Archive of Our Own ^beta

October, 1995

It starts when his agent comes marching into his flat, a stack of papers in one hand and what looks like a box of pasties in the other.

“Come on, let’s do this fast and painful,” she says, as soon as he opens the door. “I brought snacks.”

Tom lets her in with a sigh and follows her to the kitchen, his left leg complaining under his weight. He knows he should at least be using his cane, but there is something that frustrates him about not being able to walk freely in his own home. At least, the pain is a reminder that he still has some self-respect.

Violet sets down her things on the kitchen table and, without sitting down, heads straight for the kettle. “Tea?” She asks, without looking at him.

“Please,” Tom gestures vaguely in agreement, having long given up on pretending he minds her snooping around his kitchen. They’ve been at this for quite some time now, and at this point he would be more uncomfortable if she didn’t make herself at home. Violet’s been working for him for almost ten years (although working with him seems a more correct turn of phrase, since most of the time she acts like she’s the one in charge), and they have long developed a system. Every Thursday, when they’re not shooting or revising contracts or drafting proposals, she comes to his house and they go through new opportunities and job offers, and once they’re done they carry themselves to the shitty Italian restaurant down the street, where they usually debate politics or history or poetry or television in front of a bowl of linguine. Violet calls it “part of his required weekly intake of socialising”, which is usually topped off by a Sunday lunch with her and her partner, Hannah, and a work dinner once a month.

The offers he gets are mostly for book deals, guest starring in some new show, or interviews, but occasionally the odd one stands out, that Violet usually shows him more for laughs than for his actual consideration. Today, she reads him an email whose sender is trying to find out if he’d like to star in one of those reality dating shows, as a contestant.

“What,” exhales Tom, a breathless laugh.

“It’s the, like, nerdy but still cocky vibe,” a smile tugging at her lips. “And don’t forget the wheelchair. A tormented genius.”

“Shut up,” Tom waves her off.

“Hey, maybe you should go. Meet the girl of your dreams and all that.”

That one’s a joke, she knows he’s gay, partly because she’s paid to keep the higher-ups at the BBC from finding out. Tom doesn’t know how much of an impact it could have, but he’s not dying to risk it costing him his job, and it’s not like his romantic life is crowded enough to warrant making a fuss over it.

“Fuck off,” he mutters, taking a final bite out of his pasty.

Violet laughs, brief and high pitched. “No, right, serious business” she hands him a paper. “You’ve got an interview offer from a guy with a column in The Guardian. He’s writing about the dissolution of the monasteries, and how that’s similar to our current political climate. I think it’s interesting, is all.”

The paper is a generic pitch for the final article, with information about why his expertise is required. It is interesting, and it’s only a small commitment anyway, it’s the sort of thing he’d normally accept. But there is something about the pitch – both the topic and the way it’s written – that bring him years back, to school hallways and heated debates and conversations in torn down abbeys.

He doesn’t say anything, so Violet continues, her voice tentative. “The thing is,” she sighs. “Well, you know how after the incident I scan every serious offer to make sure they won’t make trouble?”

What she refers to as ‘the incident’ is the time David Posner came onto set and tried to record him sharing the details of his… history, seems to be the right word, with Dakin. Since then, she goes through everyone who asks to work with him and warns him in advance if it’s someone he may know. Not that anything like that has happened again, of course.

“Who is it?” He asks, tapping his fingers on the table, because there is only one way this conversation can go.

“Uhm, his name-” Violet fishes another paper from her stack, “-is Scripps. Donald Scripps. Rings any bells?”

For the most part, Tom doesn’t think of his time at Cutler’s, it’s been twelve years and he likes to think that he’s not that desperate. But when he does, the few times he lets his mind stray back, the memories leave him bare and bruised, his skin burning and his throat closing.

“Yeah, I remember him,” he sighs. Scripps holds a different place in his mind than most of the other boys, mainly because, like Violet, he didn’t take any of Tom’s bullshit – or of Hector’s, for that matter. He stored what he needed for the exam, but kept on thinking for himself, without letting himself be swayed in one direction or the other.

Of course, there is also another reason why Tom remembers him well.

“He was-” he starts, his hand unconsciously opening and closing on the table. “He was a good friend of Dakin’s.”

“Oh, Christ,” Violet looks away from him. She knows about Dakin, because she demanded an explanation after the incident, and he gave her one. As far as Tom knows, she’s the only one who knows the whole story, aside from those directly interested.

Tom doesn’t say anything. He knows there is probably no harm in accepting, but concern nags at him anyway. He quite likes leaving the past buried, where it can’t touch him, and after the Posner incident, he’s even more wary of trying to reconnect with it.

Violet puts her pen down. “Come on,” she says, standing up. “That was the last one. Let’s get lunch.”

***

At lunch, they get into an argument about the value of Robespierre as a revolutionary figure versus his value at a human being, although argument is not quite the right word. Debate seems more accurate, both of them more into it for the sake of arguing than for a particular belief in their position. Normally, Tom enjoys sparring with Violet, because she’s well-educated and her job has her incredibly well-trained at pulling surprising arguments, but today, neither of them are into it.

“I think you should take it,” Violet snaps eventually, generously pouring cheese over her bucatini all’amatriciana.

“The cheese?” Tom knows he’s being willfully stupid, but anything to get him out of this conversation.

“That goddamn interview,” Violet says, but passes him the cheese anyway.

“Why?”

“Because-” she gestures with her fork. “Because you can’t live your life being scared of people you knew for like, five months, ten years ago.”

“I’m not scared,” Tom protests, heat rising in his neck.

“Aren’t you? Because it sure seems to me like you avoid anything to do with them like the fucking plague.”

“Can we agree that maybe, the truth coming out on me having a – a thing with one of my students, a male student, is maybe not the kind of thing we want going public? It’s your job to protect my career.”

“Oh, please,” Violet puts her fork down heatedly. “worst case scenario, what’s going to go public? TV historian agreed to go out with former student of his, who was 18, twelve years ago, which he didn’t even fucking do? Yeah, that’s bound to make headlines, what with the whole Royal separation thing going on. And for all you know, the guy might not even fucking remember you.”

“Fine!” Tom snarls, exhaustion seeping through his voice more than he intends it to. “Fine. I’ll do it.” He passes his hand over his forehead, trying to rub the worry and frustration and sheer fucking terror away.

“You don’t have to,” Violet says, softly. When he looks back at her, her brow is furrowed in concern. “Not if you really don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine.” He exhales, looking anywhere but at her.

She picks up her fork again, has another forkful of bucatini.

“Hey, this time I’ll make sure to check for mics.”

Tom snorts. “Fuck off.”

***

They arrange for Scripps to stop by the studios on a Tuesday, after they’ve wrapped up for the day. The interview goes well, which is not a real surprise, because Tom’s read some of Scripps’ column and there is no denying that he’s very good at what he does. What’s more, Scripps has seen Tom in action before, he knows how he twists his answers to fit his needs, and pushes right back, determined not to let him get away with it. Tom finds himself enjoying it, enjoying having a real conversation instead of the washed-up stuff he presents to the BBC as if it were cutting-edge. Violet kept her promise to check for mics, but it turns out that Scripps hadn’t been planning to record him in the first place, and writes the whole interview down in shorthand instead. Once they’re done, he puts his pen down and runs his hands through his hair (now shorter than it was in school, but not by much), ruffling it.

“Well, thanks for that,” Scripps says. Tom gives him a short smile, uncertain of what to do next. Can they call this a day and go their separate ways, or would that be rude? He’s not even sure that’s actually what he wants. It seems strange that this meeting should end with no reference to the past.

Eventually, he settles on, “Would you like some tea? I get it for free from production.”

At Scripps’ nod, Tom leads him to the break room, leaning heavily on his cane. Today was probably a wheelchair day, but there was something at the idea of having Scripps see him like that that frustrated him to no end.

“Sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” Scripps says later, over his cup of tea. “It’s just, as soon as I pitched the article, I couldn’t help but think…”

“It’s quite alright,” Tom hides his face by taking a sip from his warm styrofoam cup. “I’ve read your pitch, it sounded rather interesting.”

“We’ll see what comes out of it, I suppose.” Scripps gestures with his cup, and only then does Tom notice the gold band on his ring finger.

“You are married?”

A small smile appears on Scripps’ face. “Yes,” he beams. “Well, no. Not legally. But it’s as if I was.”

Something in the genuine joy in Scripps’ expression makes Tom want to smile as well. “And you are happy?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“That’s good to hear.” For some reason, it actually is. Tom thinks, if he gets nothing else out of this whole affair, at least he’s got this.

There’s a moment of hesitation, Scripps pursing his lips. “You know him, actually,” he adds eventually.

Tom raises his eyebrows. It’s not the he thing he’s surprised about, it’s that he knows him, which means it must be –

“It’s David.” Scripps explains. “Posner. Sir.” The sir almost an afterthought.

“Oh.” Of course, Tom thinks. Posner and Scripps, who exchanged raised eyebrows in the middle of class. Posner and Scripps, who sang and played together. Posner and Scripps, who were always by each other’s side, even when Posner’s eyes were for someone else. Of course. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

Scripps smiles again, big and genuine.

“So he’s doing better, then? Posner?”

“He is,” Scripps says, caressing the ring on his finger, perhaps absentmindedly, “he went back to university, actually. Literature, not history. He’s getting a teaching diploma.”

Despite himself, Tom smiles. “I’m sure he’ll be a good teacher. Better than I ever was, anyway.”

“You weren’t bad,” Scripps says, turning to throw away his cup. “I misjudged you at the time. You were supposed to get us into Oxford, and did you deliver.”

“Perhaps I was misguided,” Tom admits with a shrug. “I had my own obsession with Oxbridge, at the time.” If Scripps finds this confession strange, he doesn’t show it. “Do you see them often? The others?” Tom asks then, before he can think any better of it.

Scripps gives him a long, evaluating look, and Tom can feel himself burning. “Sometimes,” he says eventually. “We were drifting off, life and such, but then – I assume you’ve heard about Lockwood?” Tom nods, and Scripps continues. “Well, we all saw each other at the funeral, and it brought us back together. Some sort of fucking, fatalistic poetry about it, I guess.”

Silence falls, and Tom almost considers making his excuses, but before he manages to open his mouth, Scripps speaks.

“Are you happy, sir?”

Tom’s tea has gone cold. Suddenly, that seems like a bigger problem than it actually is. He makes himself some time by turning to throw it away.

He isn’t sure how to answer Scripps’ question. How can he say no? No, everyday is the fucking same and I’m bored and tired and I know I’m becoming the worst possible version of myself, and I simply don’t have it in me to stop it? The pay is good, but I’ve been selling lies for so long, that I’m not even sure of what the truth is anymore.

“I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy,” he settles on eventually.

Scripps starts to say something, but then Violet comes in, clearing her throat.

“Hey,” she tells Tom. “I’ve got the car waiting out front, if you’re good to go.”

He nods, because it’s easier than not.

“It was nice to see you, Scripps,” he says as he heads through the door. “Bring Posner my greetings.”

“It was nice to see you too, sir,” Scripps mutters, and with that they part.

At the door, Violet offers him her arm, and he takes it despite himself, because his legs have been straining under his weight for the entire day. They’ve almost made it out of the building when Scripps’s voice calls them back.

“Wait, sir,” he’s saying when they turn. He looks as if he’s rushed to catch up to them. “This Saturday. There’s a dinner, at this pub in Camden. The others will be there. You should come, if you want.”

Tom can feel Violet’s grip tightening on his arm. Suddenly, he’s not quite sure he can breathe.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” he exhales.

Scripps opens his arm, in a mild gesture of surrender. “It’s called The World’s End. Saturday at 8. If you want to come, the invitation is open.”

***

In the car, Violet is quiet, but there is some kind of tension, her hands gripping the steering wheel as if she's itching to say something. Tom doesn't address it, but spends the ride mulling over Scripps's offer, because no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to stop thinking about it. There was a time he told Dakin that thinking about what might or might not have happened in the past could alert you to the consequences of what did and now, after years of keeping the lid close on the Pandora’s Box of possibilities, every single possible variation of events is eating him up, forcing him to consider all the possible versions of him that never got a chance to see the light. What would have happened if he’d never gotten on that bike in the first place? Would the accident have happened anyway, would Dakin have been the one whose legs hurt so much some days that he couldn’t walk? Tom likes to think that he would have stuck with him then, but who’s even to say that Dakin would have still wanted him? And what if none of it had happened in the first place, what if they’d gotten that goddamn drink like they were supposed to? And still, what if they hadn’t been scared after Tom’s accident, what if Dakin had stayed? The possibilities seem to swirl around him, glimpses of a world that doesn’t exist, that feels more fantastic than the stories of Virgil and Milton and Dante. And now he has a chance to force history to turn back on itself, and doesn’t know what to do.

