Module 4 - Part 2
The music, when they finally make it to Desecration Row, tense and still riding high on adrenaline, is even louder than the last time. They’re here later than the last time, too, though, so maybe that has something to do with it. There’s even a bouncer this time, a gigantic bald dude in camouflage shorts, but he doesn’t do more than nod at them when they squeeze past.
There’s a bit more of a crowd this time, too, pressed up against the stage, hands extended towards the singer. Tommy’s too far away to get a good look at his face, but that voice sounds pretty damn familiar anyway.
He reaches blindly back for Adam’s hand, dragging him with him when he pushes closer, and he can tell from the way Adam’s fingers tighten around his when Adam comes to the same realization.
“Are those the same guys from last time?” he asks, right in Tommy’s ear.
“I dunno,” Tommy says, even though he’s pretty sure they are. He definitely remembers that orange hair.
“Wow,” Adam says, and Tommy turns back to him and shrugs.
“I don’t really know how many bands Ricker Hill has to offer,” he says.
“Enough to warrant a venue,” Adam points out, and yeah, okay, point.
“You wanna get in there?” Adam asks, tilting his head at the jumping crowd of punks.
“Are you telling me you want to?” Tommy asks, eyebrows climbing high.
“No.” Adam grins a little bit. “But you kinda look like you need to work off some steam, so.”
Put like that, Tommy doesn’t need telling twice, and he doesn’t waste any time dragging Adam into the fray. They lose each other for a bit but bump - literally - into each other in the pit, and Adam wraps his arms around Tommy and pulls him back a bit. Which sucks, because uncoordinated jumping and the occasional burst of pain was kind of the most alive Tommy’s felt ever since the shift, but he’s not willing to sacrifice Adam’s arms around him to get that back, so he leans back against Adam’s solid chest and drags his attention back to the stage.
The guitarist with the crazy hair’s doing a solo at the moment, so the singer’s wandered off, making moon eyes at the redhead. And then he just kind of… He slides his finger into the tiny dude’s hair and just fucking kisses him, right there, like it’s no big deal, and Adam’s breathing is hot and heavy and startled in Tommy’s ear and Tommy stops bouncing around for a second because holy shit, he didn’t see that coming.
“Wow,” Adam says, and Tommy would say the same, he’s even moving his lips, but there’s no sound coming out. Just wow.
Tommy’s sweat-soaked and still a bit speechless when the set is done. He figures he even kind of deserves it when Adam takes a good look at him and starts laughing, so he’s not even scowling too hard when Adam drags him over to the bar and orders both of them a coke. Tommy’s not even through half of his before a couple of people starts cheering again; looking over, the singer’s just emerged from backstage, slapping shoulders and giving out hugs to the people he recognizes.
He ends up chatting with a few girls with crazy hair for almost twenty minutes, not that Tommy’s paying attention or anything, before the rest of the band emerges.
That guy - the guy from the band, the one who told Tommy he was a fucking boy scout - nods in their direction, but he heads straight for the bartender instead of coming over. Tommy is vaguely annoyed, and a bit relieved, at the lack of attention. It doesn’t last long, though, because then Gerard - Gerard the singer - comes over and nudges the guy next to Adam in the back and says something along the lines of, “Worm wants you backstage,” and then he slides onto the barstool when the guy Worm supposedly wants backstage abandons it.
He waves a hand hopelessly in the bartender’s direction, who doesn’t notice because he’s fixing up a drink for the guitarist, and Gerard slumps for a moment before he notices Tommy looking. A moment later, a smile appears on his face. “Hey there,” he says, holding out his hand at a really funky angle. “I’m Gerard. Way. I sing for My Chem.”
“Yeah, we know, dude,” Tommy says, but he still reaches over Adam to squeeze Gerard’s hand. “I’m Tommy. That’s Adam.”
Adam gives a little wave before he wraps his arms back around his midriff. He’s a social caterpillar, seriously.
Gerard smiles, though. “You guys enjoy the show?” he asks. “Today was a good one. Everybody was all into it, it was great.”
Down the bar, when Tommy looks, Frank’s throwing back his drink. He says something to the barkeep, slides a bill across the bar and grins, quick and easy. Then he looks over and makes an I’m watching you gesture at Tommy, creepily intent.
Gerard laughs. “You caught Frank’s attention,” he says to Tommy. “Don’t ask me how. Fucker’s got a memory the size of a gnat.”
“We talked for a bit after the last gig,” Tommy says. He flinches when he catches Adam’s - totally deserved, okay, fine - elbow in the ribs. “For, like, a second. I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
“Frank doesn’t hate anybody,” Gerard says, waving off his words like they’re ridiculous. “He’s just an angry dude.”
“Yeah, and he hates me.”
Gerard just shakes his head, smirking a little bit. It’s kind of annoying. “You’ll see,” he says mysteriously.
Tommy manages not to roll his eyes.
Gerard grins brightly in return and turns to draw Adam into a discussion about the current band, carefully coaxing him into answering in more than single syllables and blushes. Tommy stares at the bottles of liquor lined up above the bar and lets the adrenaline fade into exhaustion. He zones out trying to decipher the small print on one of the labels and almost tips off his stool in shock when Frank’s suddenly at his elbow, gesturing something at the bartender before he leans into Gerard and presses a quick kiss to his temple.
“Hey, man,” he says to Tommy, all casual like, and Gerard grins at Tommy over Adam’s shoulder all See? See? What did I tell you? Fucking smart-ass.
“Hey,” Tommy says to Frank.
The other guy takes a beer from the barkeeper and gulps down a long swallow before he asks, around the neck of the bottle, “Make any old ladies happy recently?”
“Only your mom,” Tommy says, ignoring Gerard and Adam’s puzzled expressions. Instead, he makes hopeful eyes at the bartender who snickers and shakes his head. Ass.
Frank, though - Frank grins and smacks Tommy on the shoulder before handing over his bottle. “I like you, man,” he says. He turns to Gerard. “Gee, Ray says to tell you we already packed up, and thanks for the help.”
Gerard smiles innocently, and Frank half grins, half rolls his eyes.
“Whatever, dude. I’m gonna go, Jamia’s waiting for me backstage.”
