Static (But Then I Let You Down)[tom/sean][s/a]
Title: Static (But Then I Let You Down)
Pairing/Character(s): Tom Conrad/Sean Van Vleet
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tom would do anything.
Tom is running his hands through Sean’s unwashed hair when he says it. He presses his forehead against Sean’s, and says, his voice low and gravely, “You need to stop before you kill yourself.”
Sean takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes.
Softly, he replies with, “I know.”
Warning: Heavy drug (heroin) addiction. Sensitivity. Angst.
Beta: coldmero
Word Count: 4,008
A/N: Thanks to coldmero for listening to my whining, basically giving me this idea (actually, she wrote the fic, I'm just taking credit for her), and making me finish this in pretty much one night. Title from VersaEmerge's song 'Let Down'.
Tom is running his hands through Sean’s unwashed hair when he says it. He presses his forehead against Sean’s, and says, his voice low and gravely, “You need to stop before you kill yourself.”
Sean takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes.
Softly, he replies with, “I know.”
--
The first time Tom notices the bruises is sometime in high school.
“Dude, what happened to your arm?” he asks, mostly just curiosity - he doesn’t expect anything - but Sean flinches. Sean flinches first.
And then, Sean says, his voice a little off, (Tom doesn’t notice until later) “I had to get a couple of shots. They’ll probably go away in a couple of days.”
Tom blinks and nods. “Yeah, that sucks. Hope they go away in a couple of days, man.”
Sean just nods, staring at his own hands, and licks his lips. “Me too,” he agrees, slowly. “I’m sure they will.”
They don’t, but Tom doesn’t know that - it’s getting cold, Sean has every right to wear hoodies to class every day.
--
Tom rests his head on Sean’s shoulder and hums, content. Sean’s arm winds its way around his waist and they’re both quiet for a moment, until Sean begins to twitch a little. “You’re restless,” Tom murmurs, pressing his cold nose to Sean’s warm throat. The sun is slowly sinking over the lake, but Tom is at peace, even as the chill begins to set it. “Why are you always so restless?”
He asks it, makes it seem innocent. Sean snorts beside him, but his grip around his waist seems to tighten. “You know why, Tom. You know why.” There’s a certain shiver in his voice, and the way he says it makes Tom go stiff. He does know. That doesn’t mean he wants to believe.
“Would you quit if I asked you to?” Tom asks him slowly, eyes closed though he can still see the dark orange and the other colors of the sky behind his eyelids. “Would you give it up for me? If I threatened you?”
Sean takes a deep breath and then lets it out, through his nose (Tom can hear it, he can tell, he knows the way Sean breathes, everything about his body and his reactions). His body goes limper. “I don’t know,” he admits, breathless.
Tom has to resist the urge to cry.
--
Sean crashes with Tom a lot when they’re in high school, during senior year - he claims he’s having problems with his parents with a nervous shrug, and Tom just nods. He’s not going to ask about it because he has a feeling Sean’s in a rut of some kind, whether it has to do with school or his parents or something else, Tom doesn’t know. Tom doesn’t ask.
Sean falls asleep early and Tom figures it’s just exhaustion - he sure as hell looks exhausted. Especially when he falls onto the couch with a heavy sigh and lidded eyes and smiles at Tom and says, “Thanks, bro. You’re a real friend.”
Tom laughs because it sounds stupid and maybe sits and watches Sean sleep for a while.
And when Tom finally gets to his tiny bedroom in the little two room apartment, he falls asleep. He sleeps, and then he wakes up to Sean rummaging through the cupboards. He stares at the dark ceiling and listens as Sean does something. Maybe he’s looking for sleeping pills. Maybe he’s looking for something.
Tom doesn’t ask until it happens three times in one week. In the morning, when they get into Tom’s car, he says, his voice sort of tense, “Why do you keep waking up and rummaging through my stuff at three a.m.?”
Next to him, Sean freezes and swallows. “I’ve never been a very…good sleeper,” is the only explanation he gives.
Tom just nods. “Guess that makes sense,” he says, and he takes a sip of his coffee, turning the key in the ignition and listening to the car beginning to roar and hum.
--
The next hint is almost more obvious. Tom still ignores it.
“What do you want for dinner?” Tom asks one night, rummaging through their refrigerator - he doesn’t know why he bothers to ask, since all they have is a couple of eggs and milk that’s about to expire, two apples on the counter, some lunchmeat and at least four boxes of macaroni. “I guess I could make macaroni…”
“I’m not hungry,” Sean answers, sitting down at the cramped kitchen table. “But thanks. Can you get me some milk, though?”
Tom turns and cocks his head to the side, frowning. “You’re usually…” But he trails off and shrugs. “Sure,” he ends up saying, pulling out the carton of milk and uncapping it. He pours the milk for Sean into a used glass (he thinks it was just for Tom’s water at breakfast) and sets it front of Sean. Sean looks for a minute, and then takes a sip.
Tom doesn’t stick around, forgetting that he was hungry.
--
When Tom starts putting it together, his first thought is denial, straight out. A brick wall in front of his face to block him from it. The idea makes too much sense - and that’s why it can’t be true.
But he starts watching Sean, a little more carefully, dropping hints. Sean’s either a good actor or Tom’s going crazy. Or maybe Tom’s just pretending. He really likes to pretend.