“I think you should go,” Violet says before dropping him off. “To that dinner he mentioned.”

Tom doesn’t reply, gets out of the car in silence.

“Thanks for the ride,” he says.

“Anytime.”

Tom nods and turns to go, away from her insistence, but her voice holds him into place.

“Tom? Take a fucking risk, for once in your life. It will be fine.”

***

He ends up taking the fucking risk. He pushes the possibility to the back of his mind until Saturday afternoon, but before he is even able to fully realise it, he finds himself on the tube, on the way to Camden. This is truly, genuinely, a terrible decision, but he finds he didn’t really have a choice in the first place.

The pub is a perfect example of an environment he’d be uncomfortable in, it’s dark and loud and crowded and most chairs are those tall barstools that are really difficult to jump on if you already need to lean on a cane to stand up properly. It doesn’t help that today was probably a wheelchair day, his right leg taking its rightful revenge for having been leaned on too much, so he sort of half limps to the bar, doing his best not to look too pathetic.

He finds them all standing around the counter, some clearly already on their way to drunkenness. Timms is in the process of explaining something, waving around his pint so excitedly that its contents regularly spill out, while the others hoot loudly around him. For a moment, Tom lets himself take it in without intervening. He can see Akthar, who’s possibly gotten taller, and Rudge who’s definitely gotten broader, and giving his back to Tom there is Scripps, his arms around someone he can’t see but can only assume is Posner. And next to them, a head of black hair on a lean figure, leather jacket exchanged for a suit. Tom could just leave now, he thinks. He could run away before anyone notices him, leaving no signs of his presence.

Except he can't, because the moment he thinks this, Timms's eyes lock with his and he stops mid-sentence. Tom can't hear him well from where he is, but he's pretty sure his mouth forms the word sir? and suddenly it's too late to run, because all the others have turned to look at him.

Of course, it's Dakin's voice that cuts the silence.

"What are you doing here?"

Very pointedly, Tom doesn't look at him.

"Don invited him," Posner interrupts. His voice sounds steadier than the last time Tom's seen him, calmer.

"I interviewed him a couple of days ago," Scripps helpfully supplies. "Thought it'd be nice to invite him."

Tom smiles at him, both in greeting and in thanks, and while from the corner of his eye he can see Dakin throwing a pointed glance at them, he still forces himself not to look at him. He realises, all of a sudden, that now that explanations are out of the way, he's not quite sure what to say.

It's Rudge, an unlikely saviour, that spares him from speaking.

"My girlfriend watches your program," he says, his voice having gone even lower than it was twelve years ago.

"Right!" Timms shouts, excitedly. Tom would be willing to bet that the half finished pint in his hand is not his first. "What's it like, being a tv celebrity?"

"Not as exciting as you make it sound, I'm afraid." Tom tries.

"Still, more exciting than teaching Oxbridge candidates?" Dakin's voice is sharp, and it cuts through him. Almost out of spite, Tom allows himself to look at him, and finds Dakin looking back, his eyes narrowed and one corner of his lips curled. He still carries himself like he knows he's the smartest person in the room, but this time, Tom detects an edge to the way he's leaning against Akhtar's barstool, something he doesn't think had been there before.

"Dakin, there is no need to pretend you think that lowly of yourself."

The others hoot, and soon a pint is being shoved into his hand and he's being showered with questions about his show and how much make-up does the BBC slap on him (more than he's comfortable admitting) and does he write the pieces himself (yes, but they go through a thorough editing process before they actually make it on the show) and has he met any big celebrities in the studios (no). Slowly, he comes to find out more about the way the boys' lives have changed: Akhtar is a headmaster, Timms has a chain of dry-cleaners and, as Scripps mentioned, Posner is getting a teaching diploma. Dakin off-handedly mentions that he's a tax lawyer, his tone neutral and his eyes fixed on Tom. Tom hides his face in his pint.

Eventually, people start to trickle off into different smaller groups, and with Crowther finally joining them and immediately getting into heated debate with Rudge and Timms about one football game or another and no one speaking directly to him, Tom seizes the opportunity to go lean against the counter, hoping that his legs will be grateful for that. More than anything, he wishes he could sit down, but this is better than nothing.

Off the corner of his eye, he can see Dakin in heated conversation with Scripps, who's still holding Posner in his arms, that he hasn't left all evening. Maybe unsurprisingly, though, when Posner's eyes lock with Tom's he disentangles himself from the embrace and, giving Scripps's arm one last squeeze, the gesture so painfully intimate that Tom feels the urge to look away, comes to join him at the counter.

For a few minutes they contemplate the silence, Dakin and Scripps's argument seemingly having subsided into controlled conversation.

"I'm trying to decide," Posner starts eventually, slowly, "if I should apologise. For that time on your show."

Tom's memory of the event is both crystalline clear and as fuzzy as smoke. He remembers telling Violet everything that happened as she drove him home from Rievaulx, and he remembers barely having the energy to get out of bed the following day, but everything else is a blur, as if the memories had shattered themselves only leaving him the broken pieces to put the whole picture back together.

"I was under the impression that we would both politely pretend it never happened."

"What good would that do?" Posner's voice comes out bitter. "No, it was a shit move, no matter how much I blamed you. I didn't know what to do."

"I know that."

Posner takes a deep breath. "It was the darkest moment of my life. I'd just dropped out of Cambridge, I'd lost touch with everyone I'd ever considered a friend, and I was so, so alone.” It’s sort of funny, Tom thinks, because another memory he has of that time is also that being of utterly alone, and unused to it. He still is mostly alone, but at least now he’s grown accustomed to knowing that no one is waiting for him at home. “Still,” Posner continues. “It wasn’t fair of me to accuse you like that. And for what it’s worth,” and here his tone hitches, “I never thought you were like Hector, not really.”

Tom isn’t sure whether he means that as a good or a bad thing. It’s hard to tell, with Posner.

“Apology accepted, then.” Tom says, because most of all, he just wishes this conversation to be over. He knows he’s at least partially responsible for Posner’s breakdown, that if he hadn’t filled his mind with lies and debate and discourse, if he hadn’t been obsessed with the idea of getting those boys into Oxbridge, maybe Posner would have been fine. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone to Cambridge, maybe he would have gone to Sheffield or Manchester or Lancaster, and maybe he would have been happy from the start, with no hiccups. Posner has given him an apology, but really, Tom feels like he owes one back.

“I never got into Oxford,” is what he says instead, surprising even himself. “I don’t know if you know this, but I went to Bristol. I only went to Oxford to get a teaching diploma.”

Posner looks at him, his brow furrowed. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“I had… things going on, when I was applying for Oxbridge,” (my parents kicked me out of our house, I was sleeping on my sister’s couch), “and I thought… I thought I’d be fine if I got in.” (I thought I’d prove them wrong, I’d show them that I didn’t need them.) “And I hated myself when I didn’t.”

There’s so much more he could tell him here. How he hated himself most of the time then (and sometimes, he thinks, he still does), how he thought the only thing worth any value in him was his brain, how he’d wanted to die when he found out that even that just wasn’t enough. How he almost did die. But Posner isn’t here to offer him a therapy session, he’s here for a damn apology.

“What I’m trying to say is,” he starts again, “that’s why I cared so much about getting you guys in, and I lost sight of what would actually be good for you.”

“You weren’t the only one pressuring us.” Posner says, and his eyes are digging into Tom. “So was the headmaster, and he must have been pressuring you too.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Tom concedes, even though he’s not a fan of giving anyone, particularly himself, discounts because of circumstances. “But that still wasn’t fair to any of you.”

Posner laughs, a bitter sound that’s entirely new. “They really put a spell on us, didn’t they? Convinced us it was Oxbridge or nothing. There is other ways, but no one fucking thought of telling us.”

Maybe, but sometimes Tom still wishes he was one of them, one of those bright young men with the world at their feet. Tom has been walking on ever-shifting foundations since he was seventeen.

"I'm glad to know you're doing better," he says, which is true, but he hopes that there is no jealous edge in his voice.

"It was Don," Posner says, a soft smile brightening his face, casually touching the ring on his finger. "He found me when I didn't think anyone was even looking, and suddenly I realised there were so many things in the world that I'd never seen. And I know they say love can't be the one thing that fixes you, but that new perspective…" he shrugs, and his eyes rest on where Dakin and Scripps are standing, now drinking quietly. Tom could swear he catches Dakin looking at him, but in the moment it takes him to blink, he's already looked away.

Tom lets himself throw a glance at Posner, wondering if he's noticed. His mouth is scrunched up, and he's looking at Tom like he's evaluating him.

"He doesn't have anyone, you know." He says eventually. Tom wonders if there is any point to pretending he doesn't know who he's talking about. "I mean, he has people, of course he does. Just look at him, he gets all the women and men he wants, but no one ever sticks, and I think it's starting to get to him.” The men part shouldn't be a surprise, because even at the time, Tom was not that much older than Dakin but he was old enough to know that you didn't go asking other men for blowjobs unless you were not straight. But the fact that Dakin himself was willing to not only admit, but pursue this, sparks a little flame in his chest. Posner is shaking his head.  “Not that he would admit that."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I've grown up," Posner says, voice steady. "And it's time he does as well. And maybe you too."

Tom's regretting not trying to sit down, because he doesn't think he can stand for much longer, and the conversation is not helping. He looks away from Posner, on his hand that's becoming white for how strong he's gripping his cane.

"It's just - this is stupid, okay?" Posner adds, sounding impatient. "Stu's lonely, and you must be lonely too, if you are here. And if you're here, it must mean you're also stuck up on what could have happened years ago. You're adults, fucking figure it out."

Despite everything, Tom smiles. He looks at Posner, kind, sensitive Posner, who took everything to heart, who used to be terribly in love with Dakin, who broke and got himself back together, who's finally found happiness and is trying to arrange that for other people. It's true that he's grown up.

***

Eventually, people start to trickle off, and when no one is looking at him, Tom manages to drag himself to a secluded area where there is actual armchairs, and practically falls into one, doing his best to make it look deliberate. His legs are killing him, and he’s already trying to figure out the fare of a cab home when he realises that Dakin has followed him, glasses in both of his hands.

“Avoiding me?” He asks, handing him a glass. They’re both filled with water.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Tom says, but takes the glass anyway.

“Oh, please,” Dakin shakes his head. “You talked to fucking Rudge before you talked to me.”

“Surprisingly, not everything revolves around you.”

“Surprisingly, I am aware.” Dakin’s response is snappish. This is wrong, Tom thinks. Petty, mean. He takes a sip of his water, and lets silence take over instead.

“I’ve seen your show,” Dakin says, after a moment.

“Really? What do you think?” Tom finds, surprised, that while the question is dictated by the general rules of polite conversation, he genuinely cares about the answer. Then he finds himself surprised to be surprised.

Dakin shrugs. “I think you hate it,” he says. “I mean, you present it like it’s groundbreaking stuff, but really, it’s all been said before. No real subversion of expectations, is there?”

Twelve years ago, he would have painfully debated this with Dakin, made it into a goddamn philosophical question of what truly it is to subvert expectations. Tonight, he’s just tired.

“Novelty doesn’t sell well on the BBC,” he says slowly. “Shock does. There’s a difference.”

Dakin shakes his head, in a disapproving sound. His eyes are piercing through Tom’s, and Tom curses himself for forgetting just how much Dakin could set him afire. He feels like he’s burning. “Still,” Dakin says. “Aren’t you bored?”

“Says the tax lawyer,” Tom rebuts, and he knows he must have hit a nerve because Dakin looks away. God, how painfully close they are.

“Well,” he says, “at least the money’s good for both of us, isn’t it, sir?” He doesn’t say sir like Scripps had, as an afterthought, a memory of a distant past, but as a knife, brandishing it like a weapon.

“Don’t call me that,” Tom snaps, louder than it needs be. “Don’t call me that.” He repeats, lower.

