Chapter Text
The rain hammered down, loudly pattering on the wheelie bins outside Tom’s flat. It was rhythmical; soothing, almost, as Tom sat curled up on the sofa, book held open in one hand and cup of tea in the other. Decaffeinated tea, it was already dark outside. Not that that said much, the nights already starting to draw in earlier now as winter truly announced its arrival, but it was the kind of evening that simply called for staying nice and snug indoors. One for sipping warm drinks while wrapped up in warm jumpers and warm blankets.
He realised he’d zoned out, his attention drawn to the rain rather than the page before him, his eyes having reread the same sentence perhaps three times now. Making a concerted effort to concentrate on the words, Tom got back to his reading letting the peaceful sound of the rain ebb into the background.
Perhaps a chapter further in and Tom’s tea long-since forgotten – it had been in his hand the whole time, but was so engrossed in his book he’d scarcely registered its existence – the grating sound of the buzzer rang through his flat. Sighing, Tom reluctantly put his mug on the coffee table, found a makeshift bookmark from a receipt randomly on the side, and got up to press the intercom. He truly had no idea who would be showing up at his flat on a random Sunday evening; he wasn’t expecting anybody, he hadn’t ordered anything, and last he knew his landlord wasn’t considering a spontaneous no-fault eviction.
He pressed the button.
“Hello?”
At first he was greeted by silence. He wondered if it was a joke, or simply an accident with someone buzzing the wrong flat. But then a voice he knew extremely well sounded out.
“Tom?”
Sam, Tom registered instantly, even after the distortion from the tinny sound of the intercom.
“Sam!” he exclaimed. “Come up, come up.” And with that he buzzed him in, knowing he’d hear Sam’s footsteps approaching his door in no time.
He glanced around the room, briefly considering tidying it up a little, but this was Sam. Tom’s every possession could be strewn across the floor and he knew Sam wouldn’t mind – he’d ask what on earth had happened and be dutifully concerned, but he wouldn’t mind. Tom’s somewhat cluttered coffee table could be left alone.
Sure enough, he could hear Sam coming up the stairs. He frowned at the pause between Sam apparently reaching Tom’s door and actually knocking it, but smiled anyway as he went to open it. He hadn’t expected to see Sam this weekend.
But upon opening the door, he certainly hadn’t expected to see an upset Sam. He looked a bit of a mess, wearing an old hoodie Tom thought he remembered from their uni days and a waterproof that had apparently been doing very little work against the rain. Tom’s gaze was drawn to Sam clutching a duffle bag, and wearing a backpack too, but primarily towards his red and blotchy complexion, clear even in the dim light of the hallway. He looked one hug away from breaking down.
Rather than immediately read into Sam turning up abruptly at his flat with bags of clothes and looking as if his world was falling apart a little, he ushered him inside.
“You’re drenched,” Tom said simply in lieu of a greeting, taking Sam’s bags off him and setting them down by the sofa. He made to take Sam’s coat off for him too, to perhaps drape it over the radiator and help it dry out a little, but jolted back when Sam tensed up at the touch. His eyebrows knitted together reflexively, watching Sam with eyes full of concern.
Sam chuckled a little wetly.
“You’re fine,” he murmured, though his tone didn’t sound overwhelmingly reassuring to Tom. “I’m just a bit jumpy.” He took off the coat, holding it a little awkwardly as it dripped onto the floor until Tom extended a hand. Sam passed it to him and Tom could feel eyes tracking him as he went over to the dining table to hang it over a chair.
He looked back at Sam who seemed uncharacteristically uncertain, apparently rooted to the spot barely a couple of steps away from the door. He supposed he was more used to seeing Sam very put-together, in the shirts, jeans, and vaguely smart shoes he would wear on stage. That was when they usually saw each other; for gigs. They would go for drinks and catch up afterwards, but Tom would admit it wasn’t often he saw Sam in other settings. Sam turning up wearing a hoodie, jogging bottoms, and trainers was just a little jarring; perhaps on another day he would look quite endearing dressed like that, but combined with hair dripping with rain, an expression broadcasting that he'd recently stopped crying, and just the strange tension he was holding himself with, Tom felt somewhat disconcerted.
