Fic: Becoming Who We Are
Title: Becoming Who We Are
Rating: Light R?
Fandom: American Idiot
Pairing: Will/Heather, Will/Declan, Will/Gerard, Will/Theo, Tunny/Christina, Tunny/Will, implied Johnny/Whatsername
A/N: I kinda fucked with the timeline of the musical, but I tried to keep most of it as accurate as possible. Well. With some ~additions, of course.
Lyrics in Will's journal are from "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum (possibly my number one Will/Tunny song) and "Makedamnsure" by Taking Back Sunday. Title from "Wake Me Up When September Ends", cut from "Homecoming", both by Green Day.
The first few days after Johnny and Tunny leave are...bearable. Nice, even. Relaxing. Pleasant. Quiet. Days spent on the couch with Heather, her tiny frame wrapped in his arms, fruity-smelling hair mingling sweetly with the ever-present, slightly stale scent of beer that's sunk into the upholstery over the years of shit-talking, cigarettes and blah-fucking-blah.
The happiness fades quickly, though, the aroma of alcohol growing fresher by the day, and Will finds himself flinching away from Heather's touch, feels her growing distant, detached, and he knows it's- they're- doomed.
The worst part is that he can't bring himself to care.
A kid on the way, a girlfriend who he- okay, he loves her, or he loved her, even if it no longer feels like it, not when she takes his cigarettes and his beer and his guitar, not when she tries to "talk", not when he doesn't want to deal with her, or his own, bullshit- he knows he should care. But he doesn't.
All he cares about is, well.
Not the beer and cigarettes that Heather seems to think have become his life; they have, but they're placeholders. Reminders, of what he once had- the underbelly, but at least it was something, at least he had them-
Johnny. Tunny.
At least Johnny writes. Or, well, at first. The last letter Will gets arrives months before he returns home- "Is this just lust, or could it be the dawning?" Will's just glad Johnny "made a friend at camp" - it's about time he got laid. Will's a little worried about the drugs, but Johnny knows how to handle himself, and honestly, if Will were with him, he'd be the one causing trouble, so he's got to cut him some slack.
If Will were with him- them- maybe everything would be different.
But as things are, Will has enough to worry about without Johnny's big city shenanigans on his mind. Namely, Tunny. The stupid motherfucker just had to go looking for something more: meaning, or glory, or glamour, letting himself be seduced by the idea of something that doesn't exist. Or, at least, something that Will no longer believes in. If he ever did.
Instead, Will's starting to realize what he would never let himself admit before. Rather, he would if he stopped to think about it- but letting himself think it would be admitting defeat, and Will isn't strong enough for that. Not without them. Him.
So he drowns himself in more- placeholders, but at least these ones are warm, talented hands and tongues mixed with stale breath and apathy to match his own. Declan's the best, all cocky British accent and razor sharp grin to match his wit, and Will's almost tempted to let him go further, take more- but he has enough sense to stop himself before he does something he'll really regret.
Dec, for his part, has enough sense to get out fast, murmuring reassurances and insults in the same breath even as he shuts the door behind him. Will cries and pretends it's for him, bites his pillow as he comes into his own fist and imagines it's Declan's name he's biting back, then wonders why he's bothering. He's only hiding from himself, anyway-
And maybe that's all that really matters, he thinks as he drags the same pillow over his head, shutting out daylight and consciousness in one fell swoop.
Gerard comes next, but he doesn't last much longer than the Brit. He's sincerely apologetic when he leaves, but terrified at the same time, as though he expects Will to hurl an empty beer can at his head, and that, well. That's not an entirely irrational fear. As long as I don't have to get off this couch, Will thinks, lighting another cigarette.
Theo lasts the longest, and Will's impressed, almost hopeful; it's like being one of the guys again, except when they're sprawled over the couch- over each other- in a way that's less than fraternal, but Will doesn't think about that. Doesn't kiss, doesn't let hands, tongues wander any further than they have to: this way, it doesn't count. "It's just getting off," and it's a reminder to himself but when he slips up, groaning the wrong name through clenched teeth as Theo kneels between his legs, Will can't bring himself to meet accusatory, hurt eyes and-
"This has gone too far." He always assumed Theo would leave on his own when shit got too heavy, too real, but it's Will who kicks him out, beating himself up as he downs another beer and shoves the crumpled can between the couch cushions with the rest of his heart.
