fundamental harmonic
Okay, so only two other people in the world will actually give a damn about this thing that Ji and I wrote tonight as part of our grand and near-heroic Yuletide procrastination (ohgod), but I am still making a whole new LJ tag just for the occasion. I expect it will be getting quite a bit of use in the future *looks balefully at ariastar and nextian*.
It's a sequel to this. Sort of.
fundamental harmonic
Thomas is just beginning to be proud of his career, this life he is carving; the size and the shape of it, the way it aligns neatly with the lives of those around him and does not bleed into or build on top of them, possessing no cruelly overlapping edges. He is proud right up until Thom stands in the doorway of his lab, all vivid and curious above an enormous coat, and looks at Thomas as though he has found all of those edges and is going along them with blunt scissors. This isn't jagged enough for me, his look says, or for you either.
"Thom," Thomas says, and feels his mouth fall into an expression of genuine pleasure.
"Thomas," and Thom smiles back and gestures with his head for Thomas to follow him, and Thomas does.
Thom obviously has no idea where he's going and just as obviously doesn't care; he stops at the first room that looks empty and walks into it, backwards, his familiar stance swallowed by the bulky clothing.
"You missed me," Thom says then.
Thomas doesn't even consider denying it, but the tone of Thom's voice grates nonetheless, so he contents himself with kicking the door closed and shoving Thom up against it. Thom makes an oof sound as the air goes out of him, and then a tsk sound as he wriggles his back into a more comfortable position.
"Thomas. What if I don't want to?" And he looks indignant and flushed and almost, almost like he means it.
"Stop it." Thomas keeps one hand flat on Thom's chest, but takes a step back. "You don't have to win this one, with me. You don't have to make me feel like I'm taking something. You could just give. For once."
"What if I don't want to," Thom repeats, but then he lets out a long breath and takes hold of Thomas's wrist. His eyes are now -- Thomas is fairly certain -- impatient. It'll do.
"Well, I suppose I could forgive myself. Again." Thomas moves the hand to the side of his face and thinks about how fucking unfair and how stupidly beautiful the kid is. Even though he looks less like a kid now.
A grin appears on Thom's face, sharp and sudden, displacing Thomas' thumb. "That sounds very dull, Thomas. I don't know why I don't get up and go right now."
Thomas doesn't either, but he kisses Thom with all the frustration of their meaningless phone calls and bragging emails and the flaws in his research and the considering glances from people that he might have been able to love properly, once, and he thinks he hides it adequately.
~
Thomas lives in a tiny room just warm enough to ward off certain hypothermia. For a second he remembers his apartment in Boston -- new carpet and tasteful paint, hot water all the time and not just according to the indecipherable vagaries of Soviet plumbing -- and tenses, defensive. Thom doesn't seem to notice, though; he stands in the doorway, cheeks flushed, drawing his gloves off with his teeth, and Thomas relaxes just a fraction. He leans back on the cracked wall and unwraps his scarf. Knowing that he won't get an answer, he asks, "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
But Thom pauses. He looks at Thomas, fine hair windblown and tangled, his lips red with cold. "I didn't know what you would think if I showed up at the lab here. I wanted it to be a surprise."
Thomas can't quite believe that Thom expected anything less than total, unswerving loyalty, but it's flattering to think that he might have had his doubts. "A surprise for you, too, then, as well as for me."
"Of course," says Thom cheerfully. "There are hardly any surprises in my life now, you know." He drapes his coat over the back of Thomas's only chair and bounds onto Thomas's bed, which lets out the agonizing death rattle of various springs. He drops to a seat and asks, "So -- have you stolen any Soviet secrets yet?"
"You may not've heard, Thom, but the Cold War is over. There's no such thing as 'Soviet' and I certainly haven't stolen any secrets."
"Oh, well. In that case, I'm leaving." Thom gets to his feet, but before he can start the tedious process of dressing for the Russian cold again, Thomas crosses the room and seizes him by the wrist.
"You aren't serious," says Thomas. "Do you really think I can do that?" Hours earlier, before Thom walked through that doorway and gave him that smile and kissed him in an abandoned office, he would have said, What makes you think I would do that?
It's funny, he thinks in the back of his mind, how fast he's falling into old habits. Thom interrupts, saying, "Yes, I do. Why not? I'm sure people trust you. I'm sure they think you're wonderful."