Gerard makes a tiny noise of amusement, and Frank slides his hand across his chest and toddles off, all five-foot-something swagger, fist-bumping somebody in the diminishing crowd before he disappears.
“Jamia?” Adam asks Gerard.
Gerard twists his mouth ruefully, like it’s a question he’s used to getting but not one he really likes answering. “His girlfriend,” he says.
“But you,” Tommy says, like a dumbass, gesturing up at the stage.
Gerard smiles a little bit. “Nah, he just likes to fuck with people. Making out with another guy at a punk-slash-metal concert is right up his alley.”
“People here don’t like that?” Adam asks hesitantly.
“They don’t really care much one way or the other, as long as the rhythm’s right.” Gerard shrugs. “But there’s always some asshole who just can’t keep his mouth shut, and Frank sure has a good time shutting it for him.”
“That’s… good.” Adam picks at his fingers, like, really fucking obviously, and if Gerard hadn’t ferreted on to the fact that Adam’s worried about himself liking dick, he definitely knows now.
But Gerard just grins and pats Adam’s arm. “People here are cool, Adam,” he says. Then he leans forward and adds, surprisingly earnestly, “And if anybody gives you any trouble, you can tell us, okay? We want you to feel safe here.”
It sounds a bit too much like an after-school special to be honest, and Tommy can feel his eyebrows rising up of their own accord, but Gerard’s smile is nothing but innocent. “And you, too, Tommy, of course.”
“Thanks, man,” Tommy says, but he doesn’t roll his eyes. It seems unnecessarily mean, especially when Gerard apparently legitimately wants to make them feel better. Instead, he drinks his (Frank’s) beer for a bit. He even offers the bottle to Adam who takes a sip and makes a face before handing it back. Gerard happily drinks a stoplight of shots the barkeeper pours for him and washes them down with a BudLight. Tommy kind of wants to down his beer, too, but it’s the only one he’s gonna get his hands on tonight, looks like, and he doesn’t want to choke on it and like, actually prove that he has no idea what he’s doing.
So even though he jumps, he’s also kind of relieved when Frank calls “Yo, Tommy,” from across the room. He’s holding up a pack of Viceroy’s, the cheap kind. “We’re going for a smoke, come on.”
Tommy tries not to show his panic when he pushes his beer at Adam, slides off the stool and makes his way across the sticky floor, soles catching with every step, and towards where Frank’s got the fire door pushed open with one hand. From close up, Frank’s lips are kiss-swollen and red, and he’s got a red spot on his neck that’ll no doubt turn into a hickey by tomorrow, and even if all of that wasn’t enough to tell Tommy what he’s been up to, the smug smile on his face would give it away.
“Jamia doesn’t smoke?” he asks when they’re outside, Frank spinning away to fiddle with his cigarettes. It probably comes out more awkward than casual, but Frank only grins.
“Nope. She’s a smart cookie, that one. Refuses to join me in my quest for cancer.”
“That’s… pretty smart, yeah,” Tommy says, and feels like an idiot.
Franks flicks on his lighter and looks up at him, smile sharp in the orange light. “Yeah, well, we’re guys. We’re supposed to do dumb shit and put our life in danger.”
“Modern-day chest-thumping,” Tommy offers, and Frank laughs.
“What’s your name, Gorilla-Boy?” he asks, and Tommy mutters “Tommy,” and he nods.
“I’m Frank,” he says.
“Yeah.” Tommy gestures over his shoulder, even though that’s the wrong way. “Gerard told us.”
“He’s a blabbermouth,” Frank says easily. He comes and pushes at Tommy’s shoulder before he offers him his pack. Tommy takes one on autopilot, stuck on the fact that Frank only comes up to his nose. It’s freaky but nice. It’s actually kind of cool to not be the shortest guy around.
They smoke in silence for a while, before Frank stops and gives Tommy a considering look. “So, like,” he says, in a tone that immediately has Tommy on high alert. “Tell me something.”
“What do you want to know?”
It comes out kind of flat, and Frank raises an eyebrow before he says, “So, like, Clarkenwell’s a pretty fucking posh place, yeah?”
Tommy doesn’t even dignify that with a reply, just nods.
“So, like.” Frank spreads his hand, cigarette gleaming between two fingers. “What are you doing down here?”
Tommy blinks. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, dude, that you’ve got everything you fucking want up there, and you’re risking it all for a bunch of fucked up kids playing a shitty club. And like, this place rocks, don’t get me wrong, but just - why?”
Tommy laughs. He can’t help it. He tries to keep it in, keep it down, but it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s heard in days, weeks, possibly his entire life. He tries to take a drag from his cigarette when he can’t make himself stop chortling and ends up choking on the smoke, and while he hacks, Frank’s expression goes from annoyed to concerned.
“Dude, chill,” he says. “Seriously. It wasn’t even that funny.”
“You have no idea,” Tommy chokes out, but he takes the half-full, luke-warm bottle of water Frank pulls from the back pocket of his jeans and uncaps for him. A long, slow mouthful helps a bit, and he takes another one before he hands the bottle back.
He tries to straighten a little, compose himself, and then he says, “Frank, if there was one place that I would nominate for fucking hell on Earth, it would be that school, okay?”
“Seriously?” Frank asks, freezing with his cigarette halfway to his mouth.
“Yeah,” Tommy says. “What, you really think I’d be here if I was all about trumpeting the company line?”
“Guess not,” Frank shrugs. “Most everybody who goes there seems to love it, though,” he says, and gives Tommy the eye again.
And fuck it. If Frank’s gonna shun him for having the gene, Tommy would rather find out now than think Frank’s a chill guy for the longest time and then have to deal with the fallout.
“We’re not exactly everybody’s favorite person,” he says, challenging. Ask me, he dares him.
When Frank does arch his eyebrows, Tommy lifts his hand into the air and jiggles the bracelet around his wrist.
“Well fuck that,” Frank says, pushing up his sleeve to show the rubber band around his. “If I cared what people think of me, I would have put a bullet in my head a long time ago.”
“I care,” Tommy says baldly. “I’d kind of like it if they didn’t put a bullet in my head, you see.”
