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This is a story about a house.
It lives at the end of a dirt road. Near the intersection of Here and Nowhere. Left to rot on its own; to mingle and mend with the wilderness around it. The house is empty— dusty and neglected. It has been left standing alone for a long time, and expects to remain that way.
The house doesn't mind that fact, because it's all the house has ever known since the prior occupants had left half a dozen summers prior. Or perhaps even longer— the house thinks it has been there for a long time.
Too long.
And it does remain that way; alone and weathering the elements, day after day. Until a young man barges in one Sunday morning, hooting and hollering. Dust is sent scattering, and the aging crows that had broken into the dining room flutter off in a hurry. The man is unbothered by the dirt and the noise; simply removes his hat, shakes it free of the falling dust, and adorns it once more. He's followed by another man. Taller, yet somehow quieter in spirit.
"Isn't it perfect, Freppa?"
"It's... got personality, Tommy."
"Just like me!"
They stay, cleaning, until the sun begins to set, and the tall man— Freppa— leaves the loud man to do as he wishes in the falling dark. And what he wishes to do is collapse onto the old moth eaten couch, staring up at old wooden boards.
"Just like me," The loud man— Tommy— echoes his earlier sentiment. But no longer loud. There is something forlorn in his eyes now, as he speaks to the house alone. The house doesn't remember the humans from years ago speaking to it, but perhaps it has something to do with the drinks Tommy has gone through. Three bottles litter its floor already. "Too much like me."
The house can't answer or ask, for it's just a house. But if it could, it would argue that they are very different. For the house can offer him no comfort, but the man had comforted the house— cleaning dust and bugs from rotting, forgotten wood.
Perhaps the man feels forgotten too. The house may not know much, but a man forgotten wouldn't have a tall friend spending daylight in rooms of splinters. Not as far as the house has seen.
But, it can't tell Tommy this at all. And yet, the house's boards creak like it may— like it wants— and the man smiles like the house has said it all the same. "Hope that means you approve of my occupancy."
The house decides, then, it could get used to this man.
It beats loneliness and spiders.
The house witnesses many things with Tommy. It learns to feel loved.
Its walls are still splintered and dim with age, and the old crows still try and make their own home in the rafters. But the space is filled with belongings that bring life. Numerous instruments, a lamp that may be made of old car parts— even a large flag that takes up one of the walls in the room designated as the living room.
It's far from perfect, but the house becomes a little more lively. Even with the hassle that is getting electricity sorted out; but Tommy looks proud once everything is sorted and the electrician is on his way down the drive. The house is happy for him.
Freppa comes and goes often, a frequent guest most days, but Tommy's other friend tends to stay a lot. Tommy calls him Määnin, but the house finds that it's more than a nickname. It's a declaration; a proclamation.
The house wonders if Tommy sees the truth for what it is. Or if he's running from his own honesty, dodging fleeting glances and fingertips brushing across a shared bottle.
The house knows, though, that Määnin sees the truth for its vulnerability. That under armor built on emotions running hot and volatile, from one end of the spectrum to the other, and hidden in storms shaded by sunglasses— he sees the importance of the moments shared.
Määnin can turn a cold shoulder, but Jean Filip is not so blind.
The house sees it too.
And it's really an easy thing to see, when you are a silent spectre in the room. Nonchalance doesn't hide the light flush that runs across Määnin's cheeks with no alcohol to blame. Yet, if Tommy himself notices at all, it too goes unspoken and unnamed. To acknowledge the elephant in the room, would be to risk everything.
The house just wishes he would be brave, and reach for what he wants. But the house cannot give him the courage he needs, because the house is just a house. It just always wishes it were more, since meeting Tommy.
But when the two will inevitably find sleep, the house will be carefully still. A quiet ghost of protection over the two men curled up in a single bed it had watched Tommy assemble alone. It knows where there are specks of blood beneath a screw in the frame, when Tommy had lost a fight with the tools.
This act of vigilance leaves the house a witness to those mornings draped in golden sunrise. When Määnin wakes long before Tommy. Fingers tracing cheekbones with a tenderness reserved for art, and a softness almost contrary to the walking performance Määnin gives by nature of living.
There is no tough man act necessary in the mornings he lies awake alone. A skin shed as easily as the denim jacket left hung on the couch, a room over. It is only those moments where Määnin is long gone; and only the truth of Jean remains.
The faded wallpaper are the only eyes to the look of unfiltered adoration, before he will inevitably leave. For the man with stormy eyes is certain not to be there when Tommy wakes. And the same wallpaper is the only thing to hold the burden of sadness in Tommy's eyes, when he wakes alone once more. A fleeting moment, in the privacy of his room, before he'll face the day one more. Nothing keeps Tommy Tall down.
Not even this.
But the house is extra quiet on those days. The ones that become a pattern, where tenderness fades into longing, and sadness fades into acceptance. And the house is left mourning for something that still lives; something that they are intentionally ignorant to, and nurturing all the same.
A fire they won't let die, but a spark they won't feed.
And in the days after those mornings, the house is always alive with the sound of music and life. A stark dichotomy between lives.
Band practice is a very noisy activity, but it's welcomed. The house much prefers the thrum of life to the solitude it once knew. Tommy always seems in his element, sprawled in the living space with Freppa and Määnin on those days. Lyrics half formed and chords half written humming in the still-dusty air.
There is give and take, between the mornings never spoken of, and the loud days of normalcy. But the house is content.
It thinks, though, Tommy is not, one Thursday evening. That, too, easily seen in his eyes, when Freppa heads down the drive with Määnin— an extended offer to take the bassist home. Accepted, easier than it should be, when pressured by the unspoken things between them that Freppa remains oblivious too. The house sees the way Tommy's fingers press into the doorframe, staring at tire tracks in the dirt long after they've left.