These days, the alcohol and the smoke cover the stench of sex, the thick air that Will and Heather pretend not to notice, just as they pretend not to notice each other- the arrangement is beyond fucked-up, but it's working, or at least Will thinks it is, until Alysha arrives to take him to task...and that's putting it mildly.
When the door shuts behind Heather and her suitcases, he doesn't feel a thing.
Four down. How many more to go?
He spends half his time crying and the other half sleeping, and sometimes he wakes with tears on his cheeks, remainders of consciousness seeping into his dreams (or is it the opposite?), spilling forth from brimming lids. He's fucking miserable, and he's never felt like this before- so empty, so alone.
It's even worse when Heather calls ("It's a girl. Just thought you should know"); he feels that ache for something more, something within reach, but his pleas to see her, to see them both, to hold his own fucking daughter fall short, hollow to even his own ears. He only expects it when Heather refuses, and he can hear the tears, the pain in her voice and he almost wishes he could kiss it away but that time has passed. That chance has slipped away, and Heather's smart enough to know that never again is the best, the only option for them both.
Seeing it coming doesn't make it hurt any less, and it doesn't stop Will from hurling his phone at the wall with a sob that catches somewhere in the back of his throat, trying not to think of the poetry that lurks among the shattered remains of the phone, scattered across the floor, out of reach, like-
The shards of my heart, and he wants to kick himself, it's so fucking cliche, but he's black and blue enough as it is, inside and out; instead, he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and all he can see is Johnny, Tunny, a rare smile on the latter's face and cliche or not, it's a fucking adequate comparison.
Days turn to weeks turn to months, and Will's not even sure he can tell day from night any more. He imagines he knows how Tunny felt when they first left, sleeping constantly, unable to summon the motivation to go out...or shower...or, hell, to even get the fuck off the couch. But Will still doesn't understand why his dream turned red, white and blue, and he vows that if that motherfucker ever makes it back here alive, I'm gonna kill 'im.
And then- sooner than he expected, or maybe later, or maybe he had no fucking clue- Johnny's back. Johnny's home.
Will doesn't know what possesses him to roll off the couch when he does that day. He probably has to take a piss, or maybe he hasn't eaten in a few days, or he ran out of beer; whatever the reason, he hears a knock at the door as he passes by, impeccably timed, and he stops dead.
I probably imagined it, he tells himself, and he doesn't know why his heart is pounding, palms sweating. Been holed up in here so long I'm hearing things, not like that's much of a surprise, but then the knock comes again, more insistent this time, and no, that's definitely real.
There's something in the way Will can't quite breathe that tells him that this is no fucking pizza delivery or, hell, eviction notice, and he wrenches the door open with as much energy as he's managed to muster in months-
"Johnny."
The name leaves his lips as barely more than a whisper, but he breathes in and it's like he didn't even know he was suffocating until he saw that face, that smile, spoke that name that had evaded him for far too long. There's another moment where he can't breathe, but that's because he's crushed to Johnny's chest in a hug that threatens to crack his ribs as much as anything, and that kind of suffocation, well. Will's missed that.
Even as he collapses on the couch with Johnny, though, offering him a beer and falling quickly back into their old ways- this time mixed with Johnny's stories of girls and drugs, big cities and bright lights, fever dreams that still lurk in the back of Will's mind- something's still missing. Something neither of them dares to mention, at least until Will can't take it anymore. He can't meet Johnny's eye, can't choke out anything more than the name, but Johnny understands.
"Tunny?"
Johnny shakes his head, a mixture of sympathy, rage and betrayal flickering across his features so quickly Will almost thinks he might have imagined it. "I haven't seen him since- since he left. Hell, I don't even know if he's alive."
Will flinches and nods, and Johnny hesitates for only a moment before he's attacking Will with hugs, pinning him to the couch with a grin that doesn't quite meet his eyes as he tells him, "At least we've got each other!"
Smiling weakly, Will responds with another nod, but it's hard to stay anxious for long when Johnny's tickling him, and the fucker didn't forget a thing, Will thinks as he squirms away from his touch, laughing breathlessly, twisting to dig his fingers into Johnny's ribs in retaliation.
