FIC: A Certain Someone, PG, Tom/Bill, 1/2
Title: A Certain Someone
Author: ???
Pairing(s): Tom/Bill
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot, no profit is made from this fic.
Warnings: -
Summary: Some things simply cannot be filtered, or categorized.
Recipient: toastieghostie
Author's notes: Happy Holidays, toastieghostie! I struggled a lot while writing this, so I really, really hope you’ll like it. My eternal gratitude goes to fyredancer for her general assistance and the last-minute beta, and of course to my amazing banner artist.
--
Autumn used to be the season of hope for Bill.
Even while nature slowly starts to fall back to its usual circle, with trees and clouds letting their first leaves and drops of rain fall onto the still scorching ground, his own head reaches up to the skies, daydreaming of new beginnings. Of places still to be discovered and soulmates to be found. He liked to think outside the box, once upon a time, and make his resolutions during the first weeks of September instead of during a New Year's countdown, even if Christmas is definitely his favorite time of the year.
Reaching his almost second anniversary in a job he never planned to have, he has long since grown out of his old habits. It's only the change in the air now, the crazy weather switching from sweating hot to shivering cold in a matter of minutes, that indicates it's the middle of September.
Wiping the dark brown counter below him, he lets the damp rag eliminate all traces of coffee, or syrup, or whatever else might have slipped from a spoon or a plastic cup. He throws it into the sink once he’s done, so he can clean it up and officially finish his shift, start getting ready for his long walk home. He cringes at the thought. It's only barely starting to get dark outside, but he's sure it will be chilly enough for him to regret not bringing a light jacket along.
Turning around to walk to the back of the store, he hears a light but firm cough, someone clearing their throat. Before he gets the chance to even hear the voice, he knows exactly who it is behind him that requires his attention.
"Mr. Kaulitz?" comes the voice eventually, as it always happens with the awkward way Tom Trümper chooses to address him for whatever reason. Even the simple things like this have become a routine in Bill's head, and he's getting tired of it.
He takes a breath and turns around. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Trümper?" he says, trying not to make a face at the formality of their words, or the pretentious, uptight way his shift supervisor stands before him.
"I'd like to talk to you in private," comes the response, and Bill points to the direction he was going before he got interrupted. Trümper's steps can be heard behind him and he stops once they're both in the far back, where no one can hear whatever he wants to tell Bill.
But Trümper doesn't talk. He only stands still before him, with a face that holds no silver or golden piercings anymore; it's clean, much like his own has eventually become for the sake of this job. "Anything I can do for you?" Bill asks again, a little less formally this time, if only for the sake of finishing this as soon as possible.
Tom smiles in a patronizing way that makes Bill swallow dryly. "I hope you can," Tom says, and he leans a bit closer to him, lowering his voice. "A certain issue has come to our attention lately, and I want to know if you'd like to share anything with me. Are you in need of money, Bill?"
Screw formalities, Bill thinks, and stares hard at Tom. He knows it's more dangerous than ever to act like this towards him, but he can't, and won't accept this, especially by one Tom Trümper. "No more or less than you are," he says pointedly, and causes Tom to straighten back up. "What is this all about? Why are you asking me, of all people?"
"Because it doesn't happen during my shifts," Tom explains in a calm manner. "Someone's been stealing and we need to find out who it is."
Bill instantly turns his head, looks at the door leading to the till. He knows it’s store policy to never allow one-man shifts, which means - if Tom is telling the truth - whoever is paired with him on that particular shift has gotten their hands dirty at some point. He wonders if the other person has been asked about it too, what their reaction might have been. He suddenly feels terribly self-conscious. Having any job is better than having none, and he knows he's a lucky man.
"I have nothing to say," he ends up telling Trümper. "I've been here two years now and I have never touched a thing that I wasn't supposed to. I haven't noticed anyone acting suspiciously either," he concludes, trying to sound earnest because he really is. Trümper doesn't reply, only lifts the corner of his mouth in a half-smirk and nods, leaving the back-room, in the same wordless way he always does.
Turning his eyes at the big, round clock on the wall to his left, Bill silently swears at the precious time he's lost talking to the guy. He gathers his smoking gear and shoves it inside a worn backpack, before quickly waving goodbye at those starting their shift. Walking outside, he takes a deep breath, smells the salty air as he closes his eyes and lets the sounds of the calm sea gently hitting the rocks soothe him. He would love to stay a while right then and there, sit on the small wooden bench of the sidewalk and enjoy a cigarette in peace, but there's movement to his right and even though he can't see him, much like his greetings, Tom Trümper's smoking spot hasn't changed in years.
Bill turns his head for a swift moment and looks at him, the young man he's known since they were barely teenagers. Tom returns the look and it's something in his eyes, something unsettling and doubtful that makes Bill immediately break the contact and walk away. He has nothing to be afraid of, he knows, and he's pretty sure there is no evidence to back up anyone's theory of him stealing. But he can feel Tom's eyes follow him as he takes the path to his house, and hopes to God, or any higher power, that the rest of his co-workers had been as honest as himself.
--
Bill isn’t ashamed of his emotional attachment to his mother.
He and Simone have always been strongly bonded, way before his stepfather, Gordon, gave her the love and affection she had always deserved by a spouse. His mom was the strong pillar supporting him at all times, and the same thing applies to the level of devotion he’s had towards her throughout the years. He loves his mother dearly, and back when the possibility of college was still present in his mind, the only obstacle he’d found hard to overcome was moving away from her. Even if the presence of Gordon certainly made things better, he had still found the thought difficult to handle.
He watches her from the couch of their living room as she stands before the kitchen sink. The peeler in her hands moves almost mechanically fast over the round, overpriced potatoes and Bill presses the small button of the remote to ensure the sounds of the TV are barely audible so she doesn’t have to listen to the loud voices discussing whatever social matter. They hardly ever seem to affect her though. All Simone has always wanted is to take care of her family, because “That’s what Moms do,” and Bill wishes he had grown to be more like her, devoted, carefree and open-minded.
It’s never too late for that, he knows; being in his mid-twenties, he is still learning the ways of the world, even if they seem to change too frequently to his liking. No matter his disappointment with his current situation, the air inside their humble home only ever gave him a positive, loving feeling and that’s all due to his mother’s attitude. It’s a constant battle for Bill, the attempt to balance the scales and carry the same light-heartedness in the outside world.
His thoughts immediately go back to the incident at work, two days ago. How his talk with Trümper made him go haywire, overthinking even the slightest look towards him. He wasn’t directly accused, but a warning is a warning, and if his future in that job will be decided, or weighed by Tom’s better judgment, Bill is probably screwed; he cannot even try to positively think about that. Throughout the six years they spent in the same school, and almost always in the same classrooms, he never once saw Trümper make a decision that benefitted anyone but himself or his small circle of douche-friends. Bill never exchanged a lot of words with the much more popular boy but he’d seen how the likes of Tom acted towards outcasts like him.
Bill is aware this isn’t high school. But people don’t change, that he knows, and it makes his stomach turn when his mother leaves the plate of potato puree on the table in front of him. She smiles and leaves a kiss on his cheek that reassures him for a moment, until the uncertainty creeps back inside him. Should he tell her what happened? He’s not used to keeping secrets from her, but this weighs too heavy, compared to anything else. But isn’t that the point of family? To share the burden together, as a whole?
No, Bill shakes his head slightly, he can’t let this get to him. She doesn’t need to know, they don’t need to know unless there’s no turning back. He hopes it won’t have to come to that.