“You might be onto something,” Frank says, mock seriously, punctuating the words with a stab of his cigarette in Tommy’s direction. He loses it mid-motion and stares at the butt on the ground dejectedly for a moment before he lights another one. “So what brings you to New England, Tommy?”
“Um.” Tommy’s a bit thrown by the small talk shit, but Frank motions for him to go on, all curious eyes.
“Carsberg, actually,” Tommy says after a minute. “You know, that thing in L.A.?”
“That wolf that got fucked up by those ghetto kids, or whatever?”
“Lynched. Yeah.” Tommy’s not the type to get nightmares, but even he had trouble sleeping after that news footage - the kid’s nineteen-year-old face, fucked up and distorted into a Quasimodo grimace, boot print on his pale neck. Paul Carsberg. “Shit went on for a while after that. Like, people getting beaten up, people smashing shop windows, burning cars. My mom wanted to get me out of there.”
“You got bit, then?” Frank asks, dark eyes flickering up to Tommy’s neck.
Tommy nods. “Yeah. We have like, zero money, but Clarkenwell has some scholarship program for underprivileged werewolves, or some shit, so.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “Adam’s kind of the same, with the riots and shit, except he’s bred true, right, so he did his freshman year here, too.” He’s itching to rub at the back of his neck, but he stuffs his hand into his pocket instead. “We started at the same time,” he says.
He watches Frank take a couple slow drags from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the cold air. Finally he tilts his hand away and says, “So, you’re like, recently crossed over.”
“January 12th,” Tommy says. He doesn’t even hesitate. “Three years ago. Shit.”
“Shit,” Frank echoes. “Man, I can’t imagine what it’s like not to turn.”
“I wish I didn’t know what it’s like,” Tommy says. He didn’t mean to, and he regrets it the minute Frank turns grim eyes on him, but it’s the truth. His life officially went to shit the night he snuck out to get fucked up on the playground with the two guys from next door. Werewolf snack. He’s spent every day since then wishing he’d just been a fucking good boy and stayed at home. His mother’s freak-out had been nothing compared to the way Tommy had beaten himself up about his retarded decisions.
Frank, though, looks at Tommy like Tommy’s a total weirdo for saying something like that.
“What?” Tommy finally asks, when the silence draws on, long and uncomfortable.
But Frank just shakes his head. “You should come by our place sometime,” he says instead. “43 Millner Street. We usually just chill there when we’re not playing a gig.”
“43 Millner,” Tommy repeats. He’s gaping a bit, but he thinks that’s kind of justified, given the circumstances. “Just, like, whenever?”
“Whenever,” Frank agrees easily. “But not before noon. Like, normal-people time, okay?”
“Okay,” Tommy agrees, probably sounding as dazed as he feels.
Frank throws a quick grin his way before he ducks backstage, and Tommy goes to find Adam and maybe freak out a little bit, because holy fuck.
They almost get caught sneaking back in. They spend forever breathing each other’s air in the second stairwell because there’s somebody wandering the corridors, given away by the way their steps echo on the linoleum. When they finally make a break for it, somebody calls “Hey!” and Adam disappears into his room and probably dives straight under the covers, and Tommy ducks into the bathroom and waits in a shower stall for what feels like hours and even hides his jeans and shoes underneath the sink so he can walk back to his room one floor up in just his t-shirt and boxers and pretend he was just going for a piss if anybody catches him wandering the halls at night.
Nobody catches him.
And he’s happy, like, seriously happy about that, but at the same time, there’s’ something startlingly like disappointment curled in his chest. Like, things are different now, right? Everything’s so different now. Tommy feels like somebody else, somebody new, and he wants to shout it from the rooftops but he can’t. He’s a bit like Alice, maybe. He’s gone down the rabbit hole, and he can’t even tell anyone about it.
Instead, he gets to drag his ass to his usual classes and talk about the same stuff they talked about the last time, with the same people, and he gets about two periods in before he gives up on pretending to be the same Tommy and just spends most of Spanish dozing in and out of consciousness. He hates his classmates and the teacher most of the time, and sometimes he even hates his hetero-normative, white-bread textbook. But he really hates the language itself, and he makes it a point to always be the first out the door.
Usually he meets Adam by his locker, but he’s not there today, and Tommy’s fiddling with his books and stalling for time when he hears the laughter.
He lifts his head, but completely in the wrong direction, considering the only person he sees is a girl at a locker two down from Adam’s, marked with a clear L in the top corner, and she looks like could not possibly be further from laughing right now.
Tommy doesn’t know her all that well, but Clarkenwell is small enough that Tommy remembers most names and faces; hers is Daisy, she’s a sophomore, and she’s got just enough weight on her bones to give her awesome curves and an amazing rack. She has History with Adam and always blushes when a teacher calls on her, no matter if she’s wrong or right.
It’s too bad Tommy isn’t particularly interested in girls, because Daisy’s cute. Like, really cute, with a button nose and bright eyes and long blonde hair that spills over her shoulders and down her back. Being interested in her would make Tommy’s life a whole lot easier.
As it stands, Tommy’s more interested in tall and ginger-haired and dorky. It’s ridiculous, but it is what it is.
“Hey, Tommy,” she says, catching his eyes. The paper in her hands vibrates for a moment before she closes her fingers tightly around it.
“Hey.” Tommy takes a careful step towards her, and it’s not until someone giggles in the vicinity again and Daisy flinches that Tommy realizes what’s going on. There are a handful of pretty girls - probably not cheerleaders, but stupidly attractive anyway - crowded against one of the lockers, making faces at themselves in the mirror stuck to the inside and occasionally at Daisy down the hall.
“’L’ for ‘ugly,” one of them snickers, far too loudly not to be intended to hurt. They all break into obnoxiously loud laughter at that, and then they head off for lunch, probably to eat salads with low-fat dressing and make cow eyes at the football players.
Daisy looks down at her feet, arms closing tightly around her chest, and Tommy crosses over to her and reaches out to put a hand on her arm before he even thinks about it. He never thinks about it, what it must be like for her - she and Maria are the only female wolves at the school (again, they match the statistics perfectly - there are 2 female wolves to 15 males) and Tommy thinks that maybe it’s worse for her. He doesn’t think they get smacked around as much, but. Girls are cruel.
