Chapter Text
JULY 2005
Dylan had only just made it downstairs when he heard a knock against the front door.
He’d stopped in his tracks at the base of the stairs, half-expecting to have imagined it, and waited until another knock came.
It was half 7:00, meaning it’d have been too late for the postman, nor were any of their neighbors exactly the visiting type, and none of his stepdad’s dickhead mates had ever been taught the concept of knocking before. It wasn’t unlike Dylan’s mum to invite ‘round one of the many staggeringly boring women from her book club, though he’d have known about it well in advance had that been the case. He wouldn’t have even been home had they come over, much to his mum’s dismay of not being able to upstage the others with her “handsome and respectable young son.” He’d rather go for a joyride with Vinnie than be treated like some achievement to be shown off, especially when half the compliments of him staying out of trouble were nearly completely untrue.
The only alternative that remained was it being one of his own friends. And as much as he loved each and every one of them, it was the option that made him the most nervous.
His mum and Ian weren’t exactly… enthusiastic about his choice of friends. They were the complete opposite, really, and that’d been the case from the very start. His mum had always been overprotective of him, and unfortunately quick to judge when it came to appearances, but he loved her endlessly still, even when they were in disagreement. His stepfather, on the other hand, had never once done anything to deserve such love, so Dylan didn’t offer him any. That coldness often only worsened Ian’s opinion of the lads, causing him to jump at the opportunity to blame Dylan’s rude behavior on his “degenerate mates” rubbing off on him. Vinnie was the worst offender, naturally, though Ashley coming from a traveling family led to some rather discouraging stereotypes. Erin had a reputation poisoned by the shadow of her father and brother, and Cardi—despite being 3 years younger—they’d not often had the patience to even have a proper conversation with. It was a point of contention in their relationship, but Dylan had had plenty of time to grow accustomed to it. His friends were too important to him, even if it meant having to keep them separate from family.
But despite the level in which Dylan’s parents hated Vinnie, it never once stopped the boy from making his presence known. Typically they opted for spending time in town, in the woods, or at somebody else’s house, but Vinnie didn’t always have the capacity to be with anyone that wasn’t Dylan, and it became shockingly easy to find time to hang out when nobody else was home. They'd both long since accepted that Vin would never amount to enough in the eyes of Dylan’s parents. Vinnie—even if he grabbed at every sliver of a chance to pick a fight with Ian—seemed okay with it, like he’d already expected to be widely disliked. He acted surprised half the time that anyone, not just stuck-up adults, wanted to spend time with him. Dylan knew exactly where that mindset came from, but he found thinking about it for too long made him unbearably sad.
And it’d be a complete fiction to say Vinnie couldn’t be a handful. Everyone—including Vinnie himself—had had their moments of shortened patience with him, but it was heartbreaking to see so many let that cloud their judgement. He wasn’t the huge burden that everyone seemed convinced he was, that they were trying to convince Dylan he was.
Sometimes it felt like he was the only person in the entire world who acknowledged any of Vinnie’s endless merits. He was understanding, and hilarious, and loving, and always incredibly quick on his feet, a genuine person with incredible stories and a remarkable ability for perseverance. Dylan so badly wished he could just make his parents see what he did.
Wishing for £1,000,000 would be luckier.
So even though it irked Dylan to his very core, he was learning to ignore what anybody else thought of them together. Dylan loved his best friend too much to let anything interfere.
If it’d been Vinnie on the other side of the door, like Dylan had anticipated, it wouldn’t have been for any good reason. Vin loved a last-minute visit, but an unexpected one was just about out of the question, not with Dylan’s parents being how they were. Vinnie always planned it out with Dylan first, or at the very least called beforehand. If Vinnie was showing up now, completely unannounced, something must’ve been wrong.
“I’ve got it!” Dylan called through to the kitchen, finally moving from his spot on the stairs.
He took a breath, silently preparing himself for whatever fucked state Vin would be in, or whatever new major crisis he’d have to navigate without inadvertently getting his parents involved and undoubtedly ticked off.
When the door opened, Dylan found the one person he’d least expected to: Tommo.
And not just any Tommo, no, but a breathless, teary-eyed, and slightly muddy Tommo.
“Hate to turn up out of the blue, but I had to get outta that fucking house,” Tommo announced promptly, his voice trembling.
Dylan glanced behind him, noticing his bike propped hastily against the front wall. The specks of dirt across his—admittedly rather sweaty—face mixed with the windswept nature of his hair slotted together like puzzle pieces inside Dylan’s mind. Had Tommo really biked all the way to the house? That was nearly 5 miles.
Initially, all Dylan could do was stare in alarm.
The inhabitants of his house and the distraught boy standing in front of him felt like they belonged to entirely separate worlds, with Dylan standing right on the threshold between them.
It didn’t take long for Dylan to realize that Tommo was the only one of his mates his mum and Ian had never actually met. Dylan had mentioned him before, surely, or maybe they’d seen him at school events many years prior, but he was almost certain an introduction had never been officially made. And while that boded well for keeping them in a more chipper mood, it also made Dylan properly question just exactly why that’d been the case. He supposed the reason was because Tommo was… well, he was Tommo, wasn’t he? Loud, foul-mouthed, and—as a side note—maybe the randiest teenager Dylan had ever met. There wasn’t a shred of respect for authority in his pint-sized body, and possibly too much lecherous self-confidence, not to mention how often he got the acceptable order of “acting” and “thinking” mixed up. Dylan loved the daft bastard, of course, and Tommo wouldn’t have been himself without all those things, but it didn’t exactly make a perfect match for his parents.
As nightmarish of a situation as their first meeting had the potential to be, and considering Dylan had inadvertently been putting it off for years, his parents weren’t the type to turn away anyone in crisis. Strict, maybe, but not cruel. They may not have been as positive or as doting as The Shaftners, but they weren’t bloody monsters. His mum wasn’t, at the very least.
Besides, it’d been a while since Dylan had asked for anything, and he’d even managed to stay in Ian’s good graces (as much as he ever was) for longer than usual, so there was material to fall back on. Asking for a favor like this should’ve been no problem.