--
His childhood friend’s voice grows louder and louder the closer Bill gets to the door leading outside. Yet his legs only make their steps a little faster, a little bigger with each word reaching his ears.
“Bill!” Andreas shouts, more desperate this time. “Bill, please, he’s not worth it!”
Bill clenches his fingers harder around the maroon apron, rumpled as it is inside his fist. He knows Trümper isn’t worth much - probably even less than he considered in the past - but he’s certain that he’ll get what he deserves, this time. Passing by the front side of the store, he doesn’t halt his movements at all, despite the curious glances of middle-aged couples coming his way. He can hear Andreas’ pace become more controlled, probably in an attempt to not risk losing his job, just like Bill himself did a few minutes ago.
He cannot understand why he was so surprised to be let go. He cannot understand how, after all this time, he still had a pinch of hope he’d clung onto that Tom wouldn’t act selfishly, carelessly; that he’d get Tom’s support in a completely unfair situation. Now, with his heart broken and a promise of compensation he knows he won’t ever receive, he’s not as sad as he expected. He’s furious, he’s angry. He doesn’t think he’s ever hated someone as much as he hates Trümper right this second.
Pushing the double doors open, he touches the glass of their windows instead of the handle, just because he knows he will no longer have to wipe his handprint off, maybe the only slightly uplifting thought in this situation. The air outside is too dry, too hot for it being October, and he has to stop and blink for a few seconds, allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. He turns to his right and, as expected, there stands Tom Trümper, next to the long-haired brunet named Georg, the duo inseparable since their teenage years. They have both untied their aprons from around their middles, letting them hang from their necks.
Bill hears the door behind him open again, and Andreas’ shoes bang loudly against the wooden floor, probably caused by his sudden stop. He takes a moment to really take in the sight before him; Tom with his back turned his way and Georg barely acknowledging his presence with a quick glance. He wonders if Tom would’ve taken Georg’s side, had he been in a similar position. He wonders if Tom would’ve been as quick to point fingers, if he had to point at his friend.
Andreas grabs his bicep, squeezes his arm in an attempt to gain his attention, but it’s no use. Bill still walks, in a calmer manner this time, and Georg nods his head towards them, as if he’s informing Tom of them getting closer. Tom turns his head around and looks at him with the same expression Bill has already seen once that day on their manager’s face, an otherwise quite likeable guy, with his short blond hair and square glasses. It’s the same look Tom had thrown his way the first time he approached Bill for the matter that has eventually cost him his job.
It makes him see red. It’s as if Tom has suddenly become the cause of all his problems, and that thought automatically gives him the will to free his arm from Andreas’ hold in a surprisingly easy manner, and punch Tom’s face as fast and painfully as possible.
He’s not sure where his fist has landed at first, as Andreas pulls him back by the chest and Georg exclaims loudly. When the pounding in his ears is no longer as deafening as before, Bill can see clearly through his anger. He pants fast and loudly while Georg’s eyes fall surprised on him - probably wouldn’t expect such reaction from the ‘Kaulitz kid’ as he once liked to call Bill. It makes Bill feel smug for a split second, the solid proof that he’s no longer that scared boy; but then he sees Tom standing straight again, with an already bloodied thumb raised protectively against the right corner of his lips.
Bill doesn’t know why, but he feels guilt at the sight of that, even if Trümper doesn’t look surprised, as if he’d seen it coming. “Why?” he shouts, his voice breaking. “You had no evidence, why did you do that, why?”
Tom exhales loudly; the tip of his tongue touches the cut on his lip and becomes blood-red in return. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, and Bill immediately interrupts him.
“That’s bullshit,” he almost screams, and sharp shhhh noises come from around - he’s unable to tell whether their source was Andreas or Georg.
“Listen to me Bill,” Tom starts again, trying to move away from the semi-visible to a customer spot he’s standing. “I was asked to give out the names of those who were on shift when there was money missing. I didn’t make any attempt to imply it was you. Maybe you should start looking for whoever falsely ratted you out instead of hitting innocent people?” he asks pointedly, raising his brows and staring hard at Bill’s eyes.
“You’re so pathetic,” Bill shoots back and shrugs Andreas’ hand off his shoulder. He raises his lips in a tight smile, a pained one, for the sake of not breaking down in front of these three. Georg says something among the lines of “He’s telling the truth, you know,” and Bill shakes his head at that. He looks down and throws the apron he’s been holding at Andreas, who catches it soundlessly.
Who cares, he wants to ask, if Tom is telling the truth? Even if he is - which Bill highly doubts - someone has still betrayed him, lied about him committing a crime, and now he has to bear the consequences. How can someone just do that? How can they sleep at night, how can they have such clean conscience, knowing they’ve cost someone their job, and even worse, have scarred their reputation irreplaceably?
He can’t understand. As he walks away, letting the abnormally hot sun burn his sensitive skin, he hears Tom’s voice shouting at him, “I had to tell them the names, Bill,” he says, “I had to. You need to understand. You would’ve done the same in my position.”
Which Bill knows he wouldn’t have, because he’s a fair man in an unfair world, and he proudly screams that back at whoever still listens.
Hours of mindlessly walking later, he finds himself at the same place he always goes in situations like these. The breeze is borderline freezing with the sun set, he notices. He likes it better this way, because his small hideaway, his personal shelter, is hardly ever visited during the cold nights. The sand is wet around his naked ankles and toes, and he instantly feels the goosebumps form on his skin by the sudden temperature change. He breathes in the salty air, hears the short waves kiss the shore and lets his face relax, lets his lips smile, despite everything that happened earlier.
This tiny beach is right next to the street. If he lets himself, he can hear the sounds of an urban world spoil the otherwise quiet air. Yet it feels so distant, maybe because it’s barely visible unless someone knows it’s there. The fishing nets and tiny boats on the far left are a sign that fishermen probably visit it during the early morning hours, but Bill has never seen them. In fact, he has never been here with anyone else before.
The small glimpse of a memory passes before his eyes, as he sees the familiar pair of wooden swings standing proudly on the tiny rocks. Sitting on one of them, he looks at the other and pushes it gently, just so it won’t have to stay neglected. He recalls the last - and only - time he’s seen both of them in use, a few months ago. It was just as late when he intended to come that day, but the sky was still lit by the setting sun, it always is during the summer months, as a bride and a quite older groom were sitting on each swing, both staring lovingly at each other while having their pictures taken.
Much like the photographer’s flash, the young woman was radiant, her happiness shining bright through her wide smile - Bill remembers how familiar she had looked. With her blond hair braided, wrapped prettily in an elegant hairdo, and her belly swollen with new life, it had taken him a while to recognize the once rebellious teen living a few houses down the road, who’d dye her hair green and shave the sides of her head.
Pressing his foot on the sand to give his swing a small push, Bill considers the possibility of marriage. He knows it would’ve hurt him more if he was religious, but the fact that he knows he’ll never get to experience such happiness doesn’t leave him unaffected. He would’ve liked to have the option of offering and being offered someone’s hand, at least legally. If he ever was to find that someone, of course. The chances of that happening are so very slim, with the only openly gay guys being tourists visiting the island for only a few days or weeks at most. Bill knows this is probably the least of his concerns right now, yet he can’t help but feel disappointed.
He thinks of the rebel girl who’s now settled down. She had looked so genuinely happy at that time; it hadn’t seemed like a compromise, a decision made under the pressure of an unborn child out of wedlock, and she hadn’t tried to hide her love for a man almost twenty years older than her - which would’ve been quite the taboo in their small society. If that’s what falling in love means, a certain someone becoming so important, hence freeing you of what you’re expected to do or how you think you should be, then Bill knows he has never been in love yet, nor has anyone been in love with him. He wants to; he really, really does, but without a job to supplement his small savings in order to pursue a new life, he doesn’t see it coming any time soon.
