Chapter Text
Tom had been awake for about an hour and was beginning to reconsider his decision to finish Maurice first thing in the morning. He closed the book, laid it down, and realized his eyes were stinging. He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve hurriedly and stared down at the cover. Something he couldn’t explain was welling up inside him. He had to talk to someone. He had to talk to Will.
By this time he had the number memorized, but he still glanced at Steph’s scribbled note in Maurice as he dialed the flat. Holding the phone up to his ear, listening to it ring, he wondered briefly what he would say if it was Steph who picked up instead. Perhaps she had read Maurice as well?
The phone rang three times before there was a click on the other side.
“’Mhm?”
“I’m gonna tell him,” Tom said, in a voice that sounded strange to his own ears.
There was a pause.
“Um.” Will’s voice was rough. Tom heard him clear his throat. “Is, uh – this is Blake, right?”
“Yes?” Tom said. “Uh, this is Will, right?”
“Yeah. No, no, yeah, this is Will. I – sorry, I just woke up. Didn’t expect to hear from you at –” there was a pause – “whatever ungodly hour this is.”
“It’s half eleven.”
“Point stands. But, uh, what – what do you mean? Who are you going to tell?”
“My – oh. My brother, Joe.” Tom’s voice dropped to a whisper as he realized said brother could be awake. He glanced toward his brother’s bedroom. The door was still closed.
“And you’re gonna tell him – you’re gonna come out to him?”
“That’s the idea,” Tom said in what he hoped was a bright tone, turning so that his back was to Joe’s room. “If I – if I don’t lose my nerve.”
He heard Will sigh in a crackle of static over the line.
“It’s not ‘losing your nerve’ if you aren’t ready for it. Okay?” Will’s voice was serious.
“I – I’m happy for you, don’t get me wrong. But you shouldn’t come out because you feel like you have to – it should be something you want to do. Does that – am I making sense?”
“You are,” Tom said with an emphatic nod, though he knew Will couldn’t see it. “I know. But it’s – I do wanna tell him. I, uh, I don’t like keeping things from Joe.”
“I see.”
“I just – I finished Maurice, earlier today, and it –”
He let out a shuddering breath.
“It – I don’t know,” he said. “I – it feels like the time to tell him. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“That’s okay,” Will said. “You don’t have to explain. What’d you think of the book?”
Tom grinned. “I loved it,” he said excitedly. “I – oh man. I loved it. I don’t – I wasn’t sure how it’d be, after fucking Clive went and got married. I was afraid that’d be how it ended. But then Alec came along, and it was just like – Maurice wasn’t alone anymore. And when they were at the boathouse –”
He sighed happily.
“God, the boathouse,” Will echoed. “I cried when I read that part, it was such a relief. I – I’m really glad you liked it, Tom.”
“I’m really glad you, uh, recommended it,” Tom said. “Probably wouldn’t’ve read it otherwise – it, uh, doesn’t seem like the type of book you’d talk about in English class.”
“Too true,” Will said with a laugh. The sound sent something warm fluttering in Tom’s chest, like he’d had a few drinks – enough so that his head buzzed pleasantly. Caught up in the feeling, he didn’t quite catch what Will said next.
“Sorry?”
“I said, I guess you’re not the – not the biggest fan of Clive, then.” Will sounded as if he were on the brink of laughter.
“Oh, absolutely fucking not,” Tom retorted. On the other end, Will burst into laughter.
“I – don’t even talk to me about Clive,” Tom continued, reveling in the sound. “He’s a – he’s a coward who broke Maurice’s heart. Absolute moron. I – even his fucking name is stupid. Clive.”
Will was still laughing in his ear when Tom glanced over his shoulder and froze.
Joe was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, scowling. Judging by his bedhead and state of dress, he had just woken up.
From the phone, Tom faintly heard Will call his name. He blinked and focused on the phone, eyes still fixed on his brother.
“Got to go,” he muttered into the phone. “I, uh – it’s Joe.”
“Alright,” said Will, more seriously. “I’m – I’ll be at the café today til half five, okay? Good luck.”
“Sounds good,” Tom said mechanically. He turned and set the phone back on its receiver in an exaggeratedly casual manner. His hands were sweaty.
“What’s this Clive done, then?”
Tom flinched at the sudden voice and whirled back around. Joe still looked grumpy, but there was amusement in his voice.