Tommo’s breath hitched quietly, and one look at his face made it seem impossible he’d even considered turning him away.
Dylan quickly ushered him inside.
Closing the door behind them, Dylan took note of the way Tommo stood, arms across his chest like he was trying to physically hold himself together. He looked around the house as if he’d just set foot in a museum exhibition, lips pressed together tightly.
“Dylan!”
“Fuck,” Dylan swore under his breath, glancing over his shoulder towards the sound of his mum’s voice before turning his attention back to Tommo. “Wait here.”
All but running into the kitchen, Dylan followed his summons, practically skidding to a halt in the doorway as he tried (and failed) to come across as collected.
Before his mum or Ian could even begin to form any questions, Dylan spoke up.
“Mum, I’m really sorry to do this, but is there enough for an extra person?”
Wordlessly, she stopped stirring a pot on the stove to stare at her son in disbelief, as if she was challenging him to repeat himself. Dylan cleared his throat. She remained silent, waiting for him to elaborate further.
“One of my mates is here, and he’s… he’s having a bit of a rough time right now. He needs a place to stay. Just for tonight.”
“It’s not Vincent, is it?” Ian chimed in from the table, not looking up from his magazine.
Dylan suppressed an eyeroll. “No, Ian, it’s not Vinnie. It’s Tommo. You’ve not met him.”
Neither of them offered up another response, his mum continuing to look at him skeptically.
“I promise he won’t be a bother,” Dylan added, mentally preparing to beg if it came to that. “I can have him gone first thing tomorrow morning, alright? Please?”
“I suppose,” his mum ultimately said, turning back to her cooking. “Dinner’ll be 5 minutes.”
“Thank you, Mum. Love you.”
Dylan rushed back out into the front room before she’d gotten the chance to respond.
Tommo was in the exact spot he’d left him in, now examining a baby photo of Dylan on the wall beside him. There was the faintest smile on his face, though his body language hadn’t changed in the slightest, doing nothing to convey he was feeling at all relaxed. His arms remained crossed tight over his torso, fingers drumming absentmindedly against his elbows.
“Shoes off,” Dylan told him. “And mind your language around my mum.”
Tommo nodded, doing as Dylan said.
“And I know you’re gonna want to be mean to Ian, yeah? But just… please try not to.”
“Relax, sweetheart. My lips are sealed.”
The comment did little to quell Dylan’s worries.
Tommo was trustworthy enough to not intentionally break the promise, but his mouth moved faster than his brain, and he was as heedful as he was tall.
Tommo did a zip gesture for added effect, which Dylan couldn’t help but smile at.
He started to move forward but Dylan stopped him with a hand on the chest. His balance faltered as he stared at Dylan in confusion, eyes vaguely reminiscent of a frightened animal.
“You’ve got, uh…” Dylan trailed off, gesturing loosely at the dirt on Tommo’s face.
Neither adult in his house would think very highly of the look. First appearances had to go as well as they could, or else another new series of criticisms would be accompanying Dylan through every future conversation.
Tommo didn’t offer much as an answer, though his shoulders lost a fraction of tension.
Dylan wordlessly tucked the sleeve of his shirt over his thumb and began to wipe some of the mud from his friend’s face.
Much to his surprise, Tommo let him.
The reaction he’d expected would’ve been a grumble of annoyance, craning his neck in the other direction and swatting Dylan’s hands away so he would give up trying to help. It was catlike, in a way, his regular refusal to be held if he wasn’t the instigator. Now, if anything, Tommo leaned into the touch, patiently keeping his gaze trained on the floor until Dylan finished.
He gave a tiny nod in thanks.
Dylan shrugged and gestured for him to follow further into the house.
As he led him towards the kitchen, Tommo paused every few steps, trailing behind to examine the baby pictures, school sports trophies, and childhood drawings littering the hallway. He had a faint smile on his face, but the look in his eyes told a different story. He looked consumed with focus, yet still a bit dejected, like he was surveying images of some event he’d been purposefully excluded from, or someone had just snatched his most prized possession right out of his hands. Despite having a home filled with pictures exactly like this, the memories within them seemed to be just out of reach. Taking his time in studying every inch of the walls, every inch of Dylan’s life, Tommo looked like a spitting image of the little boy he’d been when they first met.
“You had such a cherubic little face,” Tommo said, pointing out a school portrait from year 3.
“And you’re saying I don’t now?”
“Too acne-ridden for that, love. The long hair doesn’t do you many favors, neither, mind you.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “Are we gonna keep going or are there more baby photos you wanna make fun of?”
Not waiting for an answer, Dylan continued to lead Tommo through the house, tying his hair back from his face and giving Tommo the satisfaction of a cheap jab well-executed. He knew Tommo liked his long hair, truthfully, taking the piss simply because the opportunity had been there. He could feel Tommo’s smug stare on the back of his neck, though Dylan thought the joke had been lacking the usual spark behind it, as if it’d only been a way to keep Dylan unaware that anything was out of the ordinary. A distraction from any fragility that may’ve been slipping through the cracks.
They were in the kitchen before long, Dylan’s two worlds now blending, and he felt utterly unprepared for the possibilities of the evening.
“Mum, Ian, this is Tommo,” Dylan introduced.
Tommo gave them his best ‘polite-to-parents’ grin, though Dylan could tell it was fake. “Nice to meet you both. Thank you for having me.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice, did we?” Ian replied, glancing over lazily.
In his peripheral vision, Dylan saw Tommo’s mouth open, evidently ready to throw some snarky comment back at Ian. A swift nudge to the ribs had Tommo’s attitude retreating.
“Do your parents know that you’re here, Thomas?” Dylan’s mum asked, deliberately ignoring the nickname he’d been introduced as.
“They do, ma’am.”
Dylan shot Tommo a doubtful glare, but he received a small nod in response, meaning that—for once—Tommo did actually tell Leo and Margaret where he’d be going.
“Well, I will say that it’s nice to see somebody other than Vincent for a change.”
The look Dylan’s mom gave him made his cheeks run hot, casting his eyes downward. He could feel Tommo tense slightly beside him, shifting uncomfortably.