And it’s wintertime again, it’s wintertime and Sean’s wearing long sleeves but maybe, just maybe, Tom remembers looking at the inside of the crook Sean’s elbow, and the little purple marks and he had wondered because anyone would wonder about that. But he blamed it on the lighting. He blamed it on a lot of things.
“Hey Sean, I’m home,” Tom calls. He’s early, he knows that - the grocery store was closed, which sucks because they really need some more instant mac and cheese, but Tom decided that Sean could deal for another couple of days (maybe even until they both get paid again, though even Sean’s shifts have been being cut down lately - Sean swears it’s the management (Tom believes him)), and he had come home, even though it was only nine, and he knows Sean wasn’t expecting him for another hour.
Tom hears the clattering in the kitchen and frowns, dropping his coat in front of the door and peeking his head inside. Sean has his hands clenched around the kitchen sink in the tiny room, and he whirls around, eyes wide and pupils blown, his body shaken. Tom scans the room, feeling his heart bursting in his chest, trying to figure out what made the noise - he sees a needle.
A needle is on the floor.
He covers his mouth with the back of his arm, feeling the bile rising up his throat. He hates being right. He hates his faith being shattered. Like when he realized miracles didn’t happen.
“Tom,” Sean says at exactly the same time Tom manages a choked out, “Sean.” They’re both frozen on the spot, too scared to pick up the pieces.
Tom turns and runs.
He doesn’t have far to run, slamming the door of his bedroom.
--
“Tom?”
Tom doesn’t say anything, but he goes silent. “Don’t try to hide it,” Sean murmurs, and his voice is shaking. “I know you were crying. I was outside the door. And the walls are thin.”
Tom looks up, and he knows his eyes are bloodshot. But Sean can’t see him anyway - he doubts Sean looks any better. Sean hasn’t looked better in a long time. “Fine,” he says, and his voice quivers - it even sounds wet. Another sob rakes through him, and he lurches forward, resting his head against his knees. He doesn’t hide the tears that are wrecking his body anymore.
Sean steps closer and crawls onto the bed. He rests his hand on Tom’s knees and pries them apart - Tom looks up and sniffles, feeling like a child, and the first thing that he notices is that Sean’s pupils are blown, too wide, again. He swallows hard and sits up, just barely, moving his hands to clench in the sheets. He needs to change these sheets.
Sean looks at him and pushes himself forward, his mouth pressing hard against Tom’s. They’ve kissed before, plenty of times, they’ve done plenty - but recently, that has become tense for them. They haven’t touched each other in a while. Tom always ends up getting himself off with Sean sleeping on the couch, biting back pathetic moans. He always ends up crying, because images always flood him - images of Sean clutching that sink, of Sean rummaging through cabinets, of Sean hiding his arms - right before he comes.
Tom doesn’t think, just kisses Sean. Sean tastes like cracked lips and dried blood, but mostly he tastes familiar and like Sean, and it’s something Tom has missed a lot. Tom ends up tangling his fingers in Sean’s hair (dirty, a few days unwashed, but it just makes Sean’s smell more distinct - and that’s stupid, irrelevant, but it’s the only thought in Tom’s head), pulling him closer, harder.
“Let me get you off,” Sean says softly against Tom’s mouth, and Tom is shaking - he wonders what his mouth tastes like, vaguely in the back of his head (probably like mucus and the tears he’s licked off of his cheeks) - before he manages to nod. He doesn’t know what else to do.
Sean spreads Tom’s legs further and moves his hands slowly down Tom’s clothed chest before undoing the button and zipper of his jeans. Tom lifts his hips off of the bed, though he feels like his body’s going to give out when he does so, but Sean is quick in pulling his jeans down, just past his knees, and his underwear kind of go with them anyway, so that’s easy. He feels cold and exposed with Sean hovering over him, eyes wide and bloodshot.
They’re twins. Except not at all.
Tom gasps and Sean gags, just barely, but doesn’t stop, sliding his mouth further down Tom’s cock, taking in more than he can handle. Tom doesn’t know how long he’s going to last, the tears stinging his eyes, his fingers clenched in the sheets - Sean is persistent, wrapping his dry right hand around what he can’t fit in his mouth, though his throat is still tightening around the head of Tom’s dick. Tom can’t help the slight buck of his hips, and he bites back a yelp as Sean digs his nails into the skin of his cock, a silent reminder to keep his hips down.
Tom ends up locking his fingers in Sean’s hair (not to push him down further, but just to have something to hold on to), and he tugs when he can feel the hot heat coiling in his stomach, knowing he’s about to come. Sean doesn’t pull back, though. Instead he tries to take in more of Tom, nearly choking on his cock and Tom is half-yelling nonsense, not caring about the neighbors as he comes, tugging at Sean’s hair to try to get him off (but he’s got his hands hard on Tom’s hips, and there will be bruises) but Sean’s refusing, his breathing heavy as he swallows around Tom’s cock and then licks, slow and careful, trying to get any drops he may have left behind.
Sean whimpers, quiet, and Tom sobs harder than he was before.
“Sean,” he manages, a pained groan, and Sean crawls up on his lap and kisses him, hard and bruising. Once Sean pulls away, both of them panting, Tom curls his fingers in Sean’s shirt (his jeans are still scrunched at his knees, but he doesn’t care), muttering, “Sleep with me tonight. Here.”
