Module 4 - Part 6
Tommy’s shirt is sweat-stained and gross, though not as bad as Adam’s, by the time he gets off stage, punch-drunk and giddy from the cheers and the blinding lights. That doesn’t stop Frank from jumping on his back, nearly flattening him, and it doesn’t stop Mikey from patting his shoulder or Gerard from beaming at him. Even Ray’s smiling, maybe.
“Fucking awesome,” Frank crows, pumping his fist into the air. “Adam, dude, give me some love.”
Adam rolls his eyes, but Tommy can totally see the smile he’s trying to hide when he high-fives Frank obediently. What a faker.
“Nice show, Adam,” Gerard says, and Adam seriously fucking glows. He just stands there and beams and beams until one of the venue people comes by to make everybody get ready for their set, and then he turns t Tommy with an almost manic expression.
“This,” he says. “I don’t care what it takes. This is what I’m doing for the rest of my life.”
They head for the pit while the guys play, and a couple of people recognize them and yell something about good sets, but mostly they’re left alone. And Tommy should be disappointed, maybe, but really he’s just reveling in the feeling of Adam’s arms around him, sweat-sticky skin against sweat-sticky skin, and the fact that nobody gives a shit that there are two baby punks grinding on each other in the middle of a mosh pit.
“We gonna show those prejudiced fuckers out there a good time or what?” Gerard hollers into the mic above them, and the roar he gets in return is staggering. Gerard points straight at Tommy and winks before he launches into Teenagers, and Tommy smiles back and maybe even waves a little bit, because he’s a loser like that, before Adam leans in to nose at Tommy’s ear and Tommy forgets about the band entirely.
“I love you,” Adam whispers, inaudibly over the music, but Tommy can feel his lips move as they drag over the skin on his neck. He reaches up and winds his arms around Adam’s shoulders, shuddering all over, and Adam just grins, pleased and predatory, and hugs him tighter.
He’s so wrapped up in the moment, in Adam, that he doesn’t even notice Monte until the man’s hand settles on his shoulder.
“Come on!” he yells over the chords. “You don’t wanna be out here when the crowd really gets going, trust me.”
Tommy just blinks dumbly up at him, but then he sees somebody in the mass of writhing bodies over Monte’s shoulder draw back his fist and send it crashing into another guy’s teeth, and a quick look around confirms that he’s not the only one. In the back, somebody’s started tearing down the posters advertising upcoming shows, and the bouncers are ushering out a whole slew of people determinedly not freaking out.
Up on stage, Gerard finishes up with song with a cheerful-but-tense “Thanks, guys, that’s all for tonight,” even though Tommy knows they were planning on playing at least another three songs.
Frank’s pulling the strap of his guitar over his head as soon as the last riffs are done, though, and he catches Tommy’s eyes and tilts his head towards backstage with a pointed look.
“Yeah, okay,” Tommy says, turning to face Monte and Adam. “Let’s bail.”
Frank clamps his hands down on Tommy’s shoulder as soon as Monte pushes him into the backstage area. “You’re okay,” he says, and then “Man, dude, that was fucking sick, did you see that?”
“Like, the crazy people?” Tommy asks on a laugh.
“Revolutionaries,” Frank corrects him. “Nobody’s ever started a revolution from their study back home.”
“So these people are going to start a revolution killing each other?”
Frank shakes his head, like he can’t believe Tommy’s being this dense. “Maybe that’s what they’re doing now,” he says. “But not long now, and their anger will shift.”
Tommy wrinkles his nose. “Anger?” he asks. “I figured this was more drunk rowdiness.”
“Oh no, this is anger,” Frank says. He waves Tommy towards the door leading to the floor. “Go on, take a look.”
Tommy has to get up on his toes to peer through the window set in the door. It looks like reinforced glass, which is probably a good thing. There are at least three fistfights going on that he can see, and a whole number of scuffles that could be people getting their heads bashed in or people play-fighting or people dancing like spazzes, who knows. A couple have already spilled out onto the street, yelling and jeering, but it looks like everyone’s staying clear of the stage, which is, you know, good.
Hot breath ghosts over Tommy’s ear and he jumps a mile before he realizes it’s just Frank.
“On the brink,” he says. “I told you.”
“You did, yeah,” Tommy admits, quietly, hardly any space between them. His gaze flickers down to Frank’s lips, spit-slick and shiny, and Frank catches him looking and laughs, nudging his chin upwards to bump their noses together.
“I fucking told you,” he whispers.
Tommy feels Adam at his back a split-second before Frank’s focus slips away from him, up over his shoulder.
“Hey now,” Adam says mildly. He snakes his arm around Tommy’s waist. “Hands off the boyfriend, please.”
“Wasn’t using my hands,” Frank says, grinning, but he still takes a respectful step back. As respectful as he can be with the giant leer on his face, at least.
Adam rolls his eyes at him. He wraps his other arm around Tommy, too, slipping it just under his t-shirt and settling it, hot and huge, against Tommy’s stomach. Tommy leans his head back onto Adam’s shoulder, tilting it a little bit so he can peer up at Adam’s face, the line of his jaw. Everything feels light, eerie, unreal, like Tommy’s about to float away. He’s here, in New York City, 400 miles away from Clarkenwell. By now, everyone at school knows they’ve gotten out. Maybe even his mom.
Adam catches him looking and grins at him. “Gonna start a revolution with our very first gig,” he says. “Think that’s exciting enough for you?”
Tommy reaches up to slide his fingers into Adam’s hair, ignoring the gagging noises Frank apparently can’t resist. He grins. “It’s a start.”
“We need somebody to check that the van’s still okay,” Ray says in the chaos, bent over his guitar case, and Adam reaches for Tommy’s hand.
“We’ll do it,” he says. “See you guys in a sec.”
And it really is just a second, because they’re no ten feet down the hall before they’re intercepted by Monte. “Where do you think you’re you going?” he asks.
“Um.” Tommy gestures vaguely down the corridor, dropping Adam’s hand to do so. “Home?”
Monte shakes his head. “Forget it,” he says. “There are people rioting in the parking lot. You’re not getting out of here.”
Tommy thinks his eyes probably go a bit bug-eyed at that, and he casts a helpless look in Adam’s direction. Not that Adam looks any better, really.
“So what are we supposed to do?” Adam asks faintly.
“Go back to the dressing room and wait,” Monte says. He turns Tommy around by the shoulders and gives him a little push. “Go on, now. We’ll let you know when things are safe.”
As it turns out, things aren’t safe again for a long, long time. They end up hanging out in their dressing room for several hours, sprawled out on the grimy couches, bored out of their minds but too lazy to do anything. Ray’s been noodling around on his guitar for what feels like forever, picking out snatches of songs that then get stuck in Tommy’s head.
He’s trying not to say anything, though, because Ray’s tolerance of him and Adam is tentative at the best of times. So he hunches up his shoulders and lets Adam hold his hand between their thighs, which is seriously more soothing than he wants to admit.
Frank and Gerard are draped over the couch across from them, next to Ray’s chair, Gerard reading a back issue of Time Magazine that he found between the cushions for approximately the fortieth time, and Frank alternately tapping his feet or crossing and uncrossing his legs or drumming his fingers on his knees. It’d probably be annoying if it weren’t the only form of entertainment.
Every once in a while Mikey, who’s off socializing with somebody he knows through somebody he knows from his time in Jersey, or Monte will stick their heads in the door and give a progress report, usually along the lines of ‘Nope, still people going crazy outside, it’s gonna be a while yet.’
It’s not until some insane hour in the morning, when Tommy’s eyes are starting to sting with tiredness, that Mikey comes in and says, “Somebody set a car on fire,”
“Re-vo-lu-tion,” Frank singsongs, but Tommy doesn’t look at him. He’s stuck staring at Adam who’s staring back, eyes just as wide as Tommy’s, probably. Just - they’re in this. They’re a part of this, now.
It’s equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
Naturally, epiphanic moments like that mean nothing around Frank, the hyperactive rock star. “Fuck yeah,” he says, dancing around on his seat. “Fuck yeah, man, this is fucking amazing, is what it is.”
“Just, fucking-“ Gerard jabs him with his elbow. “Sit still, will you.”
“’Sit still?’” Frank echoes. “The fuck?”
“Yes, sit still,” Gerard says. “You’re not fucking rioting, you’re in here, and you need to stop freaking the Hell out because I’m trying to read.”
“Stop freaking out? Why would you do that to me?” Frank moans, head tilted over the back of the dingy couch. “Why are we stuck here?”
Gerard cranes his neck to peer at his face. “I don’t know if you noticed the rioters outside?”
“Exactly.” Franks smacks the bottom of his fist against Gerard’s thigh. “We should be out there, with them.” He blinks his eyes at them. “We’d be fucking awesome rioters. Right, guys?”
He gives Tommy a pleading look, and it’s not like Tommy would know but he kind of wants to be, but Ray gets there first.
“They’re kids, Frank,” he says. “And I know you’re a giant child, but they’re actual children, and they shouldn’t be anywhere near a riot.”
“You’re no fun,” Frank moans theatrically, but the air has already gone still and stifling around them.
“Fucking seriously?” Tommy asks.
“Tommy,” Gerard says, half placating and half confused but Tommy’s attention is all on Ray’s bowed head.
“Look man,” he says, “I know you’ve gotten it into your head somehow that I’m this snot-nosed little kid who’s only out to ruin your life, but you’re not the only one who has it tough, so if you could stop acting like I’m a fucking idiot, that’d be much appreciated.”
“Hookay,” Gerard says into the silence. “You know, I think I’m going to go check how things are looking out there.” He pulls on Frank’s sleeve. “You can come with me.”
Frank sputters a bit but goes, and Adam hovers a bit but he doesn’t try particularly hard to stay when Gerard takes his arm and pulls him out the door. Fucking traitor.
It’s quiet after they leave, and Tommy sits perched at the edge of his seat, all ready for Ray to open his mouth and start listing all the ways Tommy is a little kid and a fucking idiot and completely inferior in every way.
Ray doesn’t, though. He just sits there, bowed over his guitar, plucking out the beginning of Nothing Else Matters.