Thomas stares at him. Sarcastically, he says, "Yes, Thom. People do think I'm wonderful."
Thom says, "So it shouldn't be any problem," and Thomas had almost forgotten that verbal tell of his; had almost forgotten that moment of confused, rapid-fire decision: statement or question? Reflexively, his fingers tighten on Thom's wrist until Thom starts to pale, bites his lip.
"I'm not a spy, you idiot," Thomas says. "I'm a student. What the fuck would you do with Soviet nuclear secrets if you had them?"
"Compare them with our nuclear secrets," says Thom in the careful, casual tone that means he's in pain. "And with England's. I don't think we have to bother about France, do you?"
When Thomas doesn't answer him right away, Thom looks encouraged. "Being a student is great cover, you know," he says. "Nobody will think it was you."
Thomas very specifically does not take a deep breath; does not hit him, does not grit his teeth. He does not say, Well, it sure worked for you, didn't it. What he says is, "Stop trying to make me part of your ludicrous conspiracy."
"Why not?" demands Thom. "It's a conspiracy of two. Don't you like that?"
"Everything about you is a conspiracy, Thom." More than almost anything now, he feels tired. "Sometimes I don't like that."
Thom frowns. He brings his free hand up and touches the side of Thomas's face, lingering on the hard bone of his jaw. "That's not true," he says. "You just don't like being excluded from the conspiracy of everything about me."
"You," Thomas says, and hears his own voice all flat and hard with the effort it takes not to increase its volume, "you are so infuriating," and he turns his head sideways and catches two of Thom's fingers in his teeth; bites down just enough that it's a resignation.
Thom makes a sound that's half a cry of pain and half startled laughter. He wrenches his hand free long enough and fast enough to kiss Thomas, mouth open, almost, almost sweet, and pulls Thomas with the force of two stifled, polite, separate years down with him onto Thomas's bed.
In the morning with cold winter light streaming in blue at the window, Thomas feels like Thom has done what he always threatened to do and reinvented the laws of physics: collapsed space and time and brought them back to his last year as an undergraduate. He feels younger, and less sure of himself, but also as though certain forgotten parts of his personality have been stretched and then relaxed for the first time in years, like strings twisted and retuned to vibrate at exactly the right frequency.
It's a sequel to this. Sort of.
fundamental harmonic
Thomas is just beginning to be proud of his career, this life he is carving; the size and the shape of it, the way it aligns neatly with the lives of those around him and does not bleed into or build on top of them, possessing no cruelly overlapping edges. He is proud right up until Thom stands in the doorway of his lab, all vivid and curious above an enormous coat, and looks at Thomas as though he has found all of those edges and is going along them with blunt scissors. This isn't jagged enough for me, his look says, or for you either.
"Thom," Thomas says, and feels his mouth fall into an expression of genuine pleasure.
"Thomas," and Thom smiles back and gestures with his head for Thomas to follow him, and Thomas does.
Thom obviously has no idea where he's going and just as obviously doesn't care; he stops at the first room that looks empty and walks into it, backwards, his familiar stance swallowed by the bulky clothing.
"You missed me," Thom says then.
Thomas doesn't even consider denying it, but the tone of Thom's voice grates nonetheless, so he contents himself with kicking the door closed and shoving Thom up against it. Thom makes an oof sound as the air goes out of him, and then a tsk sound as he wriggles his back into a more comfortable position.
"Thomas. What if I don't want to?" And he looks indignant and flushed and almost, almost like he means it.
"Stop it." Thomas keeps one hand flat on Thom's chest, but takes a step back. "You don't have to win this one, with me. You don't have to make me feel like I'm taking something. You could just give. For once."
"What if I don't want to," Thom repeats, but then he lets out a long breath and takes hold of Thomas's wrist. His eyes are now -- Thomas is fairly certain -- impatient. It'll do.
"Well, I suppose I could forgive myself. Again." Thomas moves the hand to the side of his face and thinks about how fucking unfair and how stupidly beautiful the kid is. Even though he looks less like a kid now.
A grin appears on Thom's face, sharp and sudden, displacing Thomas' thumb. "That sounds very dull, Thomas. I don't know why I don't get up and go right now."