“Want to sit down?” he asked cautiously. “I can make tea.”
Sam nodded.
“Alright.”
Tom watched as he sat down on the sofa and just looked out the window. Not getting his phone out, not randomly fidgeting with the blanket draped over the arm. He just sat there.
Tom went to put the kettle on. The white noise filled the space, competing to drown out Tom’s worried thoughts as he dutifully went about finding two mugs and a couple of tea bags. He couldn’t be bothered to fetch his mug from earlier. Pouring the water in, he watched as the tea grew stronger, zoning out for a while until he pulled himself out of it to add the milk. He put some sugar into Sam’s – the other man claimed he no longer had any in his drinks, but Tom knew while that may be true it also meant he didn’t actually like the taste anymore. And he rather felt a sweet, strong cup of tea might be needed tonight.
Figuring he’d hopefully given Sam a bit of space to just sit for a while, Tom made his way back over. Handing Sam his mug, Tom settled himself down next to him on the sofa, leaning back into the cushions.
He sipped at his tea, letting the silence hang in the room a little longer. He wanted Sam to start the conversation, to tell Tom whatever he’d come to tell him without Tom coaxing it out.
“Jamie broke up with me.”
The confession was followed by a half-strangled sob, the mug shaking as Sam’s hands trembled. Tom’s heart clenched a little in sympathy.
He’d suspected it could be along those lines, but would have entirely predicted it to be the other way around – for Sam to have broken up with Jamie. Goodness knows Tom had been hoping for that to happen for quite a while. He hadn’t particularly liked Jamie.
“Oh Sam, I’m sorry,” he said, genuine. He was sorry that Sam was feeling like this, anyway, and he opened out an arm, inviting Sam to shuffle closer. Thankfully he did, moving over towards Tom and letting himself lean into him. Tom stretched to put his mug next to his previous mug on the coffee table, gently taking Sam’s own too. They didn’t need to add being scalded by tea to the evening’s events. Then he wrapped his arm around Sam, feeling the reassuring weight of his head fall to rest on Tom’s shoulder with the soft fabric of the hoodie under his fingers. He could sense a slight tremor running through Sam, culminating in the occasional sob. Tom let his other hand come up to run through Sam’s damp hair, brushing it out of his eyes to tuck behind his ear.
“He told me to get out,” Sam admitted quietly. “Wasn’t sure where to go, so, uh, here I am,” he added with a slight laugh.
“You argued?”
Sam had told Tom before that they could argue – only after enough drinks that Tom wasn’t entirely sure Sam would remember having said so the next morning. Practically every relationship involved arguments from time to time – it would be worse, Tom thought, for things to go left unspoken and unaddressed – but he didn’t like how often Sam and Jamie seemed to argue. Nor did he like that even when slurring his speech and likely to forget the entire conversation around ten minutes later, Sam wouldn’t tell him what they argued about.
“Yeah,” Sam said softly, nodding against Tom’s jumper. “And the verdict was I’ve got to go.”
Tom held him a little tighter at that, not liking that mental image at all. Of Sam being kicked out of his flat, hastily packing what Tom presumed was a random selection of belongings into a couple of bags and then just being very alone in wet, dark London.
“I’m glad you came here,” Tom admitted honestly. He supposed Sam could have tried to find a vaguely cheap hotel; could have rang his mum and returned to the family home for a while. But then that would either require money he wasn’t entirely sure Sam had right now, or having to face the conversation with his mum of why ‘the lovely Jamie’ had broken up with him. Quite why so many people seemed to like Jamie was beyond Tom; he’d always struck Tom as self-centred, self-absorbed, and generally a bit of a prick. He could seem sweet at times, but it all rather felt like an act, were Tom honest.
“Me too,” Sam agreed, relaxing a little into Tom’s hold. “Thanks for not being mad.”
Tom’s hand faltered mid-stroke of Sam’s hair.
“Why would I be mad?”
“I’m kind of imposing on you right now,” he replied, the traces of guilt in his voice not sitting right with Tom. “And I’m not exactly the easiest person to be around.” His tone was a strange mix of wry amusement and yet truthfulness. It was the truthful aspect that Tom took issue with.
