Work Text:
I.
Two years this has been going on. Sometimes, the days, the weeks and the months drag tediously on. It is tiring to live in St. Petersburg, that much is certain. Always hiding, running away, slipping out the door unnoticed to be with one another until well after night falls. Always hoping it doesn’t look strange that a good-looking, well-admired 20-year-old man such as Tom is not courting any lucky lady, to anyone’s knowledge, but instead still very much stuck to his best friend’s side like glue.
And then, sometimes, it seems time is slipping through Huck’s fingers like smoke.
Was it only yesterday they had said things, confessed things, kissed for the first time? October. It had been October, 1853. Tom had bought him a woolen scarf, wrapped it snug around his neck and brushed away the hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. I hate seeing you go cold every year. You ain’t a boy anymore, you ought to get yourself something nice every now and then. The air was crisp, the browning leaves had fallen from the trees and left the branches bare like gaunt fingers reaching up towards the pale blue sky, and the gentle press of their lips together had been autumn sweet. Tom grimaced a little at the taste of tobacco on his mouth, but there was the pinch of a smile on his lips still, in his eyes.
Huck drew the scarf up closer to his face, as if he wished to hide behind it. He marveled to himself that it might be the softest thing he’d ever owned. Voice quiet, breath thin, he muttered, How long you known?
Aw, Hucky, was all he received in reply. Long enough, apparently.
II.
It’s difficult not to act…close sometimes, when they have to be just Tom and Huck for everyone else. Nothing more and nothing less. They’re only childhood friends, is all. It’s a wonder old sentiments haven't run thin and left them to part ways, but it’s not glaringly strange by any means. Some people are just built that way, meant to be companions for many long years. Maybe life, even.
One slip up is all it takes. But although it’s difficult, they’ve grown accustomed to it.
There are times when they go to the market together on an errand for Aunt Polly, and all they can do is stroll beside one another, brushing shoulders, talking about nothing in particular. There are times when Huck lingers outside the chapel as Sunday services reach their end, waiting for Tom to saunter out the large wooden doors and, with a knowing smirk, catch him standing out like a sore thumb in a sea of pious church-goers. There are times when Tom will tell a lie about seeing a smudge of dirt on Huck’s face so he can wipe it clean for the sole purpose of touching him. And never again is Huck fooled that this is any less than just that.
So much of what they’ve become feels like a language only the two of them understand, a language that they’ve spun tirelessly and crafted with care. Each intricate detail—every small glance, every curl of the lip, every crease of the brow—has been acknowledged and scrutinized and taken apart to its fine bone. There’s so little left misunderstood between them when others watch and don’t see.
Meaning lies in everything when so much has to be pushed beneath the surface.
III.
When it is just the two of them against the rest of the world, it’s easier for little to be left misunderstood. But when it’s one against the other, well…
Tom’s personal faults are easier to figure out. After all, he practically wears them on his sleeve. Pride and stubbornness as strong as his are difficult to hide.
But Huck’s are a whole other story. No one seems to suffer beneath the brunt of them like his own self.
He’s too easy-going at times, too indecisive. He runs away from his problems and doesn’t pay any mind to resolve them, not until they catch up and they’re staring him straight in the face. His communication skills are subpar more often than he’d like to admit, and just plain terrible even less. But one time is all it takes to send Tom into hysterics.
One morning when Huck is leaving the Douglas Manor, the frail old woman calls his name from the porch. When he greets her, she tells him that she has a small errand for him to run. She’d like him to personally deliver a letter to the neighboring town, says it’s addressed to a dear old friend or some other, though Huck truthfully isn’t all that interested to know.
“I reckon I’d rather you take care of my affairs than that new man at the post,” she cajoles, her withered eyes catching a faint spark of humor. “The talk I hear of that boy sometimes…! Losing letters left and right. But not you. Just promise me you’ll come back to St. Petersburg when you’re finished, Huck Finn.” And he does promise, of course. He always does. Not that he has to to begin with.
It’s been years since he decided that he just couldn’t live with the Widow any longer, or with Aunt Sally, or with anyone for that matter. Or at least, not in the sense they always preferred. But the Widow never seemed to hold it against him, or take it to heart. He finds shelter in the now-vacant summer kitchen out in the back of her large estate, and comes and goes as he pleases. All attempts to persuade him to live inside her mansion again have been fruitless thus far. She doesn’t ask for much in return, only that she occasionally assigns the boy work when it needs to be done, and that he enjoys a decent meal with her every now and then. Even she knows him too well to presume he’d accept her generosity for any less. He’s always been hardworking, for as long as he could remember. He had to be. And he’s happy to accept whatever task she asks of him.
