Chapter Text
Tom was most certainly not in the middle of London in order to see the ’86 Pride parade. That was what he had to keep in mind. If anyone asked him, he was in the middle of London, swinging along a battered suitcase, because he had been looking for his brother’s flat and gotten lost. Never mind that his brother lived in Redbridge; he had gotten very lost. He was looking for the Underground station, or something. Now he was in London proper, having come out from the train station, and he had just happened to come across the Pride route by accident, judging by the crowds of people he could see moving in a slow and steady line. He figured he might as well take a quick look while he was there, see what it was all about. Completely out of an intellectual curiosity, obviously.
He jogged toward the source of shouting, barely keeping a grip on the bag, and stood at the side of the street, watching people marching together and holding up banners that said things like WE FIGHT FOR EQUALITY and QUEERS: BETTER BLATANT THAN LATENT. Interspersed with these banners were others that seemed to be from various mining towns. Tom could faintly recall something in the papers a while back – a group of gays from London that had supported some Welsh miners.
For a moment, looking at all the people marching and chanting together, he wanted to join them - to chuck his bag to the side and grab a banner. But his legs refused to move.
“Fucking perverts!”
Tom turned reflexively at the shout and flinched back as something flew at his face, his hands coming up automatically. He took a step back and felt a sharp pain on his forehead. A broken glass clattered to the pavement in front of him, and he stared dumbly at it. Then the ground seemed to tilt sharply towards him; he stumbled backwards and abruptly collided with someone in the parade marching the opposite way.
“Christ. Alright there?” called a voice from above Tom’s head. He tried to say something but couldn’t find the words. He was sitting down. When had he sat down? He blinked once and then blinked again when something dripped into his eye.
“Come on,” said the voice, “let’s get you up, then. Jeff, take the banner, would you?” A hand clasped his, and he had just enough time to process how fucking massive the hand looked compared to his before he was being hauled up, other hands pulling at his shoulders.
“Get him out of the crush,” said a woman’s voice, and Tom was guided to the pavement, the same massive hand still clasped around his. He sat down carefully, and the other hands left him.
“There we are,” said the first voice, and a face came into view in front of Tom. It was a young man, Tom’s age or a bit older, with blond hair. He was crouched down in front of Tom, looking at him worriedly. One of his hands was still holding Tom’s.
On an intellectual level Tom knew that there was a load of people passing by, chanting or yelling slurs and generally making a ruckus. But on every other level, all the noise had disappeared as the man — just a boy, really — stared at him with big blue eyes.
Sometimes life was really fucking unfair.
“Pupils same size, good,” the boy muttered. “I’ve some plasters here for that cut. Likely to bruise as well.”
He took his hand from Tom’s and broke eye contact to rummage around in a small rucksack, then shifted to sit down next to Tom and pulled out a handful of plasters.
“Head wounds bleed lots,” he informed Tom, “so, uh, let’s just get that cleaned up a bit first. Then we can head to hospital if you’d like. Um. What — what’s your name? How do you feel?”
Tom was still processing and grieving the loss of the boy’s hand in his, but at this he jumped slightly and said, “Blake. Uh. Tom. Blake. Is my name. And . . . fine, I feel fine. Don’t need hospital. I — I’ve been informed I have rather a thick skull. But thank you.”
In truth he felt a little lightheaded, but he couldn’t be sure if that was due to the head wound or the person sitting next to him.
The boy in question smiled and Tom momentarily forgot to breathe. Probably not the head wound, then, though it was still a distant throb in his consciousness.
“You sure about that, Blake?” the boy asked gently. “Um — turn your head a bit this way.”
Tom did so obediently and was treated to the sight of the boy’s brow furrowing as he wiped Tom’s forehead. The cloth came away pink and Tom felt faint, but he swallowed hard and focused on the feeling of the warm pavement under his palms.
“I’m sure,” he said. “I’ve had worse.”
The boy huffed out a laugh. “Fair enough. Need you to close your eyes.”
Tom complied. He startled slightly at the feeling of a cool wet cloth wiping against his eyebrow. Then there was a hand on his shoulder, a point of warmth grounding him. The cloth moved to wipe gently against his eyelid.
“You’re doing well,” the boy said quietly. Tom wished it didn’t make him feel better.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
“I’m Will, by the way,” the boy said. “Don’t think I mentioned that. You can open your eyes now.”
Tom’s eyes fluttered open and he saw Will peering at him again. His eyes really were very blue.
“Looks like I’ve gotten the blood off,” said the blond. “Just needs a plaster now. Maybe a, uh, a tetanus shot, some ice for that bruise.”
Tom nodded and cleared his throat. For once, he didn’t know what to say. So, as was habit, he said the first thing that came to mind.
“You, uh,” he said as Will stuck on the plaster, smoothing it out with his long fingers, “You one of ‘em, then? A — a gay?”
Will jerked his hand back from Tom’s forehead like it was a hot stove. His smile had disappeared.
In hindsight, with the plaster pulling at his skin and Will’s jaw clenching, it had been a colossally stupid idea to say the first thing that had come to mind. Tom was only sorry he hadn’t realized this approximately two seconds sooner.
“That’s – that’s right,” said Will. He was no longer looking at Tom. “Sorry, I — I assumed—”
He cut himself off, looking embarrassed. Tom wanted to sink into the pavement and never emerge.
“’S not, uh, contagious or anything,” he said, a little bitterly. “If — if that’s what you’re worried about. Sorry.”
He began to stand up, his face closing off, and Tom panicked.
“Wait! Hang on, wait, please.” He grabbed at Will’s hand and hoisted himself up, ignoring the dizziness and noting with some distant relief that the taller boy grabbed ahold of him for support. Will was looking at him with confusion.
“That isn’t what – I mean, I – I’m sorry. I just – I don’t know. I don’t know. How could you tell?”
His voice dropped to a whisper halfway through, and Will’s face seemed to open back up slightly, though he still let go of Tom’s hand far too early. He paused, then rummaged around in his rucksack again and pulled out a small card, which he handed to Tom. He held the card by its edge; Tom wondered if it was deliberate so that their fingers wouldn’t touch as he took it.
“Where I work,” said Will, watching him warily. “Everyone’s – well, some of us – meeting there after the parade’s done. You can – come by if you like, we could chat. Up to you.”
His tone was deliberately neutral, but his eyes were warmer than they had been. Tom tried to speak and found he couldn’t – he could only nod frantically.
“I – you – thank – yeah. Yeah.”
Will’s eyes flicked to Tom’s forehead and his brow furrowed.
“You sure you don’t want to get that looked at?” he asked.
“It’s – it’s fine,” Tom said with more confidence than he felt. “Just a — a minor wound.”
The corner of Will’s mouth twitched upward. “Minor wound,” he repeated. “Take care, Blake.”
He smiled at Tom, then turned away to join the parade again.
All the noise rushed back in, and Tom was abruptly reminded that he had forgotten something. Where was the suitcase? For a moment he looked around frantically, before realizing, with a start, that it was right next to him on the pavement. Thank fuck — his mum and Joe never would’ve let him hear the end of it if he’d lost the bag.
His legs still felt a bit odd, so he sat back down on the pavement and looked at the business card Will had given him.
It read GAY’S THE WORD BOOKSHOP, with an address and phone number below the name.
Tom smiled.