“What should I call you, then?” Dakin’s tone is impertinent, reminiscent of his youth. He purses his lips, and Tom suddenly feels ten years younger, scared as he had been twelve years ago.

“Tom,” he says, slowly. “My name is Tom.”

For the first time, a genuine smile opens on Dakin’s face. “Well, Tom,” he says softly, offering his hand. “I’m Stuart.”

Feeling ridiculous, Tom takes his hand and shakes it, the contact sending static through his body. He can feel his ears burning.

Silence falls again, but softer this time, the bitterness having subsided. Tom isn’t sure what he’s doing, and he wishes he had functioning legs so he could just get up and run. There is so many things that he wants to ask Dakin - no, not Dakin, Stuart, - but even just the idea feels illicit, an impulse that he’s quieted down for so long that it seems strange to free it.

“So, have you got a man?” Dakin asks eventually, and Tom wants to hide because, right, okay it seems like they’re doing this.

He pushes his glasses back, an excuse to hide the blush on his face with his hand. There have been some men, of course, few and far between, but nothing lasting. Many would pull away when they caught a glimpse of just how damaged Tom was, and those who wanted to stick after that, it was usually Tom pushing them out, out of some nonsensical survival instinct that he couldn't get rid of.

"This might come as a shock,” he says slowly, “but the disability puts off most people.”

"Well, that's shallow," Stuart waves his glass in a disapproving gesture, and Tom has to suddenly suppress the urge to laugh, because he would think that they're both old enough not to pretend that the wheelchair didn't play a big part in nothing happening between them.

"Oh, don't -" he says before he can stop himself, "don't pretend that you would have done any different."

That catches Stuart off guard. It's almost a surprise, seeing the cocky smile slip off for just long enough to show the uncertainty behind it.

"I don't know," he says, not looking at Tom. "I was a selfish bastard, but I was only eighteen."

Tom knows that he should let the matter drop, go back to safe, if not comfortable, silence, but it's like he's finally gathered the courage to jump across a precipice, and all he can do now is hope the momentum will get him safely on the other side.

"What are you saying?" He asks. "That things would have been different, had it all happened now?"

Stuart looks at him, carefully. The smile is back, but there is a shade of uncertainty behind his eyes. “Why?” he asks. “Are we back in the subjunctive?”

“Weren’t we always?”

Stuart sighs. “Maybe,” he says eventually. “For one, having a kid teaches you a hell of a lot of things about caring for other people.”

Tom’s breath catches in his throat. “You have a child?”

“Yeah,” Stuart smiles, for once warm and genuine. “She’s six. My ex-girlfriend’s. Wasn’t planned, but God, I love her more than I thought was even possible.”

For some reason, it doesn’t come as a shock, that Stuart, with his sharp words and sharper smile, has turned out to be a soft, loving father. It seems to fit perfectly in this equation of contradictions that Tom’s entire life is.

“I have her tomorrow,” Stuart continues. “That’s why I’m not drinking much, tonight.” He waves his glass of water.

“What’s her name?” For some reason, the name of Stuart’s daughter seems like an important piece of information, a missing piece of a puzzle that he’s desperate to put together.

“Iona,” Stuart says. “Her mother is Scottish. Brilliant girl, which explains why she dumped me when things got serious.” There’s a mild undertone of bitterness to his voice, and Tom remembers what Posner said. He doesn’t have anyone, and it’s starting to weigh on him.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Stuart waves his hand, looking away from him. He inhales loudly, like he’s bracing himself to say something.

“You know, if it wasn’t for Iona, I’d ask you to come back to my place tonight.”

It hits Tom now, how badly he’s longed for this invitation. It’s like he’s spent years ignoring a door that he was desperate to walk through, but now that the door has been opened for him, he realises he can’t actually cross the threshold.

“It seems we are stuck in the subjunctive,” he says, doing his very best to keep his tone neutral.

“I don’t know,” Stuart says, stubbornly. “Have you got a ride home?”

Tom looks at him, brow furrowed. He’s not sure where he’s going with this.

“I’m guessing the reason you’re sitting here is that you can’t stand up,” Stuart continues, unbothered. “So I’ll give you a ride home. If you want.”

Tom looks at him, a puzzle he can’t comprehend.

“Is that a good idea?” He asks.

“I’m sure you don’t think it is. But I’m sure you thought that about coming here, too, and here you are.”

Tom shakes his head, pursing his lips. He desperately wants to say yes, but he realises now, he hasn’t jumped across the precipice yet, he’s only been running towards it.

“Fine,” he exhales eventually, taking a few more steps towards the precipice. “Thank you.”

Stuart smiles, and offers him his arm. Tom looks at it for a second, but takes it in the end, because Stuart is right, he doesn’t think he can stand up. The contact would set him afire, if the feeling wasn’t immediately replaced by the sharp pain in his legs when he tries to stand up. He finds that he has to lay most of his weight on Stuart, his cane in an un-practical position to support him, but Stuart takes it, with no complaint. A small corner of Tom’s brain thinks that this is the most physical contact he’s had in months, but he shuts it down.

On their way out, Tom realises that almost everyone has left the pub while they were talking, only Posner and Scripps are left, sitting on adjacent barstools. They’re not touching, perhaps feeling less safe now that they’re not surrounded by friends, but the small smiles they’re giving each other are just as intimate as any contact.

“Right, we are out,” Stuart says loudly, and they both turn around to look at them, the moment of simple complicity abruptly interrupted. “I’m gonna drive Tom home.”

“Of course you fucking are,” Scripps says loudly, shaking his head.

“Have fun,” Posner adds, looking like he’s trying to hold back a laugh. Tom is certain his cheeks have gone red.

“Fuck off,” Stuart says, and slowly leads Tom away.

They’ve almost made it to the car when Tom unavoidably trips, but Stuart supports him, making sure he doesn’t fall to the ground. Ironic, perhaps.

“Why don’t you have your chair?” He asks. “I’ve seen it before. On your show.”

Tom shakes his head. “I only need it on bad days.”

“Are you telling me that today is a good one?”

“I don’t like using it.”

Stuart doesn’t reply to that, but opens the car door for him, gently depositing him into the passenger seat.

“Right, where do you live?” He asks, once he’s gotten on the driver’s side.

“Soho.”

“Of course you do.”

“Oh, shut up.” Tom laughs, and with that they go.

In the car, they talk. Stuart tells him more about Iona, who is six and is currently going through a phase where she wants to be a rheumatologist when she grows up, so she keeps going around diagnosing people with obscure illnesses (“she’d love you, what with the crutches and everything”, he says with half a laugh), about weekly dinners with Posner and Scripps (“they’re disgusting, by the way. Straight out of a  romance novel,”), so Tom in turn tells him about Sunday lunch with Violet and Hannah and the new book he’s thinking of writing, a re-evaluation of Mary Tudor (Stuart laughs at that one). They don’t touch too much on work, because Stuart is clearly bored with his and Tom isn’t that far off.

“Our lives have become eerily similar,” Stuart comments as he pulls into Tom’s driveway. “Here?”

“You can stop here,” Tom points at his front door. He turns to give one last look at Stuart, to find that he’s already looking at him, brow furrowed and lips pursed.

He opens his mouth to say something, then looks like he’s changed his mind halfway through.

“Do you need help walking to the door?” Stuart asks, a second too late.

Truth is, Tom does. Hell, what he needs is someone to carry him all the way to the door and tuck him into bed. He needs his wheelchair and a shitload of painkillers.

“Please,” he manages to exhale, and Stuart smiles, looking almost relieved. He comes over to the passenger’s side and offers him his arm, taking on most of Tom’s weight when he has to get up. Stuart ends up walking him all the way inside, and up one floor in the elevator, and eventually leaves him in front of the door to his apartment.

“It was nice, seeing you,” he says slowly, still holding Tom for balance. “Should do that again. Sometime.”

Tom exhales, shifting his weight so that it’s against the door and not Stuart. “Maybe. Yes.” He realises he wants to, desperately. But he doesn’t know how to do this. “If you are in the area, you - you know where to find me.”

“Alright,” Stuart looks at him one last time, then finally, painfully lets go. “Have a good night.”

It’s just a moment, the time it takes for Stuart to turn around and head for the stairs, that Tom realises, this is a moment that matters. This is a moment when history rattles over the points.

“Stuart?” He calls after him, and when Stuart turns, his eyes are wide.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Tom manages, breathless. “Seeing you again. This was… nice.” It doesn’t seem like the right word, too obvious, too frivolous, but for now, it will have to do.

Stuart smiles, and this time he goes.

***

The following week, Thursday lunch ends up being Thursday dinner, because Hannah’s mother is sick which means that Violet spends most of the day with them at the hospital, so that when she eventually makes it to Tom’s flat, some time past seven, neither of them are particularly cheerful. Still, they pour over project proposals for a couple of hours, over boxes of Chinese takeover, the atmosphere growing gradually more and more tense, because Violet’s in a pissy mood and Tom has been constricted to his chair since Sunday and isn’t enjoying a single second of it. That, and also there’s been no sign from Dakin, so it looks like that’s also gone to shit, and he’s cursing himself for not having done something, anything different. It’s with a pang of pain that he realises that Stuart has already gone back to being Dakin, in his mind.

“Tom? Are you listening to me?” Violet’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and when he looks up at her, she has one single eyebrow raised in contrition.

“I’m sorry, you were -?”

“I was going to ask you if you want me to pitch something to the BBC for Christmas, because if you do, I need to get to it now,” she passes her hands over her face, tiredly, “but now I want to know whatever it is you’re not telling me. What happened last Saturday?”

Tom scoffs, gestures vaguely with one hand. “Nothing happened, I just -” he shakes his head, his thoughts like a thread about to snap. “I thought if I went, something would happen, something would change. But instead I’m still… stuck.”

Violet puts down his pen. “Call him,” she says, firmly. “If you care so much, just fucking -” she waves her hands in the air, “be the master of your own destiny. Call him.”

“I don’t have his number,” Tom Scoffs again. That’s a pathetic excuse even to his own ears, but he says it nonetheless.

“Then just get it from fucking - what’s his face,” she argues, not buying his bullshit, “Scripps. I’ve still got his number.”

Call Dakin, and say what? Ask him out, try to pick up things from where they left them twelve years ago.

“I…-” he stammers, and then the doorbell rings.

“What the fuck? It’s like, ten at night.” Violet complains, but when Tom makes to his chair, she gets up with a groan, muttering “I’ll get it.” She squeezes his shoulder as she passes him.

“And who are you?” He hears her shout from the entrance, but doesn’t quite catch the response. After a moment, he hears her call, “Uhm, Tom? I think you should come through.” Her voice sounds more dubious than he’s ever heard her. He painfully gets himself out of the chair he’s sitting on, and then on his wheelchair, and slowly wheels into the living room. And sure enough, at the door, he finds Violet, staring down a rather uncomfortable looking Dakin. Tom’s heart skips a beat.

“You said to come by if I was in the area,” Dakin says, as greeting. “I was in the area.” The way he’s carrying himself is uncertain, unconfident. For the first time, Tom realises he’s gotten older, too.  “I can go,” he continues. “If -”

“No need,” Violet interrupts him. “I was just leaving, Hannah’s waiting at home and honestly, after the day we’ve had...” She jumps back into the kitchen, re-emerges only moments later with a handful of papers and her bag. “I’ll be here to pick you up at six, tomorrow, so don’t stay up too late,” she tells Tom, giving him a pointed look. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Dakin,” and she’s out of the door before Tom can say anything, and he’s left staring at Dakin, in silence.

“So that’s the agent,” Stuart starts, breaking the silence.

“The very one.”

“Looks intimidating. Thought she’d kick me out for a second.”

Tom snorts at that, because it’s not actually that hard imagining Violet verbally attacking Dakin until he left.

“Look, I -” Dakin stammers. “I didn’t mean to barge in. And I meant to come earlier, but my meeting dragged on.”

“It’s fine, Dakin.”

Dakin looks almost hurt. “I thought we agreed on Stuart.”

Under his cautious gaze, Tom feels painfully naked. He doesn’t think Stuart’s ever seen him in anything but a suit, and the old jumper and sweatpants he’s wearing tonight suddenly seem too light, too revealing. He’s glad he hasn’t yet taken his glasses off for the night.