Tom, however, is not.
Huck can only guess that this might have more to do with the fact that he didn’t speak a word on the matter to Tom before leaving early that morning and returning well after nightfall two days later. Though his shortcomings may be blatantly obvious to anyone else, he’s puzzled when Tom doesn’t exactly welcome him back with open arms.
He’s saddling his horse into the stable when he hears the approaching footfalls. He instantly spins on his heel and peers into the dark, heart rising to his throat. When he sees that familiar face staring back at him, the momentary fear fades and his face lights up in a smile. “Hey…! What’re you sneaking up on me for?”
No response. Tom just continues to stare—daggers, more specifically—eyes boring straight through Huck. The smile on Huck’s face grows dim.
“What…?”
Tom’s nostrils flare. He folds his arms over his chest, looking so tightly wound that he might burst into a million pieces any second.
Now Huck is starting to get anxious. He hates silences like these. He swallows and wets his lips. “…What’d I d—“
“Why do I have to wait a damn near day after you leave to hear where you gone to?”
Huck blanches. Oh.
“And from the Widow Douglas?”
Huck is deathly silent and still for a brief moment. Then he begins to shuffle around, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, appearing as guilty as a man sentenced to the gallows. What he’s feeling right now isn’t all that different from the way he felt when the Widow would catch him stealing food from the pantry.
First, there is dread once he realizes he’s done something wrong. Then comes the crippling guilt.
He doesn’t know what to say. He fumbles for his voice. “…I thought I’d be back the other night. Didn’t mean to stay over.”
Tom cocks a brow, still fuming. “Then why did you? Why didn’t you come back yesterday morning, or even this morning?”
Well. Huck doesn’t have a good answer for that. He’d lazed around for two days after he delivered the Widow’s letter and done nothing but wander aimlessly about the town. He didn’t have anywhere to be, did he? He can say that he bought himself a new pipe and some tobacco, though.
He decides it’s most certainly best if he doesn’t, for now at least.
Grimacing, he can only lift his shoulders in a stiff shrug.
A cork springs loose inside of Tom, and suddenly his voice is on the verge of yelling. “Huck Finn, I—” He has to pause mid sentence to regain what’s left of his composure. “Never mind why I found out near a day after you left—Why didn’t you tell me straight to begin with? Huck, you—you can’t just leave like that without telling a single body, not even me, and not expect me to—”
Tom burns out quickly, much too overwhelmed with the past three days’ worth of worry and frustration and exhaustion to even try explaining what should already be clearly obvious, what would be to anyone else.
He just looks at Huck with hollow eyes, and this makes Huck feel ten folds guiltier than if he had shrieked at the top of his lungs. “You was gone three days. Couldn’t even bother telling me, I…!” The fleeting hollowness leaves and his face turns red as a beet again, as if he remembers that revealing any more than anger right now would be a weakness. Then, he turns and marches towards the stable doors.
“Tom…” Huck deflates, shoulders sagging. He chases after Tom. “I’m sorry. Tom, c’mon…!”
Huck catches Tom’s wrist in his hand, but Tom yanks out of his grasp. “Just leave me alone,” he hisses, and Huck winces.
He can take a hint. He lets Tom walk away. That doesn’t stop him from staring out into the night until Tom’s figure is just a small speck treading down the dirt road, sandwiched between an indistinguishable row of houses. And that doesn’t stop him from barely catching a wink of sleep that night, either.
***
Unsurprisingly, Tom gives Huck the silent treatment during the first half of the next day. When the sun begins to set and Huck is starting to believe the anguish has truly become unbearable, Tom finally decides he wants to talk. Huck is sitting on the river’s edge and thinking, thinking so hard about the things he’s done and, even worse, the things he hasn’t done, that he doesn’t pay any mind to the aforementioned approaching until he plops himself right down in front of Huck. Huck’s breath jars loose and catches in his throat.
Tom’s face is unreadable. He stares down at the grass beneath him, plucks a blade of it and rolls it in between his fingers, almost like he’s bored. He’s not. He’s wondering how and where he should even begin. Huck knows him too well by now to think any different. He knows Tom had probably thought up a myriad of different ways to tell Huck just how mad he was on the way over. But for some reason, none seem significant enough to put to use now.