The rush of the laughter, of an unfamiliar madness that Will recognizes somewhere in the recesses of his mind as happiness is only a temporary fix, though, and even as he and Johnny slip into a deep sleep, still tangled together on the couch, the dreams return, flashes of light and thunderous crashes behind closed lids, and when Will wakes he's shaking, crying, gathered in Johnny's arms as he whispers reassurances that neither of them truly believe.
Still, it helps, and Will falls asleep to an unfamiliar tune as Johnny croons softly in his ear, still holding him close enough to hear, feel his heart beat.
-
A few weeks pass, just the two of them, on their own: there's the occasional visitor to welcome Johnny back, but they're always wary and never stay long. Will's never really sure which of them scares everyone off, but he guesses it's a combination of Johnny's wild eyes as he reflects back on his time in the city and his own "fuck off" attitude. It's okay, though. They've always preferred being on their own together, anyway.
Will coaxes Johnny through the detoxing process with lots of cigarettes and alcohol- just enough to get him by, not enough to replace one addiction with another, but, "I think you're doing it wrong," Johnny croaks one day from the bathroom floor as Will offers him a beer with a cheeky grin. Still, he seems to be improving, however gradually, so Johnny keeps his mouth shut and lets Will look out for him.
For his part, though, Johnny's doing plenty of coaxing of his own, trying to convince Will to pick up the phone and call Heather, demand to see his baby girl- "hell, man, she's half yours, isn't she?" But Will makes excuses every time, not sure exactly what it is he's running from- all he knows, all he can think about is, I need to know that Tunny's okay. Nothing else matters.
But Johnny matters, keeps him sane, gives Will someone to take care of even when he can't quite take care of himself, and having a purpose, feeling needed feels so much better than he remembers; he can't help but think, though, if only I'd cared sooner, if...
But "if" does him no good, and imagining what could have been will do nothing but torture him, so he does his best to distract himself with the present, not try to change the past or hope against hope for the future.
He does hope, though, because he can't not, and when hope turns to reality it's nothing like he imagined but it still feels like coming home, even if he was never the one who left.
Will never anticipated Johnny's anger, holding him back as he fights through blinding tears to get at Tunny; never anticipated that the rage would disappear as quickly as it came, Johnny pulling Tunny close, still shaking, more relieved than anything else. Will never anticipated that there'd be a girl by Tunny's side, a woman with soft doe eyes and a gentle touch as she takes his hand between both of her own, then Johnny's, before stepping back, away, fingers lingering only momentarily on Tunny's shoulder as her gaze sharpens, knowing-
But Will doesn't see any of that. Doesn't see anything but Tunny, standing before him, broken but far from incomplete, smile hesitant as he whispers Will's name like both an eternity and no time at all has passed, and Will feels the rage and the love and everything he had tried not to feel burn too hot inside him as he wraps Tunny in his arms, fingers curling around one side of his neck as he buries his face in the other, and Johnny saved Will from suffocating but now he's drowning in something else entirely but it doesn't matter because Tunny is home.
-
Christina leaves after only a few weeks; she knows where she's needed, she says, and Tunny will be fine without her. The nod she gives Will as she shakes his hand one last time tells him that this is her way of giving him- giving them- the chance that they deserve, and she really does love him, Will notes, not for the first time, and he pulls her into a hug to whisper, "thank you."
Her smile is stunning, and the restraint of the past few weeks is almost worthwhile.
Tunny crawls into Will's bed in the middle of the night, laying his crutches next to the bedside table as he curls up to the other man's form, pressing his tear-streaked face to Will's skin with a quiet, almost contented shudder that soon turns to the slow, steady sighs of sleep.
Only once he's sure Tunny is asleep does Will dare to wrap an arm around him and pull him close, trying to calm the racing of his heart.
The next morning Will wakes to the rustle of paper, and he gropes across the bed, only half-conscious, for the warmth of Tunny's body-
And as the paper- pages- rustle once more, and Tunny shifts ever so slightly on the other side of the bed, oblivious to the waking form beside him, Will's hit with a horrible realization.
Suddenly wide awake, he sits up in a motion he hopes isn't too abrupt, praying Tunny hasn't-
"Will."
