Chapter Text
Outside, the stars‘ eyes are brighter than in London as they watch Chesham by night. Their light resonates with the flickering of the TV from inside the house.
It’s been twenty-four hours since a two-decade-old misunderstanding flooded out of Pandora’s box. Hinges snapped, the lid torn clean off after Alex had laid his heart bare and found one already in tatters in return. From within the box, old misery rushed into his world and at the bottom of it, Tim’s misguided hopes lay in a crumpled heap. It’s the understanding of needing love, and the hope of never lacking it in the first place, that shackles this version of his friend to the ground. The chain reaction of Alex’s expectations to jump straight in led to the last bits of Tim’s bruised heart withering away.
Now looking back, Alex should’ve fostered what was left of the box’s contents, instead of expecting a rebirth.
Tim’s sober moments during the dinner are gone. With rosy cheeks under crinkly eyes, he uses Rachel’s wine as a delightful distraction. It appears Tim can breathe easier through the drunken haze; the smile on his lips isn’t as forced anymore. He giggles at the TV and attempts to charm Rachel along, but ultimately, he and Alex continue to lock eyes intermittently.
Despite that, as the evening mellows and the moon climbs higher, Alex observes Tim getting quieter. The meaningless chatter gradually dies down.
Rachel still does her best to mitigate, but the day has left its mark on her spirit. Either way, Alex is grateful to have them both in one spot. Ideally, as he sees Rachel with a blanket over her lap and Tim to her side, this could be it - forever.
He blinks, and they’re all older, greyer than they are now, and somehow still sitting together just like this. There is a cake there to be made and eaten.
Except that Tim reads his mind solely by the soft curvature of Alex’s lips and shrinks away.
For a man his size and age, Tim curls up in a remarkably small ball. Gone is the bravado from hours ago; gone is the hostility he had securely displayed with Fatberg by his side. Now, it's just Tim and Rachel's wine against the world. Or in this case, against the corner of Alex’s couch.
It’s heartbreaking to witness, and Rachel shoots Alex a dirty look.
A grunt interrupts her staring as Tim attempts to right himself. “Well, I’d better get going,” he says and claps a hand on his thigh.
“Are you sure?” Rachel asks.
Tim wiggles about, swaying a bit forward before backing himself into the couch again. He stares deeply into his wine glass before speaking. “Yeah, still gotta start the thorny business of getting home.”
“No, I mean, you could stay here,” Rachel presses. She puts a hand on Tim’s arm and attempts a reassuring smile that only serves to have Tim stare dumbly at her.
“Pardon?”
“Stay here,” Alex echoes without a second thought.
The look Tim gives as his eyes slowly shift toward Alex is a confusing mix of drawn eyebrows and dull daggers. “Oh, God no, but thank you.”
Rachel puts down her glass. The gentle clink snaps their attention back to her. “It's really late, I don't know if the trains are still running.”
“And, uhm, I can't exactly drive you now,” Alex adds sheepishly.
With big, owlish eyes, Tim asks, “Why not?”
“I’ve been drinking.”
“Riiiiight.” Tim drags the syllable out. He runs his tongue over his teeth, stares at the ceiling, and presumably mentally hurts himself in the attempt to find a solution. “I'll get a cab then.”
“They might not take you,” Rachel points out.
“Why?”
“You're lashed.” Alex puts his glass down. Like Tim, he's well-past tipsy, and even if he could drive, he doesn’t want to. What he wants is them all here, in the warm bubble of his home, where he can treasure them. “They don't like it when someone throws up in their car.”
“Uber?”
“No Uber in Chesham.”
A single name rings through the wine glass at Tim‘s lips. “Tom?”
Blind jealousy wears the costume of heartbreak as it crawls through Alex‘s skin, and anchors itself around his shoulder blades. They hang heavy as he shakes his head ‘no’. Without hesitation, Alex shoots that idea down as well.
“It‘s late, and do you really want him to see you like this?”
Rachel reaches over to squeeze Alex’s thigh. Her fingertips dig uncomfortably into his flesh, the tips of her nails sharp even through the fabric of his trousers.
To Tim, who sits pale and alone apart from them, she says, “Listen, I worry about you.”
“You worry?” he repeats with a growing unease in his voice.
“And you don't have your keys,” Alex adds.
“But you got keys.”
“Spare ones.” Alex feels heat rising to his cheeks. They’ve been warm from the evening, and the drinks, but the continued desperation to keep Tim here is getting to him. He gulps loudly as he pries Rachel's hand off of his leg. “You shouldn't go so late.”
“I'll be fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
Surprise makes Rachel interject, “When did he say that?”
She looks from Tim to Alex and back, opens her mouth for another inquiry, but clicks it shut again. Some questions rest better on the tongue than find their way out into the world.
Her silence carries itself swiftly across the room.
“Yeah, when did I say that?” Tim raises an eyebrow.
In an attempt to buy time, Alex reaches for his glass, swirls the wine, and puts it down without drinking from it. He shrugs, but finds himself unable to stall any further. “When we were video chatting.”