“You’re right,” He sighs, giving in. “Would you like some tea, Stuart?”

***

They end up sipping tea in the living room, on the two armchairs that overlook a bookcase. It takes up the entire wall, and his first book is towering in the centre, a subversive biography of Henry VIII. The success of the book was what got him the TV show, ten years ago .

“I read it, you know,” Stuart says, cradling his cup. “When it first came out. I thought I’d try to get in touch, but -” he gestures with his cup, “-and then your second one came out, the World War I one, and by that time I really wanted to, but I was with Iona’s mum and I was trying not to fuck it up. Of course, I did anyway.” He looks into his cup, takes another sip. “God, I sound miserable, don’t I?”

Tom shrugs. “I sound miserable all the time. Violet’s constantly giving me shit about my ‘crippling self doubt’.”

Stuart laughs, low and warm. It’s true, Tom thinks, he does sound miserable. He doesn’t talk like the boy who had the world at his feet anymore, but like a man who’s learned that having the world at your feet isn’t always enough.

“Why now, then?” He asks, words pouring out of his mouth before he can control them. “Why, after ten years of tiptoeing around it, are you here now?”

Stuart shakes his head, stands up so quickly that Tom feels the wind on his skin. He walks to the bookcase and runs his hand on the middle shelf, the one with Tom’s books in it.

“Because…” he says, slowly. With a sigh, he turns back to Tom. “Because I am tired of living in the subjunctive. And after seeing you last week, I thought you were too.” His eyes are piercing through Tom’s, hot and unyielding.

This is it, Tom realises. He might have missed his moment on Saturday, but now, this is the one chance of making it right, of forcing history to rattle over the points.

“I’m gonna need you to help me stand up,” he says, firmly.

Stuart takes a single, tentative step towards him. “Why?”

A deep breath. Just one. “Because I’d like to kiss you, and I can’t do that if you’re standing there and I’m stuck down here.”

To Tom’s delight, Stuart’s face goes red, his mouth opening in surprise. Then, it twists into a smile and with a nod, he takes two firm steps towards Tom and, carefully holding his arms around his waist, helps him stand up.

The last thing Tom sees before he finally, gloriously kisses him, is a bright, careless smile, and it looks like history in the making.

***

In the middle of the night, Stuart is curled up against him, one arm sprawled across Tom’s chest. Tom is on the edge of a precipice again, but this time, he thinks, he’s jumped to the other side and to his surprise, found utmost happiness. All he needs to do now is explore the new side, start taking steps in this new world.

“Well, I’d say that was about twelve years overdue,” Stuart chuckles against his shoulder, his breath soft on Tom’s skin.

Tom laughs, openly, unashamedly.

“What are you thinking about?” Stuart props himself up just enough to look at him.

“I’m not thinking very much at all, really.”

“Oh, it was that good?”

“Yes,” Tom admits, surprised at his own daring. “Yes, it was.”

“You look good without your glasses,” Stuart says, and Tom finds that he’s looking at him carefully, attentively. “I can see your eyes better.”

“I… I don’t know what to say to that,” Tom admits, with a self-deprecating laugh.

Stuart shakes his head. “You say thanks, and you take the compliment.”

“Thanks,” Tom swallows.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Stuart says, kissing Tom’s shoulder. He moves up to his neck, leaving a trail of kisses behind.

“Stop,” Tom sighs against his will.

Stuart’s head snaps up. “Is this okay?” He asks, brow furrowed.

“It’s - it’s more than okay,” Tom exhales, doing his best to keep a hold on himself, “but Violet’s coming at six tomorrow, and I -”

“Okay, I need to ask,” Stuart interrupts him, “Why the fuck is she coming so early?”

“We’re shooting on location, need to be in Bath by nine. I’m doing a piece on the Romans and hypocrisy in the Victorian era.”

Stuart laughs. “I will want to know everything about that,” he says, and then adds, carefully, “which I’m hoping you’ll tell me on Saturday, at dinner?”

“Is this a euphemism?”

“Maybe,” Stuart wiggles his eyebrows, “But really, I want to take you out. The rest we can figure out later.”

Right. The steps, on the other side of the precipice. “Okay,” he nods. “Okay.”

Stuart’s smile is blinding, and for a moment, they let the silence take over. Then Stuart adds, “Listen, if it’s going to make things easier tomorrow, I can go.”

“No,” Tom stops him, quickly. “Stay.”

“Really?”

“I want you to.”

Stuart smiles, and Tom finds that it’s easy to smile back. “Okay.”

***

November, 1995

Irwin’s on TV, blue eyes clear behind his glasses, dazzling with rhetoric some otherwise uninteresting historical event. David’s on the couch, half-listening, half scribbling over and over stacks of notes.

“I don’t understand why you watch that,” Don tells him, handing him a mug, steam still rising from the hot tea.

“I’m not sure,” David says, narrowing his eyes at the telly, “I used to think it was cathartic, but now it’s just habit, I think.” He takes a sip from his mug as Don sits next to him on the couch. He’s got his own notes to revise, for his next article proposal.

“Anyway, you’re one to talk,” David adds after a moment, “Inviting him to the pub.”

Don shakes his head. Truth is, he isn’t sure what he was thinking, when he invited Irwin to pub night. He’d just looked lonely, in that moment, still as frail and awkward as he’d been twelve years before, and he’d felt a desperate need to do something, anything, to shake him out of it.

“Did it bother you?” He asks David, looking at him carefully.

“I don’t care,” David says, and when Don makes an unconvinced noise, he makes an open gesture with his mug. “I mean it,” he says. “Main proof that I’m doing better is that I could look at him, and at Stuart, and just…” he shrugs, “be fine.”

Don’s chest contracts for a moment. When, six years ago, he’d reconnected with David, he was barely able to say Dakin’s name without his voice shaking. Now, his gaze is clear and his hands are steady, and Don can feel a smile growing on his face.

“What did you talk about?” He asks. “When Stu was shouting at me for not telling him about Irwin.”

“Oh, I half-apologised for trying to frame him into a scandal, and then I told him to get his shit together,” David says, flatly.

“God, I love you,” Don tells him, a laugh erupting from his chest.

David turns to look at him, with a half-smile on his face. “Well, thank you.” Then he shrugs. “Listen, if I can get my act together, so should he. And so should Stuart, honestly. Has he really told you nothing?”

“He said he drove Irwin home because he couldn’t walk and that that was it, so maybe we were giving them too much credit.”

David puts his mug down and shuffles on the couch so that his back is leaning against Don’s shoulder. On the TV, Irwin is talking about the French revolution.

“Do you think we’ll ever be okay?” He asks, softly. “All of us, I mean.”

It’s a difficult question, of course, from him especially. Maybe, three years ago, when he and David had just moved in together and Stuart had not yet broken up with Rachel, he would have said yes. But then Lockwood died, and Stuart and Rachel fell apart, and now Irwin had walked back into their lives and nothing had changed. Maybe the world, the stars and God just did not care about them.

“I don’t think we can know,” is what he says to David. “I think that’s the point.”

Silently, David hands him one of his papers. It’s a long poem, that he’s heavily scribbled on, annotations on technique and prosody almost overpowering the actual text. Don’s read it before, but while he was talking, David has circled in red two lines.

Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life?

“Hector did say poetry was the trailer, right? Forthcoming attractions?” He looks into Don’s eyes for a second, then gives him a small smile. “I think that’s fine.”

***

When he was eighteen and a giant arse, the first thing Stuart had done after asking his teacher out for a drink had been tell Don (who, of course, had been Scripps at the time), which is what makes the fact that whatever it is that he and Tom are doing now has been going on for a month without anyone else knowing about it, feel all the more different.

He’s hesitant to call it a relationship, firstly because he’s never had one that hasn’t ended in heartbreak or bitterness or sheer indifference or some bizarre combination of the three, and secondly because he isn’t sure what the etiquette for going out with your former teacher that you’ve been hung up on for twelve years is. So, even though he’s seen Tom more often than he’s seen any official girlfriend for the past month and found, to his own surprise, that he’s not likely to get tired of it any time soon, he’s trying not to go too heavy on the labels.

It’s on a Monday afternoon that the question pops up, when he goes to pick up Tom at the studio after he’s done shooting. He’s waiting outside with Violet, and she stares him down with a poisonous look as he gets out of the car.

“I’m usually the one who gives you rides,” she tells Tom, for the most part ignoring Stuart’s wave, “I’m not sure how I feel about your boyfriend trying to steal my job.”

Stuart raises his eyebrows at Tom, who gives him a confused half-smile, but does not say anything.

“God, I don’t like you two,” she adds, then waves her hand dismissively. “Tom, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she turns to Stuart, gives him a nod that looks painfully aggressive, “Mr. Dakin, it’s always a pleasure,” and again, she walks away before he can edge a word in.

“I don’t think she likes me very much,” he tells Tom as they walk back towards the car. It’s not that it bugs him. It’s that Tom doesn’t have very many friends, and it’s frustrating that one of the few he has is resisting his charm.

“She doesn’t not like you,” Tom replies while getting on the passenger seat, his cane behind him. “I think she’s just protective.”

“Could have fooled me,” Stuart mutters once he starts pulling out into the traffic. He drives for a few minutes in silence, then, because the word has been burning on his skin since he’s heard it, he adds, carefully, “She said I was your boyfriend.”

In the corner of his eye, he can see Tom stiffen. “I try not to get my own relationship updates from Violet,” he says, his voice devoid of colour, “Don’t mind her too much,”

Stuart does not mind her, exactly, and it’s not like he’s ever been one to care too much about labels, or relationships. But there is something thrilling and exciting about the idea of defining his thing with Tom, giving it a name so that it can’t escape.

“Am I, though?” He presses on, not even sure what answer he’s looking for. “Your boyfriend?”

Tom is quiet next to him. When Stuart throws him a glance, he’s tiredly rubbing his forehead with his hand, his neck red.

“I don’t -” he says eventually, “I don’t love the word boyfriend.”

Suddenly, a single flare of annoyance goes up Stuart’s stomach. No, not annoyance, exactly. But bitterness. If he was more sentimental, he’d almost say disappointment.

“What? Too clichè?”

“Not clichè, just…” Tom sounds tired. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter to you?”

Maybe because he’s always been hyper-aware of Tom, even when he was younger, obsessed with getting him to react to whatever he said, but Stuart doesn’t miss the way his breath catches in his throat.

“I want things to be easy,” he says, slowly. “I don’t want -” he stops abruptly, as if he’s changed his mind on what to say next. “I don’t want us to commit to something we aren’t sure about.”

When it comes to the point, Tom is still a miserable liar, but for now, Stuart doesn’t push it.

***

He meets up with Don at a pub the day after, which is nice, because as much as he appreciates dinner with him and Posner (no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to make the names switch in his mind), being around two people who are so openly in love gets nauseating after a while. He gets there late, because at the last minute, he’d found himself unwilling to abandon Tom’s bed, which means that when he arrives Don is already halfway through a pint, and condescendingly raises his eyebrows at him.

“Sorry,” he says, as he scrambles on the seat next to him at the bar. “I had a thing.”

Don dismisses him with a wave. “It’s fine, it’s not like it’s the first time you blow me off for one of your girlfriends.”

Stuart says nothing, waves to the cashier instead.

“How’s Pos?” He asks, as a freshly spilled pint is deposited in front of him.

“Fine,” Don says, and if he notices anything suspicious with his behaviour, he’s kind enough not to say it. “Got a big exam coming up, but other than that, he’s good. Actually, on that note,” he adds after a moment of consideration, “if you want to come over for dinner tomorrow, you can give your insufferable opinion on my next article. It’s about Keats.”

Normally, he would. But Thursday is Tom’s day off, which means that they’ve un-spokenly made a tradition of having an actual, nice date on Wednesday night. The kind of stuff that Stuart usually hates. He’s fucked, he knows that.

“Can’t tomorrow,” he says. “Got a thing.”

Don raises his eyebrows, a half-amused expression on his face. “That new girlfriend’s really got you on a leash, doesn’t she?”

Oh, fuck it. Fuck it. “Not a girlfriend,” he mutters, taking a sip of his beer, mostly to make himself look casual.

“Shit,” Don says, giving Stuart a long look like he’s evaluating him, “boyfriend?”

Stuart gestures with his pint in vague agreement.

“Thought you said men weren’t worth the hassle.”

