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ArmyTommy93: a while ago this guy i knew, S, invited me to move in with him. we’d worked a few jobs together and saving on rent was a great idea. turns out he lived with a bunch of other guys (C, B, CV, M, P, etc. that’s a whole other thread lol). kind of weird but whatever. anyway i started realizing i had a crush on him but didn’t know how to say anything so i just waited to see how he felt. then S and C started fighting a lot, because C would get S high and they’d do dumb shit and get hurt. anyway, S got hurt pretty bad one time. landed in the hospital. S and C had a really bad fight about it. then S moved out.
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When Sol had left, Tommy figured he’d be back in a week or so.
He wasn’t sure of the specifics of the broken ankle in question, but Cor had hung up the phone with his tight, indignant little smile that Tommy knew to mean he was displeased with how the conversation had gone. The house felt empty and awkward while Sol was gone; Sol was big and broad and friendly, a semi-feral cat, and the lack of him in the house hurt like a bruise. Aching. Deep-seated. Without Sol, the dynamic was different- quiet, conscientious Billy was outnumbered by the chaos and vigor of Cornelius and Chas, with the ever-loyal Magnus at their heels.
Tommy was untethered. While he could (and certainly did) exist without Solomon by his side, he felt more confident with him nearby. More importantly, he felt heard. With large personalities on every side Tommy felt swept away, lost in the conversations and butting of heads. But Sol turned those soulful eyes on him, stared into his eyes as he spoke, and Tommy felt as though someone was actually seeing him.
Thusly, with Solomon gone, Tommy haunted the house like the ghost of a Victorian schoolboy. He went unnoticed, largely, with Billy as his confidante. But even still, he was hotel artwork, pretty to look at but easy to glance over. Cornelius was boisterous and interesting and turned Billy’s head easily.
He had visited him in the hospital a few times (bringing his phone charger, clean clothes, his nice pillow), but Sol hadn’t told him when he was discharged. Their relationship wasn’t like that, generally-- generally, Sol was independent to a fault, driving himself home on a broken foot, reckless about the consequences. Tommy simply waited, soft and expectant, for him to return, surly as ever and in the mood to lose his thoughts in the haze of a joint.
Then the yelling match with Cor went down. Then Sol wasn’t coming home. He was staying somewhere else, he told Tommy where, but he’d asked Manson to bring him some things at the hospital. Sol came over a couple of times, but it was different. He and Cor didn’t talk. He didn’t stay over. He laughed about his new roommates, some posh lads who’d probably never done hard labor in their lives. How he was fixing up the place in exchange for rent.
(Tommy’s chest ached in a strange, sad way, and he ignored it.)
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what do i do? if i ruin things between us idk what i’ll do.
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Sol slammed the door, feeling it rattle behind him. Jopson was probably glaring daggers at him through the steel. They were arguing about Sol continuing to fuck around with Neil, Thomas making the point that he always got hurt around him. That he was hospitalized because of it. Sol argued that he didn’t need to be mothered by him. He groaned, gritted his teeth, fumbled in his mesh pockets for a cigarette. With a long, drawn-out inhale, he started to walk. It had been a good few weeks, with Jopson and his eccentric roommates. They were interesting, and, compared to his former living situation, incredibly well-adjusted. That door was closed, now.
His brow furrowed into a line. He could feel his phone vibrating frantically in his pocket, surely the lads sending him texts, asking him to come back or, more likely, telling him to stay gone.
He lost himself in his cigarettes after that, walking and smoking and putting out his butts as he strolled. He’d never fit in well with the posh types anyway. It was for the best, perhaps. Maybe Bill would take him in.
Eventually, he checked the messages, the agitated buzz of his phone not subsiding.
Little: Sol, come home please? We’re worried.
Irving: You’re being ridiculous.
Hodge: I understand why you’re upset, but please, we won’t even make you talk about it, we can just leave you to it, and you can sleep in my room, and we’ll leave you alone. And we’re quite worried that you haven’t answered anyone, and you didn’t take your wallet, I’ve got it here, if you just text and tell me you’re okay I’ll come and bring it to you. You can’t get far without a wallet, Solomon-
He muted their contacts and dialed a number he hadn’t in some time.
