That breaking, yeah that was my heart (Quinn, Flynn)
Liverpool. Liverpool.
His husband was in Liverpool and Quinn had the address. He had taken it out and looked at it so many times the piece of paper he had written it on was threatening to fall apart. It didn't matter. Quinn had committed the address to heart 348 times ago. Three hundred and forty-nine, he counted in his head as he pulled it out again.
Looking at the address, however, made it seem so much more real somehow. Soon, Quinn would see the man he loved again. He could look in Flynn's eyes and tell him he loved him. He would get to hold his husband in his arms. His aching heart would be healed. His other half would be with him again. Quinn had spent the last nearly three months in a broken-hearted stupor, and he would be able to end it. Quinn honestly believed that the second he saw Flynn and Flynn saw him, everything would be okay again. He believed in their love and their ability to conquer everything, as if they were some kind of fairytale princes. They had done so once, hadn't they? He thought this would be the same.
He was wrong. This was not a fairytale.
Quinn arrived at the crumbling building and he felt like his entire body was shaking with the effort to keep together. He was scared and excited and exhausted and exhilarated all at once. He wanted to see Flynn so badly it hurt his chest and made it hard to breathe. The train ride had been excruciating because he kept imagining scenarios where Flynn had left by the time he arrived and he was lost for another three months. He had sat and jiggled his legs and checked his watch every thirty seconds and severely annoyed everyone around him. Now he was here. Now all he had to do was climb three flights of stairs to knock on a door. He did so at a run, and when he knocked, he was breathless though it wasn't from the stairs. While he waited, he felt like he might vomit and scream and faint and die and live all at once.
After a minute, the door was pulled open and Quinn felt himself staring into the gray eyes of his husband he loved so much. Quinn wanted to grab Flynn and hug him and never let him go, but something stopped him. The sickness and the need to scream and faint and die and live all at once only got worse and Quinn's stomach clenched uncomfortably. His hands shook. His knees felt weak. His throat tightened and Quinn felt like he might burst into tears.
Flynn's eyes didn't soften at the sight of Quinn like they always had. Quinn looked his husband up and down and a pained half-wail emitted from his heart and throat, unbidden. Flynn was rail-thin, Quinn could tell even through his baggy and over-sized clothes, and there was a sickly-looking, yellowish bruise on his face. A fresh cut made it's way from his lip to his chin. And when Flynn watched Quinn look him over, Flynn's scrawny arms wrapped around himself protectively instead of drawing Quinn in. There was something accusing there. Accusing and confused. Quinn could scarcely believe the state of him. "Oh, Mal..." His heart, which he had assumed could not break any more, proved him wrong. He reached out to gently caress Flynn's cheek, a familiar movement even now, and then Flynn did something he had never done before. He stepped back, out of Quinn's reach, and he looked away.
"Mal..." Quinn felt like he might break down and cry right now. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. They had been separated and now Flynn was here, and he was real, and Quinn ached to comfort him, to touch him and be touched by him, but Flynn looked, for all the world, like he didn't want it. How was that even possible? Flynn had killed a man to save Quinn. Surely he still loved him. "I've been looking for you for so long," Quinn breathed.
Flynn didn't say a word. He stared at Quinn a moment longer and then he went to sit on the corner of his bed, his back to the wall with his skinny little legs pulled up to his chest to hide his diminished waist. He wrapped his arms around his knees and he stared at Quinn as if he was an unwelcome intruder in his scarce little life.
"Mal-" Quinn didn't know what to say. This man in front of him was not someone Quinn knew. After their reunion in London, Flynn had always been different from the foolhardy boy Quinn had grown up with in Whitehead. But then, so had Quinn, though the essence of the boy Quinn had loved had remained. Years on the street had changed Flynn, and years of being adored by his adoptive family had changed Quinn. Flynn didn't say much and his social skills were not always exemplary, but he always tried. Sometimes he tried so hard, it hurt Quinn a little to see that he had to make such an effort. Now, Flynn wasn't trying. Quinn wondered if this was the state Spectre had found him in at Al's bar. Quinn had only come back into Flynn's life after he had had months of the benefit of Spectre, Thomas and Deirdre's presences in his life. Maybe this was the way it always started. Or maybe all that Flynn had been was gone, and this was all that was left of him. "Mal, I don't know what to do here."
Flynn just stared at him.
Quinn balled up his fists and his knuckles turned white from the effort it took not to pull his husband into a tight and protective embrace. He just had to talk. Quinn was a talker. He explained things. He could talk for hours on end if he tried, so he opened his mouth and he tried his best to explain, his words coming out in a desperate tumble. "Mal, your mother lied to you when she said I signed those horrible papers you sent me. She lied. I ripped them up, Mal. I love you. God, I always have. Please. Let me take you home!"