Daisy raises her head slowly, and fuck. Tommy doesn’t have to be a genius to understand that sheen of silver in her eyes.
“They’re bitches, Daisy,” he says. He even manages a smile. “Okay? You’re not ugly.”
She drops her head again. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not lying.” He makes a noise when she shakes her head, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Look at you, okay? You’re gorgeous.”
She shakes her head again, but she’s smiling now. “You’re a good friend, Tommy,” she says before she walks away, and Tommy blinks after her for a moment. He’d always thought Adam was his only friend, but maybe - maybe they all have to stick together however they can.
“Hey,” Adam says, knocking on the door Tommy’s left ajar. He hovers in the doorway and doesn’t come inside.
Tommy scoots closer to the wall and pats the bedspread next to him. He hadn’t been doing much, just staring at the wall, imagining a day when he’s made it big as something and nobody can tell him what to do anymore, and if anybody’s mean to his friends, he can just hire a bunch of bruisers and take them around the back.
It’s a good fantasy, if a bit childish, and he’s been occupying himself with it for almost - forty minutes now, according to his alarm clock. He tries to remember if he and Adam had plans, if that’s why Adam’s come looking for him when he probably should be doing his homework or studying for Chem or something, but Adam doesn’t look mad, so maybe not. Guy can’t hide a sulk for shit.
“I waited for you,” Tommy says after a while, when Adam apparently can’t quite manage to open his mouth. He smiles in retrospect so it sounds less like he’s nagging. It’s not like he particularly minds that Adam didn’t show up. It’s just unusual.
“Um. Yeah.” Adam drums his fingers against the doorway. “Choir ran over.”
Tommy rolls his eyes. “Seriously, get in here,” he says, patting the bed again. “Stop lurking, you freak.”
Adam still takes forever to come inside and close the door behind him, and Tommy has to prompt him again before he actually takes a seat on the bed. It’s enough to make Tommy feel anxious, and he still hasn’t the slightest clue what’s actually going on.
“Come on,” he says - whines - after a while. “What’s up? Tell me.”
Adam takes a deep breath, deflates and blows air out his nostrils. Takes another breath. “I heard about that thing with Daisy.” He stares intently at his hands. “That was - sweet, of you.”
Jesus fuck, this school is the most ridiculous gossip mill there is, and barely anybody even talks to them.
“You would have done it, too,” Tommy says.
Adam shrugs. He still won’t raise his head. “Maybe. I hope so.”
Yeah, okay, maybe Tommy isn’t as convinced as all that, either. Whatever. But the way Adam’s acting it’s like something’s really wrong, and it’s freaking Tommy out. He can’t be smooth when he’s freaking out.
He elbows Adam in the side, finally, when he can’t take the silence anymore. “Seriously,” he says. “What’s up with you? You’re being all twitchy and shit.”
Adam twitches again. “Do you, like - like her.” It comes out flat, telling in its lack of emotion, and Tommy can’t believe they’re actually having this conversation right now. What are they, twelve? Fuck.
But, well. There are the butterflies, so apparently they really are. Twelve.
Still, Tommy slides his fingers between Adam’s to stop them from fidgeting, and then just kind of ends up leaving them there. “Daisy’s not who I want,” he says, heart in his throat, but Adam just kind of smiles jerkily before he ducks his head to hide his face. Tommy can still see his ears turn red.
“Okay,” Adam says quietly. He sounds pleased, though, and Tommy squeezes his hand once before he leans back against the headboard and goes back to dreaming about better days.
September spills over into October before they know it. Towards the end of the month, Adam gets lunchtime detention for completely bombing his physics midterm (‘tutoring,’ not detention, technically, but the overall effect is the same) and Tommy eats his lunch in his room for a while before he gets tired of it. Then he goes to sit with Ryan Ross and his crazy-haired buddy Ian, two freshmen with gleaming bracelets around their wrists, and even though they don’t talk, Ryan spends the whole time watching Tommy out of the corner of his eye.
It’s not until the first Friday of October or so that Adam finally has another quiz, gets an 86% and is let off the hook, and Tommy celebrates by dragging them both downtown to hang with the guys. 43 Millner Street is easy enough to find, even if Adam bitches under his breath the entire way down there (and the twenty minutes Tommy spends trying to remember if it’s left at the footbridge, or straight ahead) about how much trouble they’re going to be in if someone ferrets on.
“Would you relax?” Tommy snaps finally, hand already raised to knock on the door. “Nobody’s gonna fucking ferret on if you just stop being so god damn twitchy.”
He brings his knuckles down on the wood before Adam can say anything else, try and talk him out of it, before Tommy can talk himself out of it, and he hears Adam suck in a sharp breath, and then he waits.
It feels like years.
Adam shifts at his side, half impatient, half terrified. Tommy lifts his hand again. One more time. He’s going to knock one more time - that’s okay, right? Not too pushy? Two tries, and then he’s going to go home and it won’t feel like he’s stumbling home with his tail tucked between his legs, and Adam won’t say anything like ‘I told you so.’
Then he hears slow, shuffling footsteps inside, and quickly drops his hand.
The door swings open a moment later. “Oh.” Gerard blinks. “It’s you guys.”
Tommy nods, trying hard to ignore the I-told-you-so look Adam shoots him from the corner of his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Frank said it was okay for us to come by. Whenever.”
“We’re waiting for pizza,” Gerard says. He blinks again, and then seems to remember that they’re all just standing around in the doorway and takes a step back. “We’re drinking beer,” he adds. “You can have some if you want.”
“That’s okay,” Adam says, before Tommy has the chance to elbow him in the side.
Gerard shrugs. “Whatever you want, man. It’s all okay with me.”
They bob their heads and shuffle past him awkwardly, into a surprisingly nice living/dining room area with tan carpets and light-colored wooden chairs and table. There are framed pictures arranged on the mantle and cute porcelain animals sitting in the half-empty bookshelves, and it’s just as well the rooms are empty, because Tommy could not imagine Frank kicking around here in a million years.