“Will you boys set the table?”
Nodding promptly, Dylan made a beeline for the dining room, Tommo following close behind.
By the time they’d set the table, sat down with their dishes, and gotten halfway through their meal, barely a word had been spoken.
There’d been a few well-mannered “thank you”s to Dylan’s mum for the food, and one request from Ian for somebody to fetch him a drink that Dylan had (begrudgingly) heeded to, but otherwise it’d been primarily wordless.
Dylan could feel his cheeks burning, waiting for the penny to drop, for Ian to say something biting towards him or Tommo that’d set the already-offkey atmosphere even further. They two friends kept shooting awkward glances at each other from the corners of their eyes.
“So, Thomas,” Dylan’s mum eventually said, placing her wine glass down. “Do you have any plans for college? Any career goals?”
To Dylan, it felt a bit double-edged as a question, with his mum being more than well aware that most of her son’s friends weren’t the career-facing type, not with the circumstances they’d all been born into. Of course, she hadn’t the faintest idea of what Tommo’s life might’ve been like (and oftentimes Dylan wasn’t sure he knew the full story, either) but it wasn’t impossible to infer he’d be under the same umbrella as the rest of their mates.
“Well, I’ve really always wanted to have some kind of ero-”
Knowing the next words out of his mouth were about to be ‘erotic establishment,’ Dylan delivered a sharp kick in the shin to Tommo, cutting him off with a small yelp. They shared a wide-eyed look before Tommo cleared his throat.
“An economics degree,” he quickly recovered with. “Finance classes and that. Eventually open me own business or summat.”
Both adults nodded in approval, and Dylan let out a near-silent sigh of relief.
“We always wanted Dylan to go into teaching, or something of the sort to show off his mathematics skills, but he’s yet to decide on it. Hasn’t even considered any universities.”
Ian hummed in disappointed agreement.
Dylan’s face was on fire.
The comment was laced with undisguised condescension, the kind that always left Dylan’s stomach turning and a sinking feeling that the ceiling was about to collapse in on him. His mum had always been so adamant on him finding “the correct path,” on being top of his class and getting into a good college and finding a well-paying, worthwhile career. Following that route would undoubtedly have him set for eternity, but it also meant he’d be leaving his current life behind. No more getting stoned and dicking around with his mates, no more pranks and petty crime, no more all-nighters, no more Vinnie. It was simply too much pressure.
“Mrs. Golding, dinner is superb,” Tommo complimented, trying to break the tension.
He’d clearly sensed the discomfort, affectionately nudging Dylan’s foot with his own, glancing at him with a silent ‘I’ve got your back.’
“It’s Mrs. Eversley, now,” she corrected.
Tommo cleared his throat, casting his eyes down and twirling pasta absently around his fork.
They ate the rest of their dinner in silence.
~
“I got in another fight with my foster parents, if you wanted to know why I’m here.”
Dylan propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at Tommo in his makeshift bed on the floor.
It was the first sleepover they’d ever had together without at least one more of their friends. His mum had sent them to turn in for the night, and although they were 16 and it was the middle of their summer holiday, they’d listened. Tommo gave Dylan’s bedroom much of the same treatment he had the hallway, leaving no corner unexamined as though he’d been tasked with gathering intel. He’d grinned at the photos of them adorning the walls and the doodles done by Vin, the few stuffed animals Dylan kept from childhood strewn about, the constellation maps above his desk.
They’d both remained relatively silent as their night was winding down, Tommo now having been the first to say anything since they’d gotten themselves settled.
“Figured it were only a matter of time ‘til you asked.”
Truthfully speaking, he had just been wondering what’d gone down in the Shaftner household, and Tommo was more or less reading his mind. Arguments were common—maybe even more so than agreements—and everybody in their friend group had been subject to many long rants from Tommo about Leo and Margaret, but this was the first time Dylan was hearing of him taking off in a state of distress. He hadn’t wanted to overstep by asking the reasons why. They were friends that knew more secrets about each other than most, but Tommo’s reputation didn’t exactly include a comfortability to open up.
“I was thinkin’ about it, yeah,” Dylan admitted, laying back down.
“Ask away, then, love.”
“What was the fight about this time?”
“I snuck out again,” Tommo grumbled. “They weren’t s’posed to find out.”
“Obviously not.”
The only response he offered was a small tut.
“How did they? Find out, I mean.”
Tommo sighed quietly. “Margaret said she heard some clattering and came in to check on me. Thought I were havin’ a nightmare or summat. What she heard was me climbing out me window and down the siding of the house.”
The image made a small part of Dylan want to laugh, though the amusing idea of Tommo—tiny as he was—scaling his house was overshadowed by a general sense of perplexity. He’d had to have been good at climbing down to have gotten out before Margaret caught him, meaning he’d done this more times than anyone would’ve bargained for.
“Were you meetin’ someone? Veronika’s not in town again, is she?”
“No, we, uh… she stayed in Germany after she left last year. Dunno. We lost touch.”
Naturally, the comment (and Tommo’s audible disappointment over it) made a million follow up questions spring to Dylan’s mind, namely related to his shock that Tommo wasn’t sneaking off to shag anyone, but the older boy was moving forward before Dylan could even open his mouth.
“I left ‘cause I couldn’t sleep, is all” Tommo explained. “I’d nicked the car keys earlier and everythin’ and just… drove. Didn’t wanna show up at yours or Vin’s in’t dead of night, so I parked up on that hill behind Old Farmer Jim’s place and stayed there for a couple hours.”
It’d been ages since Tommo had first explained the complicated feelings of claustrophobia he experienced whenever he’d been in his house for too long, so the whole ordeal didn’t come as breaking news. The amount of time he was able to spend in the house only lessened as he aged, and Dylan thought he understood why. He certainly had a guess of an explanation towards Tommo’s urges to keep driving until he could find a spot to clear his head.
