Chapter Text
This boy was the strangest mixture of romance and heartbreak that Jim had ever seen. He was exaggerated in so many ways, the big doe eyes surrounded by the darkest kohl, any instance of frustration magnified in the roll of his shoulders, the way that he would throw himself away from whatever he was doing. He was almost grotesque, a caricature, everything ever so slightly bent and warped. The makeup was too light on his face, his lips too red; the satin of his shirt was hanging off his collarbones at awkward angles, causing creases in his shirt to look like slashes in the dirty light of the bar.
His knuckles were cut open, one hand cradled in the other, the wound still new, still open, still bleeding. The red stood out on his skin, matching the painted scarlet of his lips. Its garish colour clashed with the purple bruises standing out from where the makeup had begun to rub off; his face was a palette in itself of dark reds, blues, purples and faded yellows.
And while his appearance was intimidating, it was intimidating for all the wrong reasons. It made Jim feel sick to see somebody like this in a bar, somebody shaking and needing help, needing reassurance. He should be with somebody, with a friend or with family, not looking lost and vulnerable in front of strangers. His face screamed naivety, screamed for help, screamed that he didn’t know where he was or what day it was or what he was supposed to do next.
And yet, all this was juxtaposed by a grace that Jim felt perverted for drinking in. He carried himself so carefully, moved so fluidly, toes pointed as he walked. He was slender, Jim could see from the hollows of his cheekbones, and it seemed to emphasise the little things more; there was more focus on his lips, ruby red and cracked, and on his eyes.
When Jim’s eyes met the stranger’s, his drink froze on its way to his mouth. Those eyes were like something from a nightmare: they were red, they were lost and frightened and oh-so-pretty, big and dark and framed by the thickest of lashes. He couldn’t find it in himself to ignore them, to ignore in the same way that everyone else was simultaneously staring at him and avoiding him. The boy seemed to beg for his help in that glance, seemed to fixate on him as though he were the only person in the whole world that he needed in that moment.
He stood up and moved towards the young man. “Are you okay?” He asked, keeping his voice as soft as possible. He noticed the way that he seemed to recoil from the question, but also recognised how glad he was to not be ignored any longer. Dark hair moved as he looked upwards, revealing a face so angular, so jarring and so pointed yet so elegant.
The boy looked up at him, and Jim could see how significant the bruising around his mouth was. “I’m not sure.” He said quietly, trying to smile. The gesture looked painful; Jim inadvertently placed a hand on the boy- the man’s bicep. Up close, he could see his age in the firmness of his skin, his full jaw and the hint of shadow across his cheeks. He was young, younger than Jim for sure, but he was no child.
Jim nodded slowly in reply, looking around momentarily. “You want some help getting cleaned up?” He offered, his touch a feather light yet grounding presence for the stranger. His own mind was a confused place, the real and the physical were more reliable, the only thing he could truly trust in that moment.
“I’d like that.” He said, a little tremble in his voice that betrayed the impending build up of emotions that weighed heavily on his chest. “People think that the makeup is a little garish.” His eyes glanced around nervously, fixated on the response of people around him. He finally gazed back up to Jim but shied away from meeting his eyes, instead focusing on the little shaving cut on his left cheek.
A careful hand was placed on the small of the stranger’s back, guiding him through leers, through comments, through purposeful looks that wanted to eat him alive for all the wrong reasons. “Can I have your name?” The voice asked, bringing the stranger back into the moment, stopping him from floating back into his own mind.
Those doe eyes met Jim’s again for a moment, before flitting to look over his shoulder. He paused for a moment, as though to consider lying about his response, before he let out the smallest of sighs. Something in him troubled Jim; it troubled him how somebody younger than him could be so wary yet so vulnerable. He seemed so small, physically and emotionally, though he was but an inch shorter. “Freddie.” The voice came finally.
Freddie. Derived from the word for peace. When Jim looked into his eyes, he saw anything but peace: he saw anguish, anxiety, hopelessness. He challenged himself to look further, look deeper, look past the superficial bruising and the makeup that would be cleaned up once they got behind the bar. He saw a body slender but strong, mind and body in perfect alignment. Mental turmoil, yet physical peace. More importantly, he saw somebody that needed his help.
Jim led him behind the bar, into the back room, somewhere empty yet a little more cozy that the continuous chaos of the club. “I’m Jim.” He said once he had closed the door behind them, shutting out most of the noise that threatened to overwhelm their conversation. He watched the way Freddie’s breath hitched a little as he watched the door shut, noticed how he glanced around momentarily, eyes fixating on the window for just a second too long. “I can keep it open if you’d like.” Jim offered softly, propping the door open with an old doorstop. “I’m sorry, I thought you’d want a break from the noise.”