He has said that, that’s true. Men were fine for the occasional shag, but he’s a goddamn tax lawyer, and having a boyfriend rather than a girlfriend is exactly the kind of thing that would raise more than a few eyebrows at his firm. It’s not like he usually cares either way.

“That’s true, usually,” he says slowly. “Anyway, I’m not even sure he’s my boyfriend. He’s…” Sad. Scared. Possibly traumatised. “-insecure.”

He sees the moment the realisation dawns on Don, his eyebrows knitting together and his mouth opening in amusement and surprise in equal parts.

“Shit!” He says, loudly. “You are shagging Irwin!”

There, the secret’s out. He’s shagging Irwin. Except, not really. Not just.

“We aren’t shagging,” he says, faster than it needs be. Don raises his eyebrows at him. “I mean, we are shagging, and let me tell you, it’s pretty-”

“Stop right there,” Don raises his hands, “I’m not a repressed eighteen year old who needs to live vicariously through your sex life anymore. Please do not tell me about the sex.”

Stuart can’t help but smile. “Anyway,” he says with a huff. “We are actually going out. Have been since pub night.”

“You bastard!” Don laughs. “You said nothing happened!”

“Well, nothing happened that night,” Stuart says, feeling like he owes Don at least a bit of an explanation. “But then I dropped by his house five days later and, you know how it is.”

“You bastard,” Don repeats, “I can’t believe you went a whole month without telling me.”

“I didn’t want to shock you,” Stuart says, because no matter what, he is still a little shit. “You know, with your happy domestic life, and everything.”

“Fuck off,” Don shakes his head, taking another sip from his pint. He breathes out a half-laugh. “Why now?” He asks. “Why are you telling me now?”

That’s a good fucking question, and Stuart’s not sure what the answer is. Except, well, Don is the one who started this whole chain of events.

“I guess I just wanted to say thanks,” he says slowly, “for inviting him to pub night.” He’s not sure what else he could add that doesn’t make him feel like a giant sap, so he drinks his beer instead.

“Careful,” Don warns him, “I’m almost tempted of accusing you of having emotions.”

“Oh, shut up.”

***

January, 1996

In hindsight, Tom is not even sure he can remember how it starts, because before he realises they’re both shouting and Stuart’s out of the door too quickly for Tom to follow. It’s certainly fueled by the fact that they’ve barely been able to see each other during the Christmas holidays, Stuart split between Rachel and Iona and his family back in Sheffield, and Tom between his sad boxing day dinner with his sister and the Christmas special that Violet’s managed to book him at the last minute, so when they finally meet again the weight of expectations is heavy above them, a bomb threatening to go off at any time.

It was bound to happen, eventually, because deep down they’re both stubborn assholes with abrasive personalities, but that doesn’t make it any easier when it actually does. They’ve fought before, of course, half-hearted arguments born from, then again, being stubborn assholes with abrasive personalities, but never like this, with shouting and sharp words and slamming doors. The bomb goes off and leaves Tom in a daze, the ringing still in his ears even days later, accentuated by the utter silence on Stuart’s part.

It’s fine, Tom tells himself. It was too good, anyway.

***

“Just wondering for how long you’re planning to sulk on our couch?” Don asks on Thursday morning, after Stuart crashed their flat painfully drunk the night before, two days after his fight with Tom. With the exception of the chaos of the Christmas holidays, he is pretty sure this is the first Thursday since October that he doesn’t wake up next to Tom. Stuart does know he’s being pathetic, thank you very much, and fuck Tom for driving him to this.

“I’ve got Iona tomorrow night, so kick me out then,” he mumbles, squishing his face into a pillow. He genuinely can’t remember the last time he had a hangover so fierce.

“Here,” Posner’s voice says, and when he dares to open his eyes, he finds him handing him a glass of water and a white tablet.

Stuart mutters a thank you, downs the tablet and then the entire glass in a single gulp. He’s very aware of Don and Pos’s concerned looks on him, but he ignores them in favor of staring at his glass. If he tries hard enough, it’s almost interesting.

“Right, I need to be at the paper in less than an hour,” Don says. Why is he shouting? No, wait he isn’t. Stuart’s just hangover. “So I’m leaving. Do try to at least be functioning by the time I get back?”

“Fuck you,” Stuart hisses, and hides his face in the pillow again.

***

Don’s fingers hover over the phone-dial, wondering if he’s overplaying his powers. Which is a valid concern, but he doesn’t think he can deal with heartbroken Stuart showing up at his door in the middle of the night again. He sighs, and dials up the number.

There is a click on the other side, and then an energetic female voice, “Violet Harcourt, new talents manager, how can I help you?”

“Uhm, it’s Donald. Scripps.”

Harcourt’s voice drops an octave on the other side of the line. “Hey, Scripps. What’s up?”

Don kind of wants to laugh. It’s not that he and Irwin’s agents are friends, but they’ve shared the occasional phone-call since that fateful interview in October, mainly to complain about whatever bullshit Irwin and Stuart were pulling. It’s more of a secret support group.

“Listen, Stuart’s currently hangover in my living room,” he says, getting straight to the point. “He showed up shitfaced drunk last night and has been in a pissy mood since, so I figured it had something to do with Irwin.”

There’s a long sigh on the other side of the line. “Yeah, Tom’s been fucking insufferable for a couple of days, but he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Jesus,” Don mutters, because of course it’s about Irwin. “Well, Stu’s miserable.”

“Yes, Tom too,” Harcourt says matter-of-factly, “Yesterday was supposedly date night, but then Dakin wasn’t at Tom’s house this morning, and when I asked Tom just gave me one of those looks like he’d rather be skinned alive than answer the question.”

Don has been dealing with this since high school. He’s so tired.

“Right, I’ll phone David and tell him to try and pry something out of Stuart,” he says. “See if he can get him to reason it out or something.”

“I’m getting lunch with Tom later, I’ll bring it up.” Harcourt sounds as tired as Don feels. “Speaking of lunch, do you want to get dinner sometime?” She pipes up. “You and your partner. I’ll bring my girlfriend, and we can get drunk and complain about this ridiculous charade.”

Don laughs. “That sounds… good, actually.”

"Great," she says. "I'll call. And, good luck."

"You too," Don sighs, but he's pretty sure she's already hung up. Well, definitely goes straight to the point, this one.

Don rubs his hands over his eyes, trying to brush away the tiredness. Just this one, he tells himself. Help them sort this one out, and then, hopefully, it will be done.

He sighs, and rings home.

***

Violet is quiet as they walk to their usual restaurant, but it’s the kind of quiet that Tom’s learned to recognise as the silence that comes before she snaps at him about something, usually his personal life. He thought he’d escaped it this morning, when she didn’t remark on Stuart’s absence, but her silence has been getting more and more ominous since she got that phone-call this morning. Tom knows how this will go: they’ll get to the restaurant, do small talk while they order, and as she takes her first forkful of pasta, she’ll start giving him whatever sermon she’s been mentally rehearsing for hours. It’s not that Tom doesn’t appreciate her friendship, but his fight with Stuart is still a bleeding wound, and he can’t help but think that her bothering him about it is only going to make it worse.

So, when she finally gives him a look and asks, over a bowl of pasta, if he’s fought with Stuart, he doesn’t reply.

“Alright,” she sighs, putting her fork down. “Scripps called earlier. Said Dakin’s been miserably hogging his couch since last night.”

That hurts. This is hard enough without thinking about how Stuart feels, without letting the doubt that maybe, just maybe, there is away forward for them flow back in.

“What the fuck happened, Tom?”

He could just not answer, let the matter drop, God knows he’s done it before. Or he could lie, slither his way out of this conversation, pretend this is Hitler invading Poland and make up some clever new take that makes Poland sound victorious.

But when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a tired, “It wasn’t going to last anyway.”

Violet doesn’t reply, just gazes at him attentively. It reminds him of the time he first told her about Stuart and Hector and Cutler’s, six years ago. She’d just listened to the whole tale in silence, said, “Christ, that explains so much about why you’re the way you are,” and then held his hand, in silence.

It’s her stillness that nudges him to talk.

“We had a fight,” he says slowly, “Not sure how it started. But I said some things, and he said some things, and I think – I don’t think we can get back from that.”

“Fighting is normal,” her tone is simple, straightforward, like she’s explaining something to a child. “You’re stubborn, but too smart not to know that.”

“But that’s not what this is about, is it?” Tom’s tone rises without him realising it. Violet’s eyebrows flicker. “This was madness from the beginning, and this was just what I needed to remind me of that.”

Because of course it was madness. Of course trying to make this work out, twelve years later, was an insane idea. Not even that, it had been insane when he was a lost twenty-five year old.

“What did you say to each other? That scared you so much?” Her tone is snappish, heated.

 “Does it matter?” he asks, louder than he should. “I mean, he’s got a child, for Christ’s sake, how is he going explain to her mother that he’s, what?-” He’s losing himself in too many words, he knows that. Too many fucking explanations for any of them to be true. But nonetheless, he continues “-Dating a man, older than him, who’s in a wheelchair? Please, explain to me how-”

“Bullshit,” she cuts him off. “This is bullshit, Tom, and you know it. You’re scared, aren’t you?”

He recalls Stuart’s voice, heated, saying, twelve years, and you’re still fucking scared of me.

“I’m thinking realistically,” Tom argues, but his voice is less steady than he wants it to be. “There is no world in which we would work, Violet. We have careers, we have lives, that are just not compatible-”

“Don’t you fucking debate your way out of this like it’s the Japanese at Pearl Harbour, I know all of your goddamn tricks-”

“Then explain to me how to make this work! Since you’re oh so knowing.”

Violet shakes her head, runs her hands over her face.

“Stop giving me excuses, Tom. Just… stop.” She sounds almost as tired as Tom feels, and something in her voice just makes him crack. He’s split open.

“I can’t do this,” he exhales. “I can’t ask him to stick by me, not when I’m…” he opens his arms, defeated. Not when I am everything that I am.

“You can’t make his decisions for him,” Violet says, almost gently.

“What else am I going to do?”

“What we all do,” she says softly. “You trust him, and hope for the best.”

***

When Stuart wakes up again, his headache having relatively subsided, he finds Posner curled up on a near armchair, scribbling frantically on pages and pages of notes all around him.

“Hey, Pos,” he mutters.

Posner looks up, gives him a short look before going back to his notes. “You look like shit,” he says flatly.

“I miss the time when you were in love in with me, you were much nicer to me then.”

“You were more of an ass to me, when I was in love with you.” His tone still flat.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Posner underlines something heavily on his notes, then asks, “What happened with Irwin?”

“Had a fight,” Stuart sighs. “I think I fucked it, Pos.”

He’s the one who walked away, because at the time, it had been like the best thing to do, before he did anything stupid, before he embarrassed himself. But now he wonders.

“I can’t stand it,” he adds after a moment, “how he’s so fucking – careful. So scared of admitting what he wants.”

“What do you want?” Posner asks, looking up from his notes.

“What?”

“I mean,” Posner shrugs, “did you just want a shag to get Irwin out of your system? Or do you actually care?”

“What?” Stuart asks again, because the question seems way too stupid for Posner. “No, of course I care, I thought I’d made that obvious?”

“So, what you want,” Posner says slowly, as if he’s talking to a child, “is an actual relationship. With Irwin.”

“I mean, I guess so, no need to sound so fucking surprised,” Stuart rebuts.

“Tell me more,” Posner ignores him. “Tell me about why you want a relationship with Irwin.”

“What is this, fucking therapy?” Stuart snaps, but Posner’s gaze is relentless. Stuart looks down at the blanket that Don must have thrown on him, it’s green tartan plaid, stupidly cosy. When he looks up, Posner’s still looking at him sharply. “I like him, Pos,” he admits eventually, and it feels like a bigger confession than it actually is. Slowly, he continues. “I like that I can talk to him for hours without getting bored. I like that he can keep me on my toes with any bullshit argument he pulls out of his ass. Hell, I even like that he’s too awkward to go through any social interaction without blushing and I like his stupid oversized suits.”

When he stops talking, there’s a smirk on Posner’s face. “I wish Don had heard that,” he says. “That was really poetic.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Listen, jokes apart,” Posner continues, “my point is, have you told him any of this?”

Of course he hasn’t. But he’d figured Tom must know, because he’s a clever man, because he’s not been very secretive about it either.

