welp. I tried to write a short cute thing for Christmas and ended up with this, 1k of vague student teacher au Tommy/Javi, nearly an hour into Boxing Day my time. here it is for youse guys. Merry Christmas, blessed Yule, season's greetings and all that. love you.
There's a time for subtlety, a time for patience, and they're past it. It's Christmas, fuck patience. Or whatever. Javi can't quite make the dots connect in his head, but he doesn't think it matters. Too late now.
Tommy looks surprised to see him, which is fair. "Uh, hi."
"Evening," Javi says brightly, thrusts the box he's carrying at Tommy, who looks bemused but accepts it. "I brought presents," he adds, perhaps unnecessarily.
"Thank you," Tommy says, clearly reflexive, and seems to shake himself a little. "What's this about?"
"Are you gonna invite me in or not? It's snowing. I'm damp and I don't think my hands work anymore, have some compassion."
"I — yeah, sorry, of course. C'mon." Tommy steps back and Javi ducks inside gratefully, barely holds back a sigh of pure bliss as the welcome warmth of the room hits him.
"Please take this in the way it's intended," Tommy says, when they've killed most of a bottle of wine and Javi's hat and gloves are steaming on top of the vent. Tips his head against the back of the couch and looks at Javi sideways. Bare feet, worn-soft jeans, more relaxed than Javi remembers seeing him in... a while. It's not a bad look, honestly. Suits him, in his place. The living room is lamplit and inviting; warm neutrals mostly, offset here and there with scraps of colour. Basquiat print above the couch, a plant Javi can't identify at a glance still mostly green but shedding curling brown leaves onto its shelf. Not exactly what he might've expected (though if he cranes a little he can make out the severe stainless-steel lines of the kitchen; Tommy's so straight). "But — to what do I owe this particular pleasure, again?"
"It's Christmas," Javi points out, "so I just thought I'd —"
"Three days before Christmas," Tommy protests, mirrors his tone.
"Don't interrupt me. It's Christmas, and you're lonely and sad, and chocolate makes it better."
Tommy clutches at his chest, closes his eyes. "Harsh."
"I'm right." That's a little blunt, maybe, though Tommy doesn't argue. They've never discussed it in depth, or anything, but work's been an absolute shitshow — he's finally dipping his toes into the renovations he's been wanting to do for ages, and Javi's (gentle, oft-repeated) suggestion that they hire another barista keeps being waved off — and Tommy's not gone home to Virginia like he usually does this time of year, and he looks like a fucking corpse lately. Besides, Javi's brownies are famous for their magical ability to make everything better, so even if Tommy objects to Javi barging in here and drinking his wine, it'd be crueler to deprive him. Damn near unconscionable. It's better this way.
"Thank you," Tommy says, soft. Breaks apart another one of the brownies to eat in pieces, dropping crumbs into his lap, looks up at Javi from under his lashes. Does he know he's doing that? Javi suspects not. Still.
"Say that again, slower."
Tommy laughs, gets through two-thirds of this brownie before he continues. "Is it worse that I'm quote-unquote sad and lonely, or that you didn't have anything better to do than notice it and bring me, like, fifteen pounds of magic healing baked goods?"
"Aw, come on. Don't. Don't do that."
"What's that?" Almost inaudible.
"Don't — self-deprecate, it's obnoxious. Just... feel a feeling, you know. Eat a fucking brownie, Kail."
Tommy appears to consider. "Came at it sideways, but that was almost encouraging. Close enough for jazz." A beat, and the silence stretches out. This happens sometimes: at work, when they're closing up at night and the place is scrubbed clean and half-lit and Tommy's worn down too much to keep shoving sarcasm and coffee into the places where his emotions should be.
Javi has the sudden thought that it's delicate, this quiet, like spun sugar; he has to handle it carefully.
Tommy clears his throat before he speaks again, drags his gaze away from the snow falling thick and fast outside the window and back to Javi's own. "Hey, how are your hands?"
Javi's utterly confused for a second before he remembers their earlier conversation. "Oh. Well." Makes a show of appraising his own hands, knife scars, burn scars, the skin dry and cracking, cuticles ragged. "They're in pretty rough shape. Might be a lost cause, I think I need new ones." He's dropped his voice low to match Tommy's, he realizes.
"If only I'd gotten to the door five seconds earlier..."
"Well, that's why I'm starting a foundation for people who work food service and their fucked-up hands. A telethon and everything, in your memory.” Smile tugging at his mouth. “Not that mine are any better.”
Javi takes a chance, reaches out — inches between them, nothing, just inches of space and a few layers of fabric — to brush a thumb over the back of Tommy’s hand, which sports the same reminders of hard work as his own. Tommy says his name, very quietly, but he lets Javi do it, lets him turn his hand over to expose the almost-translucent underside of his wrist, tendons, veins shading blue and purple.
“They look alright to me,” he murmurs, and running with some bold foolish romantic impulse lifts the hand in question to his lips, kisses the knuckles.
Tommy repeats, “Javi…” Barely more than a sigh, let alone a real objection. Javi flicks his eyes up and Tommy says, “Don't ruin it.” A little strangled, like it's an effort. He's skittish, almost. Don't break it, is what he means, this fragile thing, this dancing around each other they've been doing for… god knows how long.
Acknowledging that it exists has probably already done that pretty handily, though, Javi figures.
Still. He's a lot of things but he's not an asshole, so even though he has to wrench it from his throat he says, “Stop me.”
Tommy shakes his head just slightly. Doesn't move back. He might not even be breathing. Exquisitely careful still, Javi takes one of Tommy’s fingers gently into his mouth, presses his tongue to the grooves of his fingerprint. Tastes chocolate, rich and dark, the one or two stray crumbs clinging to it. Tommy’s fingertips brush his cheek, jaw, and his eyes don't leave the place they're touching; Javi spares a second to feel just a tiny bit smug about it. Tommy’s breath leaves him in a shaky rush, a long sigh that could be relief.
dededos
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
theartofmadeline
titsay
stormborns
kaledo-art