“Moose?”
“Sol,” came his voice, and Solomon Tozer nearly wept, hearing the kid (and he wasn’t a kid, won’t much younger than Sol himself, but- he was a big brother, at heart).
Magnus Manson, better known as Moose, was the most patient person Sol knew. Moose was always willing to pick up whatever pieces his loved ones broke into, and he was loved immensely for it. Moose was special to Hickey, and their relationship held a softness, an adoration that Sol hadn’t ever seen on Hickey’s face, otherwise. But outside of being in Hickey’s back pocket, Moose was kind and thoughtful, loyal. He was sweet with Sol when he brought his belongings to the hospital, smiling in his wide, lovely way, and he was sweet now, on the phone even as Sol trembled in some damp alleyway.
“Hey, Moose, hey, kid, can you- I’m-” Sol groaned into his free hand, cigarettes long gone, shaking his head. “I don’t have my wallet, I got nowhere to stay, and- can you come get me,” he gritted out, wanting to lay on the damp asphalt and give up. He hoped some alley-dweller would come and break his ankle again, mug him, and then he’d have an excuse for needing help--
“Sure, Sol,” he hummed. “Are… Are you alright?”
“No, kid, I ain’t.”
“Ah,” Moose answered. “Just… Tell me where you are, okay, I’ll come.”
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anyway he just came back. what happened in the meantime doesn’t matter. S was crashing with a friend of his. C thinks they’re fucking. CV told me i should just grow a pair and tell him how i feel, which makes me want to blow my fuc- is not going to happen.
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Sol was back. It took Tommy by surprise, watching Magnus shoulder into the house with a sulky, moody Sol following close behind. “We’re home,” he called, pulling Pilk out of the woodwork. Tommy was on the couch, draped in The Hoodie , and blinked, owlishly, at the duo standing uncomfortably in the entryway.
“... ‘lo, Sol,' Tommy hummed.
“Tommy, it’s good to see you,” Sol murmured, not quite meeting his eyes. He looked tired. Sol nudged the door shut, and the resulting gust of air blew the smell of fresh cigarette smoke toward him.
“You too,” said Tommy, turning away and moving his gaze to his phone, trying to hide the pull of a smile on his cheeks.
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i think he got into an argument w/ the new people he’s staying with. he's upset. i always tell him to think before he speaks. he gets bullheaded sometimes.
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Neil’s smile, on the other hand, was nearly giddy . The group ate out of styrofoam takeout boxes, and Sol wouldn’t look at anyone, and Neil looked as though he were truly the cat with the canary. He looked like he’d cornered his prey and was flinging it into the air, teasing, waiting for the kill.
“Welcome back, Solomon,” said Neil, voice stretching over each of the syllables as though savoring the taste of Sol’s name on his tongue. It was almost serpentine, sensual, as it rolled off of his lips. “Had enough of your sweet little nurse?”
Tommy’s brows furrowed into a tight line.
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he’s been staying with his nurse, from when he was in the hospital. i’ve seen the guy. he’s pretentious, but handsome. handsome in the way a painting is. he doesn’t look like a real person.
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Neil made the occasion an excuse to celebrate. Only yesterday had he been complaining about Solomon, mumbling about his character and constitution, but the return of the prodigal boyfriend was, well--
Neil texted Billy, and they came home with zoomers and weed and that was that. Tommy didn’t partake in the hallucinogens, too paranoid and too traumatized from a bad trip, and Sol refrained for his own reasons, so it was the two of them, buzzing from pot, watching their housemates reacting to the new imbalance in their brain chemicals.
Tommy took a long drag from their quickly-ashing joint (they didn’t splurge on the slow-burn papers that Sol preferred any longer) before passing it wordlessly to the strong, imposing figure of Sol beside him. Sol took it, making a soft, displeased sound in the back of his throat before puffing on it, no doubt thanks to the paper turning to grey dust between his fingertips.