Tunny's voice breaks as the journal falls on the bed between them, and Will's terrified but he has to look, to see how much damage has been done, to see if he can fix this but something in Tunny's tone tells him they can't return from this, that this changes everything, that-
This isn't how I wanted him to find out.
He steals a glance at the page lying face-up, revealing and accusing:
I wonder if I ever cross your mind...for me it happens all the time. It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now...
And in the corner of the page, hidden but plain as day, written and rewritten so many times he's nearly torn through the page, in handwriting that's unmistakably Will's, the one word that betrays everything:
Tunny.
Will's eyes fall shut; there's nothing more to see, nothing but the reaction of the man beside him, and that, he's not sure he can handle facing that, now, ever- but what did you expect? That you'd be able to hide it forever? Coward.
And the last word that crosses his mind jars him into a consciousness he's avoided for far too long, even now- he is a coward, and he knows that if he hides from this, he will regret it for the rest of his life. Open your eyes.
Tunny's fingers are only inches from his, both of their hands resting on the bed, and as Will watches those same fingers move just the slightest bit closer to his own- not enough to touch, but only a hairsbreadth away, and Will's reminded of another drunken scribbling somewhere within the pages of the journal still resting between them:
We lie together, just not too close...(how close is close enough?)
He lets his fingers brush Tunny's, calloused and soft and electric at once, and the touch gives him courage, helps him draw a shaking breath as he reaches out to cup Tunny's jaw, to finally, finally meet his gaze-
What he sees there is indecipherable, so many flickers behind the green that Will is sure even Tunny himself doesn't know what he's feeling, but as Will leans in the color sharpens, the clouds dissipate, and a moment of hesitation is all Tunny needs.
Will needs to stop trying to anticipate life, he realizes, because nothing ever seems to turn out as he expects but it's always, always perfect in its own way: their lips meet halfway in a kiss that's chaste, careful, a little bit awkward and a lot them, Tunny's hands coming up to twist in jet black hair streaked with blue and tug playfully, matching grins and breathless laughter tearing them apart before they're ready, foreheads still pressed together as they watch one another with cautious, wondrous eyes.
Then Tunny wrinkles his nose and pulls away, half-trying to look disgusted as he glances back at Will, muttering something about morning breath.
Tackling him, Will pins Tunny to the bed; the mischievous spark in the other man's eye has turned into a full-blown grin, and he puts up a fight for all of ten seconds before relenting under Will's touch. "It's not just me," Will tells him, kissing his nose. "Anyway, I know this isn't the worst thing you've ever smelled. I mean, when was the last time Johnny took a shower?"
"But I don't have to taste Johnny," Tunny tells him matter-of-factly, struggling just a bit where Will has him pinned at the wrists and hips. Will can't help but kiss him again, though, and Tunny quickly forgets to fight back- or, for that matter, complain about morning breath.
Will hears a thud somewhere to the right of the bed and remembers the journal; he almost pulls away, but Tunny's neck arches up to follow the path of his lips and he knows they'll have endless time for talking later.
Then a throat clears itself in the vicinity of the doorway, and the two of them break apart with the guiltiest of expressions, having forgotten that they aren't alone in the house.
"Well, it's about time," Johnny rasps, voice still thick with sleep and hair mussed as he watches them with an amused, mildly wary gaze. "A little warning might be nice next time, though-" he breaks off in a yawn, then addresses Will alone. "Does this mean you're going to stop acting like a teenage girl now?"
Tunny laughs hysterically as Will heaves a pillow at Johnny's head, the man in the doorway ducking out of the way with a grin of his own and calling out, "Be safe, kids! Use protection!" as soon as he's out of range. Will glares after him but can't stop the smile that turns up the corners of his mouth, particularly when Tunny drags him down for another kiss. The smiles, the laughter, the happiness, unhindered by the threat of nightmares or the terror of not knowing: it feels like something from a far-away dream, or maybe it feels like waking up, and he hasn't felt so lighthearted, so free in ages.
When they kiss, it tastes like freedom.
Tunny's changed- and, hell, maybe so has Will- but they're still the same, and they can still call each other home. They just needed to make it here to see what had been right in front of them all along. To know that they'd always be able to find their way back to this town. This love. This life.