“The guys are in the basement,” Gerard says, gesturing at the stairs. He locks the door after peering hopefully down the street and motions for them to follow him down the narrow, carpeted steps, around a bend and through the only open one of three identical doors.
As nice and middle class as the upstairs is, this room is kind of a shithole. There are two saggy couches and a TV and a coffee table covered in beer cans and sticky rings where more beer cans used to be, grimy plates and empty take-out containers and a couple of empty handles half-hidden behind the mini-fridge by the door.
“Guys!” Frank cries happily from his perch on one of the couches. “Tommy! And Friend! What’s up?”
“Not much,” Tommy says. “We were just in the area. You know, figured we’d stop by.” He crosses his arms but then drops them because he doesn’t want to look defensive or anything, and then stands there like a total idiot.
“Good timing, man.” Frank leans forward a little. “We ordered pizza,” he confides.
“It’s not here yet,” Gerard says. He crawls onto the other couch and picks up the notebook lying on the cushions before he takes a swig from the open whiskey bottle sitting on the table.
Behind Tommy, Adam chokes on air.
Frank looks over at the sound. “Nice treads,” he says, gaze catching on Tommy’s dress shoes.
Tommy does cross his arms that time. “Fuck you, man, I don’t have anything else.”
Frank happily knocks his converse together in response. “Preppie.”
“Townie,” Tommy manages to get out before he starts laughing. “Do people actually call us that?”
“No idea, man, it’s not like we’re from here.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Come on, park your ass.”
Tommy’s already sitting before he notices Adam still hovering by the door, and he has to work pretty damn hard at not rolling his eyes as he beckons him over. “This is Adam,” he tells nobody in particular.
“Hey, Adam,” Frank says. He grins. “You’re right on time. We’re just getting ready to trash the place.”
“Seriously?” someone asks, and there’s another guy in the corner next to the TV, kneeling over a guitar and a pack of strings, spooning cereal into his mouth. He’s got funky hair and love handles and Frank calls him Ray when he tells him to lighten up.
“This is Ray’s uncle’s place,” Frank tells them, nodding at the curly-headed guy. “So we can hang here for free. Which is good, you know, ‘cause we’re pretty broke. Like, Mikey has a job, and Ray and I mow lawns and shit sometimes, so we’re not like, starving or anything.” He purses his lips thoughtfully. “Gerard mostly just sits around and scribbles.”
“Fuck you,” Gerard says, but considering he’s peering at them from the top of his notepad, his words lose some of their impact.
“Sometimes he gets drunk, too,” Frank says. He’s grinning behind his hand.
Gerard breathes a huffy sigh and retreats back behind his papers.
Frank grins harder. “Speaking of which,” he says, waving a hand at the empty beer cans on the table. “You want?”
“Jesus Christ, Frankie,” Ray says. He gets up and sets his bowl and spoon down on the coffee table. “They’re what, fifteen? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to get laid.”
“I don’t need to get my lays drunk,” Frank protests, just as Tommy says, “I’m seventeen, thanks.”
Ray raises an eyebrow at him. “Same difference.”
Tommy bites his tongue before he says something nasty, even if he’s not sure what he’d say, exactly, because these guys might be chill but he’s just the kid they picked up off the street, and Ray’s their friend, their band member, even if he is a giant dick. Thankfully the conversation gets derailed by the doorbell going, and somebody yelling, “Pizza.”
“Pizza,” Gerard says happily.
Ray scores himself some Brownie points by volunteering to go get it, but whatever. He’s got a lot of fucking points to make up.
Adam elbows Tommy in the side, frowning, and Tommy probably nudges back harder than strictly necessary. And then he feels bad, and then he gets annoyed about feeling bad, and he shuffles a bit away from Adam and is probably way happier to see Ray return with three boxes and a handful of change than he should be, given the circumstances.
Ray lets the first two clatter onto the coffee table and hands the third, smaller box to Frank. “Here’s your vegetarian, you freak.”
Frank flips the lid open and inhales blissfully. “I love you,” he says solemnly. “You brought me pizza.” He closes his eyes for a moment, but they pop open when a skinny guy in all-black appears in the doorway. “And a Mikey!”
“Hey,” apparently-Mikey says, possibly at Tommy and Adam, so Tommy gives him a bit of a wave.
Mikey doesn’t respond, though, just sits down cross-legged on the ground next to Gerard’s perch on the edge of the couch.
“You want?” Gerard asks, and hands him a slice when Mikey nods, dripping grease all over the coffee table.
“Tommy says he plays guitar,” Frank announces happily, for Mikey’s sake because everybody else heard Tommy say it himself. “I like people who play guitar.”
Mikey cuts a quick, expressionless glance at him, and Tommy can feel himself flush. “A bit,” he says. “When I can sneak into the practice rooms. Mostly I just noodle around.”
Mikey nods. “Don’t ask Frank to teach you anything,” he says. His voice is kind of raspy. “He’s good, but he can’t teach to save his life.”
“Don’t bad-mouth me,” Frank protests, mock wounded, before he laughs. “I really am shit at teaching, though. You should ask Ray, he’s way more patient than me.”
Tommy privately thinks that Ray would have to be the last guitar player on Earth before Tommy would ask him to teach him anything, but instead he smiles a bit and takes a bite of his pizza. “So I’ve met your singer, two guitarists and the bass player. Where’s your drummer?”
Gerard shakes his head and says, through a mouthful of pizza, “No drummer.”
“But what about,” Tommy says, and waves a hand in a vague, the guy who plays drums during your gigs kind of way.
Gerard swallows noisily. “He’s one of the club’s techies,” he says. “He’s been filling in. Our old drummer couldn’t be bothered to leave his cushy little nest for his band.” His tone’s casual, but there’s a hard set to his eyes, and he cuts a quick glance at Mikey next to him who keeps eating, unbothered.
“Okay,” Tommy says uneasily. Seriously, what do you say to that?
Thankfully, though, Mikey suddenly smiles at him. He picks up a second slice of pizza with his other hand, so he’s got both hands full, and nods his head at the TV/game console set-up. “You play Tekken?” he asks.