With a hum, Tim’s eyes drift up. Of course, he assumes that their chat is violently carved into his friend‘s memory in much the same way that Alex holds it in his chest, but still, Tim asks, “Yesterday?”
“I mean, obviously, it was a lie back then as well.”
“It's not - Why would I lie?”
“Why did he - you - say that?” Rachel asks. The lines on her face become more pronounced, as a dangerous mix of concern and curiosity settles in. For Tim’s sake, Alex tries and fails to think of a way to get her out of the conversation. Trudging through a sea of wine, his mind isn’t running too smoothly as it stumbles over panicked ideas.
On the other side of the couch, Tim sinks into the backrest, the cushions holding him tightly despite his protests to leave.
He rubs his beard and tonelessly says, “Can't remember.”
“Yes, you can,” Alex calls him out. He’s far too quick to shoot himself in the foot without noticing the way Tim heaves out breath.
As if trying to calm a brewing storm, Rachel waves the static-laden air between them away. For a moment, it works. Tim itches his nose, reaches for the bottle, and, despite wanting to leave, tops his glass up again.
She tries to conclude the argument, and Alex can see that. When she claps her hands and snuggles back against his side, however, it feels like a fatal error. “Either way, Tim, you should stay — just to be safe.”
Tim’s eyes narrow at the gesture before glazing over and letting his gaze wander away. He looks like a child caught red-handed for wanting something unattainable. The flush on his cheeks spreads to the rest of his face and climbs onto his ears.
“See it as a slumber party,” Alex tells him instead, and decides not to look further into the conflict of emotions rushing through him. He feels like he’s cheating, but can’t settle on who with. Regardless, his heart yearns to be allowed to love them both equally. “It’s late, after all.”
“And your clothes are still in the wash,” Rachel adds.
Tim, in an attempt to sound melodic, misses every note of the song. “And, baby, it's cold outside.”
Silence. In the societal standard of the song's time, it‘s implied that the woman wants to stay. Tim, in his intoxicated state, hasn't reached that conclusion for himself yet.
He clears his throat. “Horne — Hornes,” he corrects himself. “I bid thee farewell.”
Alex isn't entirely sure how it happens, but one moment, Tim gets up from the couch, and the next, he is kneeling in a pool of white wine. Just like him, Tim looks surprised to be on his hands and knees, but the gears in his head don't turn. Seconds pass during which they just look at each other in utter confusion until Rachel finally hits the back of Alex’s head.
She is already halfway back from the kitchen with paper towels in hand when Tim gets the idea to maybe stand up.
This time, he is more careful. Alex numbly watches Tim struggle, reaching for the couch — reaching for Alex, before thinking better of it.
“Okay,” Tim says as he plops himself back on the couch, legs spread, and face scarlet. “I must say, nice couch you two have here.”
“You're wet again,” Alex notes dumbly. In his hands, he has paper towels - courtesy of Rachel - and the insane thought of patting Tim's trousers dry crosses his mind. Perhaps his thoughts are too muddled, the inhibitions too lowered, but as he leans towards Tim, his brain decides it would quite like to kiss him.
His self-preservation instinct reminds him to keep his lips away from his friend.
“I'll just sleep in me knick-knocks,” Tim replies equally as dumb. It might be an artefact of the light, but to Alex, Tim seems to be blushing.
It's a clear indicator that they're both done for the night.
In the bedroom, Alex paces up and down, led by a cool draft wafting around his ankles. It blows him towards the door, where he stands and stares, waiting for a revelation before it sucks him back into the room. Divinity evades him.
His route is a short but slow one; yet it does nothing to ease the internal tumult. As the day progressed, it worsened, becoming increasingly unmanageable.
“Come to bed,” Rachel poses as she gets undressed for the night.
Her beauty should capture his interest, should draw him right to her and let him forget the man in his living room. Except, it doesn’t work like that. She is wonderful, even in this state, so late at night with exhaustion powdered onto her features. Her hair is a bit messy, the mascara smudged, her cheeks rosy, and the ring on her finger is glinting in the dim light. To him, Rachel is the most perfect woman imaginable. They are soulmates, if such a thing were to exist. Unfortunately, Alex has to yield to the other chunks of his soul missing, the ones she tends to, that long for another name entirely.
At the turn of the millennium, Alex remembers finding all of his missing pieces. Now, he imagines his own future and sees it lacking a vital part.
“Alex?” Rachel calls out, already in a shirt of his, which has worn thin with time.
His eyebrows come together in a tight shape as he tries to recall, really digging deep into the wardrobe of his mind, to whom this shirt belongs.
He’s gotten old with Rachel by his side, and somehow, there is still the possibility of second-hand underwear in his closet. As loosely as the shirt hangs on her lithe frame, it would still stick to Tim like cling-film. The thought takes residence in his mind for the foreseeable future.
“I should talk to him,” he tells Rachel, and gets another shirt thrown at his face in reply. “Oi!”
“Absolutely not!”
“Why not?”
“I’m sick and tired of it.” Her tone leaves no space for argument or further discussion. All day, he reckons, she’s watched him ‘talk’ to Tim and get nowhere with it.