To each other.
Every time.
Rating: Light R?
Fandom: American Idiot
Pairing: Will/Heather, Will/Declan, Will/Gerard, Will/Theo, Tunny/Christina, Tunny/Will, implied Johnny/Whatsername
A/N: I kinda fucked with the timeline of the musical, but I tried to keep most of it as accurate as possible. Well. With some ~additions, of course.
Lyrics in Will's journal are from "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum (possibly my number one Will/Tunny song) and "Makedamnsure" by Taking Back Sunday. Title from "Wake Me Up When September Ends", cut from "Homecoming", both by Green Day.
The first few days after Johnny and Tunny leave are...bearable. Nice, even. Relaxing. Pleasant. Quiet. Days spent on the couch with Heather, her tiny frame wrapped in his arms, fruity-smelling hair mingling sweetly with the ever-present, slightly stale scent of beer that's sunk into the upholstery over the years of shit-talking, cigarettes and blah-fucking-blah.
The happiness fades quickly, though, the aroma of alcohol growing fresher by the day, and Will finds himself flinching away from Heather's touch, feels her growing distant, detached, and he knows it's- they're- doomed.
The worst part is that he can't bring himself to care.
A kid on the way, a girlfriend who he- okay, he loves her, or he loved her, even if it no longer feels like it, not when she takes his cigarettes and his beer and his guitar, not when she tries to "talk", not when he doesn't want to deal with her, or his own, bullshit- he knows he should care. But he doesn't.
All he cares about is, well.
Not the beer and cigarettes that Heather seems to think have become his life; they have, but they're placeholders. Reminders, of what he once had- the underbelly, but at least it was something, at least he had them-
Johnny. Tunny.
At least Johnny writes. Or, well, at first. The last letter Will gets arrives months before he returns home- "Is this just lust, or could it be the dawning?" Will's just glad Johnny "made a friend at camp" - it's about time he got laid. Will's a little worried about the drugs, but Johnny knows how to handle himself, and honestly, if Will were with him, he'd be the one causing trouble, so he's got to cut him some slack.
If Will were with him- them- maybe everything would be different.
But as things are, Will has enough to worry about without Johnny's big city shenanigans on his mind. Namely, Tunny. The stupid motherfucker just had to go looking for something more: meaning, or glory, or glamour, letting himself be seduced by the idea of something that doesn't exist. Or, at least, something that Will no longer believes in. If he ever did.
Instead, Will's starting to realize what he would never let himself admit before. Rather, he would if he stopped to think about it- but letting himself think it would be admitting defeat, and Will isn't strong enough for that. Not without them. Him.
So he drowns himself in more- placeholders, but at least these ones are warm, talented hands and tongues mixed with stale breath and apathy to match his own. Declan's the best, all cocky British accent and razor sharp grin to match his wit, and Will's almost tempted to let him go further, take more- but he has enough sense to stop himself before he does something he'll really regret.
Dec, for his part, has enough sense to get out fast, murmuring reassurances and insults in the same breath even as he shuts the door behind him. Will cries and pretends it's for him, bites his pillow as he comes into his own fist and imagines it's Declan's name he's biting back, then wonders why he's bothering. He's only hiding from himself, anyway-
And maybe that's all that really matters, he thinks as he drags the same pillow over his head, shutting out daylight and consciousness in one fell swoop.
Gerard comes next, but he doesn't last much longer than the Brit. He's sincerely apologetic when he leaves, but terrified at the same time, as though he expects Will to hurl an empty beer can at his head, and that, well. That's not an entirely irrational fear. As long as I don't have to get off this couch, Will thinks, lighting another cigarette.
Theo lasts the longest, and Will's impressed, almost hopeful; it's like being one of the guys again, except when they're sprawled over the couch- over each other- in a way that's less than fraternal, but Will doesn't think about that. Doesn't kiss, doesn't let hands, tongues wander any further than they have to: this way, it doesn't count. "It's just getting off," and it's a reminder to himself but when he slips up, groaning the wrong name through clenched teeth as Theo kneels between his legs, Will can't bring himself to meet accusatory, hurt eyes and-
"This has gone too far." He always assumed Theo would leave on his own when shit got too heavy, too real, but it's Will who kicks him out, beating himself up as he downs another beer and shoves the crumpled can between the couch cushions with the rest of his heart.
