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There's no better proof of resolve than putting yourself through the wringer 24/7, Tiso thought, as he dragged himself through the front door.
His sneakers were promptly shoved off his feet then kicked under the shoe rack. He'll organize them later, maybe. He'll do everything. Later. Anything, as long as it was later. He slumped onto the wooden bench next to the door, which creaked so loudly he thought it would give out and his ass would meet the floor.
The effects of his horrific workout schedule started to show and his whole body felt like death. Like every single last drop of blood had been drained; seeped through his pores and left to pool on the gym floor. He couldn't feel his arms and he couldn't feel his legs, every breath stuffed needles down his windpipe and his head pulsed, making him groggy and nauseous and beyond fucking pumped.
It was the only way to live. It was something that he cherished, deep down, the struggle. The hustle. The game. The masculine urge. Whatever you want to name it. This incredible thing called pushing yourself to your limit's limit, like you're about to go die in Rome's great Colosseum tommorow, all because you want to prove you're alive in a cruel, cold, vain, uncaring world.
Routine, drive, discipline – anything and everything to keep his blood pumping and fill the ever-lasting hunger of his soul, which day by day metabolized his efforts faster than he could feed it.
And deeper down he thought – no, knew – that he was a fucking idiot. He wanted to drag his sorry ass to his room and sink into his bed and let the sheets swallow him for a week, or better yet, he wanted to storm out the front door and throw himself off the nearest bridge and let the water swallow him forever. He didn't want to prove anything, not to anyone, not to himself – never to himself. He knew. Whatever it was he needed to know, he knew.
Training didnt make him feel alive, it just made him miserable. And tommorow he'd do it again, because it was all he did.
He gathered himself off the bench and stumbled forward. The door leading towards the rest of the apartment was closed, a subtle, familiar fragrance spilling out from underneath it. He placed his hand on the handle. Gripped it tight. Only a few minutes later did he finally get the surge of courage needed to open it.
"Good evening, Tiso."
The moment he stepped out of the hall and onto the soft, colorful rug that marked the beginning of the living room, he felt like he had stepped directly into an interrogation booth, bright cold light shining right into his eyes as he was being beaten within an inch of his life for information he didn't possess, or worse, didn't have the guts to spill.
Except it was nothing like that. The only light in the room came from the sky, already soft and drowsy, its light being filtered through the translucent, pearly white curtains that hung drawn in front of the windows, drowning the room in delicate hues of orange and pink.
And Quirrel's voice was all but harsh. Perhaps there was a questioning lilt to it, but it was something so difficult to detect that Tiso wondered if it was actually there and he didn't just imagine it.
Tiso could see him moving about behind the peninsula counter of the kitchenette, with his back turned towards him and hands busy with freshly washed kitchenware. His long, dark hair was tied in a ponytail, loosened and disheveled after what were probably hours of the hairtie fighting against his curls. He was wearing that loose, white shirt with the weed leaf print he bought as a joke in highschool, and from this angle, Tiso could count the freckles on that spot where nape met shoulder. He wanted to scream.
Look at me, he thought. Look at me like look at you, for once.
He didn't move for a good while, just watched as Quirrel walked around the kitchen. It was like his legs had given out all over again, except instead of plummeting towards the floor he just stood frozen like he had grown roots.
"..hey," he greeted, after what felt like a whole eternity and some more. No more than one minute passed, probably, which was still a stupidly long time to answer to a good evening.
Quirrel jolted and glanced towards him for a second when he realized he was still there, acknowledging his existence once more before turning back to whatever it was he was doing, drying cups or something. Clearly, he hadn't expected a response, not even a grunt or an intake of breath. It shouldn't have been a big deal, it really shouldn't have, but it stung in a way he did not appreciate. It made something tighten in his chest, a feeling he hated to name but had made good acquaintances with a long time ago bubbling up to the surface. Guilt.
He was just that kind of man. The expectations he had to rise to were so low the bar was practically on the floor. And no matter how much guilt chewed his innards into paste, he never found it in himself to try and change that. He couldn't even say 'good evening' back.