Finally, Tommy can’t take the tension anymore. He was totally going to wait around until Ray finally gave in and admitted what a dick he is, or else gave Tommy Hell for his attitude, whatever, but in the end, it’s Tommy who caves.
He says, “Well, if you’re not gonna say anything,” as snottily as he can manage as he gets up, but it’s totally a retreat and he knows it. And honestly, the only thing he wants to do right now is get the fuck out of here as fast as possible. And he almost makes it, too, before a quiet “Tommy,” makes him hesitate at the door.
“I know it’s tough, up at that school,” Ray says. He looks up from his strings. “I know it’s fucking tough.”
Tommy’s hand slips from the doorknob. It’s not like he doesn’t know that; he does, he fucking lives there. But everybody always acts like all the shit they get is fucked up but shouldn’t actually bother him, and he didn’t realize how much that hurt until someone acknowledged that it might.
Ray smiles a little bit. “I know, Tommy, okay? I get it. But at least up there, nobody’s gonna tie you to their bumper and cruise down the highway going ninety. They’re not gonna grab you off a dark street corner and force you to swallow handfuls of broken glass, and they’re not going to kick you in the face until not even your dental records are going to help identify you.” He gestures vaguely at the door but doesn’t say anything else, just offers another, weaker smile.
Tommy bites his lip for a moment, but then he turns to face Ray all the way. “I get that,” he says. “I do. And maybe I’m being stupid, and maybe I’m dragging Adam into something we’re both going to regret, but I’m not going to trade freedom for security. Ray. I can’t be that guy.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ray strums again, E to E flat. “You wouldn’t be our Tommy if you could.”
He smiles again, expression growing when Tommy fumbles for the doorknob. “I’m gonna - help the others pack up our shit,” he stammers.
“You do that,” Ray says serenely, and by the time Tommy’s in the hallways and pulling the door shut behind him, he’s already gone back to plucking on his strings.
They don’t get back on the bus until the sky turns a pale pink on the horizon, stars fading away above them.
“There’s no place like home,” Gerard says after he sinks into the passenger seat, sliding one leg across the center console to kick his heel against Mikey’s.
Mikey kicks back half-heartedly and turns the key in the ignition. “Don’t pass out yet,” he says. “You have to navigate.”
“M’not passing out,” Gerard says, half the words lost around a yawn.
Mikey rolls his eyes, but Tommy gets it. The adrenaline’s faded by now, leaving him shaky and drained, and he doesn’t resist when Adam tugs him over to rest against Adam’s shoulder.
“So that was our first gig,” Adam says quietly.
Tommy grins. “Your first gig,” he says.
“Yeah, my first gig.” Tommy can’t see it, but Adam sounds like he’s rolling his eyes. “Can’t tell you how glad I am that we’ve popped that particular cherry.”
Tommy snots, but there’s still a shiver of anticipation that runs through him, unexpected and pleasantly terrifying.
“Please don’t talk about your cherries,” Ray says from the back. “There are things I really don’t need to know about, God.”
Adam tightens his arm around Tommy protectively. And unnecessarily, because whatever his deal was with Ray, Tommy’s over it now.
“Would you rather hear about the coke that techie offered us backstage?” he asks, making Ray groan and everybody else laugh, and settles more comfortably against Adam’s side.
They get stuck in traffic just outside Springfield, which Frank proclaims to be evidence of his revolution at work and Tommy think is just fucking annoying, and they spend a solid three hours trying to decipher the bumper stickers on the car in front of them.
Mikey finally pulls them into a parking lot off the highway, refusing to drive any further until the road’s cleared up a bit, and as much as Gerard whines about wanting to go home already, there’s not a whole lot he can do about stopped traffic. Instead, Frank finds a Frisbee for them to throw around squashed underneath an amp, and they do that for twenty minutes before they all try to catch a bit of sleep in the van, and Tommy goes straight from listening to Adam’s heartbeat to Frank shaking him awake with the sun setting behind him awake with the sun setting behind him, muttering about oversleeping and no fucking alarm clocks.
Ray’s the one to take over the wheel this time, and everybody else falls back asleep pretty much the minute they get back on the road. Tommy’s awake now, though, and Adam nods off a couple of times but eventually pulls himself upright as well, and kisses Tommy’s jaw with a sleepy smile.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
Tommy can’t help but laugh at that, because seriously? But then he shrugs and says, “Stuff. You know, not anything in particular. Just stuff.”
Adam nods slowly. “You know everything’s going to be different now, right?” he says.
Tommy glances around but they’re the only ones awake, besides Ray, who’s staring at the road over the steering wheel and bobbing his head to some non-existent beat.
Adam finds Tommy’s hand between the seats and squeezes his fingers firmly. “We can’t hide anymore,” he says. His lips curl into a weak smile when Tommy gives him a look. “We’re out now. The school knows we snuck out, and our parents know, and even if they somehow don’t wring our necks, everybody’ll know something happened.”
Tommy fingers his hair. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows Adam’s right. They’re not getting out of this one no matter how far they bend.
He still thinks that it was worth it.
Nobody catches them sneaking in. Ray stops the van on the maintenance road closest to their dorm. Frank wraps his arm around Tommy’s neck from behind and gives it a quick squeeze, but there’s not huge, emotional scene. Gerard’s dead to the world in the back, and Mikey lifts a tired hand, but that’s all. Once Adam slides the door shut from the outside, it barely takes the guys half a minute to rattle the van down the road and out of sight, despite the neat and tidy 17-point-turn Ray has to execute on the tiny little road.
Tommy stares after them until the red lights have disappeared into the darkness, and even then he only moves when Adam brushes a hand along his back.
Adam helps him scale the fence with an ease that has Tommy stumped for a moment before he remember that Adam’s been climbing this fence pretty regularly for two months now, and he hasn’t needed help in a long time. Clearly, it’s not only boosting his confidence.
Tommy hangs onto Adam’s hand when they’re cutting across the grounds and Adam doesn’t seem to mind, smiling to himself in the darkness, dragging Tommy to a stop by the basement window and pushing him up against the bricks to kiss him. He kisses him once more, soft and sweet, when they get to Adam’s room. He reaches down to squeeze Tommy’s hand and smiles at him, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to be said.
Tommy keeps looking over his shoulder on his way to the stairs and Adam’s looking back every time, and Tommy clings to that while he slips into his room and changes into his PJ’s, when he’s staring at the ceiling, keeping his eyes open for as long as he possibly can because the next time he wakes up, there’s going to be hell to pay.
For some reason, Tommy fully expects to be dragged out of bed by his hair, some teacher or supervisor or whatever screeching in his ear about calling his parents. He isn’t. Instead, he’s pulled from sleep by the incessant beeping of his alarm, which is as annoying as it is ordinary. He smacks it into submission and then lies there for a moment, covers pulled up to his chin, listening. There are people moving in the halls, talking quietly. Perhaps a little more quietly than usual on a Monday morning, but that might just be Tommy’s imagination. It’s running wild enough to, after all.
But there’s nothing for it. Tommy’s going to have to give in and get up eventually, so he pushes the covers down and sits up. He finds a crumpled pair of khakis under the bed that don’t look so bad once he shakes the wrinkles out, and once that’s done the rest just kind of happens, his body falling into the routine of getting himself up and dressed and ready for another day in Hell.
He makes his way over to the dining hall after a quick stop at the bathroom, feeling more and more like Alice with every step. There aren’t many people around, but everyone who sees him stares like he’s got horns growing out of his head. Word’s gotten out, apparently. The dining room, like some bullshit teen movie, falls silent when the door falls shut behind him. Adam isn’t around, but Ryan is, staring at him with his eyes wide and his lips curved into a soft, pink ‘o.’ Tommy gets an orange juice because he doesn’t think he can get anything more substantial down and sits at an empty table and hopes to God somebody will come get him before he starts laughing out of sheer desperation.
Of course, that feeling only lasts until there’s a hand on his shoulder, and Mrs. Sallivan asking him to please accompany him to the principal’s office, and then all his whirling thoughts completely wipe away and the only thought he’s got left is a terrified mantra of oh shit looping ‘round and ‘round in his head, like one of Frank’s scratched-up records.
Tommy doesn’t think there’s a single person who doesn’t watch them go.
Tommy, for all that he’s kind of a problem child at this school, has only been to the principal’s office once before, and that was when he first got here. His mom had hovered awkwardly at the very edge of their seat, quick to smile and even quicker to assure everyone who’d listen how thankful they were. Tommy, in true fifteen-year-old fashion, had slouched in his seat and barely raised his eyes and mumbled unintelligible answers when prompted, sure that everyone at Clarkenwell as well as God above hated him.
The office hasn’t changed much, not really. There’s a different calendar on the wall, this year’s edition of the Clarkenwell fundraiser for kids in need. The subjects have changed, but the theme hasn’t: Smiling girls and boys in tidy uniforms, playing instruments and sports, walking the grounds, studying and being overly attentive in class.
Other than that, though, things are mostly the same: An intimidating oak desk, a book shelf full of books heavy enough to crush someone’s head, two visitor’s chairs on one side of the room and Mrs. Morrigan on the other, contemplating the grounds outside her window with a disapproving glare that Tommy can recognize even in profile.
Adam’s already there, tense-limbed in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He doesn’t smile when he sees Tommy, not exactly, but his shoulders unclench a little bit, and as it turns out, that’s all the encouragement Tommy needs to step over the threshold and sink into the seat next to him. At least they’re going down together.
He starts when Adam nudges him and points his chin at the newspaper lying on the desk. It’s a copy of the Times, headline reading New York City riots escalate. There’s a shot of a group of protestors underneath, mouths open, caught mid-scream, and Tommy swallows.
“On the brink,” he says quietly.
Mrs. Morrigan hears him, maybe, because she turns away from the window to fix him with a truly paralyzing glare. “Mr. Ratliff,” she says. Her tone could cut glass.