Sean swallows and nods, pupils still too large for his eyes.
They lie down and Tom wraps his arms around Sean, whispering nonsense into his hair and needing this more than anything.
--
Tom sits next to Sean on the tiny balcony and Sean smiles a little, flicking his cigarette. Tom huffs, good naturedly, and holds out his fingers. “Share.”
Sean chuckles at the command but doesn’t trust Tom with the cigarette in his fingers. Instead he moves it closer to Tom’s mouth and Tom parts his lips, letting Sean slip the cigarette in. He gives Sean a half-grin and takes a drag, and Sean takes it back.
They sit quietly for the next couple of minutes, because it’s beginning to rain (just barely), mist outside.
Tom leans back on the small wicker couch, crossing his legs at the ankle. “What if I started?”
Next to him, Sean goes stiff. Tom glances over. “Heroin, I mean,” he says, and it’s really the first time he’s brought it up like that, straight out, nothing to cover it. “What if I shared your needles? Do you have HIV?” It comes out sounding too casual, and it scares Tom to think about.
“No,” Sean snaps, and Tom’s not sure if he’s saying ‘No, you can’t start’ or ‘No, I don’t have HIV’. He doesn’t know if it matters. “No. Don’t even say that.” Sean buries his face in his hands, and when Tom looks at his back, he seems small and broken, his spine visible through the thin cloth of his t-shirt. “I…it’s not worth it.”
Tom tilts his head back. “I would imagine,” he murmurs, and then he reaches out and begins to stroke Sean’s back.
--
Sean promises.
“No more,” he says, and he’s grinning when he says it. “I got rid of it all.”
Tom wraps him in a hug.
He doesn’t know it’ll end up being a lie. Not yet.
--
When Tom starts finding the needles under the couch, shoved away at the last minute, that’s when he loses it.
“I am so sick of your shit, Sean,” he growls, and his voice shakes - he’s angry, he’s sad, he’s beginning to break. And by the looks of it, so is Sean. It doesn’t stop him. “I’m sick of finding needles everywhere and having no one to blame but you. How long am I supposed to put up with this? I’m sick of seeing you high and long gone, and I - I miss you, fucking hell, do you even know how much I miss you? It’s a lot, for the record. A fucking lot.”
Sean flinches and looks at his feet. “I don’t know how,” he says softly. “Without falling apart.”
Tom chokes on a sob and steps forward - he can’t let Sean suffer - enveloping Sean’s shaking body in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” Sean cries against his shoulder, and if he was a doll (he almost seems like one), Tom’s pretty sure his skinny frame would shatter under the pressure. “I’m sorry I’m not good enough.”
--
Tom does not like having to clean up Sean’s messes, but he does it anyway.
He keeps Sean tight in his arms every night, whispering promises into his hair when Sean is twitching and unfocused. “I’m here. I’m not going to leave you. I’ll never leave you.” Selfishly, sometimes Tom wishes he could leave. He’s sick of it. Sick of working. Sick of coming home and finding Sean’s head lulling to the side, a needle still stuck in his arm. He’s sick of the way that sometimes, when Tom’s so fast asleep, Sean manages to sneak out and get his fix, find a dealer, do something. He’s sick of Sean not having enough money to help pay rent.
But he’s not going anywhere.
He can’t go anywhere.
--
Tom cries.
Tom cries a lot more than he should.
But it feels good, to sit and sob and be a wreck. He doesn’t know, not for sure, where Sean is. Maybe Sean’s getting them dinner like he promised he would. Maybe he’s still at work, the final shift. Maybe he’s in a dark alley, he’s got cash and needles that are probably full of God knows what. And maybe Tom can’t deal with that.
Sometimes Tom thinks about it.
He thinks about cocaine. He thinks about heroin. God, he thinks about it all. Something to keep him from falling apart.
But then he sees Sean’s face.
Sees Sean’s hair (he doesn’t shower but two times a week).
Sees Sean’s arms.
And he realizes.
--
Tom is so tired. He just needs to come back to the little apartment and maybe put on some Nirvana and cuddle with Sean. He needs tonight to be normal, and he’s hoping, because Sean’s face has been a little brighter lately, his eyes a little less dull or gone.
Tom steps into the apartment and kicks off his shoes. He doesn’t see Sean, initially, so he assumes he’s in the kitchen or the bedroom. “Sean, I’m home,” he calls, and he’s not afraid. Things have been going so well.
He looks into the kitchen and he’s not sure if he wants to scream from fear or anger. Maybe just frustration.
Sean is on the floor of the kitchen, no needles in his arm but there’s one in his hand (a used one) and Tom still wants to scream. He crouches next to Sean and pulls his head onto his knee, touching the sides of his face. Tears are prickling in his eyes, blurring his vision, and gently he smacks the sides of Sean’s face, waiting for him to wake up. He has to bite back the urge to slap Sean, to hit him hard in the face, to shock him into a realization.
“Wake up, damn it,” he manages in a low snarl, and he kisses Sean, too hard, hands on each side of his face holding tight, pushing his tongue into his limp mouth because he’s angry, he’s disgusted.