Tommy chanced a sidelong glance at him, at the curves and edges of his face outlined by the yellowing lights of the apartment. His eyes were half-lidded and tired, purple-red bags indicating the level of exhaustion he was at. Sol wore tired well, like he was born with it. He sucked the joint until it ashed around his fingers, and he carelessly dropped the smoldering remains of it into one of the abandoned drinks on the table. It sizzled pathetically before sinking to the bottom of the cup.
“Why’d you come back?”
“Wha’s’sat?” Sol let his voice slur around the remaining smoke in his lungs, raising an eyebrow and not looking away from the scene of Billy quietly telling Moose where they’d take in his jeans to fit him better. Billy got like that when they were high, doting and very focused on keeping the house and the lads looking their best. They often tutted at Tommy for wearing Sol’s clothes, how the larger articles swallowed him whole, and complained about his curl pattern.
“Why’d you come back? Thought you moved out.”
“I did,” he answered, gruffly. “Got sick of Neil’s shit.” He nodded at Neil, who was quietly peering out of the window, tracing absent circles on the carpet. He was consistently quiet when in the throes of a trip, watching something no one else could see and coming to intensely profound conclusions. “Why did you stay?”
“Well,” Tommy starts, stiffly.
“Well ,” Sol agrees. “Anyway, one of the nurses took pity on me and let me crash on his couch. But I burned that bridge, so here I am.”
Tommy nodded, and when he glanced back to Sol, the larger man was looking at him, with something quiet and intense. He did it often, but still, Tommy’s heart fluttered.
Oh, to be seen by Solomon, to have him look past his brooding expression to see the longing that lay within, trapped under layers of flesh and fat and muscle. Unwilling, unable, to let the words slip past his lips. The longing was creeping, crawling over the edges of Tommy’s skin, a plant in a dim room. Having Solomon within arms’ reach is a sunbeam.
Anyway, Solomon was looking at him. He raised a thick eyebrow: “is that my fucking hoodie?”
Tommy paled.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “You didn’t come back for it."
Sol moved closer, brushing The Hoodie off of Tommy’s shoulder. It glided easily, a knife through butter, the drift of a silk slip on a woman’s thigh. The fabric was well-worn, and no longer smelled like Sol. Instead, it smelled like Tommy: mild soap, cheap deodorant, the spice of his skin. “Red looks good on you,” he said, evenly.
Tommy was glad that Sol enjoyed the color on his skin, because those words made his cheeks flush blood-red. He felt alive, felt the blood pump through his body for perhaps the first time in weeks. His eyes went wide. “Does it,” he responded, matching Sol’s tone, toe-to-toe in their courtship. Sol’s done this before, tested his limits, approached carefully. He was always tentative with Tommy, as though Tommy were a baby deer, wide-eyed and confused on the lawn, muscles tense and ready to flee.
If only he knew how badly he wanted this. That he wasn’t a deer, the helpless prey- he was an adder, creeping through the grass, slowly stalking before sinking in his teeth.
“Yeah,” Sol said, finally, and Tommy could feel Neil’s gaze on him as Sol leaned in closer, until Tommy could smell the weed on his breath, feel the heat from his cheeks. Tommy couldn’t take it anymore- quick as ever, he lifted his hands to Sol’s cheeks, pulling him in for a rough kiss, teeth and air and hunger. It wasn’t romantic, not soft, but Tommy didn’t want that. He was angry, hurt, and Sol looked incredible when he sulked.
Sol grinned against his lips and Tommy nearly melted under his hands. Instead, he roughly grabbed his collar, yanking hard enough that he’s sure the hem was digging into Sol’s skin. Maybe he would stretch the neckline. He'd leave a tangible, permanent reminder that he got to kiss Solomon Tozer. “Upstairs,” Tommy hissed, low, knowing that Sol would hobble up the horribly narrow staircase on his weak ankle.