She likes playing up the stern angle, though, so that’s not really all that new. She always wears blazers and pencil skirts and her hair pulled back into a tight bun, and really, it’s no surprise Clarkenwell is such a hellhole considering who’s running it. She’s the kind of woman that makes Tommy gape a bit at the fact that anybody actually thought it would be a good idea to marry her. And it’s not like he’s a misogynist or anything, Tommy knows plenty of marriage-worthy women (his own mother included), but Mrs. Morrigan? She’s like, the ultimate boner-killer.
Tommy shudders a bit, secretly, on the inside. He doesn’t even try to smile. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.
She looks away, lips pursing in distaste. “Wait quietly, if you please,” she says. “You are an adult now, Mr. Ratliff, I’m sure that’s possible.”
Tommy kinds of wants to make some smart-ass comment just to piss her off, but that might be pushing his luck a little too far, so he just sits still and counts the seconds ticking by loudly on the clock behind him. He loses count a couple of times but he sits as still as he can, even after his ass starts aching a little bit. He doesn’t even turn around when there’s a knock behind him, not until Mrs. Morrigan nods at somebody and says, all regal and composed, “Officer.”
Then, Tommy whirls around so fast he can actually feel something crack in his back, and yeah, no lie, there’s actually a cop coming into the room. He’s an older guy, muscled but tall enough that he still looks skinny, and he’s got ‘dignity’ written all over him. There’s another one, too, still waiting by the door, a big blond mountain of a guy. He could probably crush Tommy’s skull with one hand, Jesus fuck.
“Are these the two boys you mentioned?” the first cop asks Mrs. Morrigan.
She nods. “Mr. Ratliff, Mr. Lambert,” she says, mentioning to each of them in turn. She forces her lips into a smile. “If you would be so kind as to cooperate with Officer Halvard.”
Tommy nods slowly, remembering that whole bit they always go on about on TV about not saying anything without a lawyer. He’s not so sure he’s going to make it out of here in one piece, anyway, so maybe waiting for a lawyer would be stupid.
“Cooperate on what?” Adam asks, voice a little rough.
Halvard smiles at him. “Nothing terrible, I promise,” he says.
“Terrible enough to involve the police,” Tommy points out, which makes Mrs. Morrigan sigh quietly and Halvard’s smile get even bigger. Tommy’s starting to think Halvard thinks he’s dealing with five-year-olds.
“There’s been an incident this weekend which was serious enough to warrant a police inquiry, yes,” he says. “Considering your whereabouts have been unaccounted for since Friday night, I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you some questions.”
It’s by far the nicest Where the hell have you been? that Tommy’s ever heard, and that relaxes him a bit. At least no one’s busting out the handcuffs quite yet.
“Okay,” he says. He looks over at Adam, and Adam nods. Tommy swallows. “Okay.”
The cop nods. “You’re not obliged to say anything without a lawyer,” he says. “We can call you one, if you’d like, but we’d have to bring you in to the station for that.”
This time it’s Adam who says, “That’s okay,” before he cuts a quick glance at Tommy. “We didn’t do anything super illegal, right?”
It’s probably not the smartest thing to say, but Tommy’s pretty unsettled himself. Do they really call in the cops when people play hookie for a day?
Mrs. Morrgian scoffs, so maybe they do, but the cop’s smile is vaguely sympathetic.
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” he says. “This is just a questioning, there haven’t been any formal charges.”
“Yet,” Mrs. Morrigan adds under her breath.
Halvard gives her a displeased look. “Like I said,” he tells Adam and Tommy, “no formal charges, but if you could answer a few questions for me, that’d be much appreciated.”
“But,” Tommy says. “What’s going on? What are we even being questioned on?”
Halvard sighs. He says, “One of your classmates was attacked on school grounds this full moon. He sustained severe injuries and is currently in intensive care at Spring Harbor Hospital.”
“Who?” It comes out in a whisper. Tommy clears his throat, licks his lips. “Who was attacked?”
“A Mr. Jesse Monroe,” the cop says, and that sucks, but there’s totally a part of Tommy that’s relieved that it’s the school douchebag and not somebody he actually, you know, liked.
“Mr. Monroe was viciously attacked, by what was obviously a wolf,” Mrs. Morrigan elaborates. “So if you have anything to say for yourselves, now is the time to say it.”
“Now, now,” Halvard says. He smiles at them. “I’m sure that whatever these two boys got up to, they meant no harm. Isn’t that right, boys?”
“Right,” Tommy says faintly. He really wants to hold Adam’s hand, but there’s no way he’s giving these guys that much of an opening.
Halvard smiles again. “So, would you like to tell me where you were? As much as you can remember.”
Tommy exchanges a quick look with Adam. He dips his head. “We weren’t on the grounds,” he says.
“Where were you, then?” Halvard asks.
Tommy shakes his head. “Not on the grounds.”
“You’re in enough trouble as it is, Mr. Ratliff,” Mrs. Morrigan snaps. “I’d really advise against adding unwillingness to cooperate with the police to that list.”
“We went to a concert,” Tommy says, hoping his voice comes out cool and collected rather than wavering, because that’s the version that reveals the least, but it’s still true and he hopes they can see that. He really, really hopes so.
“And I’m sure there’s somebody who could verify that?” Halvard prompts, and Tommy bites his lip.
There is, of course there is, but Tommy’s not exactly keen on letting the cops know about the guys’ involvement in their illegal weekend activities.
“Mr. Ratliff,” Mrs. Morrigan says sharply.
“I can,” Adam says, but falls silent again when Mrs. Morrigan give him a quelling look.
“Obviously, questioning the two of you together isn’t doing anybody any good,” she says. “Mr. Ratliff, would you wait in the reception area?” She stabs the intercom on the desk with a manicured fingernail. “Marcy, draw the shades, please?”
There’s a staticky “yes, right away” in reply that Tommy barely hears. He’s too busy staring at Adam, and Adam’s looking back with his eyes just as wide because, new-found confidence aside, Adam’s more likely to cave out of the two of them and they both know it.
Mrs. Morrigan makes a pleased noise, no doubt popping a giant lady-boner at the prospect of getting to torture Adam, but things never get that far.
“Leave them alone,” somebody yells, audible even through the pane of glass that separates the office from the rest of the admin area, and they all turn to look.
It’s Daisy, most of her uniform on but it’s a mess and her ponytail is falling apart, half of it in her face. She’s kicking her legs and screaming and her fingernails leave long, bloody streaks down the arm of the blond officer who grabs her around the middle to stop her from coming closer. The guy winces but doesn’t let go.
“You can’t arrest them,” she yells, scrabbling at the arm around her waist, “because they didn’t fucking do it!”
Halvard gives Mrs. Morrigan an unreadable look. He gets up and opens the door and says, “Please elaborate, Miss,” like he’s at etiquette school and not in an office interrogating a bunch of school kids in an assault/attempted-murder investigation.
Daisy grows a bit calmer at that, but the cop who’s got her around the middle doesn’t let go. Smart guy.
“They didn’t do it,” Daisy says. She sets her jaw. “They weren’t even here.”
“Where were you?” Mrs. Morrigan asks them icily, and Adam manages to say, “New York” before the cop holds up a finger, asking them to be silent.
“Do you know who did?”
Daisy’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes,” she says evenly.
“Did you assault Mr. Monroe?” the cop asks gently, like he’s talking to a child.
Daisy lifts her chin. “And I’m not sorry for it, either,” she says. “He had it coming.”
Mrs. Morrigan chokes on air. “You little brat,” she starts, and then seems to run out of words. The look of disgust, the way she curls her lip, though, they really say it all.
“Mrs. Morrigan,” Halvard reprimands gently, which could possibly have made Tommy’s day under different circumstances, and when he turns to Daisy, his eyes are still gentle. “Daisy, can you tell me why you assaulted Mr. Monroe?”
Daisy grins at him, all teeth. “Because he makes my life hell. He makes their life hell,” she spits, one spindly finger pointed at Adam and Tommy, and the cop raises an eyebrow.
Mrs. Morrigan gapes at them. Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever seen her speechless.
“Boys?” the officer asks, and Tommy finds himself nodding before he remembers that maybe he shouldn’t be incriminating Daisy like that.
Halvard looks like a nice guy, though, and the tilt to his mouth is soft. “Is she right?”
“Jesse’s a jerk,” Tommy says.
“Has he ever been violent to you?” the cop asks.
Tommy looks at Adam who looks back, long and silent, and the cop sucks in a breath, obviously getting it without needing to be told, but then Adam nods.
“Yeah,” he says. “We got beat up a couple of times.”
“We had to see the vice principal for a fight, like, back in September,” Tommy adds. “He said we started it.”
“Did you?” the cop asks. He doesn’t sound like he’s judging though - just curious.
“Not unprovoked,” Tommy settles on eventually, and the cop nods like he gets it. Maybe he does. Either way, his voice his gentle when he turns to Daisy again.
“Daisy,” he says, quiet and calm, “we’re going to have to take you down to the station. Alright? I promise you won’t be hurt.”
“Fucking try me,” Daisy says, voice shaking, eyes wide, and when the officer holding her reaches for the handcuffs on his belt, Halvard shakes his head.
“Let’s not make a spectacle out of it, Bryar,” he says, and the officer nods before he leads Daisy away.
“Alright, then,” Halvard says. He smiles at them. “That means you two are most likely not the ones who did it,” he says, and that’s almost worse, the way he treats them, all kind and gentle, like they’re fucking idiots. At least when somebody’s a dick to them, then that’s just wrong. It’s harder to explain to people that kindness can be fucking painful too.
“Due to legal reasons, I have to ask you not to leave town regardless,” Halvard says. “We’re still going to need your statements, officially, and we might have to rely on you as witnesses.”
He hands each of them a card. It’s waxed paper, and it sticks to Tommy’s sweaty palm.
“Call me if there’s anything,” he says, tips his head at Mrs. Morrigan, and heads out after his colleague, closing the door with a cheerful little wave.
Mrs. Morrigan makes a small noise of displeasure. She doesn’t say anything, though, and the silence drags on until Adam starts to fidget, school slacks dragging against the fabric of the chair.
Tommy clears his throat. “So, like, are we getting suspended, or what?”
Mrs. Morrigan raises her eyebrows. “You can’t honestly think you’re still welcome at this school,” she says.