By the time he’s opening the front door of his house, he doesn’t even know how long he’d stayed out. He knows it’s no longer pitch black outside and his mother is wide awake on the couch, with Gordon lying next to her, snoring lightly with his head placed on her lap. It makes Bill feel warm to see them wait up for him, even if he hates to make them worry. And he’s bound to probably worry them more, he realizes, once he’s reassured them that he was very much alive and there was a reason behind his absence from home.
But things don’t turn out as bad as Bill thought they would - at least Gordon and his mom appear to take the news of him getting fired much calmer than he did. “Don’t beat yourself up,” his stepfather tells him, when the words leave Bill’s mouth in a flood of emotions. “It wasn’t your fault and I wouldn’t worry if I were you. A cheater can’t hide for long. Whoever did it will be caught,” his gentle voice soothes Bill, comforting him in ways his own father never managed to do so. He tries hard to find a sign of anger or at least discomfort on Gordon’s face, but only sees an honest smile.
“Gordon is right,” his mom agrees, moving to ruffle his hair absently, as if it still is as long as it used to be. “I always seem to forget you had to cut it,” she explains herself, caressing his sharp cheekbones instead. “You can use this to your benefit and relax a little, okay? Get some good sleep and stop worrying. But please,” she says sternly, “do not disappear again.”
With the weight of an untold mishap off his shoulders, Bill can definitely say he doesn’t feel as gloomy as before. He lets himself drown inside the comfort of his home, and makes a promise never to keep such heavy secrets again; a promise both to his parents, but mostly to himself.
--
The first couple of days, Bill had spent the majority of his time locked inside his house, in order to avoid unpleasant interactions. He had quietly shaken his head after his mother informed him of the fourth call from Andreas. He didn’t want to speak to anyone for a while, even if he knew Andreas was his friend and cared about him - the strict voice of his mother informing him so would’ve been enough of a reminder anyway. “You told me to take some time off,” he had tried to reason with her. She had only scoffed at him, but otherwise gave him the space he’d needed, not that she ever was anything but discreet. Only the loud, angry sounds of the vacuum cleaner outside his bedroom so damn early on a Sunday, had been disturbing from her part.
Just as loud and disturbing as the noise coming from behind him right now, almost piercing his ears. Bill squints, as if that will help him, and doesn’t bother turning around to scold whoever left the fridge door wide open while still undecided about what they want. He looks at his mother’s pretty handwriting on the small paper of the grocery-list in his hand, and after a while of checking price tags and ingredients, he grabs the cheapest option with the least preservatives written on its pack. As he moves to the cashier, his eyes land on the red buttons of a digital calendar glaring behind the check-out counter, and he realizes that he is starting his second week of being unemployed.
His mom is always right, Bill has decided, and he likes to think it has nothing to do with him being a mama’s boy. Time has truly healed a bit of his disappointment; a part of the sadness that came onto him after the initial anger had faded. That anger rises up again when he sees the woman behind the till, smiling wide while wishing ‘a pleasant evening’ to a man who’d just paid for his stuff. All she gets in return is a mumble and the sound of the small bell ringing when the store doors close with his departure, but it doesn’t stop her from keeping a kind expression.
“Oh, look who it is!” she exclaims with what sounds like honest and maybe pleasant surprise. “Bill, dear, I’m so glad to see you,” she tells him, while robotically grabbing his few chosen products. “You haven’t been here for so long! How are you, how is your mother?”
Bill doesn’t know if it’s the steady beeping sound of her passing barcodes over a lasered glass, or his inner voice of sanity that makes him not lose it and throw his coins at her face. That bloody face that looks so much like her son’s, save for the wrinkles around her brown eyes and her pale skin, maybe abnormally so for someone who’s spent her lifetime under a blinding sun. He wants to ask if she knows that her son is the reason he now has time to kill at the grocery store, if she knows what kind of man Tom has become. He has to wonder, has this mother been partially responsible for her kid’s behavior through the years? Has she been so uncaring, so unlike Simone, to not have noticed Tom using his advantages against other people’s weaknesses?
A pack of brewed coffee almost slips from her slender, naked fingers, and Bill feels real satisfaction at the sight. He wishes, for a split second, that he had the guts to return Tom the favor in a cynical, indirect way. He wishes he could report her barely but still obvious tiredness; that she doesn’t move quickly enough to his liking, that she’s stalling him. Just so she’d also have to be fired. How would Trümper have liked that, huh?
She looks at him and the faded color of her eyes makes him inhale sharply and shake his head in hopes of finding any trace of common sense that seems to have vanished from his brain. Is this how he has come to be? An empathetic man passing judgment to people he barely knows and have only ever been kind to him, just because he is going through a rough phase? All of a sudden, he feels small and disgusting, unworthy of her sweet, motherly glance. For all he knows, Tom’s mother could have the warmest, most caring heart in the world. It is not her fault, or anyone else’s, if Bill hasn’t sorted out his shit.
She kindly informs him of the sum he has to pay, clearly not expecting an answer from him after his long silence. He barely raises his eyes towards her when he hands her the money, barely looks at her face, beautifully enchanted by faint traces of color on her skin and a deep-blue bandana wrapped around her head. He grabs his bag, takes the receipt and moves to the door, where he hears the usual ‘have-a-nice-evening’ come from her, which he can’t help but return with a tight smile.
Quite unprepared for the sudden chill causing the hairs of his skin to rise protectively, he wraps a cheap scarf tighter around his long neck. Digging his free hand inside the pocket of his jeans, he touches the familiar cold surface of his i-pod and gingerly takes it out.
Coffee and music are two things Bill can safely say he adores, maybe even as much as his mother; it’s known a fact to anyone who’s been around long enough to have seen him sneaking a thermos with hot coffee into school, or being obviously starstruck that one time a musician he loves had visited their island. His fervent adoration is the only possible explanation he can think of to rationalize how his father has been aware of these soft spots - hence sending him occasional gifts relevant to them. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he doesn’t feel totally safe carrying around such expensive gadget, almost a provocatively luxurious possession for someone like him.
He sticks the small white buds into his ears and lets the impossibly loud sounds fill his silence, form vibrant colors and pretty pictures before his eyes. It’s not so difficult to imagine bright lights and picturesque surroundings, with Christmas decorations already placed around the coast before November has even arrived. Bill gazes at the small hill he has to climb in order to reach his home and sees tiny lightbulbs hanging from a few porches and store windows. The sea reflects them on its surface like the clearest mirror, and the slight fog on the horizon makes him feel like he is walking in some place magical, mystical. Sometimes he has to remind himself that it can truly become like that, if only he lets his heart believe it.
It all comes to an abrupt stop when he feels a strong tug on his shoulder, someone trying to turn him around. With his first, self-protective instinct telling him to extend his arm holding the bag towards whoever stood behind him, he eventually follows a safer root and looks back sharply, removing one of his earbuds in the process.
He frowns at the person before him. He just can’t catch a break, can he?
“You shouldn’t have it so loud, you know,” Tom Trümper smiles awkwardly, pointing to the i-pod in Bill’s hand. “I’ve been calling your name for a while now.”