But shifting from foot to foot with a shirt he can’t remember buying in his hands, he really just wants to be with his friend again. Romantically or not, there is a hollow space inside of him that she fills, but that Tim could cram into as well.
“I love him,” he pleads weakly, and readies himself to tell her about how he needs his friend like air. Hysterically — intoxicated, more likely — Alex is ready to fall to his knees and profess his feelings in front of her, Tim, and the stained-glass window leading to God.
“You’re sloshed. The both of you are.”
“But—”
“Tomorrow, dear.” Her cadence gentles out as she takes his hand to lead him to bed. “You’ve got time to sort this when you’re sober.”
As he struggles out of his clothes (his clothes?) and Rachel walks around the bed, Alex hiccups pathetically.
“What if he never wants to see me again?” The thought clings heavily to his ribs and bangs onto his heart. He can feel every pulse soaring through him as it beats a double rhythm in the name of his loves.
“I doubt it.”
When Rachel turns the lights off, Alex still sits on the edge of the bed, half-dressed and fully lost in thought. It isn’t until she drags him to her that he lets himself slip under the blanket, and away from the icy cold playing with his skin.
“I love you,” Rachel murmurs against his shoulder before throwing an arm around his middle. After kissing his cheek, she settles in with a blind familiarity that speaks of decades of safety and love.
In the cocooned warmth of their shared bed, and with the wine dancing through his veins, Alex drifts off.
He dreams of their pantomime from way back when. On stage is a floppy-haired Tim, who lacks both the weather-beaten face of his real counterpart and the misery clinging to his skin. The play calls for a fight, blades crossing as Tim duels Long John Silver. When Alex tries to direct them, he finds himself at the back of the room, rows upon rows of seats away, with no way to walk forward. He sees himself without a beard and with a dopey smile, only to touch his face and feel the stubble. Suddenly, Tim is alone on the stage, and the footlights go out. In the empty room, someone calls to them that they need to prepare for We Need Answers, and Mark claps Tim on the shoulder. They fast-forward through hijinks on set, and along the way, Alex learns how to laugh and breathe.
In his mind, Tim is an integral part of his soul, and it’s impossible not to love both him and Rachel wholeheartedly.
With time, he becomes himself again, sobering up through the night.
At some point, and he really can’t put his finger on what did it, Alex wakes up. Rachel is draped over him, breathing evenly, but the tickle of her eyelashes blinking rapidly betrays her wakefulness.
It’s four in the morning, and Alex holds her close.
Rachel’s body fits against his perfectly. Soft curves against lean lines, they've grown to complete each other, and yet, Alex imagines a distant memory of broader shoulders on his other side. He rubs his thumb over her skin.
“You know,” she whispers against his shoulder. “A selfish part of me wants to feel guilty, too.”
His voice is gruff with sleep. “How come?”
“I should just feel bad for him.” Not really moving her head up to face him, Rachel tells her thoughts into the night. “But you're not letting him wallow.”
Remembering the stranger on Alex’s couch, stinking of beer and broken dreams, Alex can’t help but protest. “Wallow in misery? It's not good for him.”
Grimacing against his stiff muscles, he shifts up to lean against the headrest. At once, the cold air welcomes him back into its clutches and sends a shiver down his spine. Similarly, Rachel is forced to sit up as well, but drags as much of the blanket with her as possible.
She counters, “It's not bad either.”
But it feels wrong. He would even go as far as to say watching Tim wallow makes him ache. At this point, he’s starting to view their family pictures as lacking. Or, perhaps that’s the wrong word, and what he really sees is a photo with a crinkled edge and a tear through it where another person should be.
“He’s family.”
“The children think so as well.”
“What do they think about Tim?”
Alex holds his breath as Rachel hums in thought. Does she see the missing part of the picture as well, despite not loving Tim? He’s near and dear to her, too; the history between them all is vast. Waddling through the avenues of time, they used to be a trio living together. When he was young and working late, this duo would be waiting for him to come home.
So why had Alex been so blind?
“Extra dad, or maybe these days, more of an uncle? I don’t know,” Rachel finally says and drags Alex out of his reverie.
Mostly, they know that Tim is, and will always be, Alex’s friend. “Indispensable to the family and my life.”
Looking over the edge of the bed and letting her gaze fall to the carpet, Rachel asks, “Aren’t you cross with me?”
“No, thank you, I'm too tired.”
“I should feel guilty.”
“Don't start,” Alex says and rubs his face. “I’m pretty sure I feel bad enough for both of us.”
“It takes two to let somebody be part of the family.”
Perhaps he is imagining things, but in the dead of night, his frustration sounds louder in their bedroom than before. “And I still didn't notice anything.”
Rachel hums noncommittally.
“You know, we had a surprise planned for you,” she says.
“Tim and you?”
Nodding, Rachel plays with the fabric around her before letting some of the blanket fall. Her shoulders exposed, Alex can see the sunken look and hunched frame as she admits, “Yeah, not just dinner.”