Tommy can feel his eyes going wide. Because yeah, getting expelled was always sort of the ultimate Damocles sword hanging over them, and okay, yeah, they’ve been sneaking out a bunch, but nobody gets expelled for not being guilty of something, what the fuck.
“You’re kicking us out,” he says anyway, just to be sure.
Mrs. Morrigan attempts a pinched smile for a moment, but it’s not working too well and she lets it drop after only a moment. “You two gentlemen are obviously not very appreciative of the opportunity Clarkenwell is affording you,” she says. “There are hundreds of eligible students who would relish being offered what this school is offering you, and from your behavior, I have to conclude that they, unlike you, would actually deserve it.”
Tommy thinks his smile might be kind of mean. “You mean you’d rather have two lapdogs who roll over and beg when you tease them with a treat.”
Mrs. Morrigan’s expression is sour enough to curdle milk, which is kind of thrilling, no lie, even with the situation as fucked up as it is. “You have an hour to pack up your things and vacate the premises,” she says. “Then I’m asking Officer Halvard to return.”
“Can we call our parents, at least?” Adam asks. His face is calm, but his fingers are white around the armrests of his chair, and his voice shakes just the slightest bit.
Mrs. Morrigan’s face doesn’t even twitch. “You’re welcome to do whatever you like, Mr. Lambert, as long as you do it outside the school grounds. You are no longer Clarkenwell’s responsibility.”
“Motherfucker,” Tommy hears himself mutter. Wow. Just, wow. They can’t even bring cell phones to school with them - he has a grand total of eleven bucks in cash, how the hell do they expect them to get home?
“Language, Mr. Ratliff,” Mrs. Morrigan warns.
“He can say whatever he wants,” Adam says loudly. “He’s no longer Clarkenwell’s responsibility.” He hesitates before he opens his mouth again. “You fucking bitch.” He looks kind of terrified as soon as the words leave his mouth, like he can’t believe he actually said them.
Tommy definitely can’t, but that just makes him want to jump Adam all the more. And hey, he’s out, he’s free, so he gets up and slings his leg over Adam’s and kisses him, tongue and all, and grinds his hips into Adam’s stomach to show how much he approves.
“I can still have you arrested for trespassing,” Mrs. Morrigan cuts in sharply - a bit too sharply, like she’s losing her cool - and yeah. They definitely don’t have the money for bail.
Tommy withdraws reluctantly, leaving Adam glassy-eyed and shiny-lipped. “Let’s get out of this shithole,” he whispers.
“Yeah, okay,” Adam replies, just as soft, and eases Tommy off of him with a gentle hand to his side. “It’s not there’s anything left for us here.”
The words sting, even though they’re true, but Adam slides his fingers between Tommy’s when they turn to the door, and that helps.
“Please remember that your identification bracelets are school property,” Mrs. Morrigan says, just as they leave.
Flipping someone off has never felt so good.
It doesn’t take him long to pack. The uniforms had been included in the scholarship, and it’s not like Tommy’s going to need them. Same for the books, all those stupid fucking worthless books, and Tommy somehow resists the urge to shred them all to pieces. They don’t matter anymore. He’s out of here.
He finds his duffel and his backpack under the bed, but there’s not really anything for him to take. There’s three pairs of jeans and a couple of band shirts, half of them Gerard’s, a hoodie, a jacket. Computer print-outs of guitar tabs, a battered copy of The Contender, the hanging picture thing his mom made him, but his bag is nowhere even close to full.
He turns, expecting to see an entire suitcase stuffed with shit still lurking in a corner somewhere, because this can’t be his life, can it? This can’t be everything he has to show for two-and-a-half years of misery. He throws open his closet door, starts pulling his starched white shirts and the neatly folded pants from the shelves, pushes the covers from the bed to find a pair of boxers in a miserable little heap.
His shower stuff is in the bathroom and he goes to get it even though there’s nothing of him in there, only anonymous pieces of plastic. He leaves the door open when he gets back and dumps the entire thing on top of his clothes even though there’s water hiding in the shampoo cap that leaks all over his hand. He wipes his fingers on the bedspread and curses a bit, not because he really needs to but because he feels like he has to say something, anything, or he might explode.
A soft cough makes him look up.
There’s a mop of hair hovering at the doorway, bangs just long enough to warrant nasty looks from the administration, and Tommy actually has to stop and think about that for the first time. Huh. Maybe they’re all rebelling in their own little ways.
Still, though. Tommy and Adam are rebelling in fucking huge ways right now, and Tommy still hasn’t quite managed to wrap his head around that. He’s not sure he can deal with this right now.
“Hey, Ryan,” he says. “I’m a bit busy.”
Ryan lets his gaze sweep over the mess on the floor. He doesn’t come in, but he doesn’t leave again, either. “Is it true you’re getting kicked out?” he asks in a hushed voice.
When Tommy doesn’t say anything, he folds his arms over his chest, drops his gaze to his feet. He looks so small standing there, so alone, and Tommy feels bad for him all of a sudden. He doesn’t know much about him, but Ryan’s stuck here, too. None of them would be here if they had anywhere else to go.
“Yeah, I - me and Adam, yeah.” He tries to give Ryan a tiny smile. “Daisy’s gone, too.”
“Okay,” Ryan says. And God, the kid is going to have to live here after everything’s gone to shit, he’s gonna be one of the ones who deal with the aftermath of all Tommy’s and Adam’s and Daisy’s fuck-ups. He’s going to have to live with it all, and he’s all big, dark eyes and lips the slightest bit parted, pathetically young, and Tommy kind of feels like the worst person on the planet.
“Hey Ryan,” he says, motioning him closer. “If you ever need help. Like, really need it.” He leaned in close, pitching his voice to nothing more than a murmur. “You know where Desecration Row is?”
Ryan nods.
“Go there, ask for Frank. He’s crazy, but tell him Tommy sent you. He’ll help you out.”
“Frank,” Ryan repeats quietly.
“Frank,” Tommy says. He zips up his bag and slips it over his shoulder, and then he slides his hand around Ryan’s neck to draw him in and presses a kiss to his temple. “You’ve already got everything they’ll ever want,” he says, whispers, and then he leaves him standing there and walks out the door without ever looking back.
Adam’s waiting for him in the entrance hall, watched by Larkner’s eagle eyes. He’s got a bag, stuffed full from the looks of things, and a small cardboard box that Tommy takes from him, and they look gazes for a moment, wide and scared but also kind of excited, and Larkner says, “I think it’s time you left,” clearly no ‘think’ involved at all.
Tommy nods and starts for the door, the big double-winged wooden entrance that scared the crap out of him when he first got here and still makes him kind of uneasy, but Larkner’s hand on his elbow stops him.
Larkner narrows his eyes when Tommy turns his head to look, thoughtful and kind of mean. “There are places you’ll be welcome,” he says. “This is not one of them.”
“We get it, jeez,” Adam mutters, but Tommy is distracted by the feel of paper slipping into his palm, and he’s sure his confusion shows on his face when he looks up at Larkner.
Larkner tilts his head at the door. “Go on, then,” he says, all dark challenge. “Get out of here.”
“We’re going,” Adam huffs, and he doesn’t look back when he strides over to the door and strains to pull one wing open, not the way Tommy does. Larkner’s still standing there, alone in that big entrance hall, and he smirks a little bit and touches one fingertip to his temple in salute when he catches Tommy looking.
“Tommy, come on,” Adam says. There’s a hand on his elbow again, a surprisingly strong hand that pulls Tommy out of the dim gloom of the entrance hall and into the overcast daylight instead.
Tommy hitches a breath when the doors shutter closed behind them, dark and final. The path to the front gates looks endless from here, winding on and on and on, and Tommy can’t even get his feet to unstick his feet from the ground, he’s never going to make it all the way out there.
“Hey.” Clammy fingers slide underneath his, and when he blinks and tears his eyes away, Adam’s smiling at him. “We’re still here,” he says, squeezing Tommy’s hand in his own. “Okay.” Then he hesitates, because he has to feel the paper Larkner slipped him tucked between Tommy’s sweat-sticky palm and the side of the box. “What-?”
“Larkner,” Tommy says. He shifts Adam’s box to his hip and keeps hold of it with his elbow, using both hands to uncrumple the note.
It’s an address, written in the same sloping scrawl Larkner uses to grade quizzes. Just a single line, a street in the run-down part of town, down by the club the guys play at. Where the sympathetics live.
“What is it?” Adam asks, craning his neck.
Tommy shows him, and Adam bites his lip.
“You think?” he asks.
Tommy shakes his head, helplessly, not ‘no.’ “I think he’s okay,” he says.
Adam nods. “Worth a shot,” he says. He tilts his head down the driveway, towards the staircase leading down to the footpath that’ll take them towards town, away from this hellhole, but Tommy only makes it a couple of steps before he hesitates.
There’s a cop car parked to the side, empty, sirens off. It’s not particularly threatening, but it still sends a shudder down Tommy’s spine. “You think she’s gonna be okay?” he asks.
“She’s still a kid,” Adam says, but he doesn’t sound sure. “Like, there’s limits to what they can do to her, right?”
“Shit,” Tommy says. “Just, why the fuck did she do that? It’s not like we don’t get enough bad press as it is.”
“You know why,” Adam says pointedly, and yeah, Tommy does. If he hadn’t found Adam and Frank and the guys, maybe that would have been Tommy. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.
“It’s going to be a mess,” Tommy says. “The seperationists are going to be all over it. They’re gonna lock us up for good this time.”
“Only if we let them,” Adam says firmly, and Tommy looks up at him, surprised. Adam smiles a bit, nudging his shoulder, and draws himself up to his full height. It’s easy to forget, most of the time, but Adam really is one impressive motherfucker.
“Frank’s revolution,” Tommy says slowly. “You think it’s gonna happen?”
“I think anything can happen.” Adam holds out his hand. “Anything can happen, now.”
Tommy nods slowly. “I hope you’re right,” he says. He slides his fingers between Adam’s. “Like, I really, really hope you’re right. Because I don’t know what we’re gonna do if you’re not.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Adam tells him, and quirks his lips into a smile.
