(no subject)
Early mornings - Tom has been doing early mornings for years now. Between the Army, the Realm, and - and the world changes, all at once, one idiotic tumble down a hill in the post apocolyptic badlands of the US - and then there were infants, and the ITF and honestly, really, now sometimes the only time they got sex was in those precious hours before toddler feet hit the ground.
Mornings make him remember years and decades back.
He woke with Neil feverishly hot at his side, drool on his shoulder. They’re both wearing boxers to bed now - the girls are old enough for nightmares and that means they’re old enough to seek them out in the middle of the night, silky curls and damp cheeks reaching for Daddies, Neil and Tom and people who loved them, everyone that’s long gone.
For a long moment, Tom spread his hand on Neil’s side and felt the pulsing shudder of his heart. Tangled limbs, sheets, wrapped tight against one another, hand to hearts and chest to chest - they made their story while they could. It was the most anyone could do, on the Island or in any nowhere town back home. He slid his way from the sheets, humming a noise at Neil when he made a sleepy sound in protest.
On his last morning, Tom brewed coffee, poured a cup, and set the rest aside for Neil. He watered the cuttings on the southern windowsill, and peaked his head in on the girls, who were awake and whispering to one another, little girl giggles in the predawn light.
He smiled, smiled so hard his face hurt and, when he sat down on his front step for the last time, he watched the spill of sunlight over the garden, the garden that Mike had raised with his hands first and his body later and for no reason other than love, love, love, Tom felt his eyes water. He took a slow, measured sip of coffee.
This was the time they had and the story they made. You never knew how much you got--
AN: it’s been a beautiful, heartbreaking collection of years and...and it’s always harder than you think, isn’t it?
(iloveyouall)
Mornings make him remember years and decades back.
He woke with Neil feverishly hot at his side, drool on his shoulder. They’re both wearing boxers to bed now - the girls are old enough for nightmares and that means they’re old enough to seek them out in the middle of the night, silky curls and damp cheeks reaching for Daddies, Neil and Tom and people who loved them, everyone that’s long gone.
For a long moment, Tom spread his hand on Neil’s side and felt the pulsing shudder of his heart. Tangled limbs, sheets, wrapped tight against one another, hand to hearts and chest to chest - they made their story while they could. It was the most anyone could do, on the Island or in any nowhere town back home. He slid his way from the sheets, humming a noise at Neil when he made a sleepy sound in protest.
On his last morning, Tom brewed coffee, poured a cup, and set the rest aside for Neil. He watered the cuttings on the southern windowsill, and peaked his head in on the girls, who were awake and whispering to one another, little girl giggles in the predawn light.
He smiled, smiled so hard his face hurt and, when he sat down on his front step for the last time, he watched the spill of sunlight over the garden, the garden that Mike had raised with his hands first and his body later and for no reason other than love, love, love, Tom felt his eyes water. He took a slow, measured sip of coffee.
This was the time they had and the story they made. You never knew how much you got--
AN: it’s been a beautiful, heartbreaking collection of years and...and it’s always harder than you think, isn’t it?
(iloveyouall)