forthedog | (no subject)

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hobbes

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He's not sure why he should feel so tired. He's taken it easy today, spent time with the girls in the morning, checked his snares, sat with Neil for a while on the ballfield, sat with Florence for a while on the beach. He shouldn't be tired, but he is, and maybe it comes back to Florence's face, the pain in it, the loss, though he knows she was trying to be strong and he has no doubt that she'll succeed.

He doesn't actually want an eventful life. He hasn't since leaving the Guard. After that, he would have been happy with three hots and a cot somewhere, and a lot of time to think. But that's never been what life has in store for him and he's not sure why it should start now.

He shifts in bed, turning half on his side and closing his eyes, weariness aching in his limbs. Waiting for Tom, and for Neil, if Neil decides to show up, though he doesn't think he'll be good for much besides sleep. Might even be asleep before anyone even gets here. It's early yet, barely past dusk, but it's late enough, too.

No simple life for him. Not even when he's sleeping.

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For a long time, Tom leaned in the doorway to Mike's hut, arms cross tightly over his chest, just watching him sleep. Since that afternoon he'd gone through cycles, over and over. Rage, hurt, helplessness, one into the other and back again, endlessly. There was nothing he could do for Neil now but love him. No matter how much he wished otherwise, there was no going back across years. Still. Still, there were bitter dregs of anger that even an afternoon at the shooting range hadn't shaken out of him. Leaning there, watching, smelling like GSR and smoke, something already tightly coiled in his chest pulled taunt.

"Get up," he said, voice rough from disuse. He slid into the room, slapping Mike's legs through the sheets. "I said, get up, Pinocchio."

He starts, awake in a half second; he hadn't even really been fully asleep, but he hadn't sensed Tom there. Maybe he's getting rusty. He rolls half over onto his back, stares up at Tom in the dimness, confusion all over his face. Why would he sound like that?

What's happened now?

"What the hell?" He sits up, palming roughly at his eyes. "The fuck is wrong with you?"

"With me?" Tom said, voice raising in disbelief, hands braced on his hips. "What the hell is wrong with me? Hah. I talked to Neil today," Tom went on, voice tight, words sharply clipped.

"Down at the baseball field."

He sits up a little straighter, trying to parse that, trying to find some sense in it. "I know he was there," he says, raking a hand through his hair and making it stand up even more. "We talked for a while. Why, what did you talk to him about?"

Tom looked away suddenly, his mouth drying up. He rubbed the back of his neck, a horrible twist on his lips. Selfishly, he was still raw, laid open. Awkward.

He glanced over at Mike, staring at him for a long moment before he spoke. "About his. His little league coach."

Maybe he's still sleepy. Whatever the reason, it takes him a full beat before he realizes what Tom is talking about, and his eyes widen slightly. Coach. There's something almost talismanic about the figure of him in Mike's mind, like he's somehow the key to everything, little as he knows.

And now Tom knows.

"Jesus," he whispers. Then, looking up sharply, "Did you freak out? God, Hobbes, please tell me you did not freak out."

"No, I laughed it the fuck off and we started playing catch," Tom spat out, glaring at Mike over his shoulder, chewing his cuticle. He was flushed despite his words, however. An embarrassed color rose up in his cheeks and ears and he hunched his shoulders in unconscious defense.

"What...what was I supposed to do?" he added wretchedly, looking out one of the huts windows. He laughed bitterly, not turning around. He was hurt, angry, and still reeling. It made it easy to lash out.

"It's not like you ever said a word."

He's about to try to say something conciliatory. It's not like he's never made any wrong moves, Christ, especially lately, but then Tom says the last thing and Mike's face goes cold and stony.

"Don't do that," he says, very quiet. "Don't you pin this on me. It wasn't my thing to tell. It's Neil's life, it's up to him what he wants to tell you and when." He shakes his head, mouth twisting. "And how would I have told you, anyway? When? Right before we slept with him? Right after? Would there have been a good time?"

"You knew," Tom said, turning to point at him, taking a few angry steps forward. "You knew, before any of this. How is that fair, Pinocchio?" He rolled his eyes, shoving his hands back through his hair. "He was...he was terrified this afternoon," he go out through clenched teeth, looking away.

"Jesus. The look on his face..."

"And how is that my fault?" He's not angry. He doesn't have the energy to be angry. First Florence and now this, and he can't catch a fucking break. He draws his knees up to his chest under the sheets and leans over them, wishing to God he were still asleep.

"Look, I knew because he told me, and he told me before any of this happened. Something like that happens to you... you share it with someone..." He chews his lower lip, frustrated that he's not better able to put things into words. "When you tell them, it's like a trust. It's not something they spread around. To anyone. It's not fair to do that. It wasn't my place to tell you, do you get that?"

Tom glanced at him quickly, shaking his head as he looked away. It was easier to be angry than feel like a fool. The wriggling anxiety and guilt in his chest was already unbearable and picking fights with Pinocchio wasn't as numbing as he would have thought.

"Haven't you thought about it?" he forced himself to ask after a moment. He looked back at Mike with his face completly open, everything spelled out in letters three stories tall. "About what it means. With us..."