“He knows,” he tells Posner.

“Does he?” Posner’s eyebrows shoot up. “Just checking, this is the same man that was too scared to even go and talk to you at pub night?”

“That’s different, he was-” anxious, is what he wants to say, but the truth is that that doesn’t hold up, because Stuart knows Tom well enough to know that anxious is his constant frame of mind. Constantly tiring himself out to satisfy his own expectations, constantly trying to have a strong grip over himself, constantly scared of showing any cracks in the armour. But that’s where the problem lies, in the end, in Tom being constantly scared of flying too close to the sun. “I can’t do it all, Pos,” he admits, looking down. “I can’t go round chasing him constantly, I did that enough when I was eighteen.”

“That’s true,” Posner concedes. “But if you don’t tell him what you want, how can you blame him for not offering it to you?”

It’s frustrating, how Posner presents all of this as if it was a given.

“When did you become so wise?”

“When did you become someone who actually feels real romantic attraction? I don’t know, we all grow up.”

Stuart snickers. “And a smart-ass, too. Don’s a terrible influence.”

“I wonder who he gets it from,” Posner says, returning to his notes. “Just talk to him, Stuart, or I swear to God, I’ll never speak to you again.”

***

The threat seems to be idle, because Posner makes no effort to kick him out of his house and just ignores him for most of the day after that, too busy with his lecture notes. Stuart calls in sick for work, hours too late, and spends the rest of the morning nursing his hangover and feeling sorry for himself, so that when around 4PM the doorbell rings, he’s grateful for whatever distraction that might entice. Except, when Posner opens the door to reveal Tom standing in the doorway, it takes him physical effort not to walk out of the room and hide in a cupboard, and he only manages it because he likes to act like he has dignity.

“What-” he stammers, standing up like his arse is on fire, “what are you doing here?”

“I think Don let him know where you were,” Posner explains. He gives Tom a long look, then says, “Right, I’m going to go for a walk, you have an hour to sort yourselves out.” He grabs his coat, and makes for the door. “And please,” he adds before he leaves, “do not have sex in my living room. Or my bedroom. Or anywhere in my house, really,” which, as embarrassing as it is, is worth it for the way Tom’s face goes significantly red.

He stands awkwardly in front of the door after Posner leaves, leaning heavily on his cane, lips pursed like he’s trying hard not to talk. His left leg is shaking, almost imperceptibly, but by this point Stuart has been around him for long enough to know that that’s a sign he shouldn’t be standing. Tom makes no move to sit down.

“Don called you?” Stuart asks, before the silence becomes unbearable.

“He called Violet,” Tom replies. Then he adds, almost as if he’s apologizing, “I think they talk sometimes.”

“What a horrifying thought.”

“I keep trying not to dwell on it,” Tom smiles a little, and Stuart feels the corner of his own mouth starting to rise in response. Suddenly, it’s hard to remember everything he talked about with Posner, while he’s torn between walking out and slamming the door in Tom’s face, and pinning him against the wall and do exactly what Posner asked him not to do. Tom sighs. “Listen, Stuart-”

“No, wait,” Stuart cuts him off, forcing himself to swallow down pride and anger, the taste bitter in his throat. “I have something to say, and I’m going to speak without euphemisms or poems or metaphors, and after I’ve done that you can say whatever you came here to say. But this is something you need to take into account.”

“Okay,” Tom says, voice so low that Stuart almost doesn’t hear him.

“Okay,” Stuart repeats, taking a deep breath. Okay. “Fuck.” This would be so much easier in the words of Auden or Ginsberg, or hell, even fucking Byron. Anyone but himself. “I would have fucked it, you know,” he blurts out eventually. “If we’d gone out when I first asked you to. I would have pretended it was meaningless sex, and gone off to have a sexual crisis to the side, and would have realised too late how much I’d lost. So I’m- fuck.” He looks away from Tom, blue eyes piercing into him, exhales heavily. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m glad that didn’t happen. Because I want something with you, I want an actual relationship, not this fucking waltz around each other we’ve been doing for twelve years.”  He sighs. “If that’s what you want, too, because chasing after a ghost was fun when I was eighteen, but I can’t do it anymore. I’m tired.”

Tom is looking at him, eyes wide, chest rising with shallow breaths. It’s a face Stuart knows, a face he remembers so well, the face of a man with nowhere left to run. Maybe nothing’s really changed, after all.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Tom asks, his voice like broken glass.

“Because Posner pointed out to me that I couldn’t really get mad at you for not calling me your boyfriend if I didn’t tell you that was what I wanted,” Stuart blurts out. He doesn’t think he’s had a conversation this deeply unplanned in years. “So there you go, I said it. You can choose what to do with it.”

Tom looks away from him, shaking his head ever so slightly. “You think I don’t want that?” He exhales, still looking away. “You were right,” he says after a second. “I am scared.”

“Why?”

“Habit, I think,” Tom says, his voice clear, like the answer is so simple. “But you are right,” he adds, louder this time. “I am tired too.”

“So?” Stuart swallows, because he cannot see where Tom is going with this.

“So let’s try it,” still the same, frustrating tone. “That’s what I’d come here to say.”

Despite himself, Stuart laughs. Of course it fucking was.

“You are a bastard,” he says, but he’s smiling. “You made me do this whole declaration and you were already going to-”

“I wasn’t sure I’d manage it, to be honest.”

Bastard.

“Look,” Tom adds, quickly. “I spent twelve years trying to forget you, to pretend that I didn’t want you. But I’m done.” His voice sounds strained, and only then does Stuart realise just how much admitting any of this is costing him. “So if you want to try this, then let’s do it.”

“You bastard,” Stuart tells him, giving up on containing a smile. Then, firmly, “If that’s okay, I’m going to kiss you now.”

Tom’s nod is all the answer he needs, and soon he’s filling the distance between them and finally, finally kissing him, arms around his back and chest against his chest, desperate to be as close as he can. He feels Tom’s heart beating hard against his own ribcage, like the wings of a terrified bird, but Tom doesn’t pull back, he kisses him more deeply instead, and soon they’re half descending half falling to the floor in an excited mess of limbs. Tom moans against his lips, and Stuart is really about to just undress on the fucking floor, until he remembers Posner’s parting words.

“Wait,” he exhales against Tom’s lips, “Fuck. Posner asked us not to fuck in his house.”

Tom shuts his eyes like he’s only just remembered. He’s taking long, uneven breaths. “Do we care?” He asks.

Normally, Stuart wouldn’t. But really, he’s already bothered Posner and Don enough today, and he reckons he probably owes them. With a groan, he tells Tom that.

“Your house is closer,” Tom replies, still breathless, slowly propping himself up on one elbow.

The idea is terribly tempting, but there is something that’s nagging Stuart about it. Every single relationship he’s had before, in the end, was always just a build-up to sex. But this – it feels like it should be more than that.

“I could take you out for dinner first, since we skipped it yesterday,” he says, amazed at his own words.

Tom stills, looking at him with bright eyes.

“Yes,” he smiles. “We have time.”

***

May, 1996

It’s a Thursday again when he meets Stuart’s daughter, on one of the only times a year he’s free from working with Violet, who’s on holiday with Hannah and hasn’t taken any of his calls in a week. Fair enough, Tom thinks, but this means that differently from usual he spends the night at Stuart’s house, so he has nowhere to run when they get woken up by a panicked voice-mail from Rachel, saying that she’s taking Iona over and can he please keep her for the day.

“I can go,” Tom says, as both he and Stuart scramble for their clothes. “I’ll catch a cab.”

“No, stay,” Stuart’s voice comes through heavily. He’s stopped halfway through turning over his shirt, the same from last night, to look at him. Tom’s heart contracts uncomfortably. “If you want, that is.”

Weirdly enough, he finds that he does. Well, not really, the sole idea is terrifying, but he’s been getting a little better at taking risks. That, and Stuart adores Iona. It’s important to him.

“I’ll go if it’s easier,” he says. “But-”

“I’d like you to stay,” Stuart interrupts him, eyes digging into him.

Tom breathes out an “Okay,” and goes back to searching for his clothes.

Everything Tom knows about Iona, he’s gleaned from Stuart bringing it up at more or less unexpected times: she’s bright for her age, she turned seven in March, she likes horses and bats and obscure ancient Egyptian myths, and she’s going through a phase where she wants to be a rheumatologist, partly because her aunt is one and partly because Stuart once read out loud to her a shiny book that mentioned Tutankhamun’s limp. Her mother Rachel, on the other hand, is also very bright, another Oxford graduate, and they met while they briefly worked at the same firm eight years ago. She’s the one who left Stuart, not too long after Iona was born because, in Stuart’s words, “she realised she had better to do than be stuck with him her whole life”. Still, Stuart doesn’t seem to be holding any grudges, and actually likes her well enough, so Tom supposes it’s fine.

When she gets there, her red hair is tied into a perfectly tight bun, which seems to fit well with her perfectly ironed suit.

“Sorry I didn’t give you any warning,” she says coming in, a little girl trailing behind her, “but I got called in on an emergency, and I know you’ve been getting Thursdays off-” she freezes mid-sentence when she sees Tom in the living room.

“Rachel, this is Tom,” Stuart says from the door, picking up Iona and giving her a bright smile. “I’ve told you about him.”

Her eyes go wide for a second, as realisation dawns in, but she recovers swiftly, and extends her hand.

“Of course,” she says. “I’m Rachel.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tom breathes out, and then has to go through the awkward process of shifting his cane to his left hand so that he can shake hers with his right. To her eternal credit, if she’s phased by any of this, she doesn’t show it.

“Sorry to barge in like this,” she tells Tom. “If we are interrupting, we can always-”

“It’s fine, Rachel,” Stuart cuts her off. “We are going to be just fine, aren’t we?” He asks Iona, who’s still perched up on his hip.

“Do you have cookies?” She asks.

“I always do, Monkey.”

“Then yes.”

He shrugs at Rachel, as if to say, good enough. He’s smiling as bright as Tom’s ever seen him.

“Right,” Rachel says. “I will see you tonight, love,” and then she says something that Tom can’t quite make out, until he remembers that Stuart’s mentioned she speaks Gaelic, and she’s been teaching Iona, who replies in equally incomprehensible sounds. Rachel throws Stuart a last, questioning glance, but eventually leaves with a nod, carefully avoiding Tom’s gaze, which is a blessing by itself.

For a moment, silence falls, and Tom thinks that he might just be able to survive this, and then Iona asks, mumbling like she’s trying hard not to let Tom hear, “Who is the sad man?”

Stuart snorts. “His name is Tom,” he says, taking a few steps towards him, still holding Iona in his arms, “and he’s not that sad, that’s just his face. He’s my boyfriend, so don’t scare him.”

Tom’s face goes on fire. He looks over at Stuart, but he’s staring at Iona attentively, an edge of tension in his jaw, and Tom can tell that even if he said the words nonchalantly, he’s nervous. Iona looks at Tom, eyes narrowed.

“So both you and Mum have a boyfriend, now?” She asks.

“Yes,” Stuart says, firmly enough to fool a child but not enough to fool Tom. “But Tom’s much nicer than Mum’s boyfriend.”

“Why do you have a cane?” She asks abruptly, still not looking away from him.

There is something about her gaze, the intensity of it that’s so clearly Stuart’s, that Tom shifts, uncomfortably. “I had an accident,” he says slowly, doing his best to speak the way he would to any adult, “I need it to walk well.”

“Like Tutankhamun?” She says, her eyes widening.

His eyes cross with Stuart’s for a second, and he gives an imperceptible nod.

“Yes?” Tom replies, his tone more questioning than he’d like it to be, which seems to be the right answer, because Iona’s eyes widen again.

“That’s so cool,” she whispers, and then her face scrunches up and she adds, apparently classifying Tom as a non-threat, “can I have cookies now?”

Stuart laughs, puts her down. “Wash your hands first, you monkey,” he tells her, and she diligently runs towards the bathroom, not sparing either of them a second glance.

“Well, I’d say she likes you,” Stuart says, nudging Tom’s elbow. “Apparently when she met Rachel’s boyfriend she said he looked like Rumpelstiltskin, so I reckon you are doing considerably better.”

“You told her I was your boyfriend.”