Sean is suddenly squirming, his fingers wrapping around Tom’s wrists (the needle falls to the ground), and they kiss each other harder, and it’s literally a battle between them in their mouths, tongue against tongue and teeth clashing with teeth, but Tom’s got the upper hand. Tom grabs Sean’s shoulder and pushes him against the tile, and Sean goes down without much of a fight, sort of flipping as he hits the ground, Tom crawling on top of him. Tom grinds his hips down, hard and sudden, and Sean gasps loudly against his mouth, letting out a long, obscene moan.
Tom’s not sure what he’s doing, all he knows is that he’s pissed and this seems logic. He pushes Sean’s jeans down off of his hips and grabs his cock, already half-hard from the earlier grinding, and jerks with his dry hand, hard enough that Sean lets out a choked cry.
“Tom, Tom, Tom,” Sean manages, and he sounds near tears. “Please,” he groans, and Tom lets out a low hiss. Why should Sean get what he wants?
But still.
Tom licks his palm and begins to slowly stroke Sean’s cock, knowing he’s making it easier, and Sean is already falling apart in front of him. Tom pushes his fingers into Sean’s open mouth and Sean doesn’t hesitate, licking around them and sucking them into his mouth. Once Tom figures they’re sufficient he pulls Tom’s jeans and boxers down further, using his now wet fingers to probe around Sean’s entrance, pushing both fingers in suddenly - Sean gasps and whimpers, his body clenching momentarily before relaxing, letting Tom push his fingers deeper, fucking him slow and hard.
Sean gasps when Tom crooks his fingers, and he’s coming into Tom’s slow moving hand - Tom’s not surprised but he bites his lip anyway, jerking Sean through his orgasm and pulling his fingers out.
He doesn’t give Sean any time to breathe (he’s still panting on the floor when Tom pushes himself up) before he says (snaps), “Get up. We’re going to fucking bed.”
Sean starts crying.
--
Tom is so tired again. This time he’s got a headache to match, and he’s getting so sick of life, so sick of patterns. He wants things to change. He’s too scared to make things change.
He throws his coat off and doesn’t call to Sean, though he doesn’t see him.
He takes a deep breath.
It smells like coffee.
Sean never makes coffee.
Frowning (he’s curious now), Tom pulls off his shoes and turns into the kitchen. Sean is sitting at the table, his legs crossed at the knee, and he’s got one of Tom’s old, chipped mugs in his hands - it’s steaming, and he lifts it to his mouth, taking a sip. Tom’s still in shock that there’s coffee he didn’t make. And that Sean’s not on the floor.
There’s a small, what looks like wooden, box sitting on the cramped kitchen table by Sean. Tom quirks an eyebrow. “What’s up?” he asks, and he’s not sure if he’s worried or just curious.
“I’ve been thinking. A lot.”
Tom watches Sean and Sean gestures with one hand for him to sit. Tom does so, pulling out the chair opposite of Sean. He’s still wary, but mostly he’s curious.
“Sometimes I feel like an accident in your life,” Sean says slowly, and Tom tenses across from him. “And you’re my miracle.”
“Sean…” Tom starts, but Sean is already shaking his head.
“You’ve made me realize a lot. I started needing the drugs…God, I don’t even know why. But I was stupid. And it evolved - you watched it evolve. I used you. I made your life a living hell. Why? Why, I don’t know. And why you put up with it, I really don’t know. But thank you. I want you to hear me say that. Thank you.”
Sean meets Tom’s gaze and Tom’s breath catches. Sean’s eyes are the color of ice, perfect and soft, and real. Clear. They almost remind Tom of the sky.
Sean nods at the box, taking another sip of his coffee. “I’m going to need you,” he murmurs. “I’m going to need you a lot. I quit my job, because I can’t risk it. But of course, I don’t expect the same out of you. I’m sorry about that. But I won’t be busting money on drugs. And I’ll get another job, when I can. But I’m going to need you.”
Sean looks at Tom again. “To keep me. From running away. From throwing myself out the window.” He smiles a bit here. “You…keep me safe.”
Tom swallows.
Sean nudges the box with his elbow. “Open it,” he murmurs.
Tom takes the box and opens it.
It’s full of syringes.
He smiles.
“I won’t be needing those.”
Tom nods. Tom nods and begins to smile. “Okay,” he says, and his voice sounds rough and cracked, but alive. “I can do that. I’ve been doing that, right? Keeping you safe. Trying. I’ll try harder. You never - you never have to be afraid. I promise.”
“I’m probably going to relapse,” Sean says, his eyes a little dark but he’s smiling a bit. “I’ll need you to lock me inside.” He looks up at Tom, meets his gaze with his own hard look. Tom swallows. “You’ll need to keep me from running away. Because I don’t know - right now I seem sane, but in a couple of days, a couple of hours, for God’s sake - I won’t be like this anymore. I’m going to lose control. And I’m sorry for that.”
Tom just nods.
“And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that.”
Tom nods again. “I. I’ll do what I can - I don’t know, Sean, I don’t know, not right now, but fuck, I’ll try because…”
Sean just smiles. “It’s okay. And hey. Hey.”
Tom looks up, and his eyes are wide. For once, Sean is the together one, the one calming him down. “I promise. I swear - God, I swear. I - I don’t know if I’ve ever said this, but I’m saying this now. I love you, Sean, God, I really love you, and it just hurt me to watch you being hurt so much, and that’s why - that’s why I’m going to do what I can. For you.”