These days, the alcohol and the smoke cover the stench of sex, the thick air that Will and Heather pretend not to notice, just as they pretend not to notice each other- the arrangement is beyond fucked-up, but it's working, or at least Will thinks it is, until Alysha arrives to take him to task...and that's putting it mildly.
When the door shuts behind Heather and her suitcases, he doesn't feel a thing.
Four down. How many more to go?
He spends half his time crying and the other half sleeping, and sometimes he wakes with tears on his cheeks, remainders of consciousness seeping into his dreams (or is it the opposite?), spilling forth from brimming lids. He's fucking miserable, and he's never felt like this before- so empty, so alone.
It's even worse when Heather calls ("It's a girl. Just thought you should know"); he feels that ache for something more, something within reach, but his pleas to see her, to see them both, to hold his own fucking daughter fall short, hollow to even his own ears. He only expects it when Heather refuses, and he can hear the tears, the pain in her voice and he almost wishes he could kiss it away but that time has passed. That chance has slipped away, and Heather's smart enough to know that never again is the best, the only option for them both.
Seeing it coming doesn't make it hurt any less, and it doesn't stop Will from hurling his phone at the wall with a sob that catches somewhere in the back of his throat, trying not to think of the poetry that lurks among the shattered remains of the phone, scattered across the floor, out of reach, like-
The shards of my heart, and he wants to kick himself, it's so fucking cliche, but he's black and blue enough as it is, inside and out; instead, he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and all he can see is Johnny, Tunny, a rare smile on the latter's face and cliche or not, it's a fucking adequate comparison.
Days turn to weeks turn to months, and Will's not even sure he can tell day from night any more. He imagines he knows how Tunny felt when they first left, sleeping constantly, unable to summon the motivation to go out...or shower...or, hell, to even get the fuck off the couch. But Will still doesn't understand why his dream turned red, white and blue, and he vows that if that motherfucker ever makes it back here alive, I'm gonna kill 'im.
And then- sooner than he expected, or maybe later, or maybe he had no fucking clue- Johnny's back. Johnny's home.
Will doesn't know what possesses him to roll off the couch when he does that day. He probably has to take a piss, or maybe he hasn't eaten in a few days, or he ran out of beer; whatever the reason, he hears a knock at the door as he passes by, impeccably timed, and he stops dead.
I probably imagined it, he tells himself, and he doesn't know why his heart is pounding, palms sweating. Been holed up in here so long I'm hearing things, not like that's much of a surprise, but then the knock comes again, more insistent this time, and no, that's definitely real.
There's something in the way Will can't quite breathe that tells him that this is no fucking pizza delivery or, hell, eviction notice, and he wrenches the door open with as much energy as he's managed to muster in months-
"Johnny."
The name leaves his lips as barely more than a whisper, but he breathes in and it's like he didn't even know he was suffocating until he saw that face, that smile, spoke that name that had evaded him for far too long. There's another moment where he can't breathe, but that's because he's crushed to Johnny's chest in a hug that threatens to crack his ribs as much as anything, and that kind of suffocation, well. Will's missed that.
Even as he collapses on the couch with Johnny, though, offering him a beer and falling quickly back into their old ways- this time mixed with Johnny's stories of girls and drugs, big cities and bright lights, fever dreams that still lurk in the back of Will's mind- something's still missing. Something neither of them dares to mention, at least until Will can't take it anymore. He can't meet Johnny's eye, can't choke out anything more than the name, but Johnny understands.
"Tunny?"
Johnny shakes his head, a mixture of sympathy, rage and betrayal flickering across his features so quickly Will almost thinks he might have imagined it. "I haven't seen him since- since he left. Hell, I don't even know if he's alive."
Will flinches and nods, and Johnny hesitates for only a moment before he's attacking Will with hugs, pinning him to the couch with a grin that doesn't quite meet his eyes as he tells him, "At least we've got each other!"
Smiling weakly, Will responds with another nod, but it's hard to stay anxious for long when Johnny's tickling him, and the fucker didn't forget a thing, Will thinks as he squirms away from his touch, laughing breathlessly, twisting to dig his fingers into Johnny's ribs in retaliation.