Finally, a reaction. Flynn's eyes narrowed and what little colour he had had, drained from his face, leaving the bruise looking even more sickly from the contrast of yellow on white. Quinn saw Flynn's jaw clench. It only did that when he was angry, though it was the only sign of anger Flynn showed so far. The rest of him was devoid of expression. Anger wasn't what Quinn was looking for, but it was something.
"Mal, I love you. Please. Please, come home?" Quinn put his hands over his heart, almost as if he was protecting it from the refusal he now feared would come. "I miss you so much. Everyone does. I even hired a Private Investi-"
"Get out."
Flynn's voice sounded strange and dark. There was no trace of the loving and gentle Flynn who Quinn knew so well. His voice held no affection in it. No kindness or humility. Were those unkind words the only words Flynn would grant him? Were they really the last words he would ever hear his husband say to him? He couldn't let that happen.
"Mal, no! Please!" Tears welled up in Quinn's eyes and he actually stepped forward before stopping himself. "Come with me, please! I came all this way!"
Flynn shook his head. "I need you to go."
"But Mal, look at this place! It's freezing in here! And you're...Jesus, you're so thin-"
"I'm thin because I'm hungry," Flynn said calmly, without a hint in his voice that this was something he was upset about.
"Oh, Mal," Quinn wailed, hiding his face in his hands for a moment before pulling them away in frustration. "Please. Come with me, and we can stay in a hotel where it's warm. We can have a nice, big dinner and you can clean up and then we'll go home tomorrow. We probably both need a rest, and-"
"No."
Quinn couldn't believe his ears. This had to be a dream. A nightmare. His Malachy wouldn't say no to him. His chest felt like it was ripping open from the pounding of his heart. This simply could not be happening. His love. His Flynn. "Mal-"
With that, Flynn rose slowly from the bed and all of a sudden, Quinn felt afraid. Flynn started towards him and Quinn backed up. He had never been afraid of Flynn before. Well, not since actually meeting him. And now Flynn was walking towards him, slowly and steadily, and he looked like he was made entirely of stone. Quinn couldn't stand it.
"I said I need you to go," Flynn repeated. He crossed his arms in front of himself and this time, Quinn caught sight of something. Two twin bandages on Flynn's wrists. If Quinn had believed this couldn't get any worse, he was wrong.
"Jesus, fuck-" Quinn gasped, freezing in his fearful, backwards retreat. "Oh god, no... Mal, no!"
Flynn, confused, halted in his progression.
"Your wrists!" Had Flynn tried to kill himself? It was now Quinn's turn to stare, and Flynn didn't dispute it. "Oh, Mal. Bub. I can't leave you. I can't leave you like this. Look at you. I can't." He reached out for Flynn's arms, and Flynn jumped out of Quinn's grasp, always more lithe than Quinn even when he was hungry and injured.
"Don't touch me! Get out!"
"Oh Jesus, what happened to you? What did someone do to you?" Quinn wailed. He was going to beg now. Beg without shame for the life of his husband. "Mal, you're my husband and I love you! For fuck's sake, please please come home with me. I promise we'll help you with anything you need! Please! I can't leave you like this-"
And then Flynn did another thing Quinn had never seen Flynn direct at him. He screamed at him. "GET OUT!" Flynn pointed dramatically towards the door, and Quinn turned and ran. He would never be able to explain exactly why he had done so. He knew Flynn wouldn't really hurt him, but that that moment, he feared that Flynn could. He turned and ran and when he heard the door slam echo down the hall towards him, Quinn felt the hope he had held in his heart that he would be returning home with his husband that day, shatter into a million pieces.
Perhaps, if Quinn was anyone else, that was where their story would have ended. Quinn, however, wasn't one to give up on people he loved. Terrified, heart-broken, and more distraught than he had ever been, Quinn found a building to lean up against so he could cry. His breath came in short bursts and he cried until his head ached with it, shaking and curled into himself on the ground with his back to the bricks. And when he had cried all he could, he pulled out his mobile phone, and he dialled the number of the one person he believed could get through to Flynn now. He dialled Spectre Mors.
"It's Quinn. Hi. No, I'm not okay." Quinn didn't wait for Spectre to tell him he sounded horrible. He knew it was true. "I'm in Liverpool and Mal is here. Spectre, it's bad. Mmhmmm. Could you...maybe come talk to him? Spectre, he's hurt and he has bandages on his wrists and he's so...he was so cold to me. He needs you, not me. If you talk to him, you can get him to come home. Or at the very least you could bring him something to eat. He really needs it. Okay. Thank you, Spectre. Okay. See you then."
And then Quinn went to the stairs that led up to his husband's apartment so he could sit and wait another several excruciating hours for Spectre's arrival. He wanted to make sure Flynn didn't try to leave. It was as if time stood still and all there was left was fear and pain and illness and heart-break.