Perhaps if he'd been more like her...
He pulverized the thought just as the silence was interrupted by the hum of the boiler cup turning on. Who cares? Quirrel hadn't turned when addressing him. They were even.
The man in questioned opened a cabinet and grabbed a hold of two mugs, before pausing with his arms midair.
"Tea?" Quirrel hummed, finally turning to look at him properly. Tiso watched his eyebrows knit together in concern as he took in the sight of his roommate who may have crawled his way through hell for all he knew.
'Yeah." Tiso nodded, suddenly extremely aware of how sweaty he was and how mussed-up his clothes were.
He sat down on the couch, short dirty nails digging into the edge of his tank top, pulling, inconspicuously trying to smoothen the damp fabric, watching the evening light dance around the messy, curly strands of Quirrel's hair as he placed the two mugs on the counter.
The scene was so domestic it made his stomach flip. His heart sunk right to his balls. It was obscene, it was disgusting. It was disgusting how much he wanted to stand up and sneak up behind him, slide his hands under his shirt and all over his soft tummy while kissing every single freckle on his neck. And then Quirrel would yelp and giggle and tell him to stop, to get off of him and go take a shower, then he'd turn and wrap his arms around his waist and nuzzle his face into the top of his head.
The real Quirrel, not the version he'd conjured up in his mind (now burnt into his retinas), sat down next to him at a
respectful, reasonable distance, holding out a very hot mug for him to grab.
It was one of those vibrant ceramic ones, blue with orange and white patterning: Quirrel's tastes, clearly. If it weren't for him, Tiso would probably be drinking from and washing disposable plastic cups. In fact, basically everything in the apartment was his idea. Because it was his.
Tiso wasn't a complete freeloader. The monthly agreement existed, and though he always tried his best to pay it on time, he'd already lost track of how many times Quirrel had to step in and take care of it himself, selflessly covering the cost of their shared apartment's rent and bills. He was more than eager to help and extremely sensible about the whole 'sharing a house' thing, but when it came down to household expenses he lacked part of his usual composure and confidence, walking on eggshells around the topic of Tiso's income. It was that bad.
He wasn't used to being a charity case yet, and he probably never will. Growing up between orphanages and foster homes meant that he's had to rely a fair amount on the kindness of strangers and the universe, but the lack thereof made him wildly independent by the time he entered middle school. His early days taught him that no matter how much he screamed, cried and begged nobody would come save him and he'd spent a big portion of his life envious of anybody who proved this idea he'd internalized wrong.
One such person was his best friend, with her reliance on her mother and monumental fucking inheritance. She was the weakest girl he'd ever know, yet she held an awful amount of power over him. Little Tiso would've traded a leg and an arm to be able to live her life and was convinced he'd do a much better job at being her than she ever could. Another one was Quirrel himself.
Quirrel was kind. An angel of a man. Tiso had known that since the day he shook his hand for the first time in ninth grade, when they sat down next to eachother. It was warm and slightly damp with sweat – of course a proper, studious gentleman like him would be excited on his first day of highschool. He smiled at him, all bright white teeth and dimples, the kind of smile you'd reserve for someone you knew, trusted and liked. And for a moment it made him feel special.
It was this kindness that led Tiso back to him, years after highschool had ended. Quirrel simply saw an old friend struggling and took him in. No questions asked for months on end, and still many left to ask after years spent together.
It was kindness wasted, through and through.
He took the mug from him and the warmth bit his palm. Watching the way his eyes subtly trailed back towards the kitchenette, he could tell he was nothing but a hindrance in Quirrel's already busy schedule. He wondered about what he had to do throughout the whole day while Tiso was occupied with fucking around in the gym, and the things he still had to do and dropped just to make tea and sit down with him.
"Rough day?" Quirrel asked, smiling towards him. It was a smile carefully chosen to comfort him, which should've pissed Tiso off to no end. But it didn't. It did it's job, subtle and efficient like the man who wore it.