When they finally made it to Tommy's bedroom, Tommy's hands were deft and near aggressive, tugging at every article of clothing Sol wore. He smelled like unfamiliar detergent, like ozone and cigarette smoke, and Tommy wanted to press his face to the folds of Sol's body and inhale, breathe him in until there was nothing left in his lungs but the hazy musk of Solomon's skin.
Instead, he pushed Sol down, ignoring the hiss he made as he landed on Tommy's shitty, bouncy mattress. The thing rocked like a ship at the slightest suggestion of movement, and it was hardly conducive to touching another human being, but Tommy didn’t care. He crawled into Solomon's lap like he was returning home, straddling his big, muscular thighs which seemed to have softened since the last time they did this. He’s softer around the edges where Tommy feels like he himself has sharpened; hips and middles and arms. Tommy grazed his teeth over the juncture of Solomon’s neck and shoulder, muscle and flesh and salt-tinged skin, sucking a possessive mark that he would regret later, but for now he could only think of needing to leave tangible evidence that this happened.
Sol’s hands, typically so deft and quick, handy with almost anything he picked up, sat uselessly on Tommy’s hips. They were big and broad, and Tommy felt nearly encompassed by them. He felt as though Sol could hold him in one hand, like a baby bird. Simultaneously, he felt like a shard of glass, something to be held tentatively so that it didn’t cause damage.
“What are you waiting for,” he muttered. “An invitation?”
“I don’t want to do something you don’t want,” Sol answered, predictably, concerned for Tommy’s wellbeing.
Tommy wasn’t sure how to explain that the thing best for his health, at this moment, was Solomon’s tongue in his mouth.
So, instead of explaining, he took . He took what he wanted, fierce and agitated, desperate as though at the end of the world, like he had a limited amount of time.
He freed Solomon from his clothing, and ended up with a very warm, very broad, very naked man in his bed. It was the kind of thing he had daydreamed about since he met Sol-- the kind of thing he ached for after Solomon touched him like this for the first time. His skin was golden toned, and his muscles juxtaposed with the soft curves of his thighs had Tommy weak.
Tommy, on the other hand, still had an overly large t-shirt clinging to his body, hiding the angular curves and edges of him. Sol’s hands impatiently tugged at the hem ( “lemme see,” he breathed ), before taking it off and tossing it haphazardly away, running his warm, rough palms over Tommy’s pale skin.
It wasn’t as though Tommy was insecure. But when he was compared to something like Solomon-- broad, warm, gilded-- Tommy felt prickly, uncomfortable, inadequate. Solomon was charming, enthralling, and commanded a room all too easily. In comparison, Tommy felt awkward, distant. If Sol was the sun, warm, providing, too bright to look at fully, Tommy was the moon, cool and distant, pale, easy to stare at but hard to understand.
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UPDATE: i hooked up with him again.
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Tommy was on his hands and knees, Sol draped over his back like a warm blanket. His cock was thick and hot, stretching Tommy wide, to the point where he couldn’t tell where he ended and Solomon began. Just the way he liked it, pleasure to the point of no longer feeling trapped in his body, tapping on the glass but not being noticed, too small of a cage with too-thick walls.
Sol panted in his ear (the good ear, always) kissing the jut of his jawline.
“That’s it,” he whispered, breaths hot and damp against the shell of Tommy’s ear.
“Harder, ” Tommy grunted in response, rocking back against Solomon’s rhythm. “Make it hurt. ”
“Christ,” Sol whispered, with a dazed breathless laugh that Tommy knew to mean he was overwhelmed and close to his peak, biting his lip to keep himself in his body. It was unbelievably, unfairly attractive. Then there was the low register that Sol’s voice got when he was turned on like this, and Tommy shivered against him. His own sounds were soft and breathy, high, and he knew Sol liked them for the way he fucked hard into him, punching high, reedy noises from his lungs. They fell into an easy routine: fucking, rocking against one another, manipulating sounds from one another, falling asleep curled together. Sol was always too gentle, like Tommy was made of porcelain, like he was something delicate, to be held and cherished.
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After the last time, Tommy thought something might happen.
