Work Text:
"I think I'm going to need another box—" Lewis was saying as he entered the bedroom.
Hathaway wordlessly held up a bunch of shirts on hangers. Tropical shirts. "You have ten of these."
"Didn't feel like laundering much back then," said Lewis, taking the shirts from him. "Swore never to wear a tie again." He met Hathaway's eyes. "Val was shopping for a tie that day."
He sighed and began laying the shirts out on the bed. What to keep? He needed some reminder of that time, some visual remnant of how low he could sink if he wasn't careful.
"Some of these are beautiful," Hathaway said, gently. He picked up a shirt with huge dark red flowers, spiky petals piercing a black background. Ribbons of white wove through the design like tears. "What are these?"
"Bromeliads," Lewis remembered. The shirt looked like an open wound—it was the first one he bought when he got to his post at the Virgin Islands. "That's a keeper."
Hathaway set it aside and picked up one with station wagons and surfboards. "Tell me this can go."
"That's a classic. But yeah, it can go." Lewis held up a shirt with medium blue, navy, and white showy flowers—a typical tropical shirt. He moved to place it in the box.
"No, keep that. It brings out your eyes."
"You notice my eyes?" Lewis gave Hathaway a quizzical look.
Hathaway blushed. "It's a good color on you. Blue."
Lewis huffed a laugh. All right then. He held up a shirt that seemed to move, so real were the waves of ocean green and dark blue. The waves were tipped with white and grey-blue caps. He'd worn it often while drinking, staring at his lap while drunk, trying to lose himself in the sea. It was a silk and rayon blend, soft and inviting. "Feel this."
Hathaway took the shirt and held it, letting the fabric slide through his fingers. He held it to Lewis chest and then let his hand smooth the fabric along Lewis' shoulder. "Definitely a keeper."
Lewis' mouth curled up in a slight grin. So that's how it was. He put the shirt in the keep pile and picked up one with lines of voluptuous hula girls in red grass skirts dancing between green palm trees and clusters of yellow bananas. It was a loud, hideous shirt. "Used to joke that these were all the women I'd ever need."
"Don't let Dr. Hobson hear you say that."
"Aw, she's happy enough now. Franco's more her sort, likes to get out and about." Lewis put the shirt in the box. "She thinks it's a good idea, you and me sharing a flat."
"Is it important to you what she thinks?" asked Hathaway.
"She's still my friend, and yours, so yeah." Lewis picked up a shirt from the bed. Pale green palm leaves sliced through a net of black and dark green, shredding large yellow bird of paradise flowers into painful scraps captured along the bottom of the shirt.
"You wore that?"
"On occasion. Bought it during a case."
"A murder involving a violent attack with a knife?"
Lewis raised his eyebrows. "Yeah. How'd you guess?" He held it up. It reminded him of the young girl found on the beach. In pieces. With a shudder, he put the shirt in the box. Should feel cathartic, getting rid of old memories, but it felt like he was picking at scabs.
Speaking of, he picked up the dark red round bougainvillea pattern shirt, ribbons of brown and bright red oozed among the flowers and thorns—he never wore it much, had bought it near the end of his stay. Looked like something you'd find beneath gauze in a doctor's office a week after an accident. He pitched it into the box.
"Good decision," said Hathaway, dryly.
"Don't you have a box to sort?"
"I'm helping you discover your inner fashionista. Now this," Hathaway held up a smaller shirt with an intricate pattern of small white lady slipper orchids shot with purple and magenta against a darker pink background.
"Lyn left it when she visited me. Tried to talk me into coming home. It can go in the box."
Lewis set aside the shirt he wore when he first returned to Oxford. Not the most flattering thing—blue with big white paisley shapes, long sleeves—it held memories of being greeted at the airport by the man he was going to share a flat with. It went into the 'keep' pile.
Hathaway smirked his approval. "Sentiment."
Hathaway pulled another shirt from the bed. "I like this." Elegant ladders of tiny white and lavender flowers supported stalks of several exquisitely drawn tropical flowers in pale shades of blue and green. Delicate tendrils of white and grey wove through the design. From a distance, it was almost muted and mundane, but up close it was detailed and unexpectedly beautiful.
"What are these flowers?"
"Oh," Lewis sighed, he'd been thinking of Val when he bought that shirt. Strolling on the beach at sunset, missing her, passing little shops. He liked it because the flowers looked like they were holding each other up, supporting the others. And then, when he'd examined it closer, he saw the detail in the artwork, almost like an etching. He knew she'd like it too.
"That can go, never wore it much. It's too long—" Lewis smiled to himself, taking the shirt from Hathaway. He draped it against the other man. "Oh, it's long enough to fit you, though. These are heliconia," he said, using his palm to trace the blue-green symmetrical buds in a line down from shoulder to waist. He glanced up. Hathaway's eyes were wide. "Goes with your eyes," said Lewis, fixing his attention on the shirt so he wouldn't see the color rising in James' face. "It's a nice shirt. Soft."
He brought up his hand to James' shoulder and chest. "Moth orchids. Phalaenopsis—there's some Latin for you. They grow wild. Never seen them this color, though." He smoothed the shirt with both hands, slowly spreading them wide from the center of James' collarbone outward. He could feel the barest trembling beneath his palms.
"Artist's interpretation," Hathaway managed in a soft, strangled voice. He stood mannequin-like, as if afraid to move.
"Tiny white flowers are plumeria. They have this heavy perfume," Lewis used the fingers of both hands to define the trail of flowers leading down from the shoulders to the man's middle. "These tiny lavender ones are frangipani—they have a lush scent too, romantic. Never noticed before how the two are twined together on this shirt."
Then, not looking at Hathaway and barely concealing a grin, he took his fingertips and traced the outline of hibiscus and the lines at its center: curling shades of grey directly over James' nipples. He felt them harden beneath his hand. "Hibiscus. Those are pistils."
Hathaway took a deep shaky breath. "Robbie—"
Lewis stepped back, smiling. "Yeah, that shirt can go in the box."
"I like this shirt. If you don't want it, I do."
"Suit yourself. It's a complicated pattern though." Lewis was grinning now. Hathaway was bright red and it didn't go at all well with the shirt.
"I'm a complicated guy."
Lewis nodded. "You are that. Well, that's sorted then."
Hathaway set the shirt reluctantly aside, his blush fading. "What's next?"
Lewis went to the closet and pushed aside the remaining clothes, wondering how to continue winding up his future flat mate. Ties? No. Suits? Nah. He saw a pile of jeans and out of fashion slacks and grinned. "James," Lewis said from the depths of the closet, "Guess it's time. Now, let's get into my trousers."
"You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that," Hathaway replied, laughing.