What made you think I would’ve turned anyway, Bill wants to bark at him, but catches himself before any words leave his mouth. He won’t let a whole week’s progress go to waste, he won’t let the anger win. But he’s not aware of what other options he’s got right now. So he just stands there and pauses his music, looks at Tom, and tries to find the same compassion he felt a few minutes ago, when he was looking at the face of Tom’s mother. He looks at Tom’s much younger one and tries to draw parallels in his mind, tries to picture the same pleasant expression on Tom’s features. It’s not easy, with his much thicker eyebrows, and the wild dreadlocks framing his cheeks. Bill always wondered how Tom had managed to keep them, when his own long black hair had caused discomfort to possible employers. Maybe it comes with the whole ‘popular kid’ package; he must’ve probably fought very hard to not chop them off, ‘cause it seems to Bill that his image has always meant the world to Tom.
He stiffens. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Trümper?” he asks, in the same formal tone he used at work, and it makes Tom flinch momentarily.
“Look,” Tom walks a little closer, lowering his voice to avoid gaining anyone’s attention. “I’m sorry for what happened,” he says, as his thick brows meet between his eyes. “I’m even sorrier that you hold me responsible for it. You must have your reasons for disliking me, even if, in my defense, I have only ever treated you right.”
He stops for a small moment, probably expecting a scoff coming from Bill, some loud disagreement. It’s what would’ve normally happened if Bill had even a small piece of evidence to back him up. In all honesty, Tom has never picked on him, or laughed at him, or even accepted his invisibility, casually greeting him each morning and asking for his opinion on class matters. He knows Tom is right, and doesn’t want to ask the reasons behind his usual self-centered behavior dissolving towards Bill’s teenage existence, with everything about it screaming ‘awkward’ back then.
“Anyway,” Tom goes on, when Bill remains cold as ice. “I want you to know that I’ve done my research and-”
A loud, high-pitched female voice interrupts Tom, and Bill sighs deeply. He turns around, responding to the woman’s call of his name, and feels arms wrap around his shoulders before he gets the chance to see the face of their owner. If the unusual frequency of her voice hadn’t been enough, Bill would’ve recognized Mrs. Gühne by the heavy perfume she’s been wearing for however long he’s known her.
“Oh my dear, how have you been?” she asks with concern, probably fueled by Bill’s silence towards her son’s calls the past week.
“I’ve been better,” he answers sincerely, and feels uncomfortable having this conversation in front of Tom.
“Andreas told me what happened,” she confesses in her overdramatic tone. Then she lowers her head and tries to appear secretive while nodding towards Tom and asking, “Why are you talking to him?” too loudly to have been accidental. Bill inhales sharply and feels a thousand miles away from his comfort zone as he glances at Tom, who’s scratching the inside of his elbow very self-consciously.
“Look Mrs. Gühne, I’ll come by later, okay? We can talk about it then,” he tries to shoo her gently, and thankfully succeeds. She doesn’t leave before throwing another murderous look at Tom though. Bill supposes this must be one of the few times Tom has been the center of negative attention, and he is not sure if he’s glad to have witnessed it.
“You were saying?” he asks, returning to his empty expression. Tom breathes out a laugh and shakes his head, the movement makes the still visible bruise on his lip appear under the Christmas lights, only much more faded than it must’ve been a week back.
Out of nowhere, he turns around, looks down the road to the grocery store, and Bill is confused as to what’s happening until he notices the motion of an arm waving their way. Tom’s mom, he realizes. She must’ve shouted his name, but not loud enough for both of them to hear.
When Tom turns towards him again, he only says “Never mind,” and leaves just as abruptly as he appeared. Bill sees him run down the small part of the hill leading to the store entrance, and his arms open widely when he reaches the thin woman. She lets her body fall into her son’s embrace and Tom smiles as brilliantly as Bill has only ever seen Simone smile at him.
He is so confused all of a sudden. He hasn’t seen a lot of guys his age interact with their moms, but the few he has hadn’t been at all as open with their emotion as Bill has always been with his own. He wonders if Tom is as much of a mama’s boy as he is, and if that’s the case, how the hell he ended up becoming like this. But what is this anyway?
Tom lets his mother go, and only when their eyes meet does Bill finally wake from the trance he’s fallen, and returns to walking up the road. He feels a heavy blush on his cheeks and knows it’s not from the cold. The moment he just witnessed was too intimate and too weird with Tom inside it. It has gotten the wires in his brain tangled up, and he can’t even find the one holding his anger.
He quickens his pace and breathes in the cold air, re-attaching his earbuds. He lets the music do its magic again and forces himself to forget about it and move on. There are more important things to focus on, than whether his character judgment has been compromised all along.
--
It doesn’t mean anything, Bill keeps repeating over and over in his mind, in an attempt to sustain the fast beating of his heart and a smile that forces its way on his face anyway. He feels lightheaded and silly and childish, but he can’t help it. The too violent to his liking way of Gordon waking him up that morning, shaking his limp body out of sleep-mode, had made him think that something terrible must’ve happened. But it was quite the opposite, and the surprising turn of events has left him pleasantly confused.
The call hadn’t appeared to him as hopeful as it had to Gordon. On his way there, so early that the sky had barely started to regain its color, Bill prepared himself for some formality he had to undergo, some paperwork he might have had to fill as a freshly-fired employee. Not in a million years would he have expected the apologetic words of Mr. Schäfer, the recognition of a “…terrible mistake from our part,” and the offer to return to his previous position. He had known all along that the real thief would eventually get caught, but for them to allow him back in? For the one responsible to admit to what they had done? No, his never totally positive way of thinking hadn’t prepared him for such happenings. Probably why he’s now so ecstatic, even for a job he’s never particularly liked.
As it turned out, no one had taken the blame; the thief never came through those doors willingly, as Bill had thought, but the “…way too eager Mr. Trümper thoroughly investigated the matter and lead us to the real person responsible,” his manager had said. But it doesn’t mean anything, Bill forces the thought again, with the freshly ironed apron lying warm on his open palm. It cannot mean anything other than Tom probably having felt the need to correct a mistake that could have potentially ruined his reputation. That must be all.
It doesn’t feel right though, despite the rational part of his brain telling him to just accept it. Why would Tom go through all that trouble when he could have just let the incident go and move on with his life? He had absolutely nothing to gain, yet he fought for Bill’s rights in exactly the way that Bill should have done for himself. Had it been another way of Tom showing off his better communicative skills, how he was still so superior to Bill? Or some sort of power play, a means to make Bill apologize?
No matter how much he wants to know the reason, Bill doesn’t ask for it when he sees Tom replacing their usual dull cups with deep red Christmas ones. He casts his glance low, ashamed yet stubborn to say anything, even if he knows he has to thank Tom. Deep, deep down in his heart he knows, but he cannot bring himself to do it.
The early morning light has now appeared clear in the sky, coloring the skin of Tom’s face in shades of light blue. He looks as pale and pure as his mother. When he notices Bill standing there and staring at him, he straightens up and halts all movement. He lets out a sigh that seems like it weighed a hundred pounds and waves awkwardly, as if the distance between them is too large to allow speaking. Bill supposes he is expected to mirror the movement, or at least acknowledge the good deed from Tom, but he honestly cannot do so without feeling awful for every single bad thing he has wished upon Tom these last weeks. He only swallows dryly and asks, in a much gentler tone than he ever thought he’d use while addressing Tom, “Will you tell me who it was?”
It’s not like Bill won’t eventually put the pieces together, but he feels a strange eagerness to hear it from Tom. He is aware that Tom is bound not to reveal such information. But he doesn’t flatly refuse, like Bill expected, he simply sighs, and says, “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
And Bill soon finds out that in fact, he didn’t.