Dylan had done it, too, typically pulling Vinnie along with him. Most times they’d sneak onto abandoned lots on the outskirts of town, or—when the weather was nice—down to the stream in the forest behind Jim’s, skipping rocks and chatting ‘til they were both too stoned to remember what they’d been stressed about. They used to go for joyrides in whatever stolen car Vin had stumbled upon that week, but ever since they’d nearly toppled over the edge of that cliff, they’d opted for slightly less dangerous activities. After finishing the drafts of their future funeral plans, Dylan had made haste in getting his license, and the need for Vin’s grand theft auto skills didn’t come up nearly as often.
Still, the long drives were nice, and Tommo clearly was sharing that sentiment.
It was a confusing time for all of them, really. Exams had only been over a week by now, bringing about the final summer before their final year of school. Their fast-approaching futures, the pressure of decision making, of chasing success, of finally getting the fuck out of Hawley, and the terrifying, overarching concept of potential that their teachers had been throwing at them since year six had been hanging over everyone’s heads like the bloody Sword of Damocles. It certainly felt that way to Dylan, at least.
No wonder Tommo had run off.
“Got back just before sunrise and left the keys on the bannister. Could hear ‘em talking in their room so I imagine they didn’t sleep much either.”
“I doubt it,” Dylan observed. “You may not be able to inherit traits genetically but you’re just as much of a chronic worrier as they are, man.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Tommo dismissed.
Being compared to Leo and Margaret often tended to irk him extra, what with him refusing to admit that the people who raised him could’ve possibly done anything to affect his personality, but Dylan and Vinnie had earned the ability to get away with such comments.
“I were passed out when they left for work so I didn’t see ‘em til tonight. Honestly debated just leavin’ again before they came home.”
“Even I know that would’ve been stupid.”
Sometimes Dylan forgot how easy on Tommo Leo and Margaret were, letting him sleep even when he was in major amounts of trouble. He’d not met them very many times, but they were maybe the sweetest people he ever had, especially when it came to their son. If he had pulled any of the shit Tommo had over the years, his parents never would’ve let it slide, whether he was in need of sleep or not. Hell, they barely even let Dylan’s behavior now go unchecked, and he hid most of his shit from them anyways.
Obviously, he was inclined to side with his friend—he’d have Tommo’s back forever, and would travel to the ends of the earth to protect him—but Dylan sometimes thought Leo and Margaret deserved to be cut some slack. He hadn’t even been witness to it, but imagined Leo and Margaret had likely been more scared than cross, even if their tones hadn’t come across that way. Sometimes Tommo responded best to blunt confrontation. The three of them were all just trying their best, and had a tricky time communicating it in a way that the other understood. He knew Tommo often thought the same, and while he’d improved his anger management issues in recent years, picking a fight always came easier to him than admitting he was terrified of losing the few constants in his life, admitting that he actually felt like he belonged.
“Dunno if I’ve ever been told off so badly in me life, Dyl,” Tommo said, letting out a noise of disbelief. “Tried explainin’ I weren’t out doing summat idiotic, but they just kept on shouting ‘bout how irresponsible it were, and how worried they were, how they thought I’d gotten better about this and blah blah. Might’ve said a few nasty things about them overreacting, and- and being helicopter-y, which only made it worse. Eventually I just got so bloody sick of hearing ‘em say how this weren’t how they raised me that I just… stormed out. Told ‘em I were coming to yours and took off on me bike.”
For a few moments, Tommo fell silent. There’d undoubtedly be more for him to say, and an interruption seemed less helpful than having him work through it in his own. But he still didn’t speak.
Dylan peered down at him, starting to assume he’d nodded off, and instead found him laying with the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers as one would do to fight off tears. Or a splitting headache. Maybe both.
“Are you okay?”
“I know they fucking care about me,” Tommo continued, ignoring Dylan’s question. “I know I’m supposed to be, like, grateful for them, and I am grateful, y’know? Might be shit at showing it but I gotta give ‘em credit for trying, yeah? I mean, fuck me, mate, I’ve been through… it’s just… nevermind. They could be a hell of a lot worse, I can tell you that much, sweetheart.”
Dylan hummed in acknowledgement.
Obviously, he’d known Tommo had been through the foster system since early on in their friendship. They’d met the summer before year five–when Tommo had only been under care of The Shaftners for a few months—and while he hadn’t made a point of instantaneously putting his entire familial background on display, his constant erratic behavior at school and subsequent warnings from teachers about calling home made it rather difficult to keep it a secret. He’d stopped hiding it around his friends once their little crew had finally taken shape. They’d all been together when Tommo announced that Leo and Margaret were officially becoming his adoptive parents, and by extension, they knew how often the family argued.
Truthfully, however, that had basically been the extent of what Tommo had told them. No matter how comfortable he was with someone, Tommo had never been inclined toward sharing information unless prompted first, and even then it was a 70/30 chance you’d get a genuine response. Once Tommo got going, it was hard for him to stop, but actually reaching that point was like trying to crack open a bank vault with nothing but a toothpick.
Vinnie was the only one who knew the full story, and Dylan always tried not to be jealous about it, though his efforts often didn’t play in his favor.
But even though he’d been kept in the dark about the exact details, Dylan still remained more than aware of how troubled Tommo’s home life had been. They all had that in common.
His own parents had gone through a supremely messy divorce when Dylan was 11, resulting in his dad completely cutting contact—save for the occasional few quid in a birthday card—and leaving the now 15 year-old Dylan stuck with Ian. Tommo was a foster child, with far much more of a complicated past than he ever liked to divulge. Vinnie’s mum fucked off when he’d only been little, and the alcoholic state his father had been reduced to didn’t exactly scream “qualified caregiver.” JJ’s parents were rather detached from each other, acting more like flatmates than a married couple. Cardi’s dad died years before he’d even met any of the lads, and Paloma always seemed as though she was teetering right on the edge of a major breakdown. Ashley undoubtedly had a different father than his siblings, but had been shut down so many times he’d given up enquiring about it at all.
They’d all bonded over it as a group, drawn to each other like an ill-assorted handful of magnets. Diverse in appearance, maybe, but stuck together by an unshakeable bond. The outcasts, the strays, the forgotten and fighting youth of a world that seemed determined to leave them behind.