Thomas doesn't either, but he kisses Thom with all the frustration of their meaningless phone calls and bragging emails and the flaws in his research and the considering glances from people that he might have been able to love properly, once, and he thinks he hides it adequately.
~
Thomas lives in a tiny room just warm enough to ward off certain hypothermia. For a second he remembers his apartment in Boston -- new carpet and tasteful paint, hot water all the time and not just according to the indecipherable vagaries of Soviet plumbing -- and tenses, defensive. Thom doesn't seem to notice, though; he stands in the doorway, cheeks flushed, drawing his gloves off with his teeth, and Thomas relaxes just a fraction. He leans back on the cracked wall and unwraps his scarf. Knowing that he won't get an answer, he asks, "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
But Thom pauses. He looks at Thomas, fine hair windblown and tangled, his lips red with cold. "I didn't know what you would think if I showed up at the lab here. I wanted it to be a surprise."
Thomas can't quite believe that Thom expected anything less than total, unswerving loyalty, but it's flattering to think that he might have had his doubts. "A surprise for you, too, then, as well as for me."
"Of course," says Thom cheerfully. "There are hardly any surprises in my life now, you know." He drapes his coat over the back of Thomas's only chair and bounds onto Thomas's bed, which lets out the agonizing death rattle of various springs. He drops to a seat and asks, "So -- have you stolen any Soviet secrets yet?"
"You may not've heard, Thom, but the Cold War is over. There's no such thing as 'Soviet' and I certainly haven't stolen any secrets."
"Oh, well. In that case, I'm leaving." Thom gets to his feet, but before he can start the tedious process of dressing for the Russian cold again, Thomas crosses the room and seizes him by the wrist.
"You aren't serious," says Thomas. "Do you really think I can do that?" Hours earlier, before Thom walked through that doorway and gave him that smile and kissed him in an abandoned office, he would have said, What makes you think I would do that?
It's funny, he thinks in the back of his mind, how fast he's falling into old habits. Thom interrupts, saying, "Yes, I do. Why not? I'm sure people trust you. I'm sure they think you're wonderful."
Thomas stares at him. Sarcastically, he says, "Yes, Thom. People do think I'm wonderful."
Thom says, "So it shouldn't be any problem," and Thomas had almost forgotten that verbal tell of his; had almost forgotten that moment of confused, rapid-fire decision: statement or question? Reflexively, his fingers tighten on Thom's wrist until Thom starts to pale, bites his lip.
"I'm not a spy, you idiot," Thomas says. "I'm a student. What the fuck would you do with Soviet nuclear secrets if you had them?"
"Compare them with our nuclear secrets," says Thom in the careful, casual tone that means he's in pain. "And with England's. I don't think we have to bother about France, do you?"
When Thomas doesn't answer him right away, Thom looks encouraged. "Being a student is great cover, you know," he says. "Nobody will think it was you."
Thomas very specifically does not take a deep breath; does not hit him, does not grit his teeth. He does not say, Well, it sure worked for you, didn't it. What he says is, "Stop trying to make me part of your ludicrous conspiracy."
"Why not?" demands Thom. "It's a conspiracy of two. Don't you like that?"
"Everything about you is a conspiracy, Thom." More than almost anything now, he feels tired. "Sometimes I don't like that."
Thom frowns. He brings his free hand up and touches the side of Thomas's face, lingering on the hard bone of his jaw. "That's not true," he says. "You just don't like being excluded from the conspiracy of everything about me."
"You," Thomas says, and hears his own voice all flat and hard with the effort it takes not to increase its volume, "you are so infuriating," and he turns his head sideways and catches two of Thom's fingers in his teeth; bites down just enough that it's a resignation.
Thom makes a sound that's half a cry of pain and half startled laughter. He wrenches his hand free long enough and fast enough to kiss Thomas, mouth open, almost, almost sweet, and pulls Thomas with the force of two stifled, polite, separate years down with him onto Thomas's bed.
In the morning with cold winter light streaming in blue at the window, Thomas feels like Thom has done what he always threatened to do and reinvented the laws of physics: collapsed space and time and brought them back to his last year as an undergraduate. He feels younger, and less sure of himself, but also as though certain forgotten parts of his personality have been stretched and then relaxed for the first time in years, like strings twisted and retuned to vibrate at exactly the right frequency.