked awake around seven and told Bill was off to his eight a.m. lecture, but that honestly might have been a dream.
He gets out of bed, waits for any lurking headache to set in, and breathes a sigh of relief when it doesn't. Grabbing his towel off the top of the door, he heads for the bathroom.
"Morning," he calls to Dave, who's making toast in the kitchen.
"Morning," Dave calls back. "Bill stay over?"
"Mmhmm. Apparently his own place was too far." Eoin leans on the doorframe and rubs his eyes. He knows he slept well, but he's still so tired.
"He knows he can stay for breakfast, right?" Dave asks. "He doesn't have to sneak out every time he stays over."
"Pretty sure he had some horribly early lecture." Eoin's eyes are burning.
"You all right there, lad?" Dave asks, frowning at him.
"Of course. Shower time!" That will fix him. He'll be ready to face the day after a shower, he just knows it.
***
He's not ready to face the day after his shower, but he is at least ready to face breakfast and the essay he's been putting off. He pops Mary Berry on the TV and his laptop on his lap and forces himself to bash out two-thousand words, even though Equity and Trust law is potentially the worst thing ever invented.
Equity and trusts is the worst thing ever invented, he sends to Paddy, along with the emoji of the little yellow guy with the exploding brain.
Five hundred essay words later, he gets: No argument. What's your favourite module, then?
Eoin stares. That's a conversation! That's an actual conversation starter.
Law of medicine, he sends.
Then, after thinking about, sends a second: Or employment law, maybe.
I'm an employment lawyer, Paddy replies. With one of the unions.
"Fuck," says Eoin, out loud. He has to slap both hands over his mouth so he doesn't do something incredibly undignified like scream in victory. This is a conversation!
That's so cool! I can absolutely see you doing that. Where? I know you're not in Belfast.
He waits, but the reply doesn't come as quickly this time. In fact, the reply doesn't look like it's going to come at all.
Fuck. He pushed. He said he wasn't going to, and then he did. Despondently, he taps out another paragraph of his essay then nearly throws the whole laptop onto the floor when his phone suddenly rings.
Paddy's name dances across the screen, together with the row of hearts that Eoin added to his contact when he was seventeen.
Eoin stares.
Then he panics that Paddy might ring off, and answers the phone so quickly that he sounds out of breath, when he says, "Hello?"
There's silence. Could Paddy have pocket dialled him?
"Paddy?"
"Hi, lad," says Paddy softly. "It's been a long time."