The rush of the laughter, of an unfamiliar madness that Will recognizes somewhere in the recesses of his mind as happiness is only a temporary fix, though, and even as he and Johnny slip into a deep sleep, still tangled together on the couch, the dreams return, flashes of light and thunderous crashes behind closed lids, and when Will wakes he's shaking, crying, gathered in Johnny's arms as he whispers reassurances that neither of them truly believe.
Still, it helps, and Will falls asleep to an unfamiliar tune as Johnny croons softly in his ear, still holding him close enough to hear, feel his heart beat.
-
A few weeks pass, just the two of them, on their own: there's the occasional visitor to welcome Johnny back, but they're always wary and never stay long. Will's never really sure which of them scares everyone off, but he guesses it's a combination of Johnny's wild eyes as he reflects back on his time in the city and his own "fuck off" attitude. It's okay, though. They've always preferred being on their own together, anyway.
Will coaxes Johnny through the detoxing process with lots of cigarettes and alcohol- just enough to get him by, not enough to replace one addiction with another, but, "I think you're doing it wrong," Johnny croaks one day from the bathroom floor as Will offers him a beer with a cheeky grin. Still, he seems to be improving, however gradually, so Johnny keeps his mouth shut and lets Will look out for him.
For his part, though, Johnny's doing plenty of coaxing of his own, trying to convince Will to pick up the phone and call Heather, demand to see his baby girl- "hell, man, she's half yours, isn't she?" But Will makes excuses every time, not sure exactly what it is he's running from- all he knows, all he can think about is, I need to know that Tunny's okay. Nothing else matters.
But Johnny matters, keeps him sane, gives Will someone to take care of even when he can't quite take care of himself, and having a purpose, feeling needed feels so much better than he remembers; he can't help but think, though, if only I'd cared sooner, if...
But "if" does him no good, and imagining what could have been will do nothing but torture him, so he does his best to distract himself with the present, not try to change the past or hope against hope for the future.
He does hope, though, because he can't not, and when hope turns to reality it's nothing like he imagined but it still feels like coming home, even if he was never the one who left.
Will never anticipated Johnny's anger, holding him back as he fights through blinding tears to get at Tunny; never anticipated that the rage would disappear as quickly as it came, Johnny pulling Tunny close, still shaking, more relieved than anything else. Will never anticipated that there'd be a girl by Tunny's side, a woman with soft doe eyes and a gentle touch as she takes his hand between both of her own, then Johnny's, before stepping back, away, fingers lingering only momentarily on Tunny's shoulder as her gaze sharpens, knowing-
But Will doesn't see any of that. Doesn't see anything but Tunny, standing before him, broken but far from incomplete, smile hesitant as he whispers Will's name like both an eternity and no time at all has passed, and Will feels the rage and the love and everything he had tried not to feel burn too hot inside him as he wraps Tunny in his arms, fingers curling around one side of his neck as he buries his face in the other, and Johnny saved Will from suffocating but now he's drowning in something else entirely but it doesn't matter because Tunny is home.
-
Christina leaves after only a few weeks; she knows where she's needed, she says, and Tunny will be fine without her. The nod she gives Will as she shakes his hand one last time tells him that this is her way of giving him- giving them- the chance that they deserve, and she really does love him, Will notes, not for the first time, and he pulls her into a hug to whisper, "thank you."
Her smile is stunning, and the restraint of the past few weeks is almost worthwhile.
Tunny crawls into Will's bed in the middle of the night, laying his crutches next to the bedside table as he curls up to the other man's form, pressing his tear-streaked face to Will's skin with a quiet, almost contented shudder that soon turns to the slow, steady sighs of sleep.
Only once he's sure Tunny is asleep does Will dare to wrap an arm around him and pull him close, trying to calm the racing of his heart.
The next morning Will wakes to the rustle of paper, and he gropes across the bed, only half-conscious, for the warmth of Tunny's body-
And as the paper- pages- rustle once more, and Tunny shifts ever so slightly on the other side of the bed, oblivious to the waking form beside him, Will's hit with a horrible realization.
Suddenly wide awake, he sits up in a motion he hopes isn't too abrupt, praying Tunny hasn't-
"Will."