“Did Jamie say something?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know,” Sam shrugged, not entirely answering the question. He pulled away from Tom, reaching to get his tea and before settling back against the sofa. Taking a sip, he looked distantly surprised.
“You put sugar in it?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t take sugar and neither do you,” Sam pointed out, though taking another drink regardless.
“I have various sachets of sugar stolen from various coffee shops for the occasion that someone’s having it,” Tom mentioned, smiling. “And you like sugar in your tea.”
Sam looked at him consideringly but surprisingly enough didn’t press it. He just drank the tea.
“You’re not imposing, by the way,” Tom said, circling back. “You’re always welcome here. And I mean that.”
Sam fidgeted with the mug, running a finger up and down the handle.
“He said I cheated on him,” he admitted, tone a little unreadable. “Didn’t believe me when I said I hadn’t.”
Tom raised his eyebrows in surprise, trying to not launch into a spiel about how he had always found Jamie somewhat manipulative, had never taken him at face value.
“Oh.”
Sam chuckled.
“Yeah, ‘oh’. I didn’t, for the record.”
Tom frowned, nursing his own tea.
“I didn’t think you did. Not sure you would be able to, think you’d combust from all the guilt and tell everyone within a five mile radius.”
“Well, apparently I did,” Sam said sadly. “He won’t believe me. He’s adamant I’m sleeping with either one of you guys or someone else I work with. Though he knows how very unemployed I am. Which was another issue,” he added, sighing.
It had always bothered Tom how Jamie came across as somewhat possessive. He and Sam had been together for around a year now, he supposed, so they’d all been in enough social situations together. He didn’t like the way Jamie would have an arm around Sam’s waist just a little too tightly, or how he would barely let him out of his sight. It could get a bit annoying, actually, if they wanted to talk about an upcoming show because Jamie was constantly there – visibly disinterested in the conversation and yet lurking around anyway. But none of them had ever said anything; because, what if Sam was perfectly happy with that? What if he and Jamie were, in fact, madly in love and wanting to exist in each other’s space all the time? Even if Jamie seemingly couldn’t care less about the things Sam was passionate about, nor about the people he was friends with either. Tom could always sense Jamie’s thinly-veiled irritation directed towards himself and apparently anyone else Sam was friends with.
“Well, he’s an idiot,” Tom stated simply. “He should trust you enough to believe you, and it isn’t as if you’ve ever given him a single reason to doubt you, either.”
They sat in a somewhat comfortable silence, sipping tea. Sam looked calmer than earlier, a little less forlorn and a little less damp, his hair drying into soft-looking frizz.
“Is that why things ended, then?” Tom finally asked.
Sam shrugged.
“One reason of many. Think he just wanted to be done with me, if I’m honest.” If Sam was trying to come off as flippant, it didn’t work as his voice failed him by wavering. Tom reached out to rest a reassuring hand on his knee, thumb brushing over the material.
“Well that’s his loss.” Because it was; Sam deserved better in the first place, in Tom’s eyes.
Sam smiled wanly.
“You’re always going to say that. What friends do, right?”
Admittedly yes, Tom was always more inclined to take Sam’s side – but he was hardly going to take Jamie’s. Not when he’d been doubtful about him since the beginning, and especially not after what had happened this evening.
“I’m saying it because it’s true,” Tom said, lightly knocking an ankle again Sam’s admonishingly. “You’re funny, and adorable, and a whole load of other wonderful things. He’s throwing that all away.”
Sam laughed, shaking his head.
“Not sure Jamie would agree. Or if he does, it wasn’t enough to counteract everything he doesn’t like,” he admitted with a little shrug.
“I return to my previous point – he’s an idiot,” Tom stated, his dislike for Jamie managing to increase by the moment. “You deserve much, much better than someone who can’t appreciate how wonderful you are, and who just gaslights you.”
Maybe his voice came off more sharply than intended, as Sam’s eyes widened and his shoulders raised a little, curling in on himself. Sighing slightly, Tom tried to make himself accept that while he was glad that Jamie was finally out of the picture and genuinely thought that was best for Sam, he needed to remember that Sam wasn’t going to be seeing it like that. Even if Sam agreed that Jamie had been unreasonable, agreed that Jamie should listen to and trust him rather than abruptly ending things, he was still going to be upset. He had just been dumped from a fairly long-term relationship and made to leave the flat he’d been living in.