Next
Author: ???
Pairing(s): Tom/Bill
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot, no profit is made from this fic.
Warnings: -
Summary: Some things simply cannot be filtered, or categorized.
Recipient: toastieghostie
Author's notes: Happy Holidays, toastieghostie! I struggled a lot while writing this, so I really, really hope you’ll like it. My eternal gratitude goes to fyredancer for her general assistance and the last-minute beta, and of course to my amazing banner artist.
--
Autumn used to be the season of hope for Bill.
Even while nature slowly starts to fall back to its usual circle, with trees and clouds letting their first leaves and drops of rain fall onto the still scorching ground, his own head reaches up to the skies, daydreaming of new beginnings. Of places still to be discovered and soulmates to be found. He liked to think outside the box, once upon a time, and make his resolutions during the first weeks of September instead of during a New Year's countdown, even if Christmas is definitely his favorite time of the year.
Reaching his almost second anniversary in a job he never planned to have, he has long since grown out of his old habits. It's only the change in the air now, the crazy weather switching from sweating hot to shivering cold in a matter of minutes, that indicates it's the middle of September.
Wiping the dark brown counter below him, he lets the damp rag eliminate all traces of coffee, or syrup, or whatever else might have slipped from a spoon or a plastic cup. He throws it into the sink once he’s done, so he can clean it up and officially finish his shift, start getting ready for his long walk home. He cringes at the thought. It's only barely starting to get dark outside, but he's sure it will be chilly enough for him to regret not bringing a light jacket along.
Turning around to walk to the back of the store, he hears a light but firm cough, someone clearing their throat. Before he gets the chance to even hear the voice, he knows exactly who it is behind him that requires his attention.
"Mr. Kaulitz?" comes the voice eventually, as it always happens with the awkward way Tom Trümper chooses to address him for whatever reason. Even the simple things like this have become a routine in Bill's head, and he's getting tired of it.
He takes a breath and turns around. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Trümper?" he says, trying not to make a face at the formality of their words, or the pretentious, uptight way his shift supervisor stands before him.
"I'd like to talk to you in private," comes the response, and Bill points to the direction he was going before he got interrupted. Trümper's steps can be heard behind him and he stops once they're both in the far back, where no one can hear whatever he wants to tell Bill.
But Trümper doesn't talk. He only stands still before him, with a face that holds no silver or golden piercings anymore; it's clean, much like his own has eventually become for the sake of this job. "Anything I can do for you?" Bill asks again, a little less formally this time, if only for the sake of finishing this as soon as possible.
Tom smiles in a patronizing way that makes Bill swallow dryly. "I hope you can," Tom says, and he leans a bit closer to him, lowering his voice. "A certain issue has come to our attention lately, and I want to know if you'd like to share anything with me. Are you in need of money, Bill?"
Screw formalities, Bill thinks, and stares hard at Tom. He knows it's more dangerous than ever to act like this towards him, but he can't, and won't accept this, especially by one Tom Trümper. "No more or less than you are," he says pointedly, and causes Tom to straighten back up. "What is this all about? Why are you asking me, of all people?"
"Because it doesn't happen during my shifts," Tom explains in a calm manner. "Someone's been stealing and we need to find out who it is."
Bill instantly turns his head, looks at the door leading to the till. He knows it’s store policy to never allow one-man shifts, which means - if Tom is telling the truth - whoever is paired with him on that particular shift has gotten their hands dirty at some point. He wonders if the other person has been asked about it too, what their reaction might have been. He suddenly feels terribly self-conscious. Having any job is better than having none, and he knows he's a lucky man.
"I have nothing to say," he ends up telling Trümper. "I've been here two years now and I have never touched a thing that I wasn't supposed to. I haven't noticed anyone acting suspiciously either," he concludes, trying to sound earnest because he really is. Trümper doesn't reply, only lifts the corner of his mouth in a half-smirk and nods, leaving the back-room, in the same wordless way he always does.
Turning his eyes at the big, round clock on the wall to his left, Bill silently swears at the precious time he's lost talking to the guy. He gathers his smoking gear and shoves it inside a worn backpack, before quickly waving goodbye at those starting their shift. Walking outside, he takes a deep breath, smells the salty air as he closes his eyes and lets the sounds of the calm sea gently hitting the rocks soothe him. He would love to stay a while right then and there, sit on the small wooden bench of the sidewalk and enjoy a cigarette in peace, but there's movement to his right and even though he can't see him, much like his greetings, Tom Trümper's smoking spot hasn't changed in years.
Bill turns his head for a swift moment and looks at him, the young man he's known since they were barely teenagers. Tom returns the look and it's something in his eyes, something unsettling and doubtful that makes Bill immediately break the contact and walk away. He has nothing to be afraid of, he knows, and he's pretty sure there is no evidence to back up anyone's theory of him stealing. But he can feel Tom's eyes follow him as he takes the path to his house, and hopes to God, or any higher power, that the rest of his co-workers had been as honest as himself.
--
Bill isn’t ashamed of his emotional attachment to his mother.
He and Simone have always been strongly bonded, way before his stepfather, Gordon, gave her the love and affection she had always deserved by a spouse. His mom was the strong pillar supporting him at all times, and the same thing applies to the level of devotion he’s had towards her throughout the years. He loves his mother dearly, and back when the possibility of college was still present in his mind, the only obstacle he’d found hard to overcome was moving away from her. Even if the presence of Gordon certainly made things better, he had still found the thought difficult to handle.
He watches her from the couch of their living room as she stands before the kitchen sink. The peeler in her hands moves almost mechanically fast over the round, overpriced potatoes and Bill presses the small button of the remote to ensure the sounds of the TV are barely audible so she doesn’t have to listen to the loud voices discussing whatever social matter. They hardly ever seem to affect her though. All Simone has always wanted is to take care of her family, because “That’s what Moms do,” and Bill wishes he had grown to be more like her, devoted, carefree and open-minded.
It’s never too late for that, he knows; being in his mid-twenties, he is still learning the ways of the world, even if they seem to change too frequently to his liking. No matter his disappointment with his current situation, the air inside their humble home only ever gave him a positive, loving feeling and that’s all due to his mother’s attitude. It’s a constant battle for Bill, the attempt to balance the scales and carry the same light-heartedness in the outside world.
His thoughts immediately go back to the incident at work, two days ago. How his talk with Trümper made him go haywire, overthinking even the slightest look towards him. He wasn’t directly accused, but a warning is a warning, and if his future in that job will be decided, or weighed by Tom’s better judgment, Bill is probably screwed; he cannot even try to positively think about that. Throughout the six years they spent in the same school, and almost always in the same classrooms, he never once saw Trümper make a decision that benefitted anyone but himself or his small circle of douche-friends. Bill never exchanged a lot of words with the much more popular boy but he’d seen how the likes of Tom acted towards outcasts like him.
Bill is aware this isn’t high school. But people don’t change, that he knows, and it makes his stomach turn when his mother leaves the plate of potato puree on the table in front of him. She smiles and leaves a kiss on his cheek that reassures him for a moment, until the uncertainty creeps back inside him. Should he tell her what happened? He’s not used to keeping secrets from her, but this weighs too heavy, compared to anything else. But isn’t that the point of family? To share the burden together, as a whole?
No, Bill shakes his head slightly, he can’t let this get to him. She doesn’t need to know, they don’t need to know unless there’s no turning back. He hopes it won’t have to come to that.