A beat of silence passes in the dark between them.
“I could've done without this dinner disaster,” Alex muses.
“He was trying.”
“He wasn't.”
“You weren’t!”
“Excuse me?”
“Keep it down a bit.” Rachel shushes. “Originally, he wanted to come straight home to us from the airport. Give the boys some presents and have family time with us. He was meant to stay over regardless.”
Alex finds it hard to breathe; the hand Rachel has on his chest inexplicably weighs tons now as it presses against his ribcage. He withers away, and the splinters of his heart poke uncomfortably into his lungs.
“I love him,” the broken record player inside of him rattles out.
“I know, dear.”
Now that so much time has gone by, Alex feels lost and asks for absolution once more. With his eyes, wide and earnest, he pleads, “He won't let me say it.”
“But he knows it.”
“Then why—?”
“What do you think?” Her voice is firm when she looks at him with a stern gaze. She is fiery and hot, cutting through unvoiced excuses before hitting him right at his core.
Alex has to look away for fear of burning. He gulps, “I don't know.”
“And what do you intend to do about it?”
Aghast, he answers again, “I don't know.”
“Quieter,” Rachel reminds him. “So far, your approach wasn't it.”
“Tim and I - we never used to be like this.”
“So why would pressuring him to be that work now?”
“Desperation?”
“He won't run from you, Alex.” For a moment, Rachel seems pensive. In the dark of the night, her thoughts seem to stretch endlessly, and the wait feels like an eternity until she speaks again.
“But I suppose I won't mind if you were to —” She lets her words trail off, the mere suggestion lies quietly in their shared bed and is making even more space for itself.
Similarly, Alex lets the idea foster in his mind. It wanders around in circles until, finally, it reaches its conclusion.
“I love you.” But the top of her head remains unkissed as he gently wiggles out of the bed, limbs flopping about until he finds himself upright and smiling.
“Go get him, tiger,” she encourages him.
At the same time, his brain chides his mouth, be gentle.
Somehow, the act of waddling through the dark house is the easiest part. Alex doesn’t stumble over shadows, doesn’t hit any corners, but walks with the confident gait of a tipsy homeowner.
And yet, as he reaches the living room, he stops dead in his tracks.
Tim is awake, and much more sober than before as he lies on his back, scratches his naked belly, and lets his eyes skim over Alex. It’s chilling, but at least Tim no longer radiates belligerence. Instead, under the blanket of a late hour with nothing but a wine stain on the carpet to watch them, Tim acts endlessly calm.
“How do you do it, then?” He asks with a rasp to his tone that indicates he has gotten some sleep.
“Do what?” As if on their own accord, Alex’s legs take him closer to the sofa bed. Truly, it seems he can’t be far from Tim for too long.
“Fuck. With three children at home and all.”
“We don't. Not when they're home.”
Maybe this is just a dream packed in cotton, as neither Tim nor Alex seem all too bold, but Alex can’t chance it ripping apart into the harsh reality from before. He is actively afraid of breaking the spell as his hands land on the cushioned arm of the sofa. They can’t go back to his selfish misgivings and Tim’s biting hurt. At the same time, the possibility of Tim getting skittish again weighs on Alex.
“Hm, thin walls,” Tim hums, and blinks slowly at Alex. He bites his lip, stretches like a lazy fat cat, all arms and big yawns, and waits. To Alex, this seems both familiar and entirely alien. When they were younger, it used to be so easy. One bed, one blanket, not a second thought in sight, but now it means so much more. Back then, this move could’ve been read as an invitation.
“You heard.” A statement.
“Bits here and there.” Tim sits up just as Alex finds the bravery to put his knee onto the sprung edge. The words stop Alex dead in his tracks; the movement finally shatters the fragile peace between them. It’s terrifying; he can’t lose Tim, and slowly but surely he’s coming to the realisation that this might be his last chance to keep him. Worse even, Tim soldiers on as well. “You don't have to be here.”
“I know.”
“No, seriously, I don't even want you here.” Except that Alex can see Tim’s eyes appear inky black in the dim light of the room. The glow finds itself easily collected on his friends’ features. A gaunt face stares back at Alex, lips tight, but somehow, for once, Alex thinks he can read Tim anyway. In the minuscule twitch of the muscles around the eyebrows, and the softening of wrinkled skin, clings the beginning of hope.
“But I am here now,” Alex promises in a hushed voice, while barely keeping from repeating himself more firmly, and loud enough for Rachel or even the neighbours to hear.
“Yeah, because Rach told you.” Tim is unable to meet his eyes. His shoulders sink, and his tone sounds dejected. For now, Alex chooses not to dwell too deeply on just how easy it is to deflate his friend.
“She didn't,” is what he says instead. Finally, Alex kneels fully on the sofa bed, his hands unsure as he tentatively gropes around the darkness for purchase. He wants this desperately, enough that he has ignored Tim’s comfort for hours on end. And maybe this isn’t smart now either, but Alex needs him to see that, despite everything changing, fundamentally they’re still the same. “I'm here because I want to be.”