Dylan could sense the nervous energy radiating off of Tommo, filling the room with a feeling similar to anticipating the first clap of thunder during a storm. There were countless words festering on the tip of his tongue, and even more swirling about in his mind, getting caught somewhere deep in his throat. It would only take a pinprick to burst the dam, so Dylan proceeded carefully.
“You don’t talk about it much, y’know,” he settled on saying. “Your life before Leo and Margaret.”
It was an invitation, of sorts. An offer of a listening ear. A helping hand. He didn’t want to scare Tommo off, or pressure him into reliving memories he’d rather keep buried, but it seemed as good a time as any to finally broach the subject. God only knew Tommo had heard more of Dylan’s secrets than any man could count. Returning the favor seemed inevitable, now.
At Tommo’s unnerving silence, Dylan cringed internally. It’d been worth a shot, but ultimately—as always—a very stupid idea.
He couldn’t tell if it would be a better approach to backtrack or just to accept the silence, hoping one of them (likely Tommo) would change the conversation topic soon.
“It’s quite the story,” Tommo said meekly. “Don’t wanna bring you down, Dyldo.”
The statement came as only a few notches above a whisper, weighed down by hesitation. There was a plea buried in it, as well. For once, it sounded like Tommo wanted to tell someone, wanted to get it off his chest, and the only thing holding him back was the worry that Dylan would reject him just as everyone else had.
With his face hidden from view, Dylan smiled reservedly. Tommo wasn’t shying away from him this time.
“You don’t have to get into it, if you don’t wanna. But I’m always here to listen.”
“You sure?”
Hesitant wasn’t the right word to describe Tommo’s tone of voice. It was scared.
“Of course,” Dylan promised.
A few more seconds of silence passed, Dylan waiting with bated breath as Tommo exhaled a few times. Dylan could hear him shuffling around beneath his small pile of blankets.
“18 foster families in 10 years,” Tommo finally began. “And not to mention the time spent in those godforsaken group care homes that were nothing like any useless bloody pamphlet ever advertises ‘em to be. Understaffed and overcrowded, the other kids were mostly nice but often far too young to bond with, sorta felt like I were doing the babysittin’ once I’d passed the age of 8. None of ‘em had been in long enough to really grasp how badly this would fuck them in the head.”
Tommo had only just started his story and Dylan could already feel each and every word physically pulling taught at his heartstrings.
“Went through just about every type of fostering arrangement I were eligible for. Short-term, Bridging Families, Emergency; been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Even Leo and Margaret were only supposed to be a long-term housing situation. I’d be just their foster kid ‘til I turned 18 or they could get me with family members, whichever came first. But after fuckin’ years on top of previous years that Social Services failed to find any biological relations who wanted me, the prospect of legal adoption had not been far behind.”
“Oh, I remember,” Dylan chimed in. “Never seen you so nonplussed about something so major. Not exactly the fairytale reaction they show in fuckin’… Little Orphan Annie.”
Tommo laughed a little. “Saw no harm in agreeing to it. They were too excited.”
“Can’t even imagine.”
“They’re a different story, though, sorta. An exception. I were never placed anywhere before them for very long, ‘cause… well, you know all the shit I’ve landed meself in. And you certainly have a grasp on what the fuck I’m like. Loud, insensitive, defiant, swear-y; you name it, sweetheart.”
“A wild card,” Dylan tacked on.
“Exactly,” Tommo agreed. “So imagine all that’s the same, except I’m small.”
“Smaller, you mean.”
Tommo paused mid-speaking to scoff audibly. He grabbed a lion stuffie off the floor and lobbed it blindly towards Dylan’s head. His aim was precise, landing on his face with a soft thump and making them both laugh.
“Alright, dickhead” Tommo chuckled. “Shall I continue my tale of woe or do you plan on making more cheap jabs about me height?”
“Depends on if you can find any more stuffed animals to throw at me.”
“Fuck off.”
“Sorry,” Dylan said with another laugh. “Keep goin’. I promise I’m listening.”
Tommo’s subsequent eyeroll was apparent without Dylan having to look.
“Anyways, I was what you might call ‘a problem child,’” Tommo explained. “Or if you’d like that in social services speak; ‘a young boy struggling with Adverse Childhood Experiences.’”
The faux-posh accent Tommo put on made Dylan chuckle quietly again.
“So, to put it simply, I were an annoying little cunt with a major anger problem and nobody could decide on what to do with me.”
The way Tommo spoke the words—listing negative adjectives and cracking jokes to mask their seriousness—echoed a sentiment that Dylan didn’t like to confront: that Tommo had heard these things said about him before, and maybe a small, unguarded part of him believed it all still. He seemed to be convinced that every bad thing anyone had ever uttered to or about him must have been the unequivocal truth. He was only a fucking kid, a kid that didn’t know how to get the attention he deserved and so badly craved without acting out. And, honestly, what child wouldn’t in his situation? It was no fault of Tommo’s if people couldn’t understand him. There were plenty of other teenage boys at their school who Dylan found insufferable just to breathe next to, let alone befriend, and nothing Tommo ever did would even hold a candle to it.
Sure, maybe Tommo had a tendency to get combative, or be a magnet for trouble to the point where Dylan sometimes swore he had his own specialised gravitational pull for it. He was stubborn, blunt, and downright irritating when he wanted to be, but he was one of Dylan’s best mates for a fucking reason. He was sharp-witted, and full of energy, endlessly affectionate, loyal, always around to provide a laugh or a distraction, a phenomenal listener whenever someone needed him to be, and much much smarter than he’d ever been given credit for. He had an undeniable charm about him, even when they were little. Dylan disagreed that any of the remotely negative stuff made him deserving of everything he’d endured. Because even when Tommo was acting like a prick, there wasn’t a part of him Dylan didn’t love infinitely.
Anyone who couldn’t see these virtues—every wonderful sliver of him underneath his overconfident façade—was a fucking moron, and it nearly broke Dylan’s heart to think that Tommo could ever think they were right.
He wiped at his eyes covertly as Tommo continued to ramble.