Tommy doesn’t much, but enough that he’s not getting completely clobbered (just mostly clobbered), and it’s hard to be mad about losing all the time when Mikey keeps making these snide little remarks and Frank’s throwing out his own sarcastic commentary and Gerard sucks so hard even Tommy can beat him. It’s a pretty rare feeling for Tommy these days, to just be around guys he gets along with and shoot the shit. It’s not like with Adam, which is amazing most of the time but kind of complicated. It’s just… it’s fun. It’s easy and fun and honestly, pretty damn great.
It’d be fucking amazing, in fact, if Adam wasn’t hovering in the corner like somebody personally shoved a stick up his ass, and does he just have to be such a mood killer all the time? Like, yeah, he’s Tommy’s best friend, but sometimes he could really make it a bit easier on both of them.
Gerard and Mikey and Ray don’t seem to notice or care, or maybe they’re just nice enough to pretend not to, but eventually Adam’s wallflower impression gets so bad that Frank pulls Tommy aside, which Tommy really could have done without, thanks.
“Dude,” Frank says quietly. His breath is loud in Tommy’s ear. “Like, you’re cool, yeah, but can’t you get your buddy to relax a bit?”
“I’ll talk to him,” Tommy says, trying not to flush. Fucking Adam. He pats himself down uselessly. “You gotta cig?”
Frank hands him one. “Gotta smoke on the porch,” he says with an apologetic shrug. “House rules, and shit.”
“Fine,” Tommy says. He holds out his hand. “Lighter? Thanks.”
And then, with a hopefully not completely pathetic smile, he goes to make himself lung cancer fodder and hopefully get Adam to loosen up just a tiny little bit.
The backyard that goes with the house is completely boring. There’s a whole bunch of (trimmed, surprisingly) grass and a hedge, so the only thing worth watching is the agitated way Adam’s pacing all over the porch.
“Having a good time, I see,” Tommy finally can’t resist saying.
Adam starts so badly Tommy’s kind of surprised he doesn’t drop his can of coke. “Sorry,” he says. He smiles a bit, caught. “It’s not like, bad or anything.”
“Not bad, right,” Tommy says. “You just hate it.”
“I don’t hate it,” Adam says. He rubs at his arms, like he’s cold. “It’s just weird, that’s all.”
Tommy tries really, really hard not to sigh, but from the look on Adam’s face, he can probably tell. “Just - can’t you try to relax? Even just a little bit?” He waves his hand at the door, trying not to show how fucking frustrated he is. Adam drives him up the wall sometimes. “They’re not our parents, or our classmates or whatever, okay? They’re friends.”
Adam shakes his head.
“What does that mean?” Tommy asks, sharper than intended, but Adam doesn’t raise his eyes.
“I know they’re your friends, Tommy, okay? I know that. But they’re - they think I’m your weirdo sidekick, okay? They’d never hang out with me if it weren’t for you.”
“Seriously?” Tommy asks. He turns to the garden. Seeing Adam standing there, hunched in on himself, with all his fucking issues - it’s just pathetic, is what it is, and Tommy’s trying really hard not to think of Adam that way.
“I’m just - not as tough as you are, Tommy,” Adam says quietly.
“What are you talking about, man,” Tommy says without looking at him.
“Look,” Adam says, throwing his hands into the air with an exasperated sigh. “Maybe you can just waltz in here and feel right at home, like, these are your people or some shit like that, but I can’t do that, Tommy, okay? I’m not that guy.”
“You could be,” Tommy says stubbornly.
“No, I couldn’t,” Adam says. “That’s all you.”
Tommy kind of wants to be annoyed with him for that, but Adam’s standing there in front of him, shoulders slumped and all uncomfortable, and he can’t. He just can’t.
“Just, come here,” Tommy says, and draws him in.
Adam kisses sweetly, not that Tommy’s surprised, hesitant touch of lips to lips, zero tongue. Tommy doesn’t have a whole lot of kisses to compare it to - being nature’s freak in a place like Clarkenwell is the world’s most effective cock block - but he thinks he likes it. It’s very Adam.
He shifts a bit, touching his fingertips to Adam’s side. Adam stiffens a bit, though he doesn’t pull back, and instead of groping him, Tommy just lets his hand settle there, steady and reassuring. He almost ends up sighing into the kiss when Adam relaxes again, which is stupid but not something he can help. He wants Adam to be relaxed. It’s a new thing, but Tommy thinks he likes it. He’s had crushes before, yeah, but he’s never felt like this about anyone: Like he wanted to take his time with them because they wanted to take time. Like they’re worth it.
“Well now,” Frank says from somewhere behind Tommy, and Tommy can practically hear the smirk in his tone. “Werewolf and a faggot. You’re just fucked all around, aren’t you?”
Tommy’s not sure what to make of that - it’d be kind of hypocritical of Frank to take offense at either, but his tone’s not exactly what you’d call friendly - but it doesn’t matter anyway because Adam practically trips over his feet in his haste to get away, darting worried looks at Frank and then Tommy and then Frank again before he mutters something about having to go and bolts inside.
Tommy sighs. He wanders over to where Frank’s standing in the doorway, smirking, and punches him in the arm really fucking hard. “Thanks for that, asshole,” he says.
“How was I supposed to know he’s so freaking touchy,” Frank complains, rubbing at his arm, and follows him back downstairs where Tommy heads over to the couch. Adam isn’t around. “Seriously though, man, you sweet on him? Beer?”
Tommy doesn’t say anything, just holds his hand out for the bottle Frank pulls out of the mini fridge before he collapses into the grimy cushions.
“I guess he’s a sweet guy,” Frank says finally, and Tommy knows him well enough to recognize a peace offering when he sees one, so he half-smiles and takes it.
“No,” Adam says, mostly to the lunch lady dishing up salad. He’d breezed past the pasta and the potatoes and the burgers, so maybe he’s on a diet again. One his parents probably don’t even know about. Again.
“Adam,” Tommy says.
Adam shakes his head. “No.”
“Adam, come on.” Tommy knows he’s whining, but this is stupid. “You can’t just not come just because of something Frank said.”
“It’s not just what Frank said,” Adam says slowly, like it’s painful to even admit that much.