“Must be a right bastard,” his brother continued, raising one eyebrow.
Tom floundered.
“Oh, he’s, uh – a coworker. At the records shop. A real prat.”
“Mm.” Joe trudged to the kitchen. Tom trailed along behind him, feeling off-balance.
The silence in the flat was heavy in a way it had not been before. Tom stood awkwardly as Joe opened the fridge to peer inside and closed it again with a huff.
“Need to go shopping,” he grumbled.
“Want, uh, want me to do that?” Tom asked, his words tripping over themselves in their haste.
Joe turned from the fridge and stared at Tom with his brow furrowed in suspicion.
“You’re offering to go food shopping?” he said slowly. “Something the matter?”
“No?” Tom said, with less certainty than he had intended. “I – no. Just, um, offering.”
Joe blinked at him, then sighed and shook his head. “I can do it,” he said.
“Alright.”
The two stood in almost unbearable silence for a moment, until Joe stepped toward Tom.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asked. “You seem – dunno, tense.”
“No, yeah, I – I’m alright. It’s just –”
The words were right at the tip of his tongue. Why couldn’t he say it and be done?
“I – I’ve been meaning to, to tell you. Um.”
Joe straightened up, and his face grew serious.
“Yes?” His voice was concerned.
Tom nodded. “I’m –”
He paused to take a breath.
For God’s sake, it was one word. Why couldn’t he just say it?
“I’m, uh, I’m g—I’m g-going out. Today. Um. Be back before dinner.”
Joe stared at him.
“Uh – okay?” he said. “You don’t need to – I mean, that’s fine? Are you leaving now, or --?”
“Not right now,” Tom said, trying to breathe normally, “but, uh, soon. Soonish. Just – just wanted to let you know.”
Joe nodded, still looking concerned, and Tom made a tactical retreat to his room with what remained of his dignity.
As he shut the door behind him, he felt lightheaded, and ashamed, and oddly, horribly relieved – like he had peered over the edge of a cliff, about to jump, but backed away from it at the last minute. Tom sat on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands.
Why was it he could talk someone’s ear off about anything and everything, but he couldn’t say two fucking words? He hadn’t thought of himself as a coward before, but – maybe he was. Maybe he was. Tom rubbed at his face with his hands and tried not to cry. Why did he feel so tired? He hadn’t done anything. Falling back onto his bed, he peered up at the ceiling. He wished he could sink into the mattress.
A knock at the door sent him sitting bolt upright with a flash of panic.
“Tom?” His brother’s voice was slightly muffled from the other side of the door.
Tom kept silent. He could not trust his voice not to crack.
“Tom,” repeated Joe, “I – just letting you know I’m heading out shopping. And, uh – whatever it is, you can – you can talk to me about it.”
Tom almost laughed, but he was afraid it would come out as crying. He didn’t think his brother was homophobic, but there was a difference between seeing protestors on the news, at a safe distance, and learning your own brother was – well.
He could hear Joe shuffling outside the room. After a moment, Joe sighed.
“See you later,” he said quietly.
A few moments passed, and Tom faintly heard the front door open and close. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a steadying breath, then opened them. With a renewed energy, he left his room, made himself a sandwich, and grabbed a packet of crisps. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed his copy of Maurice as well, tucking it into his pocket.
Tom did not look back as he left his brother’s flat, studiously avoiding the thought that this could be one of the last times he saw it.
He had somewhere to be.
--
It didn’t take quite as long for Tom to reach The Piping Kettle as it had the first time, but the sandwich and crisps were long gone when he finally caught sight of the ubiquitous sign. He walked in and went right to the chairs, practically falling into one and leaning his arms on the table in front of it. His body felt like it was made of lead.
After a few moments of staring down at the table, Tom became aware of someone standing in front of him. His head was immensely heavy as he propped it on his hand and looked up slowly. Will was standing there stiffly, his hands twisting together. His brow was furrowed as he looked at Tom.
“You alright?” he said quietly. “Not – not to pry. But you looked upset, coming in.”
Tom shrugged and sighed heavily.
“I – I didn’t tell him,” he muttered, tearing his gaze from Will’s. “I, uh, I couldn’t.” He hated how hard it was to get the words out – he could talk someone’s ear off about stuff that meant absolutely nothing, but he couldn’t say the things that actually mattered.