Tom’s mouth opens and decidedly shuts. “You can’t do that,” he finally settles on. The corner of his mouth twitches as he frowns. “Huck, if you do that again, I’ll never—” He furrows his brows, eyes downcast, and Huck can see the anger beginning to take shape, its embers glowing red hot.
Huck takes this brief pause as his cue to offer up something, anything. “I’m sorry,” he tries again.
Tom raises his head, and they simply stare into one another’s eyes. Tom must see that he’s as sincere as ever, because he softens, just in the slightest. When is Huck not entirely sincere with Tom?
“You really think you can just run off like that,” Tom laughs dryly, “and no one’ll even blink. Well, guess what? Things ain’t the way they used to be. We’re, well—you’re with me now. We ain’t boys anymore.” That sentence certainly sounds familiar. Holds the same tone of, You wanted something serious, didn’t you? So act like it. “You can’t just ride off into the sunset and leave me behind without telling me nothing about where you gone.”
Huck nods dutifully. “I didn’t mean to make you worry,” he mumbles.
“I know you didn’t,” Tom concedes, voice begrudgingly shedding some of its harsher edges again, and Huck wonders sometimes how he could ever possibly achieve this sort of effect on someone as strong-willed as Tom. “But you still done it anyhow.”
“I know it. I’m real sorry. I am—“
“I know,” repeats Tom. “Don’t do that again, Huck.”
“…Alright,” Huck answers, unsure of what to say or do next. The silence feels more like guttering noise that spreads through Huck’s brain like oil. He stares off into the distance and notices that the reddish glow of the sunset has grown faint and been engulfed by twilight.
Huck’s guilt-induced distress is not lost on Tom. He purses his lips, heaves out a sigh and reaches for him, gently tapping his cheek with his forefinger. When they lock eyes again, Tom brushes the hair from his face, and it’s like they’re speaking to one another using anything but words. It’s that language of theirs being put to work again.
Huck had already mulled over it plenty the night before. He understands now. Sometimes he forgets that for a short while, Huck Finn ceased to exist and was thought to be dead by the whole village—including Tom.
Tom smiles then. “You ain’t allowed to leave without telling a single soul, not unless you do it with me…remember?”
Huck cocks a lopsided grin and chuckles. “Joe ain’t invited this time around, is he?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Tom simpers.
The outlines of their silhouettes meet. Mild laughter tumbles from their lips. And more than ever before in his life, Huck is certain he’d be missed if ever there came a day where he was gone.
IV.
The first time Tom saw Huck’s bare back riddled with faded scars, he was only a child. He was not so small and naive that he couldn’t piece together the reasons why they were there, or who left them. Everyone knew of Huck’s father and his drunken outbursts of rage.
The first time Huck perches himself on the edge of the bed, turns his back to him in silence and just trusts—Tom thanks God that Huck hadn’t a minute sooner. He knows himself too well, knows who he’s been, and fears that a younger, stupider Tom might have tried to touch, might have felt the ribbony flesh against his fingertips and retracted his hand like he made contact with burning coal.
But the way Huck shows him now, it is not with the same glee and exhilarated pride Tom had when he put the bullet-shaped scar on his calf on display for the whole village. They’re not boys anymore, and this is not to be mistaken with a hero’s supposed medal of honor. It is quiet, and thoughtful. It is completely and entirely unvarnished. Huck would probably be so mean to himself as to jokingly call it ugly.
Tom first brushes his fingers against Huck’s broad shoulder, across a sweep of sun-kissed, freckled skin, and then trails down towards his shoulder blades. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he releases a tremendous sigh. His forefinger drags across each dip and crease. Some marks are more apparent than others. Each and every one Huck could probably recall receiving in vivid detail, but Tom would never ask about that.
All of a sudden, his eyes are dissecting the map of welts through a sheen of tears.
He desperately tries to wipe them away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. When he realizes he’s fighting a losing battle, he simply presses his forehead against Huck’s back like he’d rather be swallowed whole by grief than run from it. No matter what he feels right now, he simply won’t let himself look away. When Huck inevitably feels his skin become damp with tears, he turns around, almost shocked but not really. Tom hates, hates, hates that Huck has grown so numb to it all. Is it really so surprising that Tom is bothered by this?
“It’s okay, Tom,” Huck whispers.