Maybe they needed an evening of eating ice cream and watching bad television rather than Tom already launching in on making his opinions known about Jamie.
Perhaps time to venture towards more solid ground, back towards the practical things Tom could do.
“Have you eaten?”
Sam shook his head, fingers curled around his mug.
“Not since earlier. He took me for brunch all smiley just to then argue all afternoon.”
Tom just sighed and nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself.
“Okay, let’s order something then, yeah? How does pizza sound?” They couldn’t go wrong with pizza; they’d certainly ordered enough of them over the years.
Sam nodded. He looked shattered, the visceral emotion of earlier giving way to sheer exhaustion.
“Pizza’s good.”
Glad he now had something of some use to do, Tom went about ordering pizzas. He switched on the television, handing the remote to Sam, and then headed to the kitchen to check the freezer. Fortunately he did, indeed, have ice cream – with the pizza, hopefully the basis of a comforting post-break-up meal.
He wandered back to the living room, pausing in the doorway for a couple moments to look at Sam. They’d all spent many evenings on Tom’s sofa, typically in varying states of sobriety. None had seemed perhaps as domestic as this, with Sam now curled up, tv remote in hand, underneath one of the blankets Tom kept draped over the arm of the sofa.
“Found anything to watch?” Tom asked, smiling as he joined Sam. He sat himself down and lightly pulled at the blanket to let it cover them both.
“The Martian, think it’s near the start,” Sam replied, nodding towards the screen where adverts were busily trying to sell them laundry detergent, the voiceover far too excited.
“Haven’t you seen that at least twenty times now?” Tom chuckled, fondly. He was fairly certain he had the DVD somewhere, in fact. They’d certainly watched it at his before, anyway. He didn’t mind it, thought it was alright, but knew Sam enjoyed it – they’d seen it together at the cinema when it originally came out, and the fact Sam merrily babbled on about it for days after told Tom that he’d likely be seeing it many times more.
But rather than laugh, Sam’s expression faltered.
“I can put something else on?”
Tom frowned.
“No, you’re alright,” he reassured, “leave it on. I’m always pleasantly reminded how much I like the soundtrack anyway.”
“Okay.”
It was a decent film, Tom conceded, as it returned after the ad break to Matt Damon planting hundreds of potatoes in what was essentially a big white tent. And eventually the pizza arrived, the buzzer suddenly sounding through the flat, making them both startle.
Reluctantly moving the blanket aside to go hurry down the stairs, Tom fetched their pizzas. He didn’t even realise he’d been hungry until the smell hit him, hastily heading back up with cardboard boxes in hand.
“Dinner is served,” he proclaimed as he re-entered the flat, heading straight back to the sofa and handing a box to Sam. He could get out the plates, could even get out some knives and forks, but it felt like an evening that called for merrily eating pizza straight from the box.
“Want something to drink? Doubt you want another cup of tea, not with pizza, really.”
Sam looked up from the pizza box he was busy opening.
“Uh, yeah, please. Anything to drown my sorrows?”
Tom paused for a moment, wondering if them having a drink was a good idea when pretty emotional – and Tom wanting to withhold from sharing all his thoughts about Sam’s ex for the time being. Then he got over himself; Sam had just been broken up with, of course they were going to have a drink.
“I’ve got, well.” He paused, trying to remember what he did, in fact, have in. “Wine? Gin? Not got beer or anything in at the moment.”
Sam just smiled.
“Fuck it, yeah, let’s do G and Ts. If you have tonic?”
“I have tonic.”
“And this is why I love you. No beer, but you’ve got tonic water,” Sam said with a little grin, setting the pizza down and getting up so they could fix drinks. Tom chose not to comment on quite how strong Sam made his own drink, instead just joining his toast to Sam being newly single before they settled back down on the sofa.