Sean smiles. “Thanks.”
Pairing/Character(s): Tom Conrad/Sean Van Vleet
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tom would do anything.
Tom is running his hands through Sean’s unwashed hair when he says it. He presses his forehead against Sean’s, and says, his voice low and gravely, “You need to stop before you kill yourself.”
Sean takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes.
Softly, he replies with, “I know.”
Warning: Heavy drug (heroin) addiction. Sensitivity. Angst.
Beta: coldmero
Word Count: 4,008
A/N: Thanks to coldmero for listening to my whining, basically giving me this idea (actually, she wrote the fic, I'm just taking credit for her), and making me finish this in pretty much one night. Title from VersaEmerge's song 'Let Down'.
Tom is running his hands through Sean’s unwashed hair when he says it. He presses his forehead against Sean’s, and says, his voice low and gravely, “You need to stop before you kill yourself.”
Sean takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes.
Softly, he replies with, “I know.”
--
The first time Tom notices the bruises is sometime in high school.
“Dude, what happened to your arm?” he asks, mostly just curiosity - he doesn’t expect anything - but Sean flinches. Sean flinches first.
And then, Sean says, his voice a little off, (Tom doesn’t notice until later) “I had to get a couple of shots. They’ll probably go away in a couple of days.”
Tom blinks and nods. “Yeah, that sucks. Hope they go away in a couple of days, man.”
Sean just nods, staring at his own hands, and licks his lips. “Me too,” he agrees, slowly. “I’m sure they will.”
They don’t, but Tom doesn’t know that - it’s getting cold, Sean has every right to wear hoodies to class every day.
--
Tom rests his head on Sean’s shoulder and hums, content. Sean’s arm winds its way around his waist and they’re both quiet for a moment, until Sean begins to twitch a little. “You’re restless,” Tom murmurs, pressing his cold nose to Sean’s warm throat. The sun is slowly sinking over the lake, but Tom is at peace, even as the chill begins to set it. “Why are you always so restless?”
He asks it, makes it seem innocent. Sean snorts beside him, but his grip around his waist seems to tighten. “You know why, Tom. You know why.” There’s a certain shiver in his voice, and the way he says it makes Tom go stiff. He does know. That doesn’t mean he wants to believe.
“Would you quit if I asked you to?” Tom asks him slowly, eyes closed though he can still see the dark orange and the other colors of the sky behind his eyelids. “Would you give it up for me? If I threatened you?”
Sean takes a deep breath and then lets it out, through his nose (Tom can hear it, he can tell, he knows the way Sean breathes, everything about his body and his reactions). His body goes limper. “I don’t know,” he admits, breathless.
Tom has to resist the urge to cry.
--
Sean crashes with Tom a lot when they’re in high school, during senior year - he claims he’s having problems with his parents with a nervous shrug, and Tom just nods. He’s not going to ask about it because he has a feeling Sean’s in a rut of some kind, whether it has to do with school or his parents or something else, Tom doesn’t know. Tom doesn’t ask.
Sean falls asleep early and Tom figures it’s just exhaustion - he sure as hell looks exhausted. Especially when he falls onto the couch with a heavy sigh and lidded eyes and smiles at Tom and says, “Thanks, bro. You’re a real friend.”
Tom laughs because it sounds stupid and maybe sits and watches Sean sleep for a while.
And when Tom finally gets to his tiny bedroom in the little two room apartment, he falls asleep. He sleeps, and then he wakes up to Sean rummaging through the cupboards. He stares at the dark ceiling and listens as Sean does something. Maybe he’s looking for sleeping pills. Maybe he’s looking for something.
Tom doesn’t ask until it happens three times in one week. In the morning, when they get into Tom’s car, he says, his voice sort of tense, “Why do you keep waking up and rummaging through my stuff at three a.m.?”
Next to him, Sean freezes and swallows. “I’ve never been a very…good sleeper,” is the only explanation he gives.
Tom just nods. “Guess that makes sense,” he says, and he takes a sip of his coffee, turning the key in the ignition and listening to the car beginning to roar and hum.
--
The next hint is almost more obvious. Tom still ignores it.
“What do you want for dinner?” Tom asks one night, rummaging through their refrigerator - he doesn’t know why he bothers to ask, since all they have is a couple of eggs and milk that’s about to expire, two apples on the counter, some lunchmeat and at least four boxes of macaroni. “I guess I could make macaroni…”
“I’m not hungry,” Sean answers, sitting down at the cramped kitchen table. “But thanks. Can you get me some milk, though?”
Tom turns and cocks his head to the side, frowning. “You’re usually…” But he trails off and shrugs. “Sure,” he ends up saying, pulling out the carton of milk and uncapping it. He pours the milk for Sean into a used glass (he thinks it was just for Tom’s water at breakfast) and sets it front of Sean. Sean looks for a minute, and then takes a sip.
Tom doesn’t stick around, forgetting that he was hungry.
--
When Tom starts putting it together, his first thought is denial, straight out. A brick wall in front of his face to block him from it. The idea makes too much sense - and that’s why it can’t be true.
But he starts watching Sean, a little more carefully, dropping hints. Sean’s either a good actor or Tom’s going crazy. Or maybe Tom’s just pretending. He really likes to pretend.
