Work Text:
Rhys shifts Jonathan more securely around his shoulders, hauling the practically unconscious man closer. At this point, he’s practically a rag-doll limping the other into the apartment, Joe’s feet barely cooperating with the concept of walking. Dragging him up the stairs hadn’t been fun, Rhys shoulder still hum an ache, but there hadn’t been a choice.
Letting Malcom, or anyone else in that matter, escort the American home would have been a disaster given that they were all smashed out of their minds. Rhys was the only sober one left standing.
Thankfully, Kate, despite being too many drinks in, rattled off the address before disappearing.
At the door, Rhys shifts Jonathan's weight to dig through his pockets one-handed. Old receipt, loose coins, nothing useful until his fingers close around cold metal. He draws out the key and clicks the door open, nudging it wider with his foot.
He guides Jonathan inside as he’s greeted with the smell of coffee and old paper, not surprising seeing the amount of paper he needed to grade and the walls of books lining every wall. Rhys kicks the door shut behind them and pauses to take his breath. Jonathan slumps heavier against him– head dipping forward, hair falling into his eyes, and knees finally buckling.
“Nearly there,” Rhys mutters, though he’s not sure Jonathan hears him.
Rhys steers towards the couch and delicately drapes Jonathan across. He straightens, nudging Jonathan's legs up on top while not so gently tugging off Jonathan's dirty Oxford shoes. Jonathan groans softly, turning his face into the cushion.
“Cooperate with me old boy,” Rhys murmurs, not unkindly.
He grabs a blanket from the back of a chair and sets it on top.
He turns to leave, thinking about how next time somebody else carries him up the bloody stairs, then sees an odd pile of books in the corner of his eyes.
They’re tossed near the foot of a shelf, only maybe three or four at most. It wouldn’t be strange on its own but everything else in the apartment is immaculate. Too tidy.
Rhys hesitates.
He shouldn’t be snooping. He knows that. But it’s hard not to notice when everything else is completely controlled. This’ll just take a second and then he’ll leave, he tells– reasons with himself.
He crosses over, quietly padding the floor so as to not wake up Jonathan.
Rhys quietly stands over the pile, finding nothing further strange about it. He sees another book, still left on the shelf but at an awkward angle. Probably what dislodged the rest, he thinks.
Just as he's about to turn his heel, he pauses at the sight of paper buried beneath the pile.
“Okay,” he mumbles under his breath to himself, already annoyed at himself as his curiosity gets the better of him.
Already internally yelling at himself for getting into someone’s privacy, he reaches down and gently tugs it free–
What the fuck?
It’s a letter.
Not the kind you would receive from an electric company or a loved one, but one addressed to Rhys himself.
His fingers tighten.
It’s from his campaign manager. He recognises the handwriting instantly.
He remembers following up about this weeks ago, assuming it had gotten lost in the mess of the mail system. He’d been annoyed then promptly forgot about it.
Panic only further settles as he realizes the implication that Jonathan knows where his goddamn home is and must have taken it straight from his door step.
Rhys’ stomach tightens into knots. Who did you invite, Malcom?
He stands slowly, holding the letter in between two fingers, examining it more closely. His pulse drums in his ears, heart rattling against his ribs like a captured animal. As his sight lifts, they snag on something else.
A box.
It’s tucked away, presumably where the line of books would have covered it. Small enough to miss, plain enough to be bland, but an obvious secret nonetheless.
Rhys glances over his shoulder. Jonathan is still scrawled on the couch, face still buried into the pillow, seemingly peacefully sleeping like he isn’t completely mental and Rhy’s world hadn’t fallen off the hinges.
The neatness around the two feel more like a perfect and curated ruse, cover, shell to hide to mask the mad man underneath.
Rhys turns back, and tries his best as he slides out the box and sets it on the desk beside him. He hesitates, worrying what horrors could he find inside, before sliding off the lid.
Inside is a mess of familiar objects.
Cut out pictures and articles of him from newspapers. Multiple receipts from Tandoori Tradition. A disgusting gym towel that's been seemingly fermenting in his sweat.
Jesus Christ.
He needs to get the fuck out of here.
The sudden sound of footsteps behind him tells him that he won't.