And so they spent the next couple of hours watching the film and getting through progressively further through Tom’s bottle of gin. Sam was drinking to get drunk, that much was plain to Tom – and entirely understandable, given the terrible day he’d had. Tom would much sooner Sam go increasingly beyond tipsy there, in Tom’s flat, than in some random pub or even alone in some hotel room somewhere. His cheeks were flushed, but now from alcohol rather than crying. Neither causes were massively ideal, not when the result of a painful break-up, but Tom preferred the former.
He was more accustomed to Sam being drunk; for better or for worse, most their gigs ended up at the pub afterwards. A tearful Sam was something far rarer. Of course Tom had seen him upset over the years, but it hadn’t been often. For how expressive Sam was on stage, he could be more guarded off of it – or at least about some things. They’d all sat through various enthused political rants Sam had gone off down over the years, either nodding along or listening a little sceptically, but a deeper conversation could be harder to reach.
Normally it took a fair number of drinks to get to that level. Maybe it was due to Sam having already been more emotional than usual when they opened the gin, or maybe Sam’s successive drinks had been stronger than Tom realised – regardless, it led to Sam abruptly opening up further. They’d fallen into companionable silence, sticking with the same film channel as it moved on to some X-Men film Tom had no recollection of, despite Sam insisting he’d seen it. It was a quiet that Sam spontaneously broke.
“He technically cheated on me. Kind of,” Sam said, voice too calm as he swirled his drink around the glass, gaze glued to the circling liquid.
“What do you mean?” Tom asked carefully after a pause, voice measured.
“He’d sleep with other people,” Sam admitted with a shrug. “I wasn’t entirely what he wanted in the bedroom. Don’t really know what he wanted, to be honest, but not me. Or not just me, anyway.”
Tom hated Sam’s dejected tone of voice; that he seemed as calm as he was about it, as if he’d resigned himself to simply accept that. He sat very still for a few moments to control what he was going to say next.
“Did you agree to it?”
“Not really. It just kind of happened, and I was upset so he told me why. And then it kind of kept happening. Normally not at our place, thank god, but yeah.”
Tom was far from a violent person, but this evening was making him question that. He also wondered how on earth none of them had realised that things were so wrong and that Sam was surely hurting but plastering on a brave face.
He took a swig of his drink.
“Sam, why didn’t you just leave him? What else about him could possibly have been so wonderful that you’d be happy with him sleeping with other people?”
“If I’m not good enough for my own boyfriend to shag, nobody else is hardly going to want me,” Sam replied with a laugh. It was self-deprecating, but not jokingly so.
Tom didn’t know how to react to that.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re so much more than simply someone to sleep with, Sam. People will want you for you, not just for that. And your boyfriend sleeping around is nothing to do with you and entirely to do with him being a prick.”
Sam’s breath went a little shaky as he became tearful, grip tightening on his glass. Tom reached out for his other hand, squeezing it in his own.
“I just never fucking understood what he wanted,” Sam exclaimed, followed by a sob that broke Tom’s heart a little further. “Like, whatever he said he wanted I tried to do, I really tried, and yet apparently that wasn’t enough. It’s fucking embarrassing.” He cried harder, dipping his head as if to hide somewhat.
Tom just held his hand. He was seething, his mind providing him with all kinds of images of Sam being put out – and put down, more accurately – from his boyfriend telling him he wasn’t enough. From manipulating Sam into doing whatever it was they’d done, Sam hoping it would stop Jamie from cheating and Jamie probably just enjoying the power trip.
“It’s nothing to do with you and everything to do with him,” Tom eventually said, feeling significantly out of his depth. He’d gone through break-ups before. Most his friends had. Yet most seemed to have ended more simply than this, often a culmination of factors but not something quite like what Sam was telling him.
“He’s a prick, Sam. None of it is because of you. I meant what I said earlier, you’re adorable. You’re funny. You’re a very decent person. You’re attractive. You’re a million other things. He’s just showing himself to be unbelievably awful.”
Sam shook his head from across the sofa.
“I wasn’t what he wanted and that’s fine, but it still hurts.”
He looked at Tom with an air of resigned acceptance as he sat slumped back into the cushions. A little mournful, a little dejected, but otherwise not pressing anything any further. Tom would almost have preferred Sam to be angry, to launch into a rant bitterly complaining about his ex, rather than apparently somehow seeing himself to be the one at fault.