Tommy smiles back, warm and trusting even though he should be freaking out. He should be terrified, and instead, he pulls a little on Adam’s hand and takes the first, hopeful step down the stairs.
The End
Return to Masterpost
Thank you! Hope you enjoyed!
“Fucking awesome,” Frank crows, pumping his fist into the air. “Adam, dude, give me some love.”
Adam rolls his eyes, but Tommy can totally see the smile he’s trying to hide when he high-fives Frank obediently. What a faker.
“Nice show, Adam,” Gerard says, and Adam seriously fucking glows. He just stands there and beams and beams until one of the venue people comes by to make everybody get ready for their set, and then he turns t Tommy with an almost manic expression.
“This,” he says. “I don’t care what it takes. This is what I’m doing for the rest of my life.”
They head for the pit while the guys play, and a couple of people recognize them and yell something about good sets, but mostly they’re left alone. And Tommy should be disappointed, maybe, but really he’s just reveling in the feeling of Adam’s arms around him, sweat-sticky skin against sweat-sticky skin, and the fact that nobody gives a shit that there are two baby punks grinding on each other in the middle of a mosh pit.
“We gonna show those prejudiced fuckers out there a good time or what?” Gerard hollers into the mic above them, and the roar he gets in return is staggering. Gerard points straight at Tommy and winks before he launches into Teenagers, and Tommy smiles back and maybe even waves a little bit, because he’s a loser like that, before Adam leans in to nose at Tommy’s ear and Tommy forgets about the band entirely.
“I love you,” Adam whispers, inaudibly over the music, but Tommy can feel his lips move as they drag over the skin on his neck. He reaches up and winds his arms around Adam’s shoulders, shuddering all over, and Adam just grins, pleased and predatory, and hugs him tighter.
He’s so wrapped up in the moment, in Adam, that he doesn’t even notice Monte until the man’s hand settles on his shoulder.
“Come on!” he yells over the chords. “You don’t wanna be out here when the crowd really gets going, trust me.”
Tommy just blinks dumbly up at him, but then he sees somebody in the mass of writhing bodies over Monte’s shoulder draw back his fist and send it crashing into another guy’s teeth, and a quick look around confirms that he’s not the only one. In the back, somebody’s started tearing down the posters advertising upcoming shows, and the bouncers are ushering out a whole slew of people determinedly not freaking out.
Up on stage, Gerard finishes up with song with a cheerful-but-tense “Thanks, guys, that’s all for tonight,” even though Tommy knows they were planning on playing at least another three songs.
Frank’s pulling the strap of his guitar over his head as soon as the last riffs are done, though, and he catches Tommy’s eyes and tilts his head towards backstage with a pointed look.
“Yeah, okay,” Tommy says, turning to face Monte and Adam. “Let’s bail.”
Frank clamps his hands down on Tommy’s shoulder as soon as Monte pushes him into the backstage area. “You’re okay,” he says, and then “Man, dude, that was fucking sick, did you see that?”
“Like, the crazy people?” Tommy asks on a laugh.
“Revolutionaries,” Frank corrects him. “Nobody’s ever started a revolution from their study back home.”
“So these people are going to start a revolution killing each other?”
Frank shakes his head, like he can’t believe Tommy’s being this dense. “Maybe that’s what they’re doing now,” he says. “But not long now, and their anger will shift.”
Tommy wrinkles his nose. “Anger?” he asks. “I figured this was more drunk rowdiness.”
“Oh no, this is anger,” Frank says. He waves Tommy towards the door leading to the floor. “Go on, take a look.”
Tommy has to get up on his toes to peer through the window set in the door. It looks like reinforced glass, which is probably a good thing. There are at least three fistfights going on that he can see, and a whole number of scuffles that could be people getting their heads bashed in or people play-fighting or people dancing like spazzes, who knows. A couple have already spilled out onto the street, yelling and jeering, but it looks like everyone’s staying clear of the stage, which is, you know, good.
Hot breath ghosts over Tommy’s ear and he jumps a mile before he realizes it’s just Frank.
“On the brink,” he says. “I told you.”
“You did, yeah,” Tommy admits, quietly, hardly any space between them. His gaze flickers down to Frank’s lips, spit-slick and shiny, and Frank catches him looking and laughs, nudging his chin upwards to bump their noses together.
“I fucking told you,” he whispers.
Tommy feels Adam at his back a split-second before Frank’s focus slips away from him, up over his shoulder.
“Hey now,” Adam says mildly. He snakes his arm around Tommy’s waist. “Hands off the boyfriend, please.”
“Wasn’t using my hands,” Frank says, grinning, but he still takes a respectful step back. As respectful as he can be with the giant leer on his face, at least.
Adam rolls his eyes at him. He wraps his other arm around Tommy, too, slipping it just under his t-shirt and settling it, hot and huge, against Tommy’s stomach. Tommy leans his head back onto Adam’s shoulder, tilting it a little bit so he can peer up at Adam’s face, the line of his jaw. Everything feels light, eerie, unreal, like Tommy’s about to float away. He’s here, in New York City, 400 miles away from Clarkenwell. By now, everyone at school knows they’ve gotten out. Maybe even his mom.
Adam catches him looking and grins at him. “Gonna start a revolution with our very first gig,” he says. “Think that’s exciting enough for you?”
Tommy reaches up to slide his fingers into Adam’s hair, ignoring the gagging noises Frank apparently can’t resist. He grins. “It’s a start.”
“We need somebody to check that the van’s still okay,” Ray says in the chaos, bent over his guitar case, and Adam reaches for Tommy’s hand.
“We’ll do it,” he says. “See you guys in a sec.”
And it really is just a second, because they’re no ten feet down the hall before they’re intercepted by Monte. “Where do you think you’re you going?” he asks.
“Um.” Tommy gestures vaguely down the corridor, dropping Adam’s hand to do so. “Home?”
Monte shakes his head. “Forget it,” he says. “There are people rioting in the parking lot. You’re not getting out of here.”
Tommy thinks his eyes probably go a bit bug-eyed at that, and he casts a helpless look in Adam’s direction. Not that Adam looks any better, really.
“So what are we supposed to do?” Adam asks faintly.
“Go back to the dressing room and wait,” Monte says. He turns Tommy around by the shoulders and gives him a little push. “Go on, now. We’ll let you know when things are safe.”
As it turns out, things aren’t safe again for a long, long time. They end up hanging out in their dressing room for several hours, sprawled out on the grimy couches, bored out of their minds but too lazy to do anything. Ray’s been noodling around on his guitar for what feels like forever, picking out snatches of songs that then get stuck in Tommy’s head.
He’s trying not to say anything, though, because Ray’s tolerance of him and Adam is tentative at the best of times. So he hunches up his shoulders and lets Adam hold his hand between their thighs, which is seriously more soothing than he wants to admit.
Frank and Gerard are draped over the couch across from them, next to Ray’s chair, Gerard reading a back issue of Time Magazine that he found between the cushions for approximately the fortieth time, and Frank alternately tapping his feet or crossing and uncrossing his legs or drumming his fingers on his knees. It’d probably be annoying if it weren’t the only form of entertainment.
Every once in a while Mikey, who’s off socializing with somebody he knows through somebody he knows from his time in Jersey, or Monte will stick their heads in the door and give a progress report, usually along the lines of ‘Nope, still people going crazy outside, it’s gonna be a while yet.’
It’s not until some insane hour in the morning, when Tommy’s eyes are starting to sting with tiredness, that Mikey comes in and says, “Somebody set a car on fire,”
“Re-vo-lu-tion,” Frank singsongs, but Tommy doesn’t look at him. He’s stuck staring at Adam who’s staring back, eyes just as wide as Tommy’s, probably. Just - they’re in this. They’re a part of this, now.
It’s equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
Naturally, epiphanic moments like that mean nothing around Frank, the hyperactive rock star. “Fuck yeah,” he says, dancing around on his seat. “Fuck yeah, man, this is fucking amazing, is what it is.”
“Just, fucking-“ Gerard jabs him with his elbow. “Sit still, will you.”
“’Sit still?’” Frank echoes. “The fuck?”
“Yes, sit still,” Gerard says. “You’re not fucking rioting, you’re in here, and you need to stop freaking the Hell out because I’m trying to read.”
“Stop freaking out? Why would you do that to me?” Frank moans, head tilted over the back of the dingy couch. “Why are we stuck here?”
Gerard cranes his neck to peer at his face. “I don’t know if you noticed the rioters outside?”
“Exactly.” Franks smacks the bottom of his fist against Gerard’s thigh. “We should be out there, with them.” He blinks his eyes at them. “We’d be fucking awesome rioters. Right, guys?”
He gives Tommy a pleading look, and it’s not like Tommy would know but he kind of wants to be, but Ray gets there first.
“They’re kids, Frank,” he says. “And I know you’re a giant child, but they’re actual children, and they shouldn’t be anywhere near a riot.”
“You’re no fun,” Frank moans theatrically, but the air has already gone still and stifling around them.
“Fucking seriously?” Tommy asks.
“Tommy,” Gerard says, half placating and half confused but Tommy’s attention is all on Ray’s bowed head.
“Look man,” he says, “I know you’ve gotten it into your head somehow that I’m this snot-nosed little kid who’s only out to ruin your life, but you’re not the only one who has it tough, so if you could stop acting like I’m a fucking idiot, that’d be much appreciated.”
“Hookay,” Gerard says into the silence. “You know, I think I’m going to go check how things are looking out there.” He pulls on Frank’s sleeve. “You can come with me.”
Frank sputters a bit but goes, and Adam hovers a bit but he doesn’t try particularly hard to stay when Gerard takes his arm and pulls him out the door. Fucking traitor.
It’s quiet after they leave, and Tommy sits perched at the edge of his seat, all ready for Ray to open his mouth and start listing all the ways Tommy is a little kid and a fucking idiot and completely inferior in every way.
Ray doesn’t, though. He just sits there, bowed over his guitar, plucking out the beginning of Nothing Else Matters.
Finally, Tommy can’t take the tension anymore. He was totally going to wait around until Ray finally gave in and admitted what a dick he is, or else gave Tommy Hell for his attitude, whatever, but in the end, it’s Tommy who caves.