He heard Will sit down across from him.
“The afternoon rush is gonna start soon,” Will said in a low voice, “but I can take my break after that, and, uh, we can talk. Alright?”
Tom nodded mutely.
Will paused, then reached across the table and briefly covered Tom’s hand with his own, before drawing it back.
Tom stared at the table, then looked up to see Will walking back to the counter. He glanced over his shoulder and met Tom’s gaze, then smiled hesitantly. The shadows under his eyes were darker than they had been; the sight sent a stab of guilt through Tom’s chest.
He spent the next hour and a half or so alternating between rereading passages of Maurice, watching the people in line at the counter, and fiddling with the little sugar container on the table. Despite his best efforts, his gaze was drawn again and again to Will as he moved behind the counter: speaking to customers, pouring drinks, assembling little plates of pastries. There was something in his face that suggested a kind of serenity, like Will belonged there. The shadows under his eyes seemed hardly noticeable anymore, in the afternoon light.
Tom only registered that a substantial amount of time had passed when his stomach decided to grumble – quieter than the last time, but still audible. The line of people at the counter had shortened, and Tom had just started to rifle through his pockets for change when he saw Will walk toward him again. This time Will was holding a tray with two teacups, a teapot, and a plate of scones. He carefully set down the tray on the table, then sat across from Tom as he had before.
“I, uh, thought you might be hungry,” he said nervously, lifting the plate of scones from the tray and setting it down on the table. “And I got some, some Earl Grey here – hope that’s alright.” He poured the steaming water into the teacups and slid one of them toward Tom, along with a spoon.
“Course that’s alright,” Tom said, caught between bewilderment and delight. “I – what do I owe you?”
“On the house,” Will said firmly. “Discount for regulars, and, uh – these are some new flavors. Lauri’s looking for feedback.”
Tom froze and his eyes narrowed. “You’re sure? I can pay for them.” He desperately hoped he had enough change to pay for them.
Will shook his head. “No need,” he said. “Laurie knows. This tea is old, anyway.”
“Oh, well in that case,” Tom retorted. “Nice to know I’m worthy of old tea.”
Will chuckled.
Tom heaped sugar into his tea and stirred it slowly. He had the sense that Will was waiting for him to speak, so he took one of the scones and bit into it. The flavor was difficult to discern, but it reminded him of the tea his mum would make for Sunday afternoons.
Looking up surreptitiously, he saw Will holding his teacup and gently blowing across the surface of the tea, his eyes closed. He probably could have enclosed the entire teacup in one hand, if he’d had a mind to. Tom quickly glanced back down before Will could catch him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Will asked quietly. He was looking at Tom over the rim of his glass.
Tom hesitated, then shook his head. “Not – not here, at least,” he muttered. Will nodded and sipped at his tea.
“If you’d like,” he said casually, “you could – come over. To the flat, I mean. We could talk there.”
Tom blinked. Something between terror and excitement swirled in his stomach.
Despite Will’s conversational tone, Tom saw that his hands were shaking slightly as they held the teacup.
Tom looked at Will warily. “I, uh – I wouldn’t want to intrude on you or – or Steph.” The words came automatically.
Will nodded rapidly and seemed to shrink. “Of course, I – of course. It – Steph’s out until tomorrow, so there’d be no intrusion, but. I’m sorry to presume.”
The feeling in Tom’s stomach shifted as he processed what Will had said.
“Steph’s – out?” he repeated.
Will nodded. “With Lauri,” he said.
“Hm.” Tom busied himself with finishing the scone.
“Think that one’s lavender,” Will said, watching him. “How is it?”
Tom sipped his tea. “Good,” he said. “It’s – good.”
For some reason, he kept talking.
“Um. If you’re sure – if it’d really be okay? To – for me to, uh – come by. For – not, not for long, but.”
Will did a double take and blinked repeatedly.
“Yeah – of course it’s okay,” he said hesitantly. “I, uh, don’t want to pressure you or anything –”
“No, no,” Tom said, shaking his head. “You’re not – it’d be nice. To, uh, to talk there. Thanks.”
“Of course.” Will had brightened back up, like a flower given water. “I – okay. Good. Um – I, I have to get back to it now,” he vaguely gestured toward the counter, “but, um, we could walk over? Once we close up? ‘S not far.”