“Because you love me,” Tim breathes out. Alex can see as the lines on Tim’s face shift towards an old hurt, but more than anything, he can hear the suspicion in Tim’s words.
“Because I care about you,” Alex says emphatically.
“That's different.”
“You don't want to hear the other reason.” Alex nudges Tim’s legs to get him to move a bit; make room for one more in the nest of cushions and blankets. “Although I can't seem to stop repeating myself.”
“'Cause if it's not true—” Tim trails off while dutifully shifting to the side. He seems to be doing this automatically. Evidently, he is still not sober enough to be abrasive again, while Alex uses the pliant mood to get them both comfortable.
“Big if. Very big if. Impossible if, actually.” Alex babbles on as he lies down on his side and creeps under the blanket. With his back to the living room, all the reminders of his family are shadowed by the night. Alex’s focus rests entirely on Tim, who is still sitting supported by his arms behind him, and whose gaze has finally reached a spot just next to Alex’s head. For now, it’s close enough.
“It hurts, man,” Tim tells the air with an unsteady voice. Of course, this is neither an easy admonition nor entirely new information, and yet it takes the wind out of Alex’s sails.
“I'm so sorry, Timmy.”
“And I feel stupid.” Forget the proverbial sails. This newfound honesty knocks the oxygen from Alex’s lungs, and leaves a deep ache in his chest. They’ve reached a point in which Tim displays an openness that can’t be fully attributed to his formerly intoxicated state. No, it’s a crack in the glass of his bottled-up feelings, which he parades around as an alternate version of ‘fine’. “So fucking stupid.”
“Don't.”
“I'm furious with myself more than I'm angry at you, you know.” As he says that, Tim holds eye contact. Inexplicably, it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as Alex feared.
“I get that.” He hesitates. All the prepared bits of a speech, as well as his ability to improvise, are gone. “But— I don't know. Don't be?”
Tim throws his head back. The noise that leaves him seems involuntary, and quite ugly. At Alex’s owlish look, he puts his thoughts into words. “Ha fucking ha.”
“Bitter doesn't suit you.” Reaching out, Alex smothers the urge to stroke Tim’s beard and instead uses the idea of pressure to guide his friend to lie down. Under his palm, Tim’s skin is scorching hot.
“Haven't had time to grow bitter.” Without acknowledging the fingers on his chest, Tim’s back hits the cushions. He shuffles around; an elbow finds ribs, and the blanket gets repossessed. Alex doesn’t have much of a chance to get a grip on it.
“Then what are you?” He asks instead.
There is a rustling of the blanket and pillows while Alex stares at the back of Tim's head. He waits with pursed lips. Of course, Tim had already said it out loud; he's angry, disappointed, maybe, but Alex finally allows both of them the space for thought.
Between the revelation, the flight, and the rollercoaster of a day, he remembers that Tim didn’t have the time to examine his feelings properly. Similarly, Alex spent his time blinded by the desperate need to hold on to Tim, and too much else was forgotten along the way.
“Lonely.”
A breath of surprise leaves Alex’s lungs. He pushes himself further onto the couch and thus, against Tim’s back. Ultimately, despite the warmth of the body so close to him, despite the sturdy, broad shoulders, Alex tries not to touch Tim. Between them, static plays with his nerves, and he can’t figure out which one of them is able to close the rift. That is, if it can be closed.
“Can't be sure what was real and what wasn't,” Tim mumbles into his pillow.
“We're real. Your part in this family is real.”
A heavy sigh. “I forgot the shit for your children.”
“And your keys.”
“And my keys.”
“The boys aren’t here anyway.”
Despite the warmth of the covers, Alex shivers at the possibility of waking up alone.
In the morning, the sun will rise again, and when it does, he will still hold onto loving this man.
“I don't think I could've gotten over you,” Tim says into the night with all the ease Alex has used to say three very different words before.
A rose is a rose and so on, but Alex hopes this one might be done being prickly.
In the end, it seems that they spell out the same meaning.
It used to happen many times over the years that Alex found himself at the receiving end of disapproving glares. Most memorable, and therefore his favourite ones, were the daggers he shared with Tim. They weren’t the most popular with the protective mothers at the playground.
Often enough, Alex and Tim would sit by the swings, fags in hand, and their eyes lazily following Alex’s children. Some of his best comedy came to him with the sound of delighted screeching in the background.
Back when the oldest was alone, and by far, not old at all, Tim was there for the family. He swam through the sea of children and burrowed through sand just to get to his godson. With soft hands and kind words, he used to treat the boy like his own.
When the other two came along, and Tim’s hair lost its colour, time was still made for the family.
It used to happen many times over the years that Alex would be confronted with a warm but unnamed feeling below his skin. In jest, he described it to Rachel once as a Victorian woman fawning over a hero or some bollocks. Of course, she had laughed, and why wouldn’t she? It was just a joke after all.
As the children grew older, Tim stayed, and Alex found himself swooning over every iteration of his friend. Whilst their ginger-y auburn turned grey, and their shared time grew shorter, his confusing feelings remained the same.