Tiso nodded. A lie. It hadn't been a rough day by any standards, but there was a sinister, selfish part of him that wanted Quirrel to acknowledge it as such. He wanted for him to feel bad. He wanted to see his smile drop, eyebrows raise. He wanted to hear him sigh in sympathy. He wanted for him to close the gap and envelop him in those strong, soft arms he'd dreamed of for months on end. He wanted so much. It hurt so bad.
"Tell me about it. I've been practically confined in my room between books and screens," Quirrel sighed loudly, trying to lighten the mood. He blew into his mug for a few seconds and took a small sip. Tiso's eyes paid much attention to the way his lips hugged the rim.
He wanted to grab him and shake him and tell him how he felt. He quicky took a sip of his own tea, the liquid burning the fuck out of his tongue and throat.
The cosmic joke was that Tiso actually did want to prove something to someone. To only one person in the whole world. And that someone would never care about what he had to prove.
The thought felt like a slap, the kind that twists your neck and leaves a white-hot imprint of pain and shame. The kind that is only served after a fundamental fuck-up of sorts. It felt like this every single time he reminded himself of that fact, and it never got better, it wouldn't stop burning for weeks.
It's not that Quirrel didn't care about him, he simply didn't care for his antics or self-destructive behaviour. Whenever Tiso wanted to drown in his misery, whenever he came home exhausted and beat-up, he'd always offer a shoulder to lean on, but he wouldn't try to force him out of his shell. He was too damn respectful and sensible for that. He was also too damn respectful and sensible to get him to stop. To simply put it, Tiso was an adult and his own person now, and Quirrel wasn't there to fix him. He was there to meet him halfway, but for that, Tiso would have to be the one to make the first step.
At the moment, all Quirrel had to show to him was this strange, melancholic pity. He could see it in the way his dark eyes softened when looking at him, like he just suddenly saw a mangy stray. But from Quirrel? Pity was ice on his bruises. A soothing balm on his cuts. A syringe digging into his thigh, held gently and steady for him, his own hands too shaky and sweaty. Tea on a beautiful weekend evening.
Quirrel was the sun. An endless dispense of heat that people naturally gravitated around.
For about a year after they met, Tiso wanted nothing to do with him. He was too nice. He was too good. There had to be a catch. If there wasn't, then Quirrel was just a dumbass. A moron or a cretin, as she called him. But months passed, and there's no matchmaker more ruthless than time passing in teenagehood, two souls given time to mingle and intertwine without a care or responsibility in the world.
He'd basked in the sun's heat. He'd been there, done that, drank him in and ate him up like a man starved; and Quirrel hadn't lost his beauty, inner nor outer. But perhaps something had changed under the surface, rotten from all the times it'd been chewed up and spat back out. Tiso overstayed his welcome, and was gently and carefully guided out.
He wanted more time under the sun, more smiles, more hands intertwined, more kisses and touches and bodies flush under thick blankets. He wished Quirrel wouldn't have been such a prude and just fucked him back then. Just once. It's not that they didn't have sex, it was something that happened occasionally, having started a while after Tiso moved in, but he just wished it would've happened when Quirrel... actually fancied him. As much as a dumb teenager could fancy an even dumber one.
He looked down at his tea. He had no clue what flavor it was.
Quirrel was the sun, and Tiso... was nothing.
There were times in which he was certain he was dead. Not in the physical sense, but mentally. He's lived for less than 25 years and there was that. You might as well bury him. There was nothing left. His soul was as empty as his brain and body.
On the opposite side of the spectrum, Quirrel could live one thousand years and not stagnate for even a second. When Tiso fell, he was busy rising, higher and higher and higher until he was just a speck in the sky, far and out of reach. It was a beautiful thing to witness and an even more beautiful thing to be part of.