But Spectre was an angel, and right now he was all Quinn had to believe in.
His husband was in Liverpool and Quinn had the address. He had taken it out and looked at it so many times the piece of paper he had written it on was threatening to fall apart. It didn't matter. Quinn had committed the address to heart 348 times ago. Three hundred and forty-nine, he counted in his head as he pulled it out again.
Looking at the address, however, made it seem so much more real somehow. Soon, Quinn would see the man he loved again. He could look in Flynn's eyes and tell him he loved him. He would get to hold his husband in his arms. His aching heart would be healed. His other half would be with him again. Quinn had spent the last nearly three months in a broken-hearted stupor, and he would be able to end it. Quinn honestly believed that the second he saw Flynn and Flynn saw him, everything would be okay again. He believed in their love and their ability to conquer everything, as if they were some kind of fairytale princes. They had done so once, hadn't they? He thought this would be the same.
He was wrong. This was not a fairytale.
Quinn arrived at the crumbling building and he felt like his entire body was shaking with the effort to keep together. He was scared and excited and exhausted and exhilarated all at once. He wanted to see Flynn so badly it hurt his chest and made it hard to breathe. The train ride had been excruciating because he kept imagining scenarios where Flynn had left by the time he arrived and he was lost for another three months. He had sat and jiggled his legs and checked his watch every thirty seconds and severely annoyed everyone around him. Now he was here. Now all he had to do was climb three flights of stairs to knock on a door. He did so at a run, and when he knocked, he was breathless though it wasn't from the stairs. While he waited, he felt like he might vomit and scream and faint and die and live all at once.
After a minute, the door was pulled open and Quinn felt himself staring into the gray eyes of his husband he loved so much. Quinn wanted to grab Flynn and hug him and never let him go, but something stopped him. The sickness and the need to scream and faint and die and live all at once only got worse and Quinn's stomach clenched uncomfortably. His hands shook. His knees felt weak. His throat tightened and Quinn felt like he might burst into tears.
Flynn's eyes didn't soften at the sight of Quinn like they always had. Quinn looked his husband up and down and a pained half-wail emitted from his heart and throat, unbidden. Flynn was rail-thin, Quinn could tell even through his baggy and over-sized clothes, and there was a sickly-looking, yellowish bruise on his face. A fresh cut made it's way from his lip to his chin. And when Flynn watched Quinn look him over, Flynn's scrawny arms wrapped around himself protectively instead of drawing Quinn in. There was something accusing there. Accusing and confused. Quinn could scarcely believe the state of him. "Oh, Mal..." His heart, which he had assumed could not break any more, proved him wrong. He reached out to gently caress Flynn's cheek, a familiar movement even now, and then Flynn did something he had never done before. He stepped back, out of Quinn's reach, and he looked away.
"Mal..." Quinn felt like he might break down and cry right now. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. They had been separated and now Flynn was here, and he was real, and Quinn ached to comfort him, to touch him and be touched by him, but Flynn looked, for all the world, like he didn't want it. How was that even possible? Flynn had killed a man to save Quinn. Surely he still loved him. "I've been looking for you for so long," Quinn breathed.
Flynn didn't say a word. He stared at Quinn a moment longer and then he went to sit on the corner of his bed, his back to the wall with his skinny little legs pulled up to his chest to hide his diminished waist. He wrapped his arms around his knees and he stared at Quinn as if he was an unwelcome intruder in his scarce little life.
"Mal-" Quinn didn't know what to say. This man in front of him was not someone Quinn knew. After their reunion in London, Flynn had always been different from the foolhardy boy Quinn had grown up with in Whitehead. But then, so had Quinn, though the essence of the boy Quinn had loved had remained. Years on the street had changed Flynn, and years of being adored by his adoptive family had changed Quinn. Flynn didn't say much and his social skills were not always exemplary, but he always tried. Sometimes he tried so hard, it hurt Quinn a little to see that he had to make such an effort. Now, Flynn wasn't trying. Quinn wondered if this was the state Spectre had found him in at Al's bar. Quinn had only come back into Flynn's life after he had had months of the benefit of Spectre, Thomas and Deirdre's presences in his life. Maybe this was the way it always started. Or maybe all that Flynn had been was gone, and this was all that was left of him. "Mal, I don't know what to do here."
Flynn just stared at him.
Quinn balled up his fists and his knuckles turned white from the effort it took not to pull his husband into a tight and protective embrace. He just had to talk. Quinn was a talker. He explained things. He could talk for hours on end if he tried, so he opened his mouth and he tried his best to explain, his words coming out in a desperate tumble. "Mal, your mother lied to you when she said I signed those horrible papers you sent me. She lied. I ripped them up, Mal. I love you. God, I always have. Please. Let me take you home!"