He says, “Well, if you’re not gonna say anything,” as snottily as he can manage as he gets up, but it’s totally a retreat and he knows it. And honestly, the only thing he wants to do right now is get the fuck out of here as fast as possible. And he almost makes it, too, before a quiet “Tommy,” makes him hesitate at the door.
“I know it’s tough, up at that school,” Ray says. He looks up from his strings. “I know it’s fucking tough.”
Tommy’s hand slips from the doorknob. It’s not like he doesn’t know that; he does, he fucking lives there. But everybody always acts like all the shit they get is fucked up but shouldn’t actually bother him, and he didn’t realize how much that hurt until someone acknowledged that it might.
Ray smiles a little bit. “I know, Tommy, okay? I get it. But at least up there, nobody’s gonna tie you to their bumper and cruise down the highway going ninety. They’re not gonna grab you off a dark street corner and force you to swallow handfuls of broken glass, and they’re not going to kick you in the face until not even your dental records are going to help identify you.” He gestures vaguely at the door but doesn’t say anything else, just offers another, weaker smile.
Tommy bites his lip for a moment, but then he turns to face Ray all the way. “I get that,” he says. “I do. And maybe I’m being stupid, and maybe I’m dragging Adam into something we’re both going to regret, but I’m not going to trade freedom for security. Ray. I can’t be that guy.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ray strums again, E to E flat. “You wouldn’t be our Tommy if you could.”
He smiles again, expression growing when Tommy fumbles for the doorknob. “I’m gonna - help the others pack up our shit,” he stammers.
“You do that,” Ray says serenely, and by the time Tommy’s in the hallways and pulling the door shut behind him, he’s already gone back to plucking on his strings.
They don’t get back on the bus until the sky turns a pale pink on the horizon, stars fading away above them.
“There’s no place like home,” Gerard says after he sinks into the passenger seat, sliding one leg across the center console to kick his heel against Mikey’s.
Mikey kicks back half-heartedly and turns the key in the ignition. “Don’t pass out yet,” he says. “You have to navigate.”
“M’not passing out,” Gerard says, half the words lost around a yawn.
Mikey rolls his eyes, but Tommy gets it. The adrenaline’s faded by now, leaving him shaky and drained, and he doesn’t resist when Adam tugs him over to rest against Adam’s shoulder.
“So that was our first gig,” Adam says quietly.
Tommy grins. “Your first gig,” he says.
“Yeah, my first gig.” Tommy can’t see it, but Adam sounds like he’s rolling his eyes. “Can’t tell you how glad I am that we’ve popped that particular cherry.”
Tommy snots, but there’s still a shiver of anticipation that runs through him, unexpected and pleasantly terrifying.
“Please don’t talk about your cherries,” Ray says from the back. “There are things I really don’t need to know about, God.”
Adam tightens his arm around Tommy protectively. And unnecessarily, because whatever his deal was with Ray, Tommy’s over it now.
“Would you rather hear about the coke that techie offered us backstage?” he asks, making Ray groan and everybody else laugh, and settles more comfortably against Adam’s side.
They get stuck in traffic just outside Springfield, which Frank proclaims to be evidence of his revolution at work and Tommy think is just fucking annoying, and they spend a solid three hours trying to decipher the bumper stickers on the car in front of them.
Mikey finally pulls them into a parking lot off the highway, refusing to drive any further until the road’s cleared up a bit, and as much as Gerard whines about wanting to go home already, there’s not a whole lot he can do about stopped traffic. Instead, Frank finds a Frisbee for them to throw around squashed underneath an amp, and they do that for twenty minutes before they all try to catch a bit of sleep in the van, and Tommy goes straight from listening to Adam’s heartbeat to Frank shaking him awake with the sun setting behind him awake with the sun setting behind him, muttering about oversleeping and no fucking alarm clocks.
Ray’s the one to take over the wheel this time, and everybody else falls back asleep pretty much the minute they get back on the road. Tommy’s awake now, though, and Adam nods off a couple of times but eventually pulls himself upright as well, and kisses Tommy’s jaw with a sleepy smile.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
Tommy can’t help but laugh at that, because seriously? But then he shrugs and says, “Stuff. You know, not anything in particular. Just stuff.”
Adam nods slowly. “You know everything’s going to be different now, right?” he says.
Tommy glances around but they’re the only ones awake, besides Ray, who’s staring at the road over the steering wheel and bobbing his head to some non-existent beat.
Adam finds Tommy’s hand between the seats and squeezes his fingers firmly. “We can’t hide anymore,” he says. His lips curl into a weak smile when Tommy gives him a look. “We’re out now. The school knows we snuck out, and our parents know, and even if they somehow don’t wring our necks, everybody’ll know something happened.”
Tommy fingers his hair. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows Adam’s right. They’re not getting out of this one no matter how far they bend.
He still thinks that it was worth it.
Nobody catches them sneaking in. Ray stops the van on the maintenance road closest to their dorm. Frank wraps his arm around Tommy’s neck from behind and gives it a quick squeeze, but there’s not huge, emotional scene. Gerard’s dead to the world in the back, and Mikey lifts a tired hand, but that’s all. Once Adam slides the door shut from the outside, it barely takes the guys half a minute to rattle the van down the road and out of sight, despite the neat and tidy 17-point-turn Ray has to execute on the tiny little road.
Tommy stares after them until the red lights have disappeared into the darkness, and even then he only moves when Adam brushes a hand along his back.
Adam helps him scale the fence with an ease that has Tommy stumped for a moment before he remember that Adam’s been climbing this fence pretty regularly for two months now, and he hasn’t needed help in a long time. Clearly, it’s not only boosting his confidence.
Tommy hangs onto Adam’s hand when they’re cutting across the grounds and Adam doesn’t seem to mind, smiling to himself in the darkness, dragging Tommy to a stop by the basement window and pushing him up against the bricks to kiss him. He kisses him once more, soft and sweet, when they get to Adam’s room. He reaches down to squeeze Tommy’s hand and smiles at him, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to be said.
Tommy keeps looking over his shoulder on his way to the stairs and Adam’s looking back every time, and Tommy clings to that while he slips into his room and changes into his PJ’s, when he’s staring at the ceiling, keeping his eyes open for as long as he possibly can because the next time he wakes up, there’s going to be hell to pay.
For some reason, Tommy fully expects to be dragged out of bed by his hair, some teacher or supervisor or whatever screeching in his ear about calling his parents. He isn’t. Instead, he’s pulled from sleep by the incessant beeping of his alarm, which is as annoying as it is ordinary. He smacks it into submission and then lies there for a moment, covers pulled up to his chin, listening. There are people moving in the halls, talking quietly. Perhaps a little more quietly than usual on a Monday morning, but that might just be Tommy’s imagination. It’s running wild enough to, after all.
But there’s nothing for it. Tommy’s going to have to give in and get up eventually, so he pushes the covers down and sits up. He finds a crumpled pair of khakis under the bed that don’t look so bad once he shakes the wrinkles out, and once that’s done the rest just kind of happens, his body falling into the routine of getting himself up and dressed and ready for another day in Hell.
He makes his way over to the dining hall after a quick stop at the bathroom, feeling more and more like Alice with every step. There aren’t many people around, but everyone who sees him stares like he’s got horns growing out of his head. Word’s gotten out, apparently. The dining room, like some bullshit teen movie, falls silent when the door falls shut behind him. Adam isn’t around, but Ryan is, staring at him with his eyes wide and his lips curved into a soft, pink ‘o.’ Tommy gets an orange juice because he doesn’t think he can get anything more substantial down and sits at an empty table and hopes to God somebody will come get him before he starts laughing out of sheer desperation.
Of course, that feeling only lasts until there’s a hand on his shoulder, and Mrs. Sallivan asking him to please accompany him to the principal’s office, and then all his whirling thoughts completely wipe away and the only thought he’s got left is a terrified mantra of oh shit looping ‘round and ‘round in his head, like one of Frank’s scratched-up records.
Tommy doesn’t think there’s a single person who doesn’t watch them go.
Tommy, for all that he’s kind of a problem child at this school, has only been to the principal’s office once before, and that was when he first got here. His mom had hovered awkwardly at the very edge of their seat, quick to smile and even quicker to assure everyone who’d listen how thankful they were. Tommy, in true fifteen-year-old fashion, had slouched in his seat and barely raised his eyes and mumbled unintelligible answers when prompted, sure that everyone at Clarkenwell as well as God above hated him.
The office hasn’t changed much, not really. There’s a different calendar on the wall, this year’s edition of the Clarkenwell fundraiser for kids in need. The subjects have changed, but the theme hasn’t: Smiling girls and boys in tidy uniforms, playing instruments and sports, walking the grounds, studying and being overly attentive in class.
Other than that, though, things are mostly the same: An intimidating oak desk, a book shelf full of books heavy enough to crush someone’s head, two visitor’s chairs on one side of the room and Mrs. Morrigan on the other, contemplating the grounds outside her window with a disapproving glare that Tommy can recognize even in profile.
Adam’s already there, tense-limbed in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He doesn’t smile when he sees Tommy, not exactly, but his shoulders unclench a little bit, and as it turns out, that’s all the encouragement Tommy needs to step over the threshold and sink into the seat next to him. At least they’re going down together.
He starts when Adam nudges him and points his chin at the newspaper lying on the desk. It’s a copy of the Times, headline reading New York City riots escalate. There’s a shot of a group of protestors underneath, mouths open, caught mid-scream, and Tommy swallows.
“On the brink,” he says quietly.
Mrs. Morrigan hears him, maybe, because she turns away from the window to fix him with a truly paralyzing glare. “Mr. Ratliff,” she says. Her tone could cut glass.
She likes playing up the stern angle, though, so that’s not really all that new. She always wears blazers and pencil skirts and her hair pulled back into a tight bun, and really, it’s no surprise Clarkenwell is such a hellhole considering who’s running it. She’s the kind of woman that makes Tommy gape a bit at the fact that anybody actually thought it would be a good idea to marry her. And it’s not like he’s a misogynist or anything, Tommy knows plenty of marriage-worthy women (his own mother included), but Mrs. Morrigan? She’s like, the ultimate boner-killer.