The happiest day of Tiso's life was probably when they both got wine drunk after Quirrel passed the hardest exam in the history of his university with flying colors. Tiso had no idea why he was the one he came to to celebrate. He could've spent that evening dining at one of those fancy restaurants he's always liked, with his proud parents and his real friends, who were blowing up his phone while Quirrel was giggling and taking full swings from a bottle probably worth more than Tiso's whole life on his lap. He was so pretty, with his long hair falling on Tiso's shoulders like a cascade and that youthful glint in his eyes that made him forget they were both supposed to be responsible adults now. The moment was too beautiful to question back then, so he mulled it over now, staring down into his mug like he was one second away from throwing it across the room.
He had no idea how Quirrel really felt about him. In a purely carnal way, he knew he found him attractive, and as embarassing as it was to admit, it was the main reason why Tiso even gave a damn about how he looked. Emotionally, however...
They were just friends. And equals, pretty much. On even ground. So then why did it feel like Quirrel was ten stories in the air while Tiso was knees deep in tar?
He looked up to see Quirrel staring at him expectantly. The glasses he wore made him look a lot older than he actually was, which was only a year more than him.
Quirrel had a life. A good life, and when Tiso would eventually move out or kick the bucket somehow, he'd continue having a good life. He was working towards a good degree, had a good apartment, good parents, good friends.
And Tiso had him.
"Would you like to talk about it?" Quirrel finally asked.
"No," he responded, not feeling like getting caught in his lie. "I'd rather we don't.. discuss it."
The other man nodded. Tiso could tell by the slight furrow of his brow and the way his eyes were looking down, through him, that he was thinking deeply about something. What it was, he had no clue.
It was an unnatural sight, the frown on his face. He didn't like it. But he knew better than to expect Quirrel to confide in him right now. Under the impression Tiso had a bad day, he'd bottle it up, lest he become a burden on his roommate's tired, bruised shoulders.
He was rational enough to not want to be the object of Quirrel's worries at the moment, so he stayed put and kept his mouth shut, but there was still a loud, traitorous part of his brain that craved to ruin the man's evening, night and following morning. Show him how important he should be to him.
Tiso swallowed, throat dry. The tea in his hands suddenly looked gross.
Was he a fool?
"Quirrel, I need to-"
"I don't think I'm cut out for medschool."
Tiso froze, eyes glued to the mug. Had he been wrong about Quirrel? About what he felt for him? Their distance?
"I don't think this is what I want anymore."
Had he been blind?
"I don't know what to do."
Had they been blind?
"I'm.. scared."
There was something about the way Quirrel spoke with that slight tremor in his voice, words coming out fast like this was his only chance at getting his point across... something that he should've noticed if he truly loved him.
Tiso put his mug down, carefully making sure he didnt accidentally place it on top of one of the hundred dollar, hundred page medical textbooks that littered it. He didn't trust himself to look back up at him now, not when he felt Quirrel's eyes on him, drilling two holes through the soft part of his skull.
"...I'm sorry to hear that," he formally stated, after a while, and internally cursed himself for not being able to come up with something more appropriate to say. Something more personal.
In the end, he was that kind of man. He kept himself locked away from the world, waiting for time to pass and take him with. He was a horse with blinders – all he saw was ahead. Of course he'd miss the suffering of the man who'd been sitting by his side for the longest time. Of course he wouldn't even be able to come up with something comforting to say.
He swallowed. Turned. Quirrel was faster.
Quirrel enveloped him whole, arms sliding under his and pulling his body close. Tiso instinctively tucked his face in its usual spot, on top of the sternocleidomastoid, while the other man let his chin rest superficially against his curls. His body was warm and alive and real, and his to touch and hold and cradle.
Tiso collapsed backwards, and Quirrel was dragged along.
Tiso parted his lips and let his tongue flick over the pale skin below, and Quirrel sighed and pushed his face away.
The two separated as quickly as they had mingled. Quirrel grabbed his mug again and cradled it in his palms, looking down at the tea like he wanted to drown himself in it.
"..thank you," was all he said.
Tiso wanted to disappear when Quirrel retreated to his room a few minutes later, without saying goodnight. Wanted the ground to open up and pull him into some cold, humid cavern, where he could forget about the fire flowing through his body.