“The affinity for troublemaking mixed with the bad temper and the hyperactivity didn’t exactly make me… easy to look after, as you can imagine. Not that I really tried to be easy, y’know. I mean, I were difficult early on, though I think most kids like me were. Or are, or whatever. Started doing it on purpose, after a little while. Vandalism, getting into fights, screaming matches, et cetera. Ran away more times than I can count, even though I always came back. Got in me head about getting too far away.”
Dylan hummed softly, mostly just to reassure Tommo that he was still listening.
It was incredibly easy to get Tommo sidetracked. One wrong word that reminded him of something else and the whole conversation would be for naught. When their topic was as vulnerable as this one was, Dylan didn’t want to take any risks in breaking the flow of Tommo’s thoughts.
“Not all me foster families were as forgiving as Leo and Margaret,” Tommo confessed, his tone of voice taking on an audible solemnity. “A couple liked me, most just contacted the case worker at the first sign of trouble, or at least tolerated me ‘til my contracted few weeks ran out. But you always get those rare few who prefer to take out their frustration in… other ways. Prob’ly for the best they didn’t have any real kids.”
The sentence was punctuated with a faint sniffle, and the weight of Tommo’s confession hung heavily between the two friends.
He’d never said anything like it aloud before, never to Dylan, at least.
And Dylan wasn’t an idiot. Anybody who’d spent even half as much time with Tommo as he had would’ve deduced that he’d undoubtedly suffered abuse in his life. He did a good job at hiding it, certainly, but it’d been the little things that made Dylan notice it; the flinching at loud noises, the fear in his eyes around bullies at school or anything else significantly larger than him, the burn scars scattered on his arms he always claimed were accidental. ‘Self-inflicted. I were a reckless child.’ Everyone he’d ever told had been content to believe that lie, but even Tommo knew the maths didn’t add up. The cigarette markings were far too faded and intentionally placed to be caused by an 8 year-old, no matter how heedless.
“And your birth parents?” Dylan raised.
“Got taken away from ‘em when I were a baby.”
It’d been the first time Dylan had ever heard a genuine answer to the question.
While it took quite a bit of prying to get Tommo to discuss anything about his past, the subject of his biological parents was a boundary he seldom if ever crossed, no matter who asked. For the first six-ish months of knowing each other, Dylan assumed Leo and Margaret had been his actual parents, and they’d just been very different kinds of people. And for a long time after that, Dylan figured that Tommo must’ve been orphaned and his parents were no longer alive, until Tommo offhandedly made a joke one day about them being ‘living, but for all intents and purposes they are very much dead.’
Over the years, many different people on multitudinous occasions had practically interrogated Tommo about it, and each time he’d give a different reply.
‘They’re in MI6, actually.’
‘They’re just on a really long holiday.’
‘Would you believe me if I told you they got abducted by aliens?’
‘I just appeared out of thin air one day. It’s said I’m somewhat of a medical mystery.’
Every excuse, every lie, every deflection; Dylan had already heard or—more than once—been on the receiving end of.
Tommo always had a vast myriad of quips to choose from, especially when it came to nosy adults or the twats at school who found his family situation to be the most effective ammo for torment.
Dylan remembered the one time Carl Slater had tried going after him about it, something Dylan always found ironic coming from a kid who had an absent father. While Vinnie may have started the dog-bumming rumor, Tommo had always been the worst offender. Slater had ultimately had enough, and—like the rest of the unimaginative bullies at Hawley Secondary—made some pointless comment about Tommo’s parents that nobody could even recall now. Tommo’s response, however, Dylan thought might stick with him for the rest of his days. ‘Why would I need a mum when I’m fucking the brains outta yours every night?’ Classic, to the point, and enough to end him up in the nurse’s office with a bloody nose. It’d momentarily made room for a slight let-up in the bullying, though, and it’d continued to keep Tommo’s cocky façade from crumbling.
Now, Tommo had barely even hesitated in confiding in Dylan about the truth.
“Born two months premature, and both my parents—no older than 20, mind you—were drug addicts, hence the stature and the…” Tommo paused to vaguely gesture at his brain. “I would be fuckin’ stunned if I weren’t a complete accident, given as they didn’t give a shit about me from the very start.”
He inhaled deeply, stayed silent for several seconds, and exhaled through a measured sigh. Dylan didn’t rush him.
“Don’t remember it, obviously, but, erm… it must’ve been a neighbor or summat that eventually belled up Social Services. They found a 12 month-old me with not just one, my dear Dylan, but two broken arms.”
Dylan couldn’t help the quiet, dismayed exhale that escaped his lips.
Tommo hummed, unsurprised by Dylan’s reaction. “Suffering withdrawals, if the bones hadn’t been bad enough, and not to mention a lovely garnish of acute malnutrition. Apparently I were lucky that that were the worst of it, that they got me out when they did.”
“Fuck,” Dylan said under his breath.
“Yeah, couldn’t put it better meself.”
“I’m… I’m really glad that they got you out, for what it’s worth.”
There was a slight pause before Tommo continued.
“Got put into the foster system and were shunted about from home to home ‘til I eventually ended up in our lovely old Hawley.”
Dylan took note of Tommo’s lack of acknowledgement, though admittedly he’d not expected much of a reply anyways. The emotional honesty he’d been partaking in was hard enough without Dylan getting sentimental.
“By age 9 or so, my permanent record was rather extensive, and not what I’d consider a light read, so families stopped wanting to pick me.
“Until Leo and Margaret.”
Tommo’s voice quieted. “Until Leo and Margaret.”
Tommo had a certain way of speaking sometimes, especially when it came to topics that were remotely serious. He talked as though he’d been guilty of something, like all of these awful things he’d experienced had been caused by him. He acted like any big secrets about his past were something he had to keep hidden so as to not implicate himself.
Dylan wasn’t sure if that was a learned behavior, or just his own inability to read Tommo’s already rather monotonous manner of speaking, but what he did know was that Tommo was only 10 when he’d ended up in the care of the Shaftners. He was an infant when his birth parents hurt him, a young child throughout a constantly upturned and altogether neglected life. Nothing he spoke of could have possibly been his fault, no matter which way they were looked at.
“Guess I met you and Vin not long after, so the rest, as they say, is history.”