Tommy shudders a bit, secretly, on the inside. He doesn’t even try to smile. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.
She looks away, lips pursing in distaste. “Wait quietly, if you please,” she says. “You are an adult now, Mr. Ratliff, I’m sure that’s possible.”
Tommy kinds of wants to make some smart-ass comment just to piss her off, but that might be pushing his luck a little too far, so he just sits still and counts the seconds ticking by loudly on the clock behind him. He loses count a couple of times but he sits as still as he can, even after his ass starts aching a little bit. He doesn’t even turn around when there’s a knock behind him, not until Mrs. Morrigan nods at somebody and says, all regal and composed, “Officer.”
Then, Tommy whirls around so fast he can actually feel something crack in his back, and yeah, no lie, there’s actually a cop coming into the room. He’s an older guy, muscled but tall enough that he still looks skinny, and he’s got ‘dignity’ written all over him. There’s another one, too, still waiting by the door, a big blond mountain of a guy. He could probably crush Tommy’s skull with one hand, Jesus fuck.
“Are these the two boys you mentioned?” the first cop asks Mrs. Morrigan.
She nods. “Mr. Ratliff, Mr. Lambert,” she says, mentioning to each of them in turn. She forces her lips into a smile. “If you would be so kind as to cooperate with Officer Halvard.”
Tommy nods slowly, remembering that whole bit they always go on about on TV about not saying anything without a lawyer. He’s not so sure he’s going to make it out of here in one piece, anyway, so maybe waiting for a lawyer would be stupid.
“Cooperate on what?” Adam asks, voice a little rough.
Halvard smiles at him. “Nothing terrible, I promise,” he says.
“Terrible enough to involve the police,” Tommy points out, which makes Mrs. Morrigan sigh quietly and Halvard’s smile get even bigger. Tommy’s starting to think Halvard thinks he’s dealing with five-year-olds.
“There’s been an incident this weekend which was serious enough to warrant a police inquiry, yes,” he says. “Considering your whereabouts have been unaccounted for since Friday night, I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you some questions.”
It’s by far the nicest Where the hell have you been? that Tommy’s ever heard, and that relaxes him a bit. At least no one’s busting out the handcuffs quite yet.
“Okay,” he says. He looks over at Adam, and Adam nods. Tommy swallows. “Okay.”
The cop nods. “You’re not obliged to say anything without a lawyer,” he says. “We can call you one, if you’d like, but we’d have to bring you in to the station for that.”
This time it’s Adam who says, “That’s okay,” before he cuts a quick glance at Tommy. “We didn’t do anything super illegal, right?”
It’s probably not the smartest thing to say, but Tommy’s pretty unsettled himself. Do they really call in the cops when people play hookie for a day?
Mrs. Morrgian scoffs, so maybe they do, but the cop’s smile is vaguely sympathetic.
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” he says. “This is just a questioning, there haven’t been any formal charges.”
“Yet,” Mrs. Morrigan adds under her breath.
Halvard gives her a displeased look. “Like I said,” he tells Adam and Tommy, “no formal charges, but if you could answer a few questions for me, that’d be much appreciated.”
“But,” Tommy says. “What’s going on? What are we even being questioned on?”
Halvard sighs. He says, “One of your classmates was attacked on school grounds this full moon. He sustained severe injuries and is currently in intensive care at Spring Harbor Hospital.”
“Who?” It comes out in a whisper. Tommy clears his throat, licks his lips. “Who was attacked?”
“A Mr. Jesse Monroe,” the cop says, and that sucks, but there’s totally a part of Tommy that’s relieved that it’s the school douchebag and not somebody he actually, you know, liked.
“Mr. Monroe was viciously attacked, by what was obviously a wolf,” Mrs. Morrigan elaborates. “So if you have anything to say for yourselves, now is the time to say it.”
“Now, now,” Halvard says. He smiles at them. “I’m sure that whatever these two boys got up to, they meant no harm. Isn’t that right, boys?”
“Right,” Tommy says faintly. He really wants to hold Adam’s hand, but there’s no way he’s giving these guys that much of an opening.
Halvard smiles again. “So, would you like to tell me where you were? As much as you can remember.”
Tommy exchanges a quick look with Adam. He dips his head. “We weren’t on the grounds,” he says.
“Where were you, then?” Halvard asks.
Tommy shakes his head. “Not on the grounds.”
“You’re in enough trouble as it is, Mr. Ratliff,” Mrs. Morrigan snaps. “I’d really advise against adding unwillingness to cooperate with the police to that list.”
“We went to a concert,” Tommy says, hoping his voice comes out cool and collected rather than wavering, because that’s the version that reveals the least, but it’s still true and he hopes they can see that. He really, really hopes so.
“And I’m sure there’s somebody who could verify that?” Halvard prompts, and Tommy bites his lip.
There is, of course there is, but Tommy’s not exactly keen on letting the cops know about the guys’ involvement in their illegal weekend activities.
“Mr. Ratliff,” Mrs. Morrigan says sharply.
“I can,” Adam says, but falls silent again when Mrs. Morrigan give him a quelling look.
“Obviously, questioning the two of you together isn’t doing anybody any good,” she says. “Mr. Ratliff, would you wait in the reception area?” She stabs the intercom on the desk with a manicured fingernail. “Marcy, draw the shades, please?”
There’s a staticky “yes, right away” in reply that Tommy barely hears. He’s too busy staring at Adam, and Adam’s looking back with his eyes just as wide because, new-found confidence aside, Adam’s more likely to cave out of the two of them and they both know it.
Mrs. Morrigan makes a pleased noise, no doubt popping a giant lady-boner at the prospect of getting to torture Adam, but things never get that far.
“Leave them alone,” somebody yells, audible even through the pane of glass that separates the office from the rest of the admin area, and they all turn to look.
It’s Daisy, most of her uniform on but it’s a mess and her ponytail is falling apart, half of it in her face. She’s kicking her legs and screaming and her fingernails leave long, bloody streaks down the arm of the blond officer who grabs her around the middle to stop her from coming closer. The guy winces but doesn’t let go.
“You can’t arrest them,” she yells, scrabbling at the arm around her waist, “because they didn’t fucking do it!”
Halvard gives Mrs. Morrigan an unreadable look. He gets up and opens the door and says, “Please elaborate, Miss,” like he’s at etiquette school and not in an office interrogating a bunch of school kids in an assault/attempted-murder investigation.
Daisy grows a bit calmer at that, but the cop who’s got her around the middle doesn’t let go. Smart guy.
“They didn’t do it,” Daisy says. She sets her jaw. “They weren’t even here.”
“Where were you?” Mrs. Morrigan asks them icily, and Adam manages to say, “New York” before the cop holds up a finger, asking them to be silent.
“Do you know who did?”
Daisy’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes,” she says evenly.
“Did you assault Mr. Monroe?” the cop asks gently, like he’s talking to a child.
Daisy lifts her chin. “And I’m not sorry for it, either,” she says. “He had it coming.”
Mrs. Morrigan chokes on air. “You little brat,” she starts, and then seems to run out of words. The look of disgust, the way she curls her lip, though, they really say it all.
“Mrs. Morrigan,” Halvard reprimands gently, which could possibly have made Tommy’s day under different circumstances, and when he turns to Daisy, his eyes are still gentle. “Daisy, can you tell me why you assaulted Mr. Monroe?”
Daisy grins at him, all teeth. “Because he makes my life hell. He makes their life hell,” she spits, one spindly finger pointed at Adam and Tommy, and the cop raises an eyebrow.
Mrs. Morrigan gapes at them. Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever seen her speechless.
“Boys?” the officer asks, and Tommy finds himself nodding before he remembers that maybe he shouldn’t be incriminating Daisy like that.
Halvard looks like a nice guy, though, and the tilt to his mouth is soft. “Is she right?”
“Jesse’s a jerk,” Tommy says.
“Has he ever been violent to you?” the cop asks.
Tommy looks at Adam who looks back, long and silent, and the cop sucks in a breath, obviously getting it without needing to be told, but then Adam nods.
“Yeah,” he says. “We got beat up a couple of times.”
“We had to see the vice principal for a fight, like, back in September,” Tommy adds. “He said we started it.”
“Did you?” the cop asks. He doesn’t sound like he’s judging though - just curious.
“Not unprovoked,” Tommy settles on eventually, and the cop nods like he gets it. Maybe he does. Either way, his voice his gentle when he turns to Daisy again.
“Daisy,” he says, quiet and calm, “we’re going to have to take you down to the station. Alright? I promise you won’t be hurt.”
“Fucking try me,” Daisy says, voice shaking, eyes wide, and when the officer holding her reaches for the handcuffs on his belt, Halvard shakes his head.
“Let’s not make a spectacle out of it, Bryar,” he says, and the officer nods before he leads Daisy away.
“Alright, then,” Halvard says. He smiles at them. “That means you two are most likely not the ones who did it,” he says, and that’s almost worse, the way he treats them, all kind and gentle, like they’re fucking idiots. At least when somebody’s a dick to them, then that’s just wrong. It’s harder to explain to people that kindness can be fucking painful too.
“Due to legal reasons, I have to ask you not to leave town regardless,” Halvard says. “We’re still going to need your statements, officially, and we might have to rely on you as witnesses.”
He hands each of them a card. It’s waxed paper, and it sticks to Tommy’s sweaty palm.
“Call me if there’s anything,” he says, tips his head at Mrs. Morrigan, and heads out after his colleague, closing the door with a cheerful little wave.
Mrs. Morrigan makes a small noise of displeasure. She doesn’t say anything, though, and the silence drags on until Adam starts to fidget, school slacks dragging against the fabric of the chair.
Tommy clears his throat. “So, like, are we getting suspended, or what?”
Mrs. Morrigan raises her eyebrows. “You can’t honestly think you’re still welcome at this school,” she says.
Tommy can feel his eyes going wide. Because yeah, getting expelled was always sort of the ultimate Damocles sword hanging over them, and okay, yeah, they’ve been sneaking out a bunch, but nobody gets expelled for not being guilty of something, what the fuck.