Freddie looked up at him, lips parted ever-so-slightly in disbelief. Nobody had ever noticed him checking the exits of a room before. “Thank you.” The words came out before he could stop them. He watched as Jim grabbed some makeup wipes and a first aid kit and suddenly glanced at his bloody hand again, a feeling of shame and bewilderment threatening to overwhelm him. He sat back on the couch and Jim came to sit in front of him, pulling a chair close enough to help him whilst ensuring that they weren’t too close.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Jim said quietly, placing the supplies on the small table to the side of them. “Do you mind if I do this, or would you rather do it yourself?” He asked. He forgave himself for treading on eggshells, putting it down to the recognition that he had to help this man, but that he also had to respect him.
Freddie wasn’t used to respect like this. His breath hitched again, the rise and fall of his chest slightly faster, betraying how overwhelmed he was by the questions. It was difficult to think for himself. “I don’t mind.” He came to eventually, watching the accepting look wash over Jim’s face. His brow softened, he nodded minutely, his eyes seemed to open a little wider as he eyebrows relaxed from their tense furrow.
“That’s okay.” He said quietly, reaching for the makeup wipes. He took one from the pack and folded it a couple of times before gently touching it to Freddie’s jawline, his other hand coming to cup the other side of his face to hold it steady. “I’m going to start by cleaning off the makeup first, okay? Then I’ll have a look at your eyebrow and your knuckles.” He murmured reassuringly.
Freddie just nodded, barely wincing as the wipe cleaned his face. It was soothing, to be looked after by somebody else, to have them focus their energy entirely on you. “Thank you.” He whispered again, allowing his heavy eyes to finally close and releasing some of the nervous tension from his shoulders.
Jim hummed as he continued the task at hand, cleaning Freddie’s face and then soothing it with a cool cloth. He let himself admire as a warm skin tone was revealed, the colour seeming to blend so perfectly with his haunting eyes. “How did this happen?” He asked softly. He assumed it was a bar fight, or the guy being jumped for his wallet, but somewhere in his mind he worried it was something more sinister.
“Tonight was supposed to be my night.” Came the cryptic response, eyes slowly coming back open again. “I don’t know why I ever thought it would happen. It was always obvious that I wouldn’t be able to do it.”
The hatred in his voice made something in Jim’s gut ache. He forced himself to keep his voice and his hand steady as he locked eyes again with Freddie. “Do what?” He asked, his breath light over Freddie’s cheek.
The man looked away, suddenly bringing himself away from Jim’s gentle touch as he sunk further into his own self-loathing. “I can’t tell you.” He said, resting his head in his hands and roughly pressing against the bruising around his eyes. The jolt of pain made his body react with a lurch, before the dull ache started in the back of his skull. “I can’t tell you, because then you’ll think about me the same way as they do, and then I’ll have to go again.” His breathing quickened and Jim could see it in the way as his shoulders moved with a jerky rhythm, losing their earlier elegance.
Freddie was losing himself again, losing himself to the spots of light that danced across his field of vision, coaxed into a world of bright lights and spinning stars. And then, he was being coaxed differently: a gentle hand on the wrist, encouraging him to uncurl, encouraging him to treat himself with care. He let himself be moved, the faint touches only acting as guidance, never trying to force him to move. “It’s okay.” The Irish accent filled his mind momentarily, reverberating around each corner of his mind. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.” Jim repeated himself, resting his other hand over Freddie’s tense shoulders. “If you press on that bruising it’ll give you a headache.” He said softly, his voice so obviously full of care for the other man.
Freddie swallowed as Jim took his hand, letting him clean the dried blood from his skin. “Thank you.” He whispered again, holding onto the small phrase like a mantra. His eyes burned as tears suddenly welled in them; one, hot and salty, rolled down his cheek and landed with a splash on the back of his hand.
And then, all at once, he finally let the wall around his mind be defeated by kind eyes and a warm smile. He was crying, one hand over his mouth to try and stifle his sobs from habit, the other clinging to Jim’s hand for his life. Like the rest of him, his fingers were so warm, so careful yet holding his hand so tightly when he needed it.
Freddie was pulled closer, pulled into two arms that held him so tightly together as he threatened to shatter in two entirely. He was so fragile, a cracked wine glass catching the light for all the wrong reasons, standing out from amongst the pristine others. He needed to speak, needed to scream, needed to laugh and shout and break things, but he couldn’t.
He rested his head against Jim’s chest, one hand clutching tight to his bicep, letting himself feel protected in that moment. Even as his inner world collapsed, the outer world remained firm and stable, keeping him grounded in space and time.
Jim eased Freddie’s fist from where it was jammed into his mouth as he began to calm, taking it carefully and lightly tracing his thumb over the bite marks. “You’re going to be okay.” He promised again, lacing their fingers together. “I promise, Freddie. You’re going to be okay.”