And it’s wintertime again, it’s wintertime and Sean’s wearing long sleeves but maybe, just maybe, Tom remembers looking at the inside of the crook Sean’s elbow, and the little purple marks and he had wondered because anyone would wonder about that. But he blamed it on the lighting. He blamed it on a lot of things.
“Hey Sean, I’m home,” Tom calls. He’s early, he knows that - the grocery store was closed, which sucks because they really need some more instant mac and cheese, but Tom decided that Sean could deal for another couple of days (maybe even until they both get paid again, though even Sean’s shifts have been being cut down lately - Sean swears it’s the management (Tom believes him)), and he had come home, even though it was only nine, and he knows Sean wasn’t expecting him for another hour.
Tom hears the clattering in the kitchen and frowns, dropping his coat in front of the door and peeking his head inside. Sean has his hands clenched around the kitchen sink in the tiny room, and he whirls around, eyes wide and pupils blown, his body shaken. Tom scans the room, feeling his heart bursting in his chest, trying to figure out what made the noise - he sees a needle.
A needle is on the floor.
He covers his mouth with the back of his arm, feeling the bile rising up his throat. He hates being right. He hates his faith being shattered. Like when he realized miracles didn’t happen.
“Tom,” Sean says at exactly the same time Tom manages a choked out, “Sean.” They’re both frozen on the spot, too scared to pick up the pieces.
Tom turns and runs.
He doesn’t have far to run, slamming the door of his bedroom.
--
“Tom?”
Tom doesn’t say anything, but he goes silent. “Don’t try to hide it,” Sean murmurs, and his voice is shaking. “I know you were crying. I was outside the door. And the walls are thin.”
Tom looks up, and he knows his eyes are bloodshot. But Sean can’t see him anyway - he doubts Sean looks any better. Sean hasn’t looked better in a long time. “Fine,” he says, and his voice quivers - it even sounds wet. Another sob rakes through him, and he lurches forward, resting his head against his knees. He doesn’t hide the tears that are wrecking his body anymore.
Sean steps closer and crawls onto the bed. He rests his hand on Tom’s knees and pries them apart - Tom looks up and sniffles, feeling like a child, and the first thing that he notices is that Sean’s pupils are blown, too wide, again. He swallows hard and sits up, just barely, moving his hands to clench in the sheets. He needs to change these sheets.
Sean looks at him and pushes himself forward, his mouth pressing hard against Tom’s. They’ve kissed before, plenty of times, they’ve done plenty - but recently, that has become tense for them. They haven’t touched each other in a while. Tom always ends up getting himself off with Sean sleeping on the couch, biting back pathetic moans. He always ends up crying, because images always flood him - images of Sean clutching that sink, of Sean rummaging through cabinets, of Sean hiding his arms - right before he comes.
Tom doesn’t think, just kisses Sean. Sean tastes like cracked lips and dried blood, but mostly he tastes familiar and like Sean, and it’s something Tom has missed a lot. Tom ends up tangling his fingers in Sean’s hair (dirty, a few days unwashed, but it just makes Sean’s smell more distinct - and that’s stupid, irrelevant, but it’s the only thought in Tom’s head), pulling him closer, harder.
“Let me get you off,” Sean says softly against Tom’s mouth, and Tom is shaking - he wonders what his mouth tastes like, vaguely in the back of his head (probably like mucus and the tears he’s licked off of his cheeks) - before he manages to nod. He doesn’t know what else to do.
Sean spreads Tom’s legs further and moves his hands slowly down Tom’s clothed chest before undoing the button and zipper of his jeans. Tom lifts his hips off of the bed, though he feels like his body’s going to give out when he does so, but Sean is quick in pulling his jeans down, just past his knees, and his underwear kind of go with them anyway, so that’s easy. He feels cold and exposed with Sean hovering over him, eyes wide and bloodshot.
They’re twins. Except not at all.
Tom gasps and Sean gags, just barely, but doesn’t stop, sliding his mouth further down Tom’s cock, taking in more than he can handle. Tom doesn’t know how long he’s going to last, the tears stinging his eyes, his fingers clenched in the sheets - Sean is persistent, wrapping his dry right hand around what he can’t fit in his mouth, though his throat is still tightening around the head of Tom’s dick. Tom can’t help the slight buck of his hips, and he bites back a yelp as Sean digs his nails into the skin of his cock, a silent reminder to keep his hips down.
Tom ends up locking his fingers in Sean’s hair (not to push him down further, but just to have something to hold on to), and he tugs when he can feel the hot heat coiling in his stomach, knowing he’s about to come. Sean doesn’t pull back, though. Instead he tries to take in more of Tom, nearly choking on his cock and Tom is half-yelling nonsense, not caring about the neighbors as he comes, tugging at Sean’s hair to try to get him off (but he’s got his hands hard on Tom’s hips, and there will be bruises) but Sean’s refusing, his breathing heavy as he swallows around Tom’s cock and then licks, slow and careful, trying to get any drops he may have left behind.
Sean whimpers, quiet, and Tom sobs harder than he was before.
“Sean,” he manages, a pained groan, and Sean crawls up on his lap and kisses him, hard and bruising. Once Sean pulls away, both of them panting, Tom curls his fingers in Sean’s shirt (his jeans are still scrunched at his knees, but he doesn’t care), muttering, “Sleep with me tonight. Here.”