Dylan remained silent for a while, allowing room for it all to sink in. He’d been sitting up again to watch Tommo as he talked, but there hadn’t been much in the way of eye contact to begin with, so he slowly laid back down.
“Shit, Tommo, that’s…” Dylan began hesitantly.
“Yeah. Told you it were a sob story. Vinnie’s the only other one who knows.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
A beat.
“Mate, I’m so s-”
“Don’t,” Tommo cut him off. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry, Dyldo. Don’t need you lot pityin’ me for summat that happened a long time ago, now.”
“Yeah, but it shouldn’t have happened at all.”
The statement made Tommo go quiet. He was almost always rendered speechless whenever somebody made a good point he didn’t want to agree with. Dylan didn’t need to be looking at him to know he was turning the words over in his head, chewing anxiously on his bottom lip.
Ultimately, Tommo only shrugged.
“Maybe they knew I’d end up a bit of a nutter.”
“What the fuck?!”
Dylan sat bolt upright, whipping his head around to stare in disbelief at Tommo, torn between never wanting to hear him utter those words again and wishing he’d repeat them just so Dylan knew he wasn’t imagining things.
Tommo stared back at him with an equal amount of incredulity, though his reaction made it seem as though he couldn’t find a problem with anything he’d said. He let out a baffled chuckle.
“Oh, lighten up, buttercup!”
“Jesus Christ, Tommo, that’s- you-” Dylan stammered.
“I’m just saying that I wouldn’t have wanted to raise me, either,” Tommo specified, as if that would’ve made Dylan’s heart hurt any less.
“Don’t ever say that!”
Dylan’s voice shook at the end of his sentence. He surprised himself with the sheer level of emotion he was feeling so suddenly. It was sadness as much as it was determination to make Tommo believe that the reasoning he’d been offering was total bullshit. He, on the other hand, seemed not all phased, more so upset by Dylan’s reaction than any of what he’d been retelling.
“It were a joke, love!”
“I don’t care what it was! You were a baby, Tommo, and what they did was inexcusable.”
“Dylan-”
“Don’t ‘Dylan’ me, mate,” he snapped. “If you don’t want me to say I’m sorry for you, then I fucking won’t. But there is not a chance in hell that I am letting you blame yourself for shit that happened 15 years ago, joke or not.”
The volume of his voice had increased, and it came as a shock that it wasn’t an instant summons of his mum.
A few seconds of silence passed. Dylan laid himself flat on his back once again. A few more seconds went by, and then more, before Tommo eventually cleared his throat.
“Okay.”
It was the best response Dylan could hope for.
No matter how impenetrable Tommo made his emotional walls seem, his behavior was relatively easy to track. It was rudimentary pattern recognition, really. When someone told him a harsh truth he didn’t want to face, he fell silent. When he had to express something serious, or needed to ask for help, he masked it behind a silly voice. When something was bothering him, he avoided it in favor of making a witty joke or—depending on who he was talking to—a hurtful remark to deflect.
He never listened to authority, not always because he didn’t want to, but rather because he thought he deserved to get in trouble. For a long time, it’d been the only attention he’d known how to get, and sometimes he still preferred the disappointment to being smothered with love.
He favored making things into a spectacle rather than admit he was struggling. If he upped the bravado enough, then ideally nobody would notice. And if they did, he’d double down on it until it distracted them enough to drop the subject. It was only if he was truly comfortable that he’d take the risk of laying any part of himself bare, and even that always would take him some time to warm up to.
“I’m sorry for shouting,” Dylan added.
“You’re alright, sweetheart.”
“I just don’t like hearin’ you say shit like that about yourself, man. You didn’t deserve it. And you still don’t.”
Tommo nodded minutely. Dylan knew he still didn’t believe it, not fully anyways, but no progress was ever immediate.
A quiet sniffle sounded from the floor. It made Dylan’s chest ache, and he tilted his head towards it, but couldn’t catch sight of Tommo. Sighing sympathetically, he shifted as far left as his bed would allow him and pulled back the covers.
“C’mere, then.”
Tommo wasted no time in abandoning his space on the floor to climb into Dylan’s bed.
Dylan opened his arms and allowed Tommo to curl up against him, tucking himself in to the point they were practically on top of each other. Smiling faintly as they settled, Dylan covered both of their bodies with the blanket.
Tommo’s diminutive stature (as he preferred to call it) made him ridiculously easy to cuddle. He laid slightly further down on his side of the bed, the top of his head just barely on the pillow so he could angle his face in towards Dylan’s sternum. Dylan tucked one of his arms underneath his pillow and rested his chin atop Tommo’s head. He wasn’t too much larger, all things considered, but found himself enjoying having Tommo as the little spoon, clinging to his torso like some sort of tiny, ungovernable koala.
A small part of Dylan’s brain began to question if he’d locked his bedroom door. If his mum or stepdad peered in, they’d have disapproved massively at the sight of the two boys cuddling, Ian especially. It wouldn’t have been a hard situation to get himself out of, but an uncomfortable one, nonetheless. He and Vinnie had once kissed each other goodbye, and when Ian saw, he didn’t speak to Dylan for days afterwards. It’d been simultaneously one of the most awkward and most blissful weeks of his life, though it definitely didn’t give Vin any extra approval points in either of his parents’ eyes.
Dylan pushed the thought away and slid an arm over Tommo’s shoulders, hugging him closer. He didn’t need—or want—his parents’ opinions dictating his life.
“I should probably apologize to Leo and Margaret, shouldn’t I?” Tommo wondered aloud.
“Yeah, you really should.”
“Fuck.”
“I think you’d regret it if you didn’t. Better to clear the air now than be pissed at each other forever.”
“Bloody hate when you’re right.”
Dylan laughed softly. “Want me to come wi’ ya? They fuckin’ love me.”
As strange of an offer as it may have seemed, his being there would’ve softened the blow of whatever punishment was in order for Tommo.
The Shaftners loved everyone, really, but they’d always been noticeably keen on Dylan. Tommo didn’t have his mates around often—even Dylan had only properly set foot inside once or twice—on account of the recurring claustrophobic feeling that kept him away, but they’d met Dylan the most amount of times. He’d been dubbed the “most normal” out of their friend group, and he’d also been the first of them to be able to drive without needing to nick anything.