Finally, a reaction. Flynn's eyes narrowed and what little colour he had had, drained from his face, leaving the bruise looking even more sickly from the contrast of yellow on white. Quinn saw Flynn's jaw clench. It only did that when he was angry, though it was the only sign of anger Flynn showed so far. The rest of him was devoid of expression. Anger wasn't what Quinn was looking for, but it was something.
"Mal, I love you. Please. Please, come home?" Quinn put his hands over his heart, almost as if he was protecting it from the refusal he now feared would come. "I miss you so much. Everyone does. I even hired a Private Investi-"
"Get out."
Flynn's voice sounded strange and dark. There was no trace of the loving and gentle Flynn who Quinn knew so well. His voice held no affection in it. No kindness or humility. Were those unkind words the only words Flynn would grant him? Were they really the last words he would ever hear his husband say to him? He couldn't let that happen.
"Mal, no! Please!" Tears welled up in Quinn's eyes and he actually stepped forward before stopping himself. "Come with me, please! I came all this way!"
Flynn shook his head. "I need you to go."
"But Mal, look at this place! It's freezing in here! And you're...Jesus, you're so thin-"
"I'm thin because I'm hungry," Flynn said calmly, without a hint in his voice that this was something he was upset about.
"Oh, Mal," Quinn wailed, hiding his face in his hands for a moment before pulling them away in frustration. "Please. Come with me, and we can stay in a hotel where it's warm. We can have a nice, big dinner and you can clean up and then we'll go home tomorrow. We probably both need a rest, and-"
"No."
Quinn couldn't believe his ears. This had to be a dream. A nightmare. His Malachy wouldn't say no to him. His chest felt like it was ripping open from the pounding of his heart. This simply could not be happening. His love. His Flynn. "Mal-"
With that, Flynn rose slowly from the bed and all of a sudden, Quinn felt afraid. Flynn started towards him and Quinn backed up. He had never been afraid of Flynn before. Well, not since actually meeting him. And now Flynn was walking towards him, slowly and steadily, and he looked like he was made entirely of stone. Quinn couldn't stand it.
"I said I need you to go," Flynn repeated. He crossed his arms in front of himself and this time, Quinn caught sight of something. Two twin bandages on Flynn's wrists. If Quinn had believed this couldn't get any worse, he was wrong.
"Jesus, fuck-" Quinn gasped, freezing in his fearful, backwards retreat. "Oh god, no... Mal, no!"
Flynn, confused, halted in his progression.
"Your wrists!" Had Flynn tried to kill himself? It was now Quinn's turn to stare, and Flynn didn't dispute it. "Oh, Mal. Bub. I can't leave you. I can't leave you like this. Look at you. I can't." He reached out for Flynn's arms, and Flynn jumped out of Quinn's grasp, always more lithe than Quinn even when he was hungry and injured.
"Don't touch me! Get out!"
"Oh Jesus, what happened to you? What did someone do to you?" Quinn wailed. He was going to beg now. Beg without shame for the life of his husband. "Mal, you're my husband and I love you! For fuck's sake, please please come home with me. I promise we'll help you with anything you need! Please! I can't leave you like this-"
And then Flynn did another thing Quinn had never seen Flynn direct at him. He screamed at him. "GET OUT!" Flynn pointed dramatically towards the door, and Quinn turned and ran. He would never be able to explain exactly why he had done so. He knew Flynn wouldn't really hurt him, but that that moment, he feared that Flynn could. He turned and ran and when he heard the door slam echo down the hall towards him, Quinn felt the hope he had held in his heart that he would be returning home with his husband that day, shatter into a million pieces.
Perhaps, if Quinn was anyone else, that was where their story would have ended. Quinn, however, wasn't one to give up on people he loved. Terrified, heart-broken, and more distraught than he had ever been, Quinn found a building to lean up against so he could cry. His breath came in short bursts and he cried until his head ached with it, shaking and curled into himself on the ground with his back to the bricks. And when he had cried all he could, he pulled out his mobile phone, and he dialled the number of the one person he believed could get through to Flynn now. He dialled Spectre Mors.
"It's Quinn. Hi. No, I'm not okay." Quinn didn't wait for Spectre to tell him he sounded horrible. He knew it was true. "I'm in Liverpool and Mal is here. Spectre, it's bad. Mmhmmm. Could you...maybe come talk to him? Spectre, he's hurt and he has bandages on his wrists and he's so...he was so cold to me. He needs you, not me. If you talk to him, you can get him to come home. Or at the very least you could bring him something to eat. He really needs it. Okay. Thank you, Spectre. Okay. See you then."
And then Quinn went to the stairs that led up to his husband's apartment so he could sit and wait another several excruciating hours for Spectre's arrival. He wanted to make sure Flynn didn't try to leave. It was as if time stood still and all there was left was fear and pain and illness and heart-break.
But Spectre was an angel, and right now he was all Quinn had to believe in.