As Alex opens his eyes, squinting against being awake, Tim is already sitting upright and typing away on his phone. He doesn't acknowledge him yet. Instead, Tim appears fully focused on the little screen that throws light into his ashen features. The rings beneath his eyes betray a lack of rest.
Tap, tap, tap. Tim is busy.
The phone dings. Tap, tap, tap.
In the kitchen, the clinking of plates and cutlery informs Alex that Rachel is already awake as well. The level of noise seems to increase more and more with every second that his brain is forced to work. Though usually a good thing, the gentle waft of fresh coffee that fills the morning air is entirely too much for his hangover-plagued senses. The odd feeling of a stomach filled with glue sits heavy below his ribs and slowly creeps up his oesophagus.
On top of that, the late morning sun is far too bright. It feels like someone is trying to break free from the confines of his skull with the help of a sledgehammer.
All in all, the insistence of a new day proves to be a bad idea entirely.
In an attempt to shield his eyes from the painful light, Alex buries his head against Tim's thigh. The muscles of said leg tense up, but other than that, it's not easy to tell if Tim knows Alex is awake.
Half asleep and fully insane, Alex decides to be brave and sling an arm around Tim's body. The warmth that greets him is intoxicating, and a content sigh leaves his lungs. This reminds him of a broken memory, one from years ago. He reminisces about a long night filled with booze, an argument, and the safety of Tim’s hotel room.
If it weren't for the hangover, Alex thinks he could live in this moment forever. That is, until Tim shifts, puts the phone down, and glances at Alex. A hand hovers protectively (hesitantly?) over his head.
Above him, the expression on Tim’s face is unreadable; their progress seems halted for the moment.
Despite that, he seems to have recuperated, and organised his thoughts, leaving his skittishness to the night.
“Morning,” Alex mutters into Tim’s clothed hip. “Why are you so sweaty?”
“Because there is something very warm clinging to me.”
As the sleep slowly bleeds out of him, Alex begins to remember his place. The wakefulness brings mortification, leading him to pull away from Tim.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Yeah.”
The morning insists on continuing as Alex sluggishly watches Tim climb off the sofa bed and stand awkwardly in the room. On the coffee table, blessed be Rachel, a fresh stack of clothing is prepared for both of them. Tim looks at them like a cat inspecting a new litter box before picking something to put on.
For once, Alex doesn’t allow himself to read into the shirt and see some hidden meaning between the weave of the fabric. With yesterday behind them and knowing that his best friend remains by his side, he’s calmed down considerably.
“You look like shite,” Tim tells him unceremoniously, with one leg in a pair of joggers.
“Thank you kindly,” Alex replies, and uses stiff muscles to pull himself upright. Blearily, he looks at Tim, who doesn’t hold his gaze but wiggles further into the slightly tight outfit Rachel had picked out for him. It’s… funny, and perhaps Tim knows that as he starts hopping with his performance.
After yesterday’s rollercoaster, the ridiculousness of the moment breaks some of the heaviness inside their chests. A giggle threatens to roll out of Alex despite the desperate attempt to keep his mouth shut, lips pressed together and stomach cramping. When he finally bursts out laughing, Tim joins immediately as he sticks his tongue out and bellows his own amusement.
He’s loud enough that Loky starts to bark in alarm, and Rachel sneaks a look from the kitchen.
The moment doesn’t feel real.
In the bathroom, chastised by Rachel, Alex and Tim stand side by side, arms touching, hair rumpled as they brush their teeth like little boys.
Spitting into the sink, Alex accidentally drools out a question he’s had on his mind. “So when you first kissed me —?”
“When was that?” Is what Tim is likely trying to say, but his mouth is wide open, filled with foam and a toothbrush and the unwillingness to dive back into the hurt of the past day. What comes out is just a garbled mess, but thankfully, Alex is re-learning to read Tim’s mind.
“I don't know, you didn’t say.”
“Probably because that never happened,” Tim spits nonchalantly.
Toothbrush in hand, water drips from his beard as Alex gives his friend a long look in the mirror. Through the reflection, he sees two old men. “But you said we kissed.”
“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “Do you really think I spent years knowing you and honouring your touch aversion just to chow down on your lips for one night?”
“Oh.”
“You kissed me.”
“I don’t really understand that,” Alex tells the men in the mirror. It seems likely the hours spent next to each other weren’t used for sleeping. One of them seems much more tired, leaving Alex aching to hold his face and make everything right again.
Instead, the reflection grimaces before reaching down to turn the tap on. Tim is buying time, and Alex, in a show of growth, allows it.
Unlike Tim, he puts the toothbrush back into his mouth, continues to brush, and lets the silence sit between them. It doesn’t feel oppressive anymore, but has taken on a calming air.
Finally, with an odd curvature to his lips, Tim follows Alex’s line of sight into the mirror.
“We were drunk,” he begins. “To be honest, I never understood it either. One night, you’re snogging the living daylights out of me and telling me you love me, and the next morning, you talk about proposing to Rachel.”
“Fuck’s sake.”