Tommo paused, weighing his options. “I think it’ll be alright. They’re prob’ly just gonna ground me for a couple days. Maybe double my chores.
“Probably wiser, that.”
“Cheers, though, mate. Always thinkin’ outside the box, you are.”
Dylan pressed a quick kiss to Tommo’s hairline. He brought a hand up to cradle the back of Tommo’s head, fingertips absentmindedly carding through his hair.
Laying with Tommo curled against him, his breathing soft and his body warm, Dylan felt the most relaxed he had all night. Although the dinner may have been a bit awkward, it’d gone far better than Dylan anticipated, and he was mentally kicking himself for being such a harsh judge of Tommo. With the tender note their night was ending on now, it seemed ridiculous that he’d been so worried that the older boy would’ve somehow caused a scene.
He’d apologize for it in the morning, he thought, even though Tommo had been entirely clueless that Dylan had been fearing anything earlier. His brain was far too clouded with exhaustion to explain it all to him now.
Sleep had finally begun to snatch Dylan in its claws when Tommo spoke up again, his voice slightly muffled by Dylan’s chest.
“Leo and Margaret still have all the papers, y’know, from me birth parents. Got their names and that. Could easily find ‘em if I wanted to.
Dylan hummed, only half-conscious. “Do you want to?”
Tommo seemed to consider it for a moment before shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Yeah?”
“Better to leave the past in the past. At least for now. Maybe someday I would. Dunno.”
“I’ll be there if you ever decide to, man. Promise.”
“Much appreciated. But besides, Leo and Margaret aren’t too shabby, as far as families go. They’re all I have, y’know?”
That was Tommo’s way of saying he loved them. It wasn’t something he ever admitted to, but everyone who knew him knew he was fond of his foster parents. It never totally mattered how drastically different they were, or how much he detested the notion and tried to prove otherwise; it wasn’t a challenge to tell just how immeasurably grateful Tommo was for them.
“They were the first people to truly care about me, y’know?” Tommo mused. “With all the others, I’d act out as much as I could, I’d say shit just to make ‘em see how fucked I was, and make ‘em want to send me off. I tried it for months with Leo and Margaret, but they were so bloody… nice. Fucking patient. They never let my stupid shit bother them, so eventually I just got tired of tryin’. Realized they actually wanted me, despite it all, and figured I’d accept my fate.”
“They loved you even if they didn’t have to,” Dylan observed.
Tommo’s train of thought faltered for a brief moment. “Yeah,” he whispered. “They do”
It was more than many kids could afford. Parents were supposed to love their children, to protect them and support them through thick and thin, but it never stopped some from falling short. Regardless of what love was owed, the discernible lack of it only made it more staggering, no matter the child. Dylan’s father tended to favor that option—a trait he only noticed in hindsight, after his parents’ divorce had reached its acrimonious end—as did Tommo’s, from a biological standpoint.
Dylan never understood what sort of parents could hurt their kids in such a way.
Based on the stories he had heard from his mum, she’d loved him from the moment she’d found out she’d been pregnant, and that love had only grown in the following 9 months, which had now turned into 15 years. It was the case with every one of his cousins, his neighbors, the kids at school who his parents wanted him to be mates with; Dylan’s mum said every good parent should love their kids at every stage of life.
The Shaftners were different. They’d not had those long months to prepare. They’d not been with Tommo since before he’d taken his first breath. There was no predetermined feeling of love or protection that went along with being a parent, with bringing a child into the world; Tommo’s parents simply loved him because they could, because they wanted to, because nobody else had been willing to show him he deserved it. They chose him, and they continued to choose him over everything else.
“Same goes with you lot,” Tommo added.
“How d’ya mean?”
“You love me even though you don’t have to.”
Oh.
Dylan felt hot tears spring to his eyes again.
“You and the lads are my family, really,” he continued. “I’m still the same as that angry, obnoxious, impulsive little boy I’ve always been, and you’ve never made me feel like an outcast for it. You coulda left me in the dust ages ago, honestly, but you didn’t.”
“And I won’t. We won’t.”
And Dylan meant it, he really fucking did.
His friends were what kept him going day after day, year after year, and Dylan didn’t want to imagine a life without them. He didn’t want them to experience a life without him. They were all intertwined, interconnected, and irrevocably in love with each other. On days bad and good, there was always someone to turn to, someone to be kind, to make him laugh and to hold him when he cried.
Tommo, who’d never been in a proper family, considered Dylan to be as close as he’d get.
Dylan, the product of an unsteady family, couldn’t imagine not keeping Tommo in his.
When push came to shove, they’d have each other.
Tommo let out a content hum and buried his face further into Dylan’s jumper. Dylan exhaled softly, resuming his gentle combing of Tommo’s hair with his fingers. He shut his eyes and smiled faintly at Tommo’s relaxed sigh.
“You’re welcome over any time, y’know.” Dylan mumbled, struggling to stay awake.
Tommo lifted his head slightly so the fabric didn’t drown out his words. “Cheers, Dyl.”
“Maybe ring next time, though, if you can. Dunno how thrilled Mum was with you showin’ up.”
“Oh, please. I am bloody irresistible to mums. And I am partial to an older woman.
Dylan groaned in feign disgust but was ultimately unable to contain his laughter. “Go to sleep.”
Tommo snickered quietly.
Yawning, the smaller boy settled back into his previous position, tucking his arms in towards himself and trapping them in place between their two half-asleep bodies. Dylan kept a loose grip on Tommo as he got himself comfortable, prioritizing his mate’s relaxation over anything else. The two teenagers sighed drowsily in tandem, and it wasn’t until Tommo stopped shifting around that Dylan hugged him tight.
He waited patiently, fighting to keep himself awake, until he heard Tommo’s breathing even out and a soft snore escaped him. Dylan let out a near-silent sigh of relief, comforted that Tommo was finally resting.
God knew he needed it.
They both did.
Before long, Dylan’s eyes fell shut, allowing sleep to claim him with a faint smile on his face.