@joshosis gets a starter they didn't ask for.
ENOUGH COCAINE AND WHISKY to bring down a racehorse has only proven to be about 80% effective when it comes to erasing the memories of Joshua Washington from Thomas's mind. On good days he's able to go multiple hours, even an entire afternoon, without encountering something that inevitably calls the delicate lines of Josh's face to the surface of the murky waters that cover the majority of Tommy's psyche; without stumbling across some small, completely benign scent or sight or sound that sends him straight back to London three years ago.
Most of the time, though, Thomas wakes from his never ending nightmares with a gasp & a jolt & has to wait for reality to drape itself over him like a lace canopy dropped from a great height. Then his thoughts inevitably drift to those same memories he so desperately tries to ignore, to erase, to blot out or burn through with drugs & alcohol & sex.
His heart racing, his head pounding, fear coursing through his veins; he remembers a delicate hand resting against the curve of his jaw, fine lips brushed against his with the whispered promise, I'm here.
Then he bolts out of bed & reaches for his flask to remind himself that he had surgically removed that reality from his future, for better or for worse. Dwelling on all of it does nothing but make his heart ache so terribly that he genuinely fears he may die if he allows himself to feel it for too long.
Days & nights blur together, weeks & months floating by in an alcohol-&-sex-infused haze. The touch of others does nothing to help him forget the one he wants; they only serve to remind him of exactly what it is that he yearns for, exactly what it is he had left behind.
Mornings turn to afternoons, breakfast to business. Associates pass in front of him & leave once more. Money comes in. Money goes out. The work day ends. The Garrison opens. Tommy tries to drown himself in distraction & denial yet again, because, this time, maybe it will work. This time, maybe, just maybe, God will be merciful.
That'll be the bloody day.
Perhaps it's the routine itself that offers Tommy some strange sense of comfort. The same people in the same place every evening, the promise of the same empty conversations & drunken passion. The potential for lighthearted laugher with his brothers in the snug. The respect that other patrons afford him without him having to lift a finger. It's all familiar enough to be comfortable. A safe place to hide away from the bleak reality of his life.
That is, of course, until he finds himself staring at the bleak reality itself, standing at the bar with every ounce of charm & sorrow that he remembers from that stranger on a wicker chair in a London hospital three years ago.
Thomas stops short & drops his empty glass of whisky. It shatters on the floor, causing the low din of conversation to ebb & heads to turn in his direction. He doesn't care. He has to make sure that he isn't hallucinating, that this isn't just yet another dream where he reaches for Josh only to wake up just as he begins to curl his fingers around the other man's hand.
When Josh turns around & doesn't dissapear, when others seem to acknowledge his presence, when those deep, dark eyes widen in recognition of him, only then does Tommy finally speak.
"... Joshua ? " he says.