--
His childhood friend’s voice grows louder and louder the closer Bill gets to the door leading outside. Yet his legs only make their steps a little faster, a little bigger with each word reaching his ears.
“Bill!” Andreas shouts, more desperate this time. “Bill, please, he’s not worth it!”
Bill clenches his fingers harder around the maroon apron, rumpled as it is inside his fist. He knows Trümper isn’t worth much - probably even less than he considered in the past - but he’s certain that he’ll get what he deserves, this time. Passing by the front side of the store, he doesn’t halt his movements at all, despite the curious glances of middle-aged couples coming his way. He can hear Andreas’ pace become more controlled, probably in an attempt to not risk losing his job, just like Bill himself did a few minutes ago.
He cannot understand why he was so surprised to be let go. He cannot understand how, after all this time, he still had a pinch of hope he’d clung onto that Tom wouldn’t act selfishly, carelessly; that he’d get Tom’s support in a completely unfair situation. Now, with his heart broken and a promise of compensation he knows he won’t ever receive, he’s not as sad as he expected. He’s furious, he’s angry. He doesn’t think he’s ever hated someone as much as he hates Trümper right this second.
Pushing the double doors open, he touches the glass of their windows instead of the handle, just because he knows he will no longer have to wipe his handprint off, maybe the only slightly uplifting thought in this situation. The air outside is too dry, too hot for it being October, and he has to stop and blink for a few seconds, allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. He turns to his right and, as expected, there stands Tom Trümper, next to the long-haired brunet named Georg, the duo inseparable since their teenage years. They have both untied their aprons from around their middles, letting them hang from their necks.
Bill hears the door behind him open again, and Andreas’ shoes bang loudly against the wooden floor, probably caused by his sudden stop. He takes a moment to really take in the sight before him; Tom with his back turned his way and Georg barely acknowledging his presence with a quick glance. He wonders if Tom would’ve taken Georg’s side, had he been in a similar position. He wonders if Tom would’ve been as quick to point fingers, if he had to point at his friend.
Andreas grabs his bicep, squeezes his arm in an attempt to gain his attention, but it’s no use. Bill still walks, in a calmer manner this time, and Georg nods his head towards them, as if he’s informing Tom of them getting closer. Tom turns his head around and looks at him with the same expression Bill has already seen once that day on their manager’s face, an otherwise quite likeable guy, with his short blond hair and square glasses. It’s the same look Tom had thrown his way the first time he approached Bill for the matter that has eventually cost him his job.
It makes him see red. It’s as if Tom has suddenly become the cause of all his problems, and that thought automatically gives him the will to free his arm from Andreas’ hold in a surprisingly easy manner, and punch Tom’s face as fast and painfully as possible.
He’s not sure where his fist has landed at first, as Andreas pulls him back by the chest and Georg exclaims loudly. When the pounding in his ears is no longer as deafening as before, Bill can see clearly through his anger. He pants fast and loudly while Georg’s eyes fall surprised on him - probably wouldn’t expect such reaction from the ‘Kaulitz kid’ as he once liked to call Bill. It makes Bill feel smug for a split second, the solid proof that he’s no longer that scared boy; but then he sees Tom standing straight again, with an already bloodied thumb raised protectively against the right corner of his lips.
Bill doesn’t know why, but he feels guilt at the sight of that, even if Trümper doesn’t look surprised, as if he’d seen it coming. “Why?” he shouts, his voice breaking. “You had no evidence, why did you do that, why?”
Tom exhales loudly; the tip of his tongue touches the cut on his lip and becomes blood-red in return. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, and Bill immediately interrupts him.
“That’s bullshit,” he almost screams, and sharp shhhh noises come from around - he’s unable to tell whether their source was Andreas or Georg.
“Listen to me Bill,” Tom starts again, trying to move away from the semi-visible to a customer spot he’s standing. “I was asked to give out the names of those who were on shift when there was money missing. I didn’t make any attempt to imply it was you. Maybe you should start looking for whoever falsely ratted you out instead of hitting innocent people?” he asks pointedly, raising his brows and staring hard at Bill’s eyes.
“You’re so pathetic,” Bill shoots back and shrugs Andreas’ hand off his shoulder. He raises his lips in a tight smile, a pained one, for the sake of not breaking down in front of these three. Georg says something among the lines of “He’s telling the truth, you know,” and Bill shakes his head at that. He looks down and throws the apron he’s been holding at Andreas, who catches it soundlessly.
Who cares, he wants to ask, if Tom is telling the truth? Even if he is - which Bill highly doubts - someone has still betrayed him, lied about him committing a crime, and now he has to bear the consequences. How can someone just do that? How can they sleep at night, how can they have such clean conscience, knowing they’ve cost someone their job, and even worse, have scarred their reputation irreplaceably?
He can’t understand. As he walks away, letting the abnormally hot sun burn his sensitive skin, he hears Tom’s voice shouting at him, “I had to tell them the names, Bill,” he says, “I had to. You need to understand. You would’ve done the same in my position.”
Which Bill knows he wouldn’t have, because he’s a fair man in an unfair world, and he proudly screams that back at whoever still listens.
Hours of mindlessly walking later, he finds himself at the same place he always goes in situations like these. The breeze is borderline freezing with the sun set, he notices. He likes it better this way, because his small hideaway, his personal shelter, is hardly ever visited during the cold nights. The sand is wet around his naked ankles and toes, and he instantly feels the goosebumps form on his skin by the sudden temperature change. He breathes in the salty air, hears the short waves kiss the shore and lets his face relax, lets his lips smile, despite everything that happened earlier.
This tiny beach is right next to the street. If he lets himself, he can hear the sounds of an urban world spoil the otherwise quiet air. Yet it feels so distant, maybe because it’s barely visible unless someone knows it’s there. The fishing nets and tiny boats on the far left are a sign that fishermen probably visit it during the early morning hours, but Bill has never seen them. In fact, he has never been here with anyone else before.
The small glimpse of a memory passes before his eyes, as he sees the familiar pair of wooden swings standing proudly on the tiny rocks. Sitting on one of them, he looks at the other and pushes it gently, just so it won’t have to stay neglected. He recalls the last - and only - time he’s seen both of them in use, a few months ago. It was just as late when he intended to come that day, but the sky was still lit by the setting sun, it always is during the summer months, as a bride and a quite older groom were sitting on each swing, both staring lovingly at each other while having their pictures taken.
Much like the photographer’s flash, the young woman was radiant, her happiness shining bright through her wide smile - Bill remembers how familiar she had looked. With her blond hair braided, wrapped prettily in an elegant hairdo, and her belly swollen with new life, it had taken him a while to recognize the once rebellious teen living a few houses down the road, who’d dye her hair green and shave the sides of her head.
Pressing his foot on the sand to give his swing a small push, Bill considers the possibility of marriage. He knows it would’ve hurt him more if he was religious, but the fact that he knows he’ll never get to experience such happiness doesn’t leave him unaffected. He would’ve liked to have the option of offering and being offered someone’s hand, at least legally. If he ever was to find that someone, of course. The chances of that happening are so very slim, with the only openly gay guys being tourists visiting the island for only a few days or weeks at most. Bill knows this is probably the least of his concerns right now, yet he can’t help but feel disappointed.
He thinks of the rebel girl who’s now settled down. She had looked so genuinely happy at that time; it hadn’t seemed like a compromise, a decision made under the pressure of an unborn child out of wedlock, and she hadn’t tried to hide her love for a man almost twenty years older than her - which would’ve been quite the taboo in their small society. If that’s what falling in love means, a certain someone becoming so important, hence freeing you of what you’re expected to do or how you think you should be, then Bill knows he has never been in love yet, nor has anyone been in love with him. He wants to; he really, really does, but without a job to supplement his small savings in order to pursue a new life, he doesn’t see it coming any time soon.