Sol was affectionate as usual, warm, broad hands tracing and exploring Tommy’s skin as though it were the first time he touched him. Like he was mapping the curves of him. His smiles were soft and sweet, dimpling his cheeks, and he kissed Tommy like his life depended on it.
Sol held him afterward, golden-brown eyelashes fanned against his cheekbones. He pressed chapped lips to his skin, broad, callused hands stroking over the angles and valleys of Tommy's body, and Tommy spent the better part of an hour examining the scars and marks on Solomon's hands.
"What's that from?"
"Got distracted using a circle saw. Nearly cut my thumb off. Hurt like a bitch, but I drove myself to the hospital. Didn't want to waste no one's time," Sol explained.
Tommy winced, hissing air through his teeth. Sol laughed in his big affable way, swatting at Tommy with said hand. A long, slightly jagged scar ran along the webbing of his thumb and forefinger. Tommy yearned to run his tongue over it.
"Can't feel that thumb anymore, but at least I kept it, yeah?"
"What about this one?"
"Burned myself with a cigarette."
"And it left a scar?"
"I didn't take great care of it, Tommy."
"I'd have taken care of you."
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The next morning is fuzzy. Through the curtains Tommy feels the kiss of dawn light, powder blue and gentle against his skin. The sheets are warm around him, cozy and comforting as an embrace, and his eyelids feel heavy as he blinks himself to awareness. It’s early. The house is quiet, and with the silence and Sol’s body beside him, Tommy can almost pretend that they’re alone. That this is their apartment, their bed, and that they aren’t on borrowed time.
He’s facing away from Sol- a habit he isn’t sure where or how he picked up, but Tommy always ends up turned away when he sleeps next to anyone. He’d like to think it’s just borne out of a desire to be cool as he sleeps, to regulate temperature and turn his extremities toward the cooler air of the bedroom. He doesn’t want to think about it in terms of intimacy. He won’t.
Even so, now awake, he turns onto his back, stares at the ceiling, at a water stain that valiantly gets bigger every week, before finally turning to Solomon, to his left. The man’s in a half-sit, propped against a pillow and the headboard, and offers Tommy a nod of acknowledgement as he taps at his phone, cigarette between his fingers.
“Mornin’, Tommy,” he mumbles, not looking up. “Sorry. I’ll be done in a sec.” He sighs, lifts his cigarette to his lips, furrows his brows at his phone. Tommy leans over to try to see what he’s doing- prepared to swat the thing out of his hand if he’s talking to Neil- when he notices the long string of texts, the contact name: Tommy.
His phone is silent as Sol sends another message.
Ah.
“What was your nurse’s name, again,” he asks, conversationally, drawing back and away, into his own divot in the mattress.
“Tommy,” Sol answers. “I mean- you’re Tommy, he’s just, also Tommy. Thomas. He just- he hated it when I first called him Tommy, so it stuck.” Sol chuckles dryly, fondly, and Tommy (this Tommy, the first one-) feels his stomach sink.
“Right.”
Vaulting upright, he swings his legs off the bed. His nerves tingle from the loss of warmth from his bed as he feels the cold air against his skin.
(You should’ve known better. You were just in the right place at the right time.)
Tommy rises to his feet, feeling mechanical. Sol finally looks up as Tommy tugs on his boxers, offering him an icy glance. “Gonna take a shower,” he explains, reaching for the cigarettes, plucking one and lighting it quietly. Sol raises an eyebrow- typically, were they in a room together, they’d share smokes. “I feel sticky. Thanks, for that, by the way,” he adds, humourless.
Sol chuckles anyway.
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UPDATE: he’s sending apology texts to his ‘friend’ that he crashed with after he left our place. we have the same name, and he’s calling him my nickname.
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snowdrop: OP blink twice if yr in a sex cult and need help
virtuoso1979: sounds fake
brosideon: YTA
ArmyTommy93: didn’t ask for a verdict
brosideon: [THIS COMMENT HAS BEEN REMOVED FOR BREAKING COMMUNITY GUIDELINES]