Tunny's voice breaks as the journal falls on the bed between them, and Will's terrified but he has to look, to see how much damage has been done, to see if he can fix this but something in Tunny's tone tells him they can't return from this, that this changes everything, that-
This isn't how I wanted him to find out.
He steals a glance at the page lying face-up, revealing and accusing:
I wonder if I ever cross your mind...for me it happens all the time. It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now...
And in the corner of the page, hidden but plain as day, written and rewritten so many times he's nearly torn through the page, in handwriting that's unmistakably Will's, the one word that betrays everything:
Tunny.
Will's eyes fall shut; there's nothing more to see, nothing but the reaction of the man beside him, and that, he's not sure he can handle facing that, now, ever- but what did you expect? That you'd be able to hide it forever? Coward.
And the last word that crosses his mind jars him into a consciousness he's avoided for far too long, even now- he is a coward, and he knows that if he hides from this, he will regret it for the rest of his life. Open your eyes.
Tunny's fingers are only inches from his, both of their hands resting on the bed, and as Will watches those same fingers move just the slightest bit closer to his own- not enough to touch, but only a hairsbreadth away, and Will's reminded of another drunken scribbling somewhere within the pages of the journal still resting between them:
We lie together, just not too close...(how close is close enough?)
He lets his fingers brush Tunny's, calloused and soft and electric at once, and the touch gives him courage, helps him draw a shaking breath as he reaches out to cup Tunny's jaw, to finally, finally meet his gaze-
What he sees there is indecipherable, so many flickers behind the green that Will is sure even Tunny himself doesn't know what he's feeling, but as Will leans in the color sharpens, the clouds dissipate, and a moment of hesitation is all Tunny needs.
Will needs to stop trying to anticipate life, he realizes, because nothing ever seems to turn out as he expects but it's always, always perfect in its own way: their lips meet halfway in a kiss that's chaste, careful, a little bit awkward and a lot them, Tunny's hands coming up to twist in jet black hair streaked with blue and tug playfully, matching grins and breathless laughter tearing them apart before they're ready, foreheads still pressed together as they watch one another with cautious, wondrous eyes.
Then Tunny wrinkles his nose and pulls away, half-trying to look disgusted as he glances back at Will, muttering something about morning breath.
Tackling him, Will pins Tunny to the bed; the mischievous spark in the other man's eye has turned into a full-blown grin, and he puts up a fight for all of ten seconds before relenting under Will's touch. "It's not just me," Will tells him, kissing his nose. "Anyway, I know this isn't the worst thing you've ever smelled. I mean, when was the last time Johnny took a shower?"
"But I don't have to taste Johnny," Tunny tells him matter-of-factly, struggling just a bit where Will has him pinned at the wrists and hips. Will can't help but kiss him again, though, and Tunny quickly forgets to fight back- or, for that matter, complain about morning breath.
Will hears a thud somewhere to the right of the bed and remembers the journal; he almost pulls away, but Tunny's neck arches up to follow the path of his lips and he knows they'll have endless time for talking later.
Then a throat clears itself in the vicinity of the doorway, and the two of them break apart with the guiltiest of expressions, having forgotten that they aren't alone in the house.
"Well, it's about time," Johnny rasps, voice still thick with sleep and hair mussed as he watches them with an amused, mildly wary gaze. "A little warning might be nice next time, though-" he breaks off in a yawn, then addresses Will alone. "Does this mean you're going to stop acting like a teenage girl now?"
Tunny laughs hysterically as Will heaves a pillow at Johnny's head, the man in the doorway ducking out of the way with a grin of his own and calling out, "Be safe, kids! Use protection!" as soon as he's out of range. Will glares after him but can't stop the smile that turns up the corners of his mouth, particularly when Tunny drags him down for another kiss. The smiles, the laughter, the happiness, unhindered by the threat of nightmares or the terror of not knowing: it feels like something from a far-away dream, or maybe it feels like waking up, and he hasn't felt so lighthearted, so free in ages.
When they kiss, it tastes like freedom.
Tunny's changed- and, hell, maybe so has Will- but they're still the same, and they can still call each other home. They just needed to make it here to see what had been right in front of them all along. To know that they'd always be able to find their way back to this town. This love. This life.
To each other.
Every time.