By the time he’s opening the front door of his house, he doesn’t even know how long he’d stayed out. He knows it’s no longer pitch black outside and his mother is wide awake on the couch, with Gordon lying next to her, snoring lightly with his head placed on her lap. It makes Bill feel warm to see them wait up for him, even if he hates to make them worry. And he’s bound to probably worry them more, he realizes, once he’s reassured them that he was very much alive and there was a reason behind his absence from home.
But things don’t turn out as bad as Bill thought they would - at least Gordon and his mom appear to take the news of him getting fired much calmer than he did. “Don’t beat yourself up,” his stepfather tells him, when the words leave Bill’s mouth in a flood of emotions. “It wasn’t your fault and I wouldn’t worry if I were you. A cheater can’t hide for long. Whoever did it will be caught,” his gentle voice soothes Bill, comforting him in ways his own father never managed to do so. He tries hard to find a sign of anger or at least discomfort on Gordon’s face, but only sees an honest smile.
“Gordon is right,” his mom agrees, moving to ruffle his hair absently, as if it still is as long as it used to be. “I always seem to forget you had to cut it,” she explains herself, caressing his sharp cheekbones instead. “You can use this to your benefit and relax a little, okay? Get some good sleep and stop worrying. But please,” she says sternly, “do not disappear again.”
With the weight of an untold mishap off his shoulders, Bill can definitely say he doesn’t feel as gloomy as before. He lets himself drown inside the comfort of his home, and makes a promise never to keep such heavy secrets again; a promise both to his parents, but mostly to himself.
--
The first couple of days, Bill had spent the majority of his time locked inside his house, in order to avoid unpleasant interactions. He had quietly shaken his head after his mother informed him of the fourth call from Andreas. He didn’t want to speak to anyone for a while, even if he knew Andreas was his friend and cared about him - the strict voice of his mother informing him so would’ve been enough of a reminder anyway. “You told me to take some time off,” he had tried to reason with her. She had only scoffed at him, but otherwise gave him the space he’d needed, not that she ever was anything but discreet. Only the loud, angry sounds of the vacuum cleaner outside his bedroom so damn early on a Sunday, had been disturbing from her part.
Just as loud and disturbing as the noise coming from behind him right now, almost piercing his ears. Bill squints, as if that will help him, and doesn’t bother turning around to scold whoever left the fridge door wide open while still undecided about what they want. He looks at his mother’s pretty handwriting on the small paper of the grocery-list in his hand, and after a while of checking price tags and ingredients, he grabs the cheapest option with the least preservatives written on its pack. As he moves to the cashier, his eyes land on the red buttons of a digital calendar glaring behind the check-out counter, and he realizes that he is starting his second week of being unemployed.
His mom is always right, Bill has decided, and he likes to think it has nothing to do with him being a mama’s boy. Time has truly healed a bit of his disappointment; a part of the sadness that came onto him after the initial anger had faded. That anger rises up again when he sees the woman behind the till, smiling wide while wishing ‘a pleasant evening’ to a man who’d just paid for his stuff. All she gets in return is a mumble and the sound of the small bell ringing when the store doors close with his departure, but it doesn’t stop her from keeping a kind expression.
“Oh, look who it is!” she exclaims with what sounds like honest and maybe pleasant surprise. “Bill, dear, I’m so glad to see you,” she tells him, while robotically grabbing his few chosen products. “You haven’t been here for so long! How are you, how is your mother?”
Bill doesn’t know if it’s the steady beeping sound of her passing barcodes over a lasered glass, or his inner voice of sanity that makes him not lose it and throw his coins at her face. That bloody face that looks so much like her son’s, save for the wrinkles around her brown eyes and her pale skin, maybe abnormally so for someone who’s spent her lifetime under a blinding sun. He wants to ask if she knows that her son is the reason he now has time to kill at the grocery store, if she knows what kind of man Tom has become. He has to wonder, has this mother been partially responsible for her kid’s behavior through the years? Has she been so uncaring, so unlike Simone, to not have noticed Tom using his advantages against other people’s weaknesses?
A pack of brewed coffee almost slips from her slender, naked fingers, and Bill feels real satisfaction at the sight. He wishes, for a split second, that he had the guts to return Tom the favor in a cynical, indirect way. He wishes he could report her barely but still obvious tiredness; that she doesn’t move quickly enough to his liking, that she’s stalling him. Just so she’d also have to be fired. How would Trümper have liked that, huh?
She looks at him and the faded color of her eyes makes him inhale sharply and shake his head in hopes of finding any trace of common sense that seems to have vanished from his brain. Is this how he has come to be? An empathetic man passing judgment to people he barely knows and have only ever been kind to him, just because he is going through a rough phase? All of a sudden, he feels small and disgusting, unworthy of her sweet, motherly glance. For all he knows, Tom’s mother could have the warmest, most caring heart in the world. It is not her fault, or anyone else’s, if Bill hasn’t sorted out his shit.
She kindly informs him of the sum he has to pay, clearly not expecting an answer from him after his long silence. He barely raises his eyes towards her when he hands her the money, barely looks at her face, beautifully enchanted by faint traces of color on her skin and a deep-blue bandana wrapped around her head. He grabs his bag, takes the receipt and moves to the door, where he hears the usual ‘have-a-nice-evening’ come from her, which he can’t help but return with a tight smile.
Quite unprepared for the sudden chill causing the hairs of his skin to rise protectively, he wraps a cheap scarf tighter around his long neck. Digging his free hand inside the pocket of his jeans, he touches the familiar cold surface of his i-pod and gingerly takes it out.
Coffee and music are two things Bill can safely say he adores, maybe even as much as his mother; it’s known a fact to anyone who’s been around long enough to have seen him sneaking a thermos with hot coffee into school, or being obviously starstruck that one time a musician he loves had visited their island. His fervent adoration is the only possible explanation he can think of to rationalize how his father has been aware of these soft spots - hence sending him occasional gifts relevant to them. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he doesn’t feel totally safe carrying around such expensive gadget, almost a provocatively luxurious possession for someone like him.
He sticks the small white buds into his ears and lets the impossibly loud sounds fill his silence, form vibrant colors and pretty pictures before his eyes. It’s not so difficult to imagine bright lights and picturesque surroundings, with Christmas decorations already placed around the coast before November has even arrived. Bill gazes at the small hill he has to climb in order to reach his home and sees tiny lightbulbs hanging from a few porches and store windows. The sea reflects them on its surface like the clearest mirror, and the slight fog on the horizon makes him feel like he is walking in some place magical, mystical. Sometimes he has to remind himself that it can truly become like that, if only he lets his heart believe it.
It all comes to an abrupt stop when he feels a strong tug on his shoulder, someone trying to turn him around. With his first, self-protective instinct telling him to extend his arm holding the bag towards whoever stood behind him, he eventually follows a safer root and looks back sharply, removing one of his earbuds in the process.
He frowns at the person before him. He just can’t catch a break, can he?
“You shouldn’t have it so loud, you know,” Tom Trümper smiles awkwardly, pointing to the i-pod in Bill’s hand. “I’ve been calling your name for a while now.”