“I thought we’d been over this,” Tommy says. “They like you fine, okay? They don’t think you’re a freak, and besides, it’s not like they really have room to talk.”
Adam drops his chin to his chest and mumbles something that Tommy’s brain takes a second to decipher into “Everybody thinks I’m a freak.”
“I don’t think you’re a freak,” Tommy says, feeling thick anger welling up in his belly.
Adam peers at him, doubting and a little hopeful, and Tommy sighs.
He nods his head towards the door instead of the loud, bustling tables full of uniformed students and Adam follows without complaint, down the corridor and out the door and across the lawn towards the trees lining the side of the tennis court, where it almost feels like you’re in a park or out in the forest somewhere if you don’t look up from your feet.
“Frank’s a dick,” Tommy says eventually. Maybe it isn’t the grand declaration all the romcoms seem to expect at this point, but Tommy isn’t a grand declarations kind of guy. Also, it kind of needs to be said.
Adam laughs, though, so maybe it’s enough. “I know that, Tommy,” he says. “Trust me. I hang out with the guy, too.”
“Yeah, well.” Tommy spreads his hands, palms up. “He still shoulda kept his big damned mouth shut, so.”
“Frank should keep his mouth shut a lot of the time,” Adam says, easy agreement.
“Right.” Tommy jerks his head in some kind of crappy half-nod. “So, are we like, good now? Because I like Frank and all, but if I have to pick between you and him, I’m gonna go with you, and he’s like, one of my best friends at this point, so if we could all kiss and make up or whatever, that’d be nice.”
“Aw, Tommy.” Adam stops walking, clutches his hands to his heart. “That was almost romantic.”
“So we’re good then?” Tommy presses, lifting his chin a little bit.
“Yeah, we’re good.”
Tommy nudges his chin a little higher, and Adam, pink and pleased, presses his lips against Tommy’s. “We’re good, I promise.”
“Good,” Tommy says. “’Cause I’d totally have to kick Frank’s ass otherwise, and I’m not one-hundred per cent sure I could. Dude’s wily.”
Adam slings his arm around Tommy’s shoulders. “It’s okay, I won’t ask you to be my knight in shining armor. I still think you’re badass, I promise.”
“I’m pretty badass,” Tommy agrees, slow and easy even though his heart thumps almost painfully hard in his chest. He slips his arm around Adam’s waist. “So you’re coming with me, right?”
“No,” Adam says, rolling his eyes, but there’s a smile on his face and Tommy totally doesn’t believe him.
As it turns out, Adam actually doesn’t come with him. His parents call him just after dinner and they talk for almost two hours, and when Tommy comes by to check on him he’s got his head buried in his books and barely even looks up to tell Tommy that he needs to pick up his grades and study hard and his parents are fighting, he can tell, and the last thing he needs is to give them more grief.
Tommy nods and sits down at Adam’s desk, because Adam needs him, okay, but the way his body’s hunched in on itself he might as well have don’t touch me spelled out on his forehead in red ink.
“Do you-?” Tommy says, gesturing helplessly.
Adam shuts him down with a sharp shake of his head. “I need to read this,” he says. He doesn’t even look up.
“Okay,” Tommy says quietly. He rubs his sweaty palms against his thighs. “Do you want - I’m gonna go.”
“Yes,” Adam says. He doesn’t raise his head when Tommy gets up to go, and when Tommy hesitates at the door, he just curls more firmly around his book.
Sneaking out during the week, before lights-out and without Adam, is weird. It’s also a lot harder, people loitering around unexpected corners, and his uniform isn’t half as suitable for climbing out of windows and over fences as the jeans and t-shirts he’s got stuffed into a bag. The seams of his blazer crack alarmingly when he pulls himself away from Clarkenwell soil and onto the other side.
He tears a hole into the hem of his slacks, too, and even breaks his skin, as he discovers when he’s slipping on his jeans behind a bush. It’s just destined to be a shitty day, apparently. He just hopes no one decides to check up on him during lights-out, although even that’d probably just be icing on the cake at this point.
Tired and scowling, Tommy’s actually kind of pleasantly surprised when somebody opens the door after his first knock.
“Hey, man,” Mikey says when he pulls open the door. “I’m picking up take-out, you want any?”
“Yeah, sure,” Tommy says. His stomach’s totally ready for food, even though his last meal was only a couple of hours ago.
“Right,” Mikey says. He tilts his head into the house, and Tommy heads downstairs while Mikey wanders out the door.
Only Frank and Gerard are down there, hanging out on the couches as per usual. There’s an impressive number of open beer cans on the coffee table, and even more piled into a trash bag in the corner. Gerard’s eyes are pretty glassy, too.
“Where’s your sidekick?” Frank asks, grinning a bit.
Tommy rolls his eyes. “Studying,” he says. “You got beer?”
“You mooch,” Frank says, already reaching for their little fridge.
Tommy drains half the can in one go, slowly getting used to the bitter taste on his tongue, and Frank raises an eyebrow but still gets out a second for him. “Mortal Kombat?” he asks.
Gerard has the controllers out before Tommy even has the chance to nod.
They play for maybe fifteen, twenty minutes before the door swings open and Mikey stumbles in, multiple plastic bags hanging from each wrist. He dumps them all onto the coffee table when they pause the game and waves a hand at them in lieu of saying, ‘Dig in.’
“That was fast,” Gerard says, eyeing the take-out containers suspiciously.
Mikey shrugs. “Lady behind me saw the scar,” he says. “Never seen a place clear out that fast.”
“Dude, that is the best,” Frank crows. “I love it when that happens.” He mimes cowering away from an invisible something, actually making Mikey crack a smile. Then he slaps his hand down on Tommy’s thigh. “See, there are totally advantages to this wolf thing.”
“Faster take-out?” Tommy asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Silver lining,” Frank says. He opens one of the containers and breathes in happily. “We’re the wolves, they’re the sheep. They just gotta accept that fact.”
“Silver lining, sure.” Tommy rolls his eyes. “’Cause, what, we’re like so much better than them?”
“No one’s better than anybody,” Gerard cuts in sharply.