Tom nodded. He wondered what he had gotten himself into.
--
Will apparently had a different definition of ‘not far’ than Tom – likely because he had longer legs, which was a dangerous route for Tom’s thoughts to take – but they reached the building soon enough and went inside. Will took the key from his pocket and unlocked the door while Tom waited a little way behind him, leaning on the wall.
“Pretty basic stuff,” Will said as he walked through the flat. “Nothing fancy. Uh – kitchen, front room, bedroom, bathroom.” He gestured to each room as Tom followed him, having hung up his jacket. The bedroom door was slightly ajar; Will opened it the rest of the way and glanced inside.
“Bit of a mess,” he said apologetically. Tom peeked in and saw with dismay that the bed – the singular bed – was neatly made.
“What mess?” he asked without thinking. It was embarrassing, but better than the other question that had floated to the top of his thoughts: why was there only one bed?
Will glanced at Tom, then at the bed, and seemed to make the connection. He turned faintly pink. “Uh – couldn’t afford another bed,” he said quietly. “Most nights we, uh, alternate between the bed and the couch.”
Tom felt his face heat up. “I – you don’t have to explain. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Will said. He closed the bedroom door and Tom felt inexplicably relieved.
One of the other walls in the flat was plastered with photographs, each spaced a few centimeters apart from each other so that the color of the wall itself appeared as a kind of lattice. From a distance, the photos appeared to be organized into different-colored sections that subtly blended into each other at the edges. Tom found himself drawn to look at them. It was hard to tell, since most of them were groups of people, but they seemed to be organized based on – perhaps it was by event? Chronologically?
He heard Will walk over, but his eyes were fixed on the photographs.
“What’s all this?” he asked, half to himself.
Behind him, Will chuckled.
“Nothing much,” he said. “The photos that weren’t good enough. So – most of them.”
“Oh right – you’re the official, uh, LGSM photographer. These the unofficial photos, then?”
Will did a double take and turned to look at Tom.
“I – yeah, I guess,” he said, sounding surprised. “Unofficial.”
For a heartbeat he stared at Tom.
Tom felt the blush beginning to creep into his cheeks. Did he have something on his face?
Another heartbeat passed and Will blinked, shaking his head slightly. Tom felt an odd sense of disappointment when he turned back to the photos.
“’M not great at it or anything,” Will mused, “but – it’s relaxing, as a hobby. I dunno.”
Tom hummed in affirmation, and the two stared at the pictures. The majority of them were glossy and whole, carefully pinned to the wall, but some of them were crinkled and stained, torn at the edges, and had been smoothed out. Others had clearly been torn up and taped back together. Tom wanted to ask about them, but did not.
As if he had heard the unspoken question, Will said, “My parents threw ‘em out when they, uh, found out about me. Got what I could from the bin.”
He spoke almost absently, gazing at the photos, and it took a moment for his words to register to Tom. It was like a slap across the face when he understood. For an instant he was seized by a vaguely familiar sense of helpless rage at the petty cruelty, at the thought of a younger Will digging through the trash to find his photographs or watching them be torn up in front of him – but then, being angry wouldn’t help Will.
“I’m sorry,” was what he said instead. “That’s – you didn’t deserve that.”
Will shrugged. There was a distant look in his eyes.
Tom cast about desperately for something else to discuss and pointed at a group of photos that showed various blurred figures on some kind of stage.
“What are these from?” he asked.
Will turned to look where he was pointing, and – incredibly – turned red. He chuckled.
“That’s, uh, that was from the Pits and Perverts fundraiser concert in December ’84. We got Bronski Beat, if you can believe it. It was – it was incredible.”
Will had a soft smile on his face as he talked, looking fondly at the photos.
Before Tom could think about it, he blurted, “Why are you blushing?”
Will whipped his head around to look at Tom, with widened eyes.
“I – I’m not blushing,” he said, as he turned even redder.
Tom grinned. “You are,” he said. “I can see it. Why?”
Will looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an incoming lorry.
“I, uh,” he said, glancing from side to side. “I – that is – well. Don’t laugh.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tom said solemnly. He bit his tongue to keep from giggling at the conflicted expression on Will’s face.
“Don’t laugh,” Will said again, with a chuckle. Despite his words, he had a small smile on his face. “I – that’s – um – it, it was there I had my first kiss, alright? That’s, uh, that’s all.”