Sean swallows and nods, pupils still too large for his eyes.
They lie down and Tom wraps his arms around Sean, whispering nonsense into his hair and needing this more than anything.
--
Tom sits next to Sean on the tiny balcony and Sean smiles a little, flicking his cigarette. Tom huffs, good naturedly, and holds out his fingers. “Share.”
Sean chuckles at the command but doesn’t trust Tom with the cigarette in his fingers. Instead he moves it closer to Tom’s mouth and Tom parts his lips, letting Sean slip the cigarette in. He gives Sean a half-grin and takes a drag, and Sean takes it back.
They sit quietly for the next couple of minutes, because it’s beginning to rain (just barely), mist outside.
Tom leans back on the small wicker couch, crossing his legs at the ankle. “What if I started?”
Next to him, Sean goes stiff. Tom glances over. “Heroin, I mean,” he says, and it’s really the first time he’s brought it up like that, straight out, nothing to cover it. “What if I shared your needles? Do you have HIV?” It comes out sounding too casual, and it scares Tom to think about.
“No,” Sean snaps, and Tom’s not sure if he’s saying ‘No, you can’t start’ or ‘No, I don’t have HIV’. He doesn’t know if it matters. “No. Don’t even say that.” Sean buries his face in his hands, and when Tom looks at his back, he seems small and broken, his spine visible through the thin cloth of his t-shirt. “I…it’s not worth it.”
Tom tilts his head back. “I would imagine,” he murmurs, and then he reaches out and begins to stroke Sean’s back.
--
Sean promises.
“No more,” he says, and he’s grinning when he says it. “I got rid of it all.”
Tom wraps him in a hug.
He doesn’t know it’ll end up being a lie. Not yet.
--
When Tom starts finding the needles under the couch, shoved away at the last minute, that’s when he loses it.
“I am so sick of your shit, Sean,” he growls, and his voice shakes - he’s angry, he’s sad, he’s beginning to break. And by the looks of it, so is Sean. It doesn’t stop him. “I’m sick of finding needles everywhere and having no one to blame but you. How long am I supposed to put up with this? I’m sick of seeing you high and long gone, and I - I miss you, fucking hell, do you even know how much I miss you? It’s a lot, for the record. A fucking lot.”
Sean flinches and looks at his feet. “I don’t know how,” he says softly. “Without falling apart.”
Tom chokes on a sob and steps forward - he can’t let Sean suffer - enveloping Sean’s shaking body in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” Sean cries against his shoulder, and if he was a doll (he almost seems like one), Tom’s pretty sure his skinny frame would shatter under the pressure. “I’m sorry I’m not good enough.”
--
Tom does not like having to clean up Sean’s messes, but he does it anyway.
He keeps Sean tight in his arms every night, whispering promises into his hair when Sean is twitching and unfocused. “I’m here. I’m not going to leave you. I’ll never leave you.” Selfishly, sometimes Tom wishes he could leave. He’s sick of it. Sick of working. Sick of coming home and finding Sean’s head lulling to the side, a needle still stuck in his arm. He’s sick of the way that sometimes, when Tom’s so fast asleep, Sean manages to sneak out and get his fix, find a dealer, do something. He’s sick of Sean not having enough money to help pay rent.
But he’s not going anywhere.
He can’t go anywhere.
--
Tom cries.
Tom cries a lot more than he should.
But it feels good, to sit and sob and be a wreck. He doesn’t know, not for sure, where Sean is. Maybe Sean’s getting them dinner like he promised he would. Maybe he’s still at work, the final shift. Maybe he’s in a dark alley, he’s got cash and needles that are probably full of God knows what. And maybe Tom can’t deal with that.
Sometimes Tom thinks about it.
He thinks about cocaine. He thinks about heroin. God, he thinks about it all. Something to keep him from falling apart.
But then he sees Sean’s face.
Sees Sean’s hair (he doesn’t shower but two times a week).
Sees Sean’s arms.
And he realizes.
--
Tom is so tired. He just needs to come back to the little apartment and maybe put on some Nirvana and cuddle with Sean. He needs tonight to be normal, and he’s hoping, because Sean’s face has been a little brighter lately, his eyes a little less dull or gone.
Tom steps into the apartment and kicks off his shoes. He doesn’t see Sean, initially, so he assumes he’s in the kitchen or the bedroom. “Sean, I’m home,” he calls, and he’s not afraid. Things have been going so well.
He looks into the kitchen and he’s not sure if he wants to scream from fear or anger. Maybe just frustration.
Sean is on the floor of the kitchen, no needles in his arm but there’s one in his hand (a used one) and Tom still wants to scream. He crouches next to Sean and pulls his head onto his knee, touching the sides of his face. Tears are prickling in his eyes, blurring his vision, and gently he smacks the sides of Sean’s face, waiting for him to wake up. He has to bite back the urge to slap Sean, to hit him hard in the face, to shock him into a realization.
“Wake up, damn it,” he manages in a low snarl, and he kisses Sean, too hard, hands on each side of his face holding tight, pushing his tongue into his limp mouth because he’s angry, he’s disgusted.