“Oh, Sam, what do I even say,” Tom asked rhetorically. “I can’t conceive how someone could bring themselves to cheat on you, how they’d even consider it.”
Sam let out a huff of laughter.
“Well, Jamie could evidently conceive of it.” He pulled his hand out from Tom’s clasp and set his glass on the floor, settling his hands in his lap before starting to fidget with his hoodie, pulling at the worn material.
They sat quietly. Sam resolutely avoided Tom’s gaze while Tom found words failing him. A session simply ranting about his ex seemingly wasn’t on the cards, and how far should Tom pry anyway? Sam needed to tell Tom things on his own terms, not Tom’s. The last thing he wanted was to inadvertently push Sam away.
Just as he was about to awkwardly suggest another film, Sam took himself and his glass into the kitchen. Tom followed him, standing in the doorway as he watched Sam clumsily pour an extremely strong drink. Were he feeling in a more jovial mood, maybe Tom would have tried to joke that Sam got the ratio the wrong way around. Instead, he knew Sam had poured precisely the ratio he’d intended. Walking over, he simply reached out for the glass, fingers brushing against Sam’s as Tom guided his hand to settle the drink back on the counter.
“You don’t need to forget this evening,” Tom said quietly. “I think I’d like you to remember me telling you how wonderful you are, and telling you that your ex is a prick.”
Sam let out a small laugh, dropping his head hide against Tom’s chest. Reflexively, Tom brought up a hand to rest against his head, fingers loosely buried in Sam’s hair.
“It’s fine, I’ll remember,” Sam replied, voice muffled, a vibration that ran through Tom. “Been drinking a bit much recently anyway, tolerance built back up.”
Tom’s fingers stilled. He hadn’t realised he’d been stroking at Sam’s hair, but apparently he had been. It wasn’t an admission he’d been expecting that evening. It also wasn’t an admission that entirely surprised him, either, and brought back memories of their university days.
“Okay.” They should talk more about that, Tom knew, but not right now. Not when Sam had just arrived at his flat, upset and broken up with. Tom hardly wanted to suddenly bombard him with barrage of questions that could likely make him feel worse. He didn’t need Tom giving him grief that evening too.
“Those conversations in the pub,” he ventured, “when you told me about you both arguing. Do you remember them?”
“Yeah,” Sam admitted, pulling away to lean against the counter and take his drink. “Sorry for waffling on about it.”
“No, no,” Tom replied hastily, “not what I meant.” Of course it wasn’t what he meant. “I want you to be able to tell me those things. I do wish you didn’t feel you have to be drunk to do so, though. Wish you felt comfortable coming to me sober.”
“You’re too nice a person,” Sam said with a small smile by way of deflection before heading back to the sofa.
Tom poured them both a glass of water and went to join him, glad when they easily fell into more general conversation, laughing at the rubbish that was on tv late at night as they surfed through the channels. At some point Sam let himself lean against Tom, who picked up the abandoned blanket from earlier off the floor and draped it over them both while they mused over who the target audience truly was of the terrible programme chattering away in the background.
When conversation petered out, Tom sensed Sam was nearly falling asleep beside him. The affection coursing through him was surely disproportionate as he looked fondly down at Sam. Begrudgingly pulling the blanket off them, Tom gently coaxed a half-asleep Sam to bed.
Guiding him to his room, Tom supposed Sam shouldn’t sleep in his hoodie and joggers. With the pair of them in bed he’d likely overheat in no time, but Tom honestly couldn’t be bothered to go and hunt through Sam’s bags for something more suitable.
“Want to borrow a t-shirt?” he asked softly, so not to break the peaceful quiet that had settled between them.
“If you can find one that fits,” Sam mumbled as he clumsily kicked off his jogging bottoms.
Tom fixed him with a look.
“Of course I can.”
And so with Tom in his pyjamas and Sam wearing a top that Tom had quite frankly forgotten he owned, they lay down side by side in Tom’s bed. Sam was out almost instantly, exhaustion and alcohol uniting. Tom lay awake for a good while, thinking.