“You’re kicking us out,” he says anyway, just to be sure.
Mrs. Morrigan attempts a pinched smile for a moment, but it’s not working too well and she lets it drop after only a moment. “You two gentlemen are obviously not very appreciative of the opportunity Clarkenwell is affording you,” she says. “There are hundreds of eligible students who would relish being offered what this school is offering you, and from your behavior, I have to conclude that they, unlike you, would actually deserve it.”
Tommy thinks his smile might be kind of mean. “You mean you’d rather have two lapdogs who roll over and beg when you tease them with a treat.”
Mrs. Morrigan’s expression is sour enough to curdle milk, which is kind of thrilling, no lie, even with the situation as fucked up as it is. “You have an hour to pack up your things and vacate the premises,” she says. “Then I’m asking Officer Halvard to return.”
“Can we call our parents, at least?” Adam asks. His face is calm, but his fingers are white around the armrests of his chair, and his voice shakes just the slightest bit.
Mrs. Morrigan’s face doesn’t even twitch. “You’re welcome to do whatever you like, Mr. Lambert, as long as you do it outside the school grounds. You are no longer Clarkenwell’s responsibility.”
“Motherfucker,” Tommy hears himself mutter. Wow. Just, wow. They can’t even bring cell phones to school with them - he has a grand total of eleven bucks in cash, how the hell do they expect them to get home?
“Language, Mr. Ratliff,” Mrs. Morrigan warns.
“He can say whatever he wants,” Adam says loudly. “He’s no longer Clarkenwell’s responsibility.” He hesitates before he opens his mouth again. “You fucking bitch.” He looks kind of terrified as soon as the words leave his mouth, like he can’t believe he actually said them.
Tommy definitely can’t, but that just makes him want to jump Adam all the more. And hey, he’s out, he’s free, so he gets up and slings his leg over Adam’s and kisses him, tongue and all, and grinds his hips into Adam’s stomach to show how much he approves.
“I can still have you arrested for trespassing,” Mrs. Morrigan cuts in sharply - a bit too sharply, like she’s losing her cool - and yeah. They definitely don’t have the money for bail.
Tommy withdraws reluctantly, leaving Adam glassy-eyed and shiny-lipped. “Let’s get out of this shithole,” he whispers.
“Yeah, okay,” Adam replies, just as soft, and eases Tommy off of him with a gentle hand to his side. “It’s not there’s anything left for us here.”
The words sting, even though they’re true, but Adam slides his fingers between Tommy’s when they turn to the door, and that helps.
“Please remember that your identification bracelets are school property,” Mrs. Morrigan says, just as they leave.
Flipping someone off has never felt so good.
It doesn’t take him long to pack. The uniforms had been included in the scholarship, and it’s not like Tommy’s going to need them. Same for the books, all those stupid fucking worthless books, and Tommy somehow resists the urge to shred them all to pieces. They don’t matter anymore. He’s out of here.
He finds his duffel and his backpack under the bed, but there’s not really anything for him to take. There’s three pairs of jeans and a couple of band shirts, half of them Gerard’s, a hoodie, a jacket. Computer print-outs of guitar tabs, a battered copy of The Contender, the hanging picture thing his mom made him, but his bag is nowhere even close to full.
He turns, expecting to see an entire suitcase stuffed with shit still lurking in a corner somewhere, because this can’t be his life, can it? This can’t be everything he has to show for two-and-a-half years of misery. He throws open his closet door, starts pulling his starched white shirts and the neatly folded pants from the shelves, pushes the covers from the bed to find a pair of boxers in a miserable little heap.
His shower stuff is in the bathroom and he goes to get it even though there’s nothing of him in there, only anonymous pieces of plastic. He leaves the door open when he gets back and dumps the entire thing on top of his clothes even though there’s water hiding in the shampoo cap that leaks all over his hand. He wipes his fingers on the bedspread and curses a bit, not because he really needs to but because he feels like he has to say something, anything, or he might explode.
A soft cough makes him look up.
There’s a mop of hair hovering at the doorway, bangs just long enough to warrant nasty looks from the administration, and Tommy actually has to stop and think about that for the first time. Huh. Maybe they’re all rebelling in their own little ways.
Still, though. Tommy and Adam are rebelling in fucking huge ways right now, and Tommy still hasn’t quite managed to wrap his head around that. He’s not sure he can deal with this right now.
“Hey, Ryan,” he says. “I’m a bit busy.”
Ryan lets his gaze sweep over the mess on the floor. He doesn’t come in, but he doesn’t leave again, either. “Is it true you’re getting kicked out?” he asks in a hushed voice.
When Tommy doesn’t say anything, he folds his arms over his chest, drops his gaze to his feet. He looks so small standing there, so alone, and Tommy feels bad for him all of a sudden. He doesn’t know much about him, but Ryan’s stuck here, too. None of them would be here if they had anywhere else to go.
“Yeah, I - me and Adam, yeah.” He tries to give Ryan a tiny smile. “Daisy’s gone, too.”
“Okay,” Ryan says. And God, the kid is going to have to live here after everything’s gone to shit, he’s gonna be one of the ones who deal with the aftermath of all Tommy’s and Adam’s and Daisy’s fuck-ups. He’s going to have to live with it all, and he’s all big, dark eyes and lips the slightest bit parted, pathetically young, and Tommy kind of feels like the worst person on the planet.
“Hey Ryan,” he says, motioning him closer. “If you ever need help. Like, really need it.” He leaned in close, pitching his voice to nothing more than a murmur. “You know where Desecration Row is?”
Ryan nods.
“Go there, ask for Frank. He’s crazy, but tell him Tommy sent you. He’ll help you out.”
“Frank,” Ryan repeats quietly.
“Frank,” Tommy says. He zips up his bag and slips it over his shoulder, and then he slides his hand around Ryan’s neck to draw him in and presses a kiss to his temple. “You’ve already got everything they’ll ever want,” he says, whispers, and then he leaves him standing there and walks out the door without ever looking back.
Adam’s waiting for him in the entrance hall, watched by Larkner’s eagle eyes. He’s got a bag, stuffed full from the looks of things, and a small cardboard box that Tommy takes from him, and they look gazes for a moment, wide and scared but also kind of excited, and Larkner says, “I think it’s time you left,” clearly no ‘think’ involved at all.
Tommy nods and starts for the door, the big double-winged wooden entrance that scared the crap out of him when he first got here and still makes him kind of uneasy, but Larkner’s hand on his elbow stops him.
Larkner narrows his eyes when Tommy turns his head to look, thoughtful and kind of mean. “There are places you’ll be welcome,” he says. “This is not one of them.”
“We get it, jeez,” Adam mutters, but Tommy is distracted by the feel of paper slipping into his palm, and he’s sure his confusion shows on his face when he looks up at Larkner.
Larkner tilts his head at the door. “Go on, then,” he says, all dark challenge. “Get out of here.”
“We’re going,” Adam huffs, and he doesn’t look back when he strides over to the door and strains to pull one wing open, not the way Tommy does. Larkner’s still standing there, alone in that big entrance hall, and he smirks a little bit and touches one fingertip to his temple in salute when he catches Tommy looking.
“Tommy, come on,” Adam says. There’s a hand on his elbow again, a surprisingly strong hand that pulls Tommy out of the dim gloom of the entrance hall and into the overcast daylight instead.
Tommy hitches a breath when the doors shutter closed behind them, dark and final. The path to the front gates looks endless from here, winding on and on and on, and Tommy can’t even get his feet to unstick his feet from the ground, he’s never going to make it all the way out there.
“Hey.” Clammy fingers slide underneath his, and when he blinks and tears his eyes away, Adam’s smiling at him. “We’re still here,” he says, squeezing Tommy’s hand in his own. “Okay.” Then he hesitates, because he has to feel the paper Larkner slipped him tucked between Tommy’s sweat-sticky palm and the side of the box. “What-?”
“Larkner,” Tommy says. He shifts Adam’s box to his hip and keeps hold of it with his elbow, using both hands to uncrumple the note.
It’s an address, written in the same sloping scrawl Larkner uses to grade quizzes. Just a single line, a street in the run-down part of town, down by the club the guys play at. Where the sympathetics live.
“What is it?” Adam asks, craning his neck.
Tommy shows him, and Adam bites his lip.
“You think?” he asks.
Tommy shakes his head, helplessly, not ‘no.’ “I think he’s okay,” he says.
Adam nods. “Worth a shot,” he says. He tilts his head down the driveway, towards the staircase leading down to the footpath that’ll take them towards town, away from this hellhole, but Tommy only makes it a couple of steps before he hesitates.
There’s a cop car parked to the side, empty, sirens off. It’s not particularly threatening, but it still sends a shudder down Tommy’s spine. “You think she’s gonna be okay?” he asks.
“She’s still a kid,” Adam says, but he doesn’t sound sure. “Like, there’s limits to what they can do to her, right?”
“Shit,” Tommy says. “Just, why the fuck did she do that? It’s not like we don’t get enough bad press as it is.”
“You know why,” Adam says pointedly, and yeah, Tommy does. If he hadn’t found Adam and Frank and the guys, maybe that would have been Tommy. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.
“It’s going to be a mess,” Tommy says. “The seperationists are going to be all over it. They’re gonna lock us up for good this time.”
“Only if we let them,” Adam says firmly, and Tommy looks up at him, surprised. Adam smiles a bit, nudging his shoulder, and draws himself up to his full height. It’s easy to forget, most of the time, but Adam really is one impressive motherfucker.
“Frank’s revolution,” Tommy says slowly. “You think it’s gonna happen?”
“I think anything can happen.” Adam holds out his hand. “Anything can happen, now.”
Tommy nods slowly. “I hope you’re right,” he says. He slides his fingers between Adam’s. “Like, I really, really hope you’re right. Because I don’t know what we’re gonna do if you’re not.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Adam tells him, and quirks his lips into a smile.
Tommy smiles back, warm and trusting even though he should be freaking out. He should be terrified, and instead, he pulls a little on Adam’s hand and takes the first, hopeful step down the stairs.
The End
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