Tim simply nods before bending over to splash water into his face. “You know, I never told her about my, ehm — let’s call it by its name, my delusions.”
“She was so sure of it as well. I don’t think we can call —”
“We don’t.” The interruption comes swiftly and without room to argue. “I do.”
“Watto did as well,” Alex admits. Back then, he had thought their friend was cruel for letting this misunderstanding go on. With a new day in their bones, their cells marginally older, it’s different.
While scrunching his nose, Tim asks, “Did he?”
Swallowing a thousand meaningless answers and several excuses aiming to protect Mark, Alex squeaks out an undignified, “yes.” Because there is no way around it, Mark had used the unfavourable phrase ‘deluded’, and he had been right.
“Oh.”
“To be honest, I was pretty cross with him when he told me—” but now, it almost seems like a kindness.
“The man let me make a fool of myself!” Somehow, Tim is able to make fun of his situation. He doesn’t seem to react with the same old hurt anymore.
“Maybe he was hoping I would see it? You know, I could’ve fallen madly in love with you.”
In an alternative world, Alex would’ve one day opened his eyes to the starry gaze thrown his way, and he would’ve kissed Tim silly. Like now, the opportunity had been there before; he could’ve just reached out, and Tim would’ve closed his eyes in anticipation. But it never happened again, not when sober, nor when drunk.
Although meant in jest, Alex can see something in Tim’s eyes darken as his expression twists into itself.
Hastily, Alex adds, “Which I did!”
But the damage is done already. More guarded than before, Tim puts his toothbrush down and shuffles a couple of inches to the side. “So you say.”
Alex breaks eye contact with the mirror when he turns his gaze to the side. At first, it’s just his head, but as he keeps going, the rest of him follows. With intent, he leans into Tim’s newly made space. “I can record it or something. What if I repeat myself until you believe me?”
Lips thin, Tim stays in place, but shoots back, “No, thank you.”
“Well, pretty sure Basden is ready to have me neutered.” Straightening his spine, there is a bitterness to his voice that Alex feels disgusted with. He yearns to be forgiven, to be punished and rehabilitated until Tim can look at him again without a pang of hurt. His heart aches for both the normalcy of their relationship, and a new, exciting addition.
But Tim shakes his head. “He’s gonna go shopping for ice cream, chips, and beer for a pity party later.”
“Is Watto invited?”
“After Tom chews him out? Probably.”
Instinctively, Alex’s lips curl into a smirk. “Can I come?”
“That’s brave of you to ask.”
Lighter, signalling a joke incoming with a conspiratorial tone, Alex bobs his head while speaking. “Don’t think that’s how you say ‘stupid’.”
A snort. “Really? What did I say?”
“Brave.”
“Oh yeah, I meant ‘fucking stupid’,” Tim laughs.
With the lack of alcohol running through their systems, breakfast is a downright comfortable affair. They sip their coffee, chow down on Rachel’s fry-up, and thank her profusely for the hangover-friendly meal.
She jokes about needing the grease herself, drinks a large glass of water for show, and reminds Alex that their oldest son has a footie game later. Expectant eyes land on Tim, but the question here remains unvoiced. He doesn’t acknowledge the implication either, but gives her a warm smile.
Later, while Rachel is out to collect the children, Alex and Tim watch Loky frolic through the backyard. The dog’s hind legs almost overtake her as she chases a ball through the morning dew.
On his bench swing, fag in hand, Alex sits squished against Tim. They gently sway back and forth on it in silence. This morning, the air between them is cleaner, no longer tainted with sorrowful drunken arguments, but with light banter instead. He isn’t entirely sure what did it; maybe it's Tim’s admission in the dark of night, but mountains of stress have crumbled into boulders behind them. Those are easier to overcome together.
When Loky comes back, with some grass stuck in her fur and the ball and dirt in her muzzle, Alex bends forward to take the toy from her. Now, he can be sure of it; she wants it thrown again. While it flies in a high arc, he wipes his hand on his joggers, looks up, and catches Tim’s eyes. He gifts his friend a dopey smile.
Leaning back up, his arm on the back rest of the bench swing, Alex thinks this is finally how it should be.
The fondness sitting in his chest spreads through his veins, culminating in the tips of the fingers playing with the hair on Tim’s nape. More so, spurred by unforeseen bravery, his thumb cards through coarse beard hair. When Tim doesn‘t pull away, Alex’s expression warms despite the cool morning air around them.
Oh yeah, everything might turn out okay.
His eyes flutter shut as he leans in.
“Please don’t try to kiss me,” Tim tells him plainly without moving out of Alex’s range.
Alex freezes. His fingers halt, his expression falters, and through a gulp big enough to hurt his throat, he asks. “Why not?”
“Bit much. We only just got back on speaking terms, and you’re already trying to put your tongue down my throat.”
“Well, no, not like that.”
“Not like what?”
Instead of answering, Alex asks, “Why don’t you believe me anymore?”
“Buy a guy a drink first before you try to shag him,” Tim simply says, and takes a drag from his cigarette. Blowing the smoke out, it doesn't linger between them.