And the house pretends not to shudder, when he slams the door with a brutal swing that rattles the foundation they both stand on.
The house is content, but Tommy is not.
And the house finds that matters more.
It comes to a head late on Saturday, as it was always destined to.
The house is cold, despite the July warmth as the sun sets. Two bodies are sprawled on the couch; the same one Tommy had found solace on his first night there. Old and rusted and questionably stained. Their knees don't quite touch, but they could. A hairs breadth apart, a draft of air could push them. The breeze doesn't come, and the only sound that resonates is the click of a bottle as Tommy drops it to the floor.
"...I can't keep doing this."
"Hm?" Määnin hums an inquisitive sound, turning his head enough to peer at Tommy. Picture perfect confusion. A facade. "Drinking? You're such a—"
"No, Mään! This!" Tommy gestures suddenly, hand waving like it's been set ablaze, "Pretending this isn't... we're not..."
He trails off, but he's said enough. Määnin doesn't look away, and neither does Tommy. There's a fierce fire in his eyes: a resolve to see this through. Regardless of what may come. It's hardly comparable to how Määnin tenses, like he may run away.
The house wonders if he will, and hopes quietly he won't.
"Ever since I moved here, you've been... been so fuckin' weird! Like you can't decide if you hate me now, or..."
"I don't hate you," The words are rushed; breathless, "It's... no, I don't—"
"Then what the fuck—"
"I've been here before!"
A long pause shuts them both up. An exhale from Määnin that the house thinks is a prayer of sorts. And the house wonders, not for the first time, if it could answer should it try hard enough.
Somewhere else in the surrounding woods, a bird chirps softly. Rustling leaves before it flies off again. It's the only sound for a single second that lasts a lifetime.
"...Shit, Toms. Forget it, I—"
"Talk to me." It's a plea, almost the same level of worship as Määnin's very name when it drips from his mouth. It's almost unfair. He's always been helpless in the light of Tommy's praise. In the center of his eyes and attention. It's no different here, caught like a dear in headlights and the center of a rifle's scope.
The walls can hear his heartbeat race. Synchonized with the world outside, that never stops for anyone. Not even him. Not them.
"...22, came out here with some guy from a house party."
"—Around Christmas?"
"...Yeah. Might've been."
"You disappeared that night," Tommy huffs, leaning back into the couch. Recognition in his eyes would show he recalls that night like the back of his hand and the chords of their songs. One knee propped up; a model of neutrality, facing whatever this unnamed thing is. The windows still see how his hand tremors. Määnin doesn't. "Didn't see you for three days. Freppa thought you died in a ditch."
"Should have. It'd have been a easier outcome." Määnin murmurs, dragging a hand through his hair roughly. Tommy tracks the movement with his eyes, and the house sees a more targeted twitch in his fingers. The ghost of an urge to run his own fingers through instead. "Didn't die, though, just kept wishing I did. Came out here with some guy— don't even remember his fucking name. It... hell. We— we made out like we were 14 and figuring out how kissing worked."
Tommy's breath hitches, in time with the stutter of an unbreakable man. Almost unnoticeable— but Määnin hears it all the same. How could he not? He waits for the inevitable; accusations or bitter words. Jaw tense and teeth grit, ready to lie in a bed of his own making as the only relationship he truly cared about falls apart.
But the words don't come, the house knows they won't. Määnin is just two steps behind in understanding. There's nothing but searching in Tommy's gaze, eyes flitting between Määnin's own. Memorizing; studying. "Did you.. do more than that?"
"No." Määnin averts his eyes finally, and the house watches stars between them align like a constellation there all along. "It wasn't like that. Not— not with him. Wasn't…. who I want."
Tommy's eyes widen a fraction with the quiet confession, and the truth he's been running from slams into his existence like a ton of bricks. If walls could speak, they would breathe. Exasperated. Finally.
"…I knew it."
Määnin jolts as if electrocuted. Perhaps he has been, with how face his pulse still races in the heavy silence between them. "Wha— mmph?!"
But it ultimately doesn't matter, because Tommy doesn't wait for an answer. Not when he knows what it will be. He launches across the shitty couch, the space minuscule now at best. It's a tangle of limbs and edges as he lands on his bassist, his knee almost definitely crushing Määnin's and bruising skin. Tangible proof he has been there, if nothing else, as he smashes their lips together. It's a graceless endeavor, and skin is broken beneath his eager teeth. A tang of iron spotting his own tongue. But Määnin kisses back like a man starved. Unbothered. Like he has waited forever; and the house knows he has.
His sunglasses are knocked askew, clattering across the floor; finally forgotten and ignored. The last barrier of defense. Because when Tommy sits back, and Määnin is stripped of defense, it's just them. Stormy eyes staring back into bright blue. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Testing.
"I was never asleep," Tommy offers in a whisper between them. A secret. An offer. "...You could have stayed."
He doesn't say Määnin should have— Tommy Tall worships the ground Määnin walks too much to put that pressure of regret.
It doesn't matter, because he's given a half smile in reply. Something genuine. A calloused hand between them reaches up, and traces a jaw it has already mapped a thousand times. "I will now."
The house knows he means it. Can see the honesty in his words, and this time, Tommy does too. There's nothing more to say in the moment, when words are messy and fleeting— the words will be there when the morning comes, and Määnin stays. For now, the silence between them becomes a promise of it's own, and the walls they lie protected by will become their home.
Because this was never really about a house at all.
But if the walls could speak; what a beautiful story they would tell.