What made you think I would’ve turned anyway, Bill wants to bark at him, but catches himself before any words leave his mouth. He won’t let a whole week’s progress go to waste, he won’t let the anger win. But he’s not aware of what other options he’s got right now. So he just stands there and pauses his music, looks at Tom, and tries to find the same compassion he felt a few minutes ago, when he was looking at the face of Tom’s mother. He looks at Tom’s much younger one and tries to draw parallels in his mind, tries to picture the same pleasant expression on Tom’s features. It’s not easy, with his much thicker eyebrows, and the wild dreadlocks framing his cheeks. Bill always wondered how Tom had managed to keep them, when his own long black hair had caused discomfort to possible employers. Maybe it comes with the whole ‘popular kid’ package; he must’ve probably fought very hard to not chop them off, ‘cause it seems to Bill that his image has always meant the world to Tom.
He stiffens. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Trümper?” he asks, in the same formal tone he used at work, and it makes Tom flinch momentarily.
“Look,” Tom walks a little closer, lowering his voice to avoid gaining anyone’s attention. “I’m sorry for what happened,” he says, as his thick brows meet between his eyes. “I’m even sorrier that you hold me responsible for it. You must have your reasons for disliking me, even if, in my defense, I have only ever treated you right.”
He stops for a small moment, probably expecting a scoff coming from Bill, some loud disagreement. It’s what would’ve normally happened if Bill had even a small piece of evidence to back him up. In all honesty, Tom has never picked on him, or laughed at him, or even accepted his invisibility, casually greeting him each morning and asking for his opinion on class matters. He knows Tom is right, and doesn’t want to ask the reasons behind his usual self-centered behavior dissolving towards Bill’s teenage existence, with everything about it screaming ‘awkward’ back then.
“Anyway,” Tom goes on, when Bill remains cold as ice. “I want you to know that I’ve done my research and-”
A loud, high-pitched female voice interrupts Tom, and Bill sighs deeply. He turns around, responding to the woman’s call of his name, and feels arms wrap around his shoulders before he gets the chance to see the face of their owner. If the unusual frequency of her voice hadn’t been enough, Bill would’ve recognized Mrs. Gühne by the heavy perfume she’s been wearing for however long he’s known her.
“Oh my dear, how have you been?” she asks with concern, probably fueled by Bill’s silence towards her son’s calls the past week.
“I’ve been better,” he answers sincerely, and feels uncomfortable having this conversation in front of Tom.
“Andreas told me what happened,” she confesses in her overdramatic tone. Then she lowers her head and tries to appear secretive while nodding towards Tom and asking, “Why are you talking to him?” too loudly to have been accidental. Bill inhales sharply and feels a thousand miles away from his comfort zone as he glances at Tom, who’s scratching the inside of his elbow very self-consciously.
“Look Mrs. Gühne, I’ll come by later, okay? We can talk about it then,” he tries to shoo her gently, and thankfully succeeds. She doesn’t leave before throwing another murderous look at Tom though. Bill supposes this must be one of the few times Tom has been the center of negative attention, and he is not sure if he’s glad to have witnessed it.
“You were saying?” he asks, returning to his empty expression. Tom breathes out a laugh and shakes his head, the movement makes the still visible bruise on his lip appear under the Christmas lights, only much more faded than it must’ve been a week back.
Out of nowhere, he turns around, looks down the road to the grocery store, and Bill is confused as to what’s happening until he notices the motion of an arm waving their way. Tom’s mom, he realizes. She must’ve shouted his name, but not loud enough for both of them to hear.
When Tom turns towards him again, he only says “Never mind,” and leaves just as abruptly as he appeared. Bill sees him run down the small part of the hill leading to the store entrance, and his arms open widely when he reaches the thin woman. She lets her body fall into her son’s embrace and Tom smiles as brilliantly as Bill has only ever seen Simone smile at him.
He is so confused all of a sudden. He hasn’t seen a lot of guys his age interact with their moms, but the few he has hadn’t been at all as open with their emotion as Bill has always been with his own. He wonders if Tom is as much of a mama’s boy as he is, and if that’s the case, how the hell he ended up becoming like this. But what is this anyway?
Tom lets his mother go, and only when their eyes meet does Bill finally wake from the trance he’s fallen, and returns to walking up the road. He feels a heavy blush on his cheeks and knows it’s not from the cold. The moment he just witnessed was too intimate and too weird with Tom inside it. It has gotten the wires in his brain tangled up, and he can’t even find the one holding his anger.
He quickens his pace and breathes in the cold air, re-attaching his earbuds. He lets the music do its magic again and forces himself to forget about it and move on. There are more important things to focus on, than whether his character judgment has been compromised all along.
--
It doesn’t mean anything, Bill keeps repeating over and over in his mind, in an attempt to sustain the fast beating of his heart and a smile that forces its way on his face anyway. He feels lightheaded and silly and childish, but he can’t help it. The too violent to his liking way of Gordon waking him up that morning, shaking his limp body out of sleep-mode, had made him think that something terrible must’ve happened. But it was quite the opposite, and the surprising turn of events has left him pleasantly confused.
The call hadn’t appeared to him as hopeful as it had to Gordon. On his way there, so early that the sky had barely started to regain its color, Bill prepared himself for some formality he had to undergo, some paperwork he might have had to fill as a freshly-fired employee. Not in a million years would he have expected the apologetic words of Mr. Schäfer, the recognition of a “…terrible mistake from our part,” and the offer to return to his previous position. He had known all along that the real thief would eventually get caught, but for them to allow him back in? For the one responsible to admit to what they had done? No, his never totally positive way of thinking hadn’t prepared him for such happenings. Probably why he’s now so ecstatic, even for a job he’s never particularly liked.
As it turned out, no one had taken the blame; the thief never came through those doors willingly, as Bill had thought, but the “…way too eager Mr. Trümper thoroughly investigated the matter and lead us to the real person responsible,” his manager had said. But it doesn’t mean anything, Bill forces the thought again, with the freshly ironed apron lying warm on his open palm. It cannot mean anything other than Tom probably having felt the need to correct a mistake that could have potentially ruined his reputation. That must be all.
It doesn’t feel right though, despite the rational part of his brain telling him to just accept it. Why would Tom go through all that trouble when he could have just let the incident go and move on with his life? He had absolutely nothing to gain, yet he fought for Bill’s rights in exactly the way that Bill should have done for himself. Had it been another way of Tom showing off his better communicative skills, how he was still so superior to Bill? Or some sort of power play, a means to make Bill apologize?
No matter how much he wants to know the reason, Bill doesn’t ask for it when he sees Tom replacing their usual dull cups with deep red Christmas ones. He casts his glance low, ashamed yet stubborn to say anything, even if he knows he has to thank Tom. Deep, deep down in his heart he knows, but he cannot bring himself to do it.
The early morning light has now appeared clear in the sky, coloring the skin of Tom’s face in shades of light blue. He looks as pale and pure as his mother. When he notices Bill standing there and staring at him, he straightens up and halts all movement. He lets out a sigh that seems like it weighed a hundred pounds and waves awkwardly, as if the distance between them is too large to allow speaking. Bill supposes he is expected to mirror the movement, or at least acknowledge the good deed from Tom, but he honestly cannot do so without feeling awful for every single bad thing he has wished upon Tom these last weeks. He only swallows dryly and asks, in a much gentler tone than he ever thought he’d use while addressing Tom, “Will you tell me who it was?”
It’s not like Bill won’t eventually put the pieces together, but he feels a strange eagerness to hear it from Tom. He is aware that Tom is bound not to reveal such information. But he doesn’t flatly refuse, like Bill expected, he simply sighs, and says, “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
And Bill soon finds out that in fact, he didn’t.
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