"Yeah, I've thought about it," he says quietly. "But not a lot. I thought about it when he told me. I've thought about it for maybe ten seconds since then." He shakes his head slowly, wondering for about the millionth time why things have to be so hard. "Don't think like that. You'll drive yourself fucking insane. That's why I haven't thought about it that much. You think we're a symptom of what happened to him? So what if we are? Why should that matter? Does it mean we love him any less?"

He stares up at Tom, willing him to understand. Begging him. "He's not a little kid anymore, Hobbes. He chose this. He chose us."

Tom groaned quietly to himself, finally dropping down onto the edge of Mike's bed. The broken, throbbing part of him needed to believe that, hear it said out loud for affirmation. It didn't fix everything, but what could? He wasn't even hurting over what had been done to him. He pushed his fingers back through his hair, pulling sharply on his roots.

"I've never wanted to hurt anyone this badly in my life," he muttered neurally, no inflection, staring blankly at the wall. 'He told me he fuckin' loved me, and I believed him.' Mouth twisting into a snarl, Tom's nail's dug into the heel of his hand until they left deep, angry marks.

"I raided your ammo today," he added quietly, still staring ahead. "Sorry."

Edited 2008-09-03 18:10 (UTC)

"I know," he says softly, and when he sees what Tom is doing to his hand he reaches out and takes it in his own, rubbing at the marks with his thumb as if trying to blot them out. He understands the anger, better than he'd like. Another reason why he doesn't give what was done to Neil much thought is that he knows, if he did, the banked-down rage he feels would become massive, infernal. It would be dangerous. It would make being with Neil painful rather than a pleasure. He's felt rage like that before.

He shakes his head and smiles, tiny and sad, lifting Tom's hand to his mouth and kissing the back of it. "You can use it whenever you want," he says. "You know that."

"Yeah..." Tom said, returning the grin with a forced smile, watching Mike's fingers trail over his skin, soothing the hurt. They've done this before. In the Realm, in bed, and it never got tired. Each time he went down like a house of cards, caving into Mike's steady certainty and letting himself believe it was true. This was no exception. With a heavy sigh, he laid down on the bed, over the covers, and fit himself to Mike's side, nose pressing into his shoulder.

"I really fucked up today."

He sighs and lets himself sink down next to Tom, curling an arm around his shoulders and turning his head to press a kiss to his hairline. "You scared him," he says, his voice a low him against Tom's forehead. "But maybe that's all you did. Don't make this into worse than it is. Anyway, he was probably scared even before he told you. I would've been." There's a lot he still hasn't told Tom, at least in part because of fear gone habitual.

"Some people are just fucked up, Tom. They're damaged. Not everyone is as lucky as you've been. But I'm one of those people, and... I'm okay. Seems like Neil's pretty okay, too. Considering."

"You're not fucked up," Tom said earnestly, talking into the curve of Mike's neck, shifting to throw an arm over his belly. "I mean. Maybe you've gone through fucked up stuff, but that doesn't mean that you're..." He trailed off, realizing what he was saying in the context of what had happened today.

"It doesn't mean you're still subject to it." He closed his eyes, wincing. "Shit."

"I know what you're saying," he says, smiling again. God, sometimes Tom can be weirdly adorable when he's fumbling, even when it's also a bit awful given the context. "You're half wrong, but I know what you're saying. And Neil isn't either. Christ, Tom, you know him. You know he's okay." Because he knows that. You can get past what's been done to you, what you've done, and act on the terms of your own happiness, if you can just believe you deserve it. He's starting to. He feels like Neil is, too.

"I do," he murmured, "I know that but--...Christ, I was such an asshole," he murmured softly, swallowing hard over the knot in his throat, turning his face so that Mike couldn't look at him. "I think...I think I almost made him cry. I think I did that, Pinocchio." He coughed out a bitter laugh, dragging his hand down over his face. "Fuck."

"And you think that's the worst thing that's ever happened to him?" he says gently, stroking a hand through Tom's hair. He knows the words probably sting, at least a little, but he doesn't mean them to. "I'm sure he's forgiven a lot worse. And he loves you, you idiot. Where is he now? Do you know?"

"I know it's not," Tom said tiredly, pulling away to sit up in the bed, rubbing his arm self-conciously. "That doesn't really make me feel like less of a jerk by comparisson."

He sighed quietly, looking down at Mike. "He's home, now. Or at least I think he is. I told him I might be coming by tonight."

He sighs when Tom pulls away, a little disappointed but it's not like it's entirely unexpected. He shrugs, sliding one arm under his head, and meets Tom's gaze levelly.

"So go by tonight. Talk to him about it. Tell him everything's okay. Because everything is okay, right?" he adds, a little more firmly.

"No, everything's not okay," Tom muttered, swallowing hard as he stood up. "But that doesn't really change anything. Not really."

He sighed, looking back at Mike as he lingered at the door. "I should...I should go."

"All right," he says quietly, looking up at Tom and feeling so incredibly fucking tired. And feeling selfish for that. But weeks of this and he's almost ready to take an especially long hunting trip.

"I love you," he says. "And this is gonna be okay."

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