“You’re deflecting.” Alex pulls his hand away, and immediately, a part of him feels the loss deeply.
“Because we’re running this topic in circles.” Just like that, Tim stands up and wanders over to Loky. The morning sun sits golden on his shoulders, making Tim look just a tad healthier than the day before. His stocky frame waddles over the lawn and easily finds the little dog happily chewing on her toy. When he bends down, her muscles spring into action, her tail wagging at top speed while Tim picks up the ball and throws it. “You wouldn’t be this way if I were a girl.”
“Big if.” Alex counters, squinting against the aggressive rays of the sun. “I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else, either.”
“Are you sure you love me, and not the idea of it all?”
“No? Yes. I'm pretty sure I need you.”
“Like air,” Tim echoes a previous conversation, and yet it feels like, since then, Tim’s importance in Alex’s life has only increased.
“And laughter!”
Except that those two words are meant to express so much more. Alex can’t breathe without Tim, but to suffocate would be a mercy. Looking back, he hadn’t known joy before meeting him. It feels like every chuckle, chortle, and grin was just a run of muscles before turning real.
For now, he swallows these thoughts, but somehow his friend gets the idea.
His chest feels tight. If he were to open his mouth, without Tim, no sound would ever escape again.
But on the lawn, the figure of his best friend hulks. That is, until Loky comes back to Tim with the ball in her mouth, and a spring in her step. He throws the ball, watches her run, her little legs working tirelessly just as the rest of her overtakes before the squeaky toy. When he speaks, it’s almost bitter. “I heard they sell gas for that in tanks these days.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so sorry, Tim. I — The truth is, once I realised how much you meant to me, I knew I couldn‘t spend my life without you in it. Even now, you're over there, and I feel — I worry you're slipping through my fingers. I won't say those three words again, but you know it.
Between you and me, I think you knew the entire time.”
And all of this, he wants to say, could've been avoided. But he's standing by the swing now, with familiar desperation in his eyes.
Tim, on the other hand, seems to relax. His face softens considerably when he says, “Right, I'm the poet here, Al,” and kindly ignores the stolen ABBA lyric.
“Well, then, shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Alex says. Tim is extending an olive branch, and this time, he grasps for it. He is all tongue-in-cheek for a moment; it’s not appropriate for the tender new beginnings they have, and yet, it comes to him naturally. As always, there is the urge to deflect, twisted into his genetics and forcing the wrong words through the gap in his teeth. They’re too alike in that regard. Unimpressed, Tim lifts an amused eyebrow but stays quiet until Alex admits, “I'm trying to be romantic.”
“Shit job.”
“Guess it can’t be helped then,” Alex sighs before taking a drag from his cigarette and sitting back down. In a futile manner, he’s trying to buy himself time.
It doesn’t work.
“What?” Tim asks, ignoring the suspense Alex is trying to build.
“I’ll just have to take you out.” Comes the matter-of-fact answer.
“Murder me?”
“On a date.”
“Dinner and a film?”
“Something like that. I get you at six?”
“No, sorry, I have plans for the evening.”
“Your pity party is still on?”
“Haven't seen them in months either,” Tim reminds him gently.
Alex nods. “Ah. To be fair, I was actually thinking of camping.”
“Romantic camping?”
“Could be. Could also just be us rekindling our friendship.” The offer stands in the wide space between them; it doesn’t need to be taken right away, and they both know that.
Still, Tim tests him. “That's a lot coming from a guy who sneaks ‘I love you’ into every conversation.”
“Oh, I'll woo you, alright.” Alex gives him a shitty little wink, blinking with the other eye at the very same time. “But this time, we go at your speed.”
“My speed?”
“Mine is too quick.”
“I’ve been flirting with you for twenty years,” Tim reminds him between the full belly laughs wracking his frame.
“Okay, maybe we can cut that in half.”
“What happened to going at my speed?”
“That'll be sped up once you're ready for it.”
“Naturally.”
“Are you sure I can’t kiss you now?” There is a part of Alex that struggles to wait. You can clean my teeth with your tongue, he wants to joke, but the words, rightfully so, stay within his Taskmaster material. Instead, he winks at Tim again and makes a kissy face. After so long, what more is a month or seven in exchange for the bellowing laughter of his friend, or the cheeky smiles across their faces.
“Yeah, absolutely not.” Despite that, Tim‘s face has lost some of the worry lines carved deep between his eyebrows. He walks over to the swing at a leisurely pace, but stops dead when Alex pats the empty seat right next to him. Tim shakes his head as he squeezes into the space offered. “I‘m more of a hand-holding man anyway,” he adds.
“Really?” Alex keeps his hands to himself.
“Come off it.”
It’s 2025, and they’ve long since stopped living in each other’s pockets.
Their hands touch. For a minuscule moment, Alex holds his breath, afraid of breaking the spell. When Tim doesn’t pull back, he allows himself to relax, fingers splaying just a tad further. The invitation to entangle themselves with Tim‘s own sits unspoken on his skin.
But their fingers don’t intertwine.