Sean is suddenly squirming, his fingers wrapping around Tom’s wrists (the needle falls to the ground), and they kiss each other harder, and it’s literally a battle between them in their mouths, tongue against tongue and teeth clashing with teeth, but Tom’s got the upper hand. Tom grabs Sean’s shoulder and pushes him against the tile, and Sean goes down without much of a fight, sort of flipping as he hits the ground, Tom crawling on top of him. Tom grinds his hips down, hard and sudden, and Sean gasps loudly against his mouth, letting out a long, obscene moan.
Tom’s not sure what he’s doing, all he knows is that he’s pissed and this seems logic. He pushes Sean’s jeans down off of his hips and grabs his cock, already half-hard from the earlier grinding, and jerks with his dry hand, hard enough that Sean lets out a choked cry.
“Tom, Tom, Tom,” Sean manages, and he sounds near tears. “Please,” he groans, and Tom lets out a low hiss. Why should Sean get what he wants?
But still.
Tom licks his palm and begins to slowly stroke Sean’s cock, knowing he’s making it easier, and Sean is already falling apart in front of him. Tom pushes his fingers into Sean’s open mouth and Sean doesn’t hesitate, licking around them and sucking them into his mouth. Once Tom figures they’re sufficient he pulls Tom’s jeans and boxers down further, using his now wet fingers to probe around Sean’s entrance, pushing both fingers in suddenly - Sean gasps and whimpers, his body clenching momentarily before relaxing, letting Tom push his fingers deeper, fucking him slow and hard.
Sean gasps when Tom crooks his fingers, and he’s coming into Tom’s slow moving hand - Tom’s not surprised but he bites his lip anyway, jerking Sean through his orgasm and pulling his fingers out.
He doesn’t give Sean any time to breathe (he’s still panting on the floor when Tom pushes himself up) before he says (snaps), “Get up. We’re going to fucking bed.”
Sean starts crying.
--
Tom is so tired again. This time he’s got a headache to match, and he’s getting so sick of life, so sick of patterns. He wants things to change. He’s too scared to make things change.
He throws his coat off and doesn’t call to Sean, though he doesn’t see him.
He takes a deep breath.
It smells like coffee.
Sean never makes coffee.
Frowning (he’s curious now), Tom pulls off his shoes and turns into the kitchen. Sean is sitting at the table, his legs crossed at the knee, and he’s got one of Tom’s old, chipped mugs in his hands - it’s steaming, and he lifts it to his mouth, taking a sip. Tom’s still in shock that there’s coffee he didn’t make. And that Sean’s not on the floor.
There’s a small, what looks like wooden, box sitting on the cramped kitchen table by Sean. Tom quirks an eyebrow. “What’s up?” he asks, and he’s not sure if he’s worried or just curious.
“I’ve been thinking. A lot.”
Tom watches Sean and Sean gestures with one hand for him to sit. Tom does so, pulling out the chair opposite of Sean. He’s still wary, but mostly he’s curious.
“Sometimes I feel like an accident in your life,” Sean says slowly, and Tom tenses across from him. “And you’re my miracle.”
“Sean…” Tom starts, but Sean is already shaking his head.
“You’ve made me realize a lot. I started needing the drugs…God, I don’t even know why. But I was stupid. And it evolved - you watched it evolve. I used you. I made your life a living hell. Why? Why, I don’t know. And why you put up with it, I really don’t know. But thank you. I want you to hear me say that. Thank you.”
Sean meets Tom’s gaze and Tom’s breath catches. Sean’s eyes are the color of ice, perfect and soft, and real. Clear. They almost remind Tom of the sky.
Sean nods at the box, taking another sip of his coffee. “I’m going to need you,” he murmurs. “I’m going to need you a lot. I quit my job, because I can’t risk it. But of course, I don’t expect the same out of you. I’m sorry about that. But I won’t be busting money on drugs. And I’ll get another job, when I can. But I’m going to need you.”
Sean looks at Tom again. “To keep me. From running away. From throwing myself out the window.” He smiles a bit here. “You…keep me safe.”
Tom swallows.
Sean nudges the box with his elbow. “Open it,” he murmurs.
Tom takes the box and opens it.
It’s full of syringes.
He smiles.
“I won’t be needing those.”
Tom nods. Tom nods and begins to smile. “Okay,” he says, and his voice sounds rough and cracked, but alive. “I can do that. I’ve been doing that, right? Keeping you safe. Trying. I’ll try harder. You never - you never have to be afraid. I promise.”
“I’m probably going to relapse,” Sean says, his eyes a little dark but he’s smiling a bit. “I’ll need you to lock me inside.” He looks up at Tom, meets his gaze with his own hard look. Tom swallows. “You’ll need to keep me from running away. Because I don’t know - right now I seem sane, but in a couple of days, a couple of hours, for God’s sake - I won’t be like this anymore. I’m going to lose control. And I’m sorry for that.”
Tom just nods.
“And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that.”
Tom nods again. “I. I’ll do what I can - I don’t know, Sean, I don’t know, not right now, but fuck, I’ll try because…”
Sean just smiles. “It’s okay. And hey. Hey.”
Tom looks up, and his eyes are wide. For once, Sean is the together one, the one calming him down. “I promise. I swear - God, I swear. I - I don’t know if I’ve ever said this, but I’m saying this now. I love you, Sean, God, I really love you, and it just hurt me to watch you being hurt so much, and that’s why - that’s why I’m going to do what I can. For you.”
Sean smiles. “Thanks.”