Stuart shrugs. “She was going to find out, eventually,” he says, nonchalantly, but at Tom’s concerned expression his eyebrows knit together and his voice turns soft. “Listen, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I just wanted you to meet her. I can call you a cab or-”

“I’ll stay,” Tom cuts him off, surprised by his own daring. Six months ago, he would have jumped at the opportunity to avoid confrontation with Stuart’s daughter, to avoid admitting just how real their relationship is becoming. But he supposes that they’re both learning.

***

Tom takes the chance to go through Stuart’s books, pulls out everything he can find on Mary Tudor and makes half-hearted notes. By early afternoon, after Stuart has given up on cooking properly and ordered them all pizza and Iona has refused to go for a nap, they join Tom in the living room, and Stuart reads out loud to her as they are settled on the sofa.

Tom listens with half an ear, distracted from his work by Stuart’s soft voice. He almost expected the book to be some insufferable educational bullshit about the Renaissance or the Middle Ages, but instead it’s about a princess with a sword and a pet dragon. Tom thinks there might also be a giant flying goldfish involved, but he’s not really sure about how it fits into the mix.

“I think that’s going to be it for a while, monkey,” Stuart says after at least a couple of hours. “My voice is running out.”

“But she was just about to find the crystal sword!” Iona says, and Tom could swear that her pout is exactly the same as Stuart’s, and he knows that Stuart’s fucked.

“I know, monkey, but-” Stuart stumbles, and looks up at Tom like he’s just had a brilliant idea. “Tom, you’re a TV presenter. You can enunciate. Mind taking over?”

Tom freezes over his books, and he’s almost about to come up with an excuse, any excuse, when he sees Stuart’s pout, exactly the same as Iona’s, and knows he’s fucked.

“Okay,” he exhales painfully, but when Stuart and Iona offer him twin smiles, warmth floods through his chest.

Stuart hands him the book, leaning over his armchair as he does. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice soft, and the warmth envelops him.

***

“Are you really on TV?” Iona interrupts him after a while, when the flying goldfish has just made another appearance.

“Yes,” Tom nods, nervously running a hand through his hair. There is a difference between reading to someone and actually speaking to them, and he’s not an expert at crossing over the line.

“What do you do?”

“I… I talk about history.”

“And says a lot of bad words while doing it,” Stuart pipes up, unapologetically raising an eyebrow in Tom’s direction. “So you can’t watch his programme until you are eighteen, and that’s a rule. I know,” he adds when Iona sulks, “it’s a shame, because it’s rather good.”

When Tom looks up at Stuart, he finds him staring back, unguarded, the fondness on his face so pure that Tom falls in love a little bit more.

***

September 1999

They’re having breakfast in their new home when they get the news. They’ve been living together for a few months now, a decision that they told each other was born out of practicality (‘we’re always at each other’s place all the time anyway, might as well save on rent’) even though they both knew from the start that that was just an excuse to mask the fact they were just too proud to admit they both wanted it.

Tom’s phone goes off just as Stuart finishes his tea, ready to dash to work. Tom, who doesn’t shoot on Fridays unless they have to work on location, kisses him softly on the cheek and tells him to go before he replies, so Stuart doesn’t actually catch any of the conversation. When he eventually makes it home, in the late afternoon, he finds that Tom has been holed up in his study for most of the day, cold soup left abandoned on the desk which is otherwise covered exclusively in books, Tom hunched all over them. When he looks up at the sound of the door opening, Stuart can see small lines of worry around his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, slowly, because he’s seen Tom like this before. When he submerges himself in work like this, to the point that he forgets to eat, it’s usually because he’s trying to drown out whatever’s worrying him. “You alright?”

Tom looks at him, his eyes unfocused. He taps his fingers against the table.

“It was Helen, this morning,” he says slowly. Stuart has never met Tom’s sister, which is unsurprising, considering even Tom barely talks to her. Her call, with no apparent reason, can’t have been good news. “My father’s dead. Had an aneurysm.” Tom finishes, and Stuart’s heart sinks. Tom doesn’t talk much about his family, but Stuart knows the gist: when he was seventeen, his parents found him kissing a boy, and his father gave him an ultimatum: go to therapy, or leave their house. And Tom, still filled with the confidence of a future Oxbridge candidate, had packed up and left.

Stuart isn’t a big fan of Tom’s parents, but he supposes Tom’s feelings on the matter are rather more complicated.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, and rushes over to Tom, squeezing his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

Somehow, Tom has shifted in his chair, so that his face is hidden in Stuart’s chest. Stuart doesn’t mind.

“It’s fine,” he says. “We hadn’t talked in over twenty years.”

“You could have called me,” Stuart says, gently rubbing his back.

“I wanted…” Tom mutters, still against his shirt, “I wanted some time to think this through.”

Stuart takes a single step back, but cups his hands around Tom’s neck.

“Have you eaten anything?” He asks. “Come on,” he adds, when Tom doesn’t reply. “we have yesterday’s leftovers, and then we can talk if you want.”

***

Stuart heats up yesterday’s chicken leftovers, which is only slightly less pathetic than the cold soup, and then makes Tom tea and sits with him quietly, waiting. He’s not nearly as good as Don is at this, but he’s been with Tom for long enough to know that he needs time to think through his emotions, so he waits. Eventually, a couple of hours after Stuart’s gotten back, Tom starts talking, holding his second cup of tea.

“The funeral is on Sunday,” he says, “Helen asked if I was going to go.”

“Do you want to go?” Stuart asks, because in his opinion Tom’s father could very well go fuck himself, but he supposes it’s not his decision.

“I’m trying to tell myself that it’s a bad idea,” he says. “But I think so.”

Stuart would have been happier if Tom had said no, but he nods. “I’ll come with you, if you want,” he offers, slowly.

Tom shakes his head. “My mother will be there,” he says. “I don’t want to cause more of a scene than I already will.”

Frustration flares through Stuart, hot and burning. Desperately, he wants to tell Tom not to go, that he deserves better than this, but he knows too well that Tom’s too proud to accept not going as an outcome, now that he’s made up his mind.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” is what he says instead.

Tom looks away from him, focusing on his mug.

“Come on,” Stuart insists, “you know I’m right about this one.”

“I’ll ask Violet,” Tom concedes, a small smile opening on his face when he looks up at Stuart.

***

Helen comes to pick them up at the train station, and she exchanges glacial hellos with Violet, who’s always been very vocal about her dislike of Tom’s family, but agreed with no hesitation when he asked her to accompany him, which is lucky because on top of it all, today turns out to be a wheelchair day.

“It’s good that you came,” Helen tells him as she drives him to the church. “I know you and Dad had your problems, but-”

Tom scoffs. If Stuart was here, he’d probably have snapped at that, Tom can almost hear him saying “that’s an interesting oxymoron for kicking him out of his house at seventeen”. In the back, Violet clicks her tongue but remains quiet. She doesn’t speak to her family either, Tom remembers. Hasn’t since she moved in with Hannah.

“Anyway,” Helen presses forward, maybe realising her mistake, “Mum will be happy to see you.”

“If she even recognises me,” Tom says, colourless.

“She watches your programme, you know? Every week, no fault.”

Tom swallows. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“I just don’t want you to think that she’s spent the last twenty years pretending you don’t exist.”

Tom isn’t actually sure that makes him feel any better, but he nods.

***

He and Violet end up sitting at the back of the church, mainly because his mother is sitting at the front, and Tom isn’t ready to see her just yet. They part with Helen at the door, and Violet sighs as soon as she’s out of earshot.

“Bet you guys got along really well, as kids,” she says blandly, like she’s remarking on the weather.

“Oh, shut up,” Tom sighs, but he can tell she’s nervous, anxiously tapping her fingers against her thigh.

“Come on, I want to sit down.” She wheels him in, settles his chair in the inside aisle, next to her seat. From there, he has a perfect view of the polished black coffin, and he finds himself being incredibly glad that they didn’t go for an open casket. There is flowers, but not too many, because while his father was a generally well-liked man, he was never a particularly loved one.

The ceremony is uninteresting, the pastor seemingly bored with what must be a regular occurrence to him and of course, there is the fact that Tom’s family was never religious, not really, just the classic Christmas-and-Easter-service family. Helen does do her best to make the service more than simple routine, and goes up to the altar to read Do not go gentle into that good night. A puncture of annoyance pricks Tom and he exchanges a silent glance with Violet, both of them thinking, bit of an obvious choice, isn’t it? If Stuart was here, he would have said it out loud.

People leave quickly after the service, no one affected enough to want to stay more than is polite. Helen said that they won’t do a procession to the cemetery, it will be just her and her husband and their mother burying him, and of course Tom, if he wants to come. She hasn’t openly invited Violet, but there was an implication that she wasn’t going to wheel Tom around while they put their father into the ground, so he assumes she’s invited too.

“Do you want to go say goodbye?” Violet asks softly, as people slowly trickle out of the church.

“My mother’s at the front.”

“You’re going to have to talk to her at some point.”

Tom sighs, and wheels himself up to the coffin, but the rustling of clothes behind him tells him that Violet’s following.

What surprises him, once he gets to the top of the aisle, is that it’s just a coffin. It’s strange to think that his father is there, his hair probably completely grey. Tom wonders if he’d put on more weight with age, or lost any. Tom remembers that he would argue with his father for hours at a time, until his voice cracked, and that when he was angry he’d point a thin finger accusingly at him. His father had never actually hit him, but when he was younger Tom would jump every time he raised that thin index finger, which is now lying in the coffin, with the rest of his father’s body.

He’s not sure what the right course of action for this is, never having had enough friends to have any funerals to go to. He touches the coffin cautiously, almost expecting it to burn his hands and being surprised when it’s just smooth, cold wood. He’s in mourning, he realises, grief wrapping around his chest and taking his breath away, but if it’s his father he’s mourning, or the relationship they could’ve had, or the life Tom could’ve had if his father had loved him, he cannot tell. His breath catches as he struggles to breathe at the realisation, his hand shaking where it rests on the coffin.

Gently, a hand touches his shoulder, and he looks up to see Violet looking down at him, her lips pursed.

“I think your mother is here,” she says, her tone carefully even.

Tom inhales deeply, focusing on the weight of Violet’s hand on his shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. When he turns his wheelchair, he finds, standing in front of him, his mother. She has gotten smaller, somehow, wrinkles that Tom doesn’t remember on her face. There are tears at the corners of her eyes.

“Thomas?” she asks, reaching for him, her hand gently cupping his cheek. “My Thomas?”

Any word or argument that he’s prepared in years of not seeing her slips away from his mind at her touch, tears threatening to fall as he takes a deep breath.

“Hey, mum.”

***

While Tom is gone, Stuart tries, fairly unsuccessfully, to keep himself busy. He calls Rachel and Iona, which manages to occupy his mind for about an hour, then tries to work on some reports he is meant to submit in a week, which just ends in him banging his head against his desk and staying there for a good five minutes. He even tries to go for a run, a habit that he’s picked up in the last year or so and he normally finds relaxing, except this time he trips on his own feet and almost falls in front of a moving car, which he takes as a sign he should head back home.

Tom doesn’t call.

Eventually, it’s Stuart who picks up the phone, frustrated, but it’s not Tom’s number that he dials, it’s Don’s. Don, god bless his soul, picks up after a few seconds.

“Stu,” he says, and then, without missing a beat, “what have you done this time?”

“Hey!” Stuart protests. “Maybe I just wanted to hear your sultry tones.”

“First of all,” Don says, fake annoyance betrayed by a huffed laugh, “If you describe my voice as ‘sultry tones’ again, our friendship is over. Second, we both know that since you moved in with Irwin you’ve been too busy being domestic in the weekends to even say hi to your oldest friend.”

“Aw, are you jealous?”

“Yeah, you wish,” Don laughs, and for the first time today, the knot in Stuart’s chest loosens a little.

After a moment, Stuart says, “Actually, I do need some advice.”

“Knew it,” Don says, and Stuart can see the shit-eating grin in his voice. “Right, what is it?”

Stuart fiddles with the telephone cord. “Tom’s dad died this week,” he says eventually.

“Shit,” Don says. “I’m sorry.”

“They didn’t get along, and hadn’t seen each other in years, but Tom’s at the funeral right now, and I’m just – I’m not sure what to do when he gets back?”

“I don’t think there’s much you can do, really.” Don says slowly. He sounds like he’s working out the answer as he’s speaking. “I mean, he’s going to have his feelings on it, and you’re just going to have to stay by him as he works through them.”

