Work Text:
Fit loves idioms and fancy turns of phrase, so moments when ‘the words fail him’ are uncommon. Up until now, that is.
Back in his days on 2B2T, there were quiet nights when he could sit by the fireplace and scribble down some of his thoughts about what had been happening in that crazy world, and he usually did so in a very descriptive and detailed manner. He would not call himself a writer, but he did believe that he could be good with words; he had to be, for his deep velvety voice to pay off. You can have a good voice, but if you say stupid things, it does not always work out – Fit believed.
So now, when he sees Pac, actually sees his late Pac near the red-and-white lighthouse, alive and lively and running around, he cannot think of anything except that he has finally ‘taken leave of his senses’. Or that it is all 'a sight for' his 'sore eyes'. Fit can feel his heart skipping and dropping into his stomach, aching, clenching, doing anything but what it is supposed to do, and the strange ringing in his ears grows stronger with each step he takes. Pac turns around and waves at him from afar.
Fit tries his best to rationalise it, to make it make sense, to connect the dots inside his head, but he fails miserably when the Brazilian starts running in his direction, his wide smile visible from a mile away. The older man freezes, unable to walk any further, his hands beginning to tremble and tears gathering treacherously in the corners of his eyes. He is a strong, stoic man, and he never cries. Almost never. The last time he cried was over Pac’s grave, when he was about to leave the island forever.
And Pac approaches him so easily, so freely, as if nothing had happened, as if it were just another day of them seeing each other, as if he were not buried next to his best friend and their son months ago. Fit blinks once, twice, three times, and Pac claps him firmly on the shoulder before beginning to tell him something about Portusil, while Fit thinks that he is probably still in that desert, actively hallucinating from prolonged thirst and starvation.
Pac has a few new scars on his face that Fit cannot recognise, but his expression is as fresh as ever, and he is still wearing the blue hoodie with the yellow character on it that Fit knows too damn well. His hair is a bit longer now, but only a bit, and he looks as though he has caught a little tan too. The last time Fit saw Pac, the younger man had been very pale, with big dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and constant worry, and he had been losing a lot of weight too. Fit notices how Pac’s cheeks are healthy pink again and thinks he might collapse to the ground right then and there.
“Fitch, tudo bem?” Pac squeezes Fit’s forearm gently and meets Fit’s gaze, slight worry beginning to show on his face. And that is exactly when Fit loses it. In a split second, Fit yanks Pac towards him and crushes him against his chest, wrapping him in a bear hug. His arms close tightly around Pac as he buries his face in his shoulder, and Fit finally allows a chuckle mixed with a sob to escape, trying to ignore how the tears are now streaming down his cheeks so shamelessly. All the monsters inside him had gone strangely quiet, sleepy and still, no longer hungry for chaos and revenge.
Pac, obviously shocked, caresses Fit’s back gently and whispers something in Portuguese that Fit cannot quite understand, but he is one hundred per cent sure that the words are sweet and laced with genuine worry. Does Pac know that he had died? Does he remember it? If Pac is here, does that mean Miky and the others are here too? Fit does not want to acknowledge the way his shoulders are rising and falling as he sobs into Pac’s hoodie, nor the way Pac is starting to leave gentle smooches all over his face to calm him down.
“Vai ficar tudo bem,” Pac whispers to him as he kisses Fit’s forehead. “Vai ficar tudo bem.” And Fit could swear on his life that the memories crashing through him almost kill him, from their first sleepover to their first date to their first kiss, and the way his legs are starting to give way beneath him, turning into useless noodles. Pac is so handsome, so warm, his touches so careful and gentle, that Fit’s chest hurts. The months they had spent together flash before his eyes, every one of their hugs, every parting, but most of all Fit is thinking about that one dreadful day. The day when he had seen Pac for the last time.
After the day Pac died, Fit had spent months and months wandering around alone, steeped in the pain he had spent all that time trying to force deep down inside himself, because if he had not, he would have struggled to keep going. The younger man keeps mumbling something and nuzzles gently against Fit’s head, all this affection melting the older man’s heart and making him feel sick to his stomach from how weak he had become in the space of a moment. All it had taken was for Pac to come back.
Fit had said many times that pain toughens people up, and, “Whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,” but now he was leaning into every one of Pac’s touches, about to start purring if only he knew how to do that. And Pac just keeps going, his hand moving over Fit’s back and arms, then back to his back again, while Fit still sobs into his shoulder soundlessly, visibly, unable to do anything about his shaking shoulders. Pac’s hoodie has a wet patch now, and Fit makes a note in his head to apologise for it later, but Pac does not seem to care, being more worried about his American boyfriend than about his clothes.
Minutes pass before Fit finally allows himself to lean away from Pac just a little, and, looking at his boyfriend’s face, he smiles. He prepares to clear his throat and finally say something, when he realises that Pac’s expression has become even more concerned than before. Pac slowly brings his hand up and cups Fit’s cheek before brushing over it quickly with his thumb. The Brazilian man frowns and then says something Fit definitely does not want to hear.
“Fitch, how did you grow out your beard so fast?”