His voice grew quieter as he spoke, and he turned away to look at the photos.
Tom blinked. He did not laugh. There was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He looked at the photos and thought of Will, softer and younger in the dim light, holding a camera and listening to the music with a rapt expression. He thought of someone reaching out to Will – or perhaps Will reaching out – and the two pressed up against each other, Will and the other, faceless man. Would he be on this wall?
The feeling in his stomach grew. Tom promptly shoved it to the back of his mind and cleared his throat with a cough.
“Wish I’d been there,” he said absently, before hearing himself and freezing up. When Will glanced at him, though, there was only a wistful look on his face.
“You’d have enjoyed it, I think,” he said, turning back to the photos. “We got some of the folks from Dulais down here, and they had an absolute ball. Raised a lot of money. It was – well, beautiful, really.”
“I bet,” Tom said. “Beautiful.”
If he was looking at Will as he spoke, that was nobody’s business.
For a moment the two stood in silence. Tom forced himself to look back at the photos, though he could not help occasionally glancing toward Will. On one such occasion he was frozen by the blue eyes that were staring back at him.
Will’s brow was furrowed, and he looked at Tom like he was trying to understand him.
He coughed and said, “Um. Would you like some – something to eat? I could make pasta.”
Tom was not normally one to turn down a free meal, but as he tore his gaze from Will his eyes landed on his watch. It was nearly half seven.
Tom had a horrible sense of déjà vu as he looked to Will and said, helplessly, “I – my brother’s expecting me. I’m sorry.”
This time, however, Will’s face did not become closed off as it had before. He simply nodded. “You want me to walk with you?” he asked. “It’ll be dark out soon.”
Tom shook his head. “That won’t bother me,” he said. “I – I want to tell him. Really.”
“I know,” Will said. “You’ll do it when you’re ready.”
He stepped toward Tom and put a hand on his shoulder. Tom was abruptly taken back to the previous Saturday, to the feeling of the same hand on his shoulder. A point of warmth, to ground him.
“You’re very brave, Blake,” Will said, looking him in the eye. “Okay? You are brave.”
Tom nodded and swallowed hard. Another insane, wordless idea had flashed through his mind.
“Can –” his voice briefly failed him – “can I hug you?” His voice was shaky.
Will’s eyes briefly widened, but then he nodded.
Tom reminded himself to breathe. Moving slowly, he circled his arms around Will’s waist and leaned his head on his shoulder, carefully not thinking about what he was doing. He felt Will’s arms come around his torso, hands splayed out against his back. Something came to rest on the crown of his head: Will’s chin. Tom closed his eyes.
“Call me Tom,” he said in a low voice. “Please.”
“Alright,” Will replied softly. “Tom.”
They stood like that until Tom’s neck started to ache, and he drew back reluctantly.
“I – thanks,” he muttered. “Sorry. I – I needed that.”
“It’s okay,” Will said. There was something in his eyes that Tom did not dare look at for too long. “Look – you’re always welcome here, alright? If – whatever happens. We’ll make room.”
Tom nodded and turned away from Will. His eyes were starting to sting, and a lump had formed in his throat.
“I sh—I should go,” he said thickly. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” Will said. The two walked to the door. Tom slipped on his jacket and glanced back at Will, at the flat. He blew his breath out in a shaky sigh and nodded.
“See you,” he muttered to Will. He opened the door and walked out quickly, before – before he started crying, or had second thoughts. Before Will could say anything.
Tom did not look back after that. He wiped at his eyes with one hand, and left the building, walking quickly toward the Underground station. His surroundings passed him in a kind of blur, lit by streetlights and the occasional neon sign, until he descended into the station. From there he moved mechanically: paying, boarding, riding, waiting, exiting. A moment later (or what felt like it), he blinked, and he was back at Joe’s flat. Getting the key, unlocking the door and stepping inside were similarly mechanical actions, as if something else was making Tom’s limbs move.
He walked into the kitchen, where Joe was stirring a pot of something on the stove. His brother did not look up – he seemed not to have heard him.
“Hey – hey, Joe?”
He was back at the cliff, looking over the edge. It was a long way down.
Joe glanced over at him. “Oh, hey. Yeah?”
Tom’s mind had gone curiously blank. Perhaps he was already falling.
You are brave.
He took a deep breath.
“I’m gay.”