Stuart sighs. “Christ, this sucks,” he groans. “All this emotion stuff, you’re better at it than I am.”

“You are better than you give yourself credit for,” Don argues. “You called me because you care about getting it right, which I suppose is what matters.”

“What if I get it wrong, though?” Stuart says, frustrated. “What if I say or do something wrong now, and I hurt him?”

“I don’t know, Stu, I’m not a relationship guru.” Don says. “You apologise, and you learn from it?”

“But-”

“Alright, listen,” Don cuts him off. “You’ve been together for years. You know him better than I do, and you love him. And sure, you’ve never seen him grieving, but that’s what relationships are. You learn more about each other as you go, and you learn to work with it. You’ve been doing it for years, you can continue to do so.”

“Alright,” Stuart says slowly, feeling calmer against every expectation. “How is that book of yours coming out?” He asks after a long moment of silence.

Don snorts. “Very slowly, but it might be getting somewhere. Why?”

“Nothing,” Stuart says. “I just have a feeling it will be rather good.”

***

The burial is a simple affair, the atmosphere sombre but not heart-breaking. Once it’s done, Tom’s mother approaches him, her face more serene than Tom would have expected.

“Shall we take a walk?” She asks him simply, and Tom nods, following her down an avenue surrounded by trees. The ground is not perfectly even, but not to a point that he needs help with his chair, so he keeps up with her easily.

“So, I have seen your show,” she says after a few moments of silence. “I don’t really understand it, but it’s quite good.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Tom says nervously. He realises now, he doesn’t really know what to say to his mother, other than you watched as my father kicked me out of our house, and you did nothing.

She might be thinking the same thing, because after a moment, she says, “I’m sorry, Thomas. I left you alone for too long.”

“You did,” he says. “But I’m not alone, actually.”

She stops walking and turns to look at him, but when she opens her mouth, no words come out.

“My partner and I have been together for almost four years, now,” Tom says, almost enjoying the way her mouth opens in surprise. “Have been living together for six months. His name is Stuart, he’s a lawyer, and we are very happy.”

His mother recovers quickly, her expression of surprise replaced by complete neutrality.

“I’m glad you are not alone,” she says, and she sounds sincere.

“I know,” Tom says, years of bitterness finally making their way out of his mouth, “that you thought I would never be happy if I stayed true to myself, that you thought you did everything you did for my sake. But I’m actually, finally happy, and I did it without you, and you were wrong.”

His mother covers her mouth with one hand, her small figure looking incredibly frail as she lets out a sob.

“I didn’t need to be here, mum,” he continues, “I realise that now. I’m satisfied as I am, and I don’t need you, but-” he shakes his head, and reaches out to take her hand. “I’m here because I’m finally in a place to try to forgive you.”

His mother drops to her knees, in the dirt, wrapping her arms around him.

“Thank you,” she whispers against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

***

Tom is quiet for a while after the funeral. He takes a couple of days off work, and he seems almost in a daze when he gets back from the funeral, and other than mentioning he saw his mother, he doesn’t speak much unless prompted. But he still lets Stuart hold him at night, falling asleep more easily in his arms, and so Stuart holds him, and thanks god that they’re English which means that he can at least make tea and feel like he’s not being completely useless.

It’s been almost a week after the funeral when Tom asks Stuart to come with him to visit his father’s grave and meet his mother and, as delighted as he’s taken aback, Stuart agrees.

It’s a cold autumn morning when they catch the train there, the sun high in the sky doing nothing to contrast the sharpness of the air. They don’t bring any flowers, and Tom remains silent when they stand by his father’s grave, but he holds Stuart’s hand tightly, almost defiantly. When Stuart turns to him he realises that he’s crying, his lips pursed as he clearly tries to hold back a sob.

Stuart leans forward, using his free hand to cup his cheek. He takes a deep breath.

“Hey, it’s your dad,” he says. “He’s not worth you hurting yourself by pushing your feelings down, love.”

A sob escapes Tom’s lips with that, and he shakes his head before hiding his face in Stuart’s shoulder.

Stuart holds him, and continues to stand with him in the cold.

***

January, 2006

The ceremony is simple, and shockingly, everything goes smoothly. Stuart spends the twenty-four hours beforehand in a constant state of alarm over fear of losing the rings, and eventually gives them to Tom, who promises to keep them safe until they get to the venue. Don refuses a proper stag night, so he spends the night before his wedding (okay, technically civil partnership, but he’s been thinking of David as his husband for so long that what the piece of paper says doesn’t make much of a difference to him) at the pub with Stuart, Violet, and a couple of friends from his publishing firm. It’s halfway through the night when a young woman makes her way over to the table, holding a copy of Don’s book and asking him to sign it. Stuart hoots in celebration, and then hides his face in his pint when Violet smacks him lightly on the arm.

“I’m just celebrating!” He shouts louder than necessary. He must be drunker than he thought. “My best friend wrote a best seller and he’s getting married! Let me make a scene!”

“You know, if you’re getting this excited over me getting married,” Don says as he finishes signing the girl’s book, “God help us all when your turn comes.”

Stuart chugs more than he should of his pint. The girl gives him a long look before retreating to her table, with Violet shouting “I’m sorry about him!” after her.

“I don’t even wanna think about it.” Stuart says, laying his head against the table.

Don laughs. “What, you’ve been playing house for years and now the married life is too much for you?”

Stuart groans. Don means well, but he and Posner, they have always been romantic. For him, it’s more complicated. “It’s not that,” he says. Then he pulls himself up from the table, and cups Violet’s cheeks with his hands. She raises a threatening eyebrow at him, but lets him be. “Can I propose to Tom?” He asks, doing his best not to sound desperate.

“You’re asking me?!”

“Who else am I going to ask, his sister?”

Violet laughs. “Alright, point taken,” she raises her hands to his cheeks and takes Stuart’s in hers, holds them in front of herself. It’s almost – almost, because Stuart’s never ceased being a little bit scared of her – comforting. “The answer is yes, you idiot.”

This time, it’s Don’s turn to hoot, but not before giving an apologetic glance to his publishing firm friends. Stuart lets go of Violet’s hands and goes back to hiding in his pint, wondering if he should just let this conversation die here or try to explain any further. He doesn’t get any time to decide, because Violet pokes him in the ribs.

“No need to look that miserable about it, you know.”

Stuart shakes his head. “He’s probably gonna say no,” he says, more to the pint than to Don or Violet. “He’s going to say that we’ve been together for years and don’t need a piece of paper to remind us and he’s going to say no.”

Don leans forward on the table, getting closer to him. “That’s awfully fatalistic.”

“Have you met Tom?” Stuart says. Violet hums vaguely in acknowledgement, but she exchanges a cryptic look with Don, who sighs deeply. Really, the two of them becoming friends has had the strangest impact on Stuart’s life.

“Stuart,” Don starts, sounding tired. “Dakin. My good friend. How many times are me and David going to have to tell you that you don’t know what he will say until you ask him?”

Stuart huffs. He doesn’t know why he cares this much, really. He and Tom have been together for eleven years, been living together for seven. They’ve met each other’s families and they wake up to each other every night. It really won’t make a difference to have a piece of paper from a government that’s finally bothered to recognise them, and yet. And yet. He likes the idea of it, he likes the idea of calling Tom his husband. And so what if that makes him into a sappy teenage girl, he’s always a sappy teenage girl where Tom is concerned. “Alright,” he groans.

Violet pats him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine, kid.”

“You are my age!”

“Cut it out, the two of you,” Don says, gesturing towards them with his pint. “We’re here to celebrate. I’m getting married tomorrow.”

***

The wedding day ends up being a wheelchair day for Tom, and differently from what he would have done years ago, he gets into his chair with a smile and even laughs when Violet offers him a garland of white flowers to decorate it with instead of stubbornly hurting himself over some sense of misplaced pride. Maybe, Stuart thinks as he pushes him down the aisle up to their seats, they are getting better. Don and Posner spend the ceremony beaming at each other in their matching suits, and if Stuart tears up a little when he sees them exchange rings with a tenderness that makes his heart ache, what about it.

“You know, I think I might be the first person David ever came out to,” Tom tells Stuart later, as they watch the grooms’ first dance.

“Wait, really?”

Tom nods. “At Cutler’s.” He runs a hand over his face, awkwardly. “I don’t think I handled it as well as I could have at the time, but in my defence, I genuinely didn’t know any better.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did great, what with how gentle you were back then.” Stuart says, but rubs his shoulder as he does, letting him know he’s joking. Tom laughs.

“What I’m saying,” he says, taking Stuart’s hand that’s resting on his shoulder, “is just… look at where we are now.” With his other hand, he gestures to the dance floor, where more couples have made their way now that the song has changed. Posner and Don are too busy staring into each other’s eyes to get anywhere close to catching his gaze, but his eyes meet Violet’s, who smiles at him as she lays her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder. And even besides them, quite a few of them are same sex couples, and Stuart realises that this might be the most gay people he’s been around since – well, ever, actually.

This could be a good moment, he thinks. Now, when they are contemplating how far they have come, and the air is full of music and laughter and love. He could ask him now.

What he manages to get out instead is, “I’m sorry we can’t dance.”

Tom sighs. “I can get up, you know.”

Now, he might be saying that, but it wouldn’t be the first time that he means “I can stand up, I’ll just be in a lot of pain”, and they’ve been together far too long for Stuart not to know that.

“Can you get up,” Stuart asks, “or can you get up and then be in pain the entire time?”

“It would only be a few minutes,” Tom says. “I won’t hurt if you’re holding me.”

Stuart smiles, offering his arm. “Always.”

***

February, 2006

Since David and Don’s wedding just a couple of weeks ago, Tom has spent what’s probably hours analysing and dissecting the pros and cons of marriage. Cons: it feels very... childish to need a piece of paper from a government that hasn’t respected you until not that long ago to prove that you’re really, truly together. There is also the fact that once they are married, it will be harder to skirt around the questions about their sexuality that they’re still being cryptic about at work. Pros: he gets to call Stuart his husband. Other con: Stu is probably too pragmatic to want to get married purely for romantic reasons, which is perfectly sensible. And yet, he can’t seem to let go of the idea.

“I have something to say,” he starts one day, while they are washing dishes after dinner.

“Do tell,” Stuart says, passing him a plate to dry.

This is why Tom wants to get married: washing dishes together every night. Throwing their clothes in the wash together, Tom dividing them into colour piles and Stuart hanging them to dry. Reaching for the remote to turn the volume down on the telly only to find out Stuart is already doing it. Their daily life, so simple, so repetitive, it is romantic. And so maybe he does want the romance of a wedding, of matching rings, of bringing Stuart to Christmas dinner with his family as his husband. And to hell with the pragmatism.

Tom takes a deep breath, putting the plate back in the cupboard. “I think we should get married.”

Stuart freezes, halfway through rinsing another plate. Very slowly, he puts the plate down in the sink.

“Before you say anything,” Tom rushes on, “Yes, you’re right, it will make life at work more complicated, and I know we don’t need to get married just to prove we’re in love, and all of that, but…” He runs out of things to say, and simply shrugs. All of a sudden, he’s deflating.

Slowly, a smile forms on Stuart’s face. “You’ve gotten better at this spontaneity thing.”

“What?” Tom exhales.

Stuart grins. “Wait here.” He makes for the bedroom – their bedroom, and the minute that it takes for him to get back is maybe the longest of Tom’s life.

“Right,” Stuart says on his way back. Before Tom can say anything, he drops to his knees, producing a little black box out of his pocket. Tom’s breath catches in his throat.

“Thomas Irwin,” he says, opening the box. Inside, there’s a small silver band. “Will you marry me?”

Tom gasps for air, looking for an answer, any answer that will not make him sound completely and hopelessly lost. “How – how long have you had this?”

“Since the day after the wedding,” Stuart shrugs. “I asked Violet permission and everything, I just-” he laughs. “I was worried you’d say no, which – you still haven’t answered, by the way.”

This time, it’s Tom’s turn to laugh. “Yes,” he says, “yes, of course.”

Stuart stands up, slides the ring on Tom’s hand as he kisses him. He has gotten some soap onto the ring.

“I can’t believe you beat me to it,” Stuart laughs against his lips.

Tom takes his hand, touching Stuart’s forehead with his own. “I’m taking risks.”