Frank makes a yapping motion with his hand. “Leaving aside that we’re all, you know, equal and shit - yes. Dude. We have a fucking advantage they’ll never have. We know more.” He takes a sip of his beer. “And knowledge is power, and shit. You know.” He waves a vague hand, and then he giggles, but Tommy can’t tell if he’s delighted or disgusted with himself.
Tommy reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a habit he’s trying to break, but sometimes his scar still gets itchy and annoying, and he can never quite forget it’s there. “I could have gone forever without that knowledge,” he mutters. “Not gonna lie.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” Frank asks, propping himself up on his elbows. “Shifting is like, the best thing to ever happen. I feel bad for all the suckers who’ll be stuck in human shape all their lives.”
“Tell that to the guys at Clarkenwell,” Tommy mutters. Tell that to everybody, actually. Tell it to the doctors who treated him after Tommy got bit, the ones who refused to even show him into the waiting room without sterile gloves, or the counselor who told him over and over what an idiot he was as if he didn’t know, or the psychiatrist who told his mom that the nightmares he had over being held down and bitten by a giant fucking wolf were a side-effect of his new identity as a wild and crazy beast, and had nothing to do with trauma.
Frank doesn’t seem to have noticed Tommy’s swerve down memory lane. “In my family, being wolves is a point of pride,” he says. “Like, my first day of kindergarten.” Frank pauses to giggle. “First day, right, we’re not even inside yet, and my dad pulls me aside and is like, ‘Kid, if anybody gives you shit, go straight for the nose, okay? Forget the teacher, the only person watching your back in there is you.’”
Tommy tries to imagine his mom saying something like that, but instead he sees her wearing that frown she always gets out when Tommy does something shitty or fucks up a grade or doesn’t appreciate Clarkenwell enough, what the fuck, so he banishes the image again.
“Why are you here, then?” he asks. “If your family’s so awesome?”
“’Cause of the fucking riots, dude.” Frank scrubs at his face. “Like, the Ways wanted Mikey out of the way, right, and Mikey wouldn’t go without Gerard, and what am I gonna do, kicking around Jersey without a band?”
“Thanks for broadcasting that for the world to hear, Frank, that’s real charming,” Gerard says lazily.
Mikey doesn’t say anything, mouth tilting sideways. Frank waves both of them off with a “Sure, you’re welcome, whatever,” and they grin at him or each other or somebody, lips curving into similar shapes.
Tommy images, just for a second, what that must feel like, to have friends that you’d move to fucking Ricker Hill for, before his brain catches on something else. “What riots?” he asks.
“The New York riots?” Frank says. He sounds like he’s talking to a two-year-old, all slow and prompting. “You know, when Wall Street was shut down for two days because wolves and sympathetics and just about everybody were having a giant smack down with the po-po?”
Tommy shakes his head, wide-eyed.
Frank goes a little bug-eyed himself. “Seriously, do you not even read the news at that posh little school of yours?”
“We don’t really have access to any newspapers,” Tommy says.
This time, it’s Gerard and Frank’s turn to look incredulous. Mike doesn’t look much of anything, but he almost drops his cigarette, so Tommy figures he’s shocked too.
“What about TV, then?” Frank presses. “Hell, word-of-mouth. Anything.”
Tommy shakes his head. “Restricted access,” he says. “They don’t want us to get corrupted, or something.”
“Don’t want you to grow a brain, more like,” Frank mutters.
“That, too.” Tommy shrugs. “Not really for free thinkers, you know?”
Frank giggles a bit. “I kinda wish I could unleash my grandma on this heap,” he says. “Man. That’d be a show.”
It sounds awesome. It definitely sound a whole lot better than Tommy’s mom’s I’m-concerned-about-you-but-you’re-an-idiot face that she likes to unleash on him.
“I wanna meet your family,” Tommy sighs. He doesn’t mean to, but he does.
“Sure,” Frank agrees easily. “They’re down in Jersey, it’s not that far off. I can take you guys down for Thanksgiving, if you’re allowed to leave this shithole.”
“Dude, it’s not like they shackle us to the wall,” Tommy says. “We can leave for a weekend if we let them know in advance.”
To be honest, the school code definitely specifies that leaving for a weekend is okay as long as you actually go home, not on some random trip to, say, Jersey to meet an exiled punk-musician werewolf’s extended family, but no way is Tommy actually going to admit to that.
“Cool,” Frank says. “Thanksgiving, then. It’s a-”
“Date,” Tommy cuts in, smirking. “I won’t tell Jamia if you won’t.”
“Oh baby.” Frank laughs, kicking at Tommy’s shins. “I’m fucking overcome with desire here, you shithead.”
Gerard clutches his stomach. “Fuck, man, I’m getting nauseous.”
“Fuck you, man, we’re not that bad.”
“No, like, seriously.” And he heaves himself off the couch and stumbles out the door, and Frank and Tommy and Mikey all stare at each other for a moment before Frank shrugs and digs out another round of beers.
“Hey, Tommy,” somebody calls.
Somebody female, which is uncommon enough that Tommy’s frowning when he looks up from his locker.
It’s just Daisy, though, waving at him, and Tommy just barely catches sight of her smile and returns it with one of his own before she loses her balance. She goes down hard, knees smashing against the tile, in a flurry of papers. Tommy isn’t sure who tripped her, but it doesn’t really matter - he’s on his knees next to her a moment later, helping her shove everything into untidy piles and stuff them back into her binder.
“Thank you,” she says hastily, not even really looking at his face.
“You okay?” he asks her, one hand on her elbow to guide her up. Man, Gerard would be proud.
“Sure.” She smiles, just a little bit, and pushes a lock of hair behind one ear. “Nothing they haven’t done before, I can handle it.”
“Fuckers,” Tommy says before he can think better of it.
Her eyes go wide for a moment, like, good-girl wide, but then she presses the heel of her hand against her mouth to hide a giggle. “You could say that, yes.”
Tommy hands her her folder, smiling a bit, and gets a whiff of her deodorant-maybe-perfume when she leans forward, flash of teeth half-hidden behind a curtain of hair.
“Thank you, Tommy,” she says softly.
Tommy doesn’t bother with ‘you’re welcome.’