“No, it ain’t,” Tom mutters hotly, still wiping away furiously, fruitlessly at his own tear-soaked face. It’s like the more he wants to hide away, the more apparent his own distress becomes. He probably looks terrible. And who is he to get so miserable in the first place, when Huck is the one who—
Huck doesn’t say anything else. Instead he leans in until their foreheads meet. Maybe Tom is mistaken, but when their faces are this close to one another, Tom swears Huck’s eyes appear slightly red-rimmed. They gravitate towards the mattress in silence until they’re lying down again, their quiet breathing stirring the humid night air, the sheets tangled around their ankles.
Unbeknownst to Tom, Huck doesn’t allow his heavy eyes to drift shut until he’s certain Tom is asleep.
V.
The first time Huck tells Tom that he loves him, it really should not come as much of a surprise to both of them as it does.
Or, maybe not the first time Huck tells Tom that he loves him—because he says it back to Tom all the time—but the first time he initiates the exchange.
The feeling comes without rhyme or reason, as it often does. He spends the first half of the day alone, because Tom has to catch up on chores around the house. He thinks of him for reasons he can’t quite place. He thinks of how Tom would undoubtedly spend an hour in front of the mirror in an attempt to make his curls less obvious in any way he possibly could, if he were able. He thinks of the crook in his teeth, the little one right by his canines, and how Huck hadn’t noticed it at first glance, but only after a few months of watching him laugh with rapt attention—something he’d never admit to aloud as a child, or even begin to understand why. And this brings him to thoughts of Tom, laughing; the way he laughs in front of everyone else, nice and smooth and even, and the way he laughs in front of him, just with him. He thinks of that deep, rumbling feeling he gets in his chest whenever he says something so funny, he makes Tom snort with laughter, scrunch his nose up. There’s nothing else really like it.
He thinks of the very way Tom carries himself, always cool and confident and charismatic, and how effortless he makes it look. Tom was the kind of boy Huck wished he could be when he was younger. He possessed an air of certainty in himself that made a person captive to his voice, his thoughts. It felt practically impossible to turn away at times. But now Huck just appreciates him, up close and from afar all at once, without any pretenses. Intimately, but without the feeling of wanting to be something that he’s not. And maybe appreciating Tom, faults and all, helps Huck appreciate himself more, too.
He has no idea why, maybe it’s ridiculous. Dwelling on these kinds of things seems more in Tom’s line of thinking than Huck’s. But then, no, he realizes it’s not. He just…loves him. That’s all. This simply must be how a person feels, how a person thinks when they love another. It’s better than in the books Tom used to talk about so often, because Huck actually gets to feel it for himself now. And it feels good.
Huck is standing all by himself, still quietly musing, when Tom sneaks up from behind.
“Boo!”
He grabs Huck by the shoulders, taking fiendish delight in the slight start Huck gives.
Huck doesn’t get mad or flustered. He just turns around and lets out a shuddering laugh.
“Miss me?” teases Tom.
Huck doesn’t give Tom the satisfaction of a response, or at least, not a verbal one. Instead, he takes him in his arms, lifts him up and clumsily spins him around for a brief moment. He hopes it suffices for, Yes, I did. “Whoa—” Tom nearly squeaks, and Huck would be lying if he said he didn’t take some gratification in hearing that. Never mind how it’s slightly awkward, Tom being a little taller than Huck, or that Tom stumbles on his feet when Huck slows to a swaying stop and lowers him back to the ground. He looks at Huck with eyes as wide as saucers, a smile of faint awe plastered on his face.
Huck is only slightly embarrassed. “What?” he coughs.
“Uh. Nothing,” Tom snorts, eyes darting left and right in confusion. Nonetheless, he looks strangely pleased. His thumb brushes against Huck’s forearm. “What’s going on?”
Huck shakes his head and shrugs. “Nothing. I just…I don’t know.”
Tom cocks his head to the side and raises a brow.
Any slightest gesture sends Huck’s heart racing. He really, actually loves him.
So, he tells him.
The words come pitching over his lips, fumbling, a bit quiet and not with as much conviction as Huck would have liked. Or perhaps he’s just being too hard on himself. Maybe the words fall sweeter and stronger on Tom’s ears than his own. It’s strange, how often he says them and how much less thought he pays to the way he does it, just because he isn’t the first.
Huck feels acutely aware of many different sensations that usually register in muted colors. He can feel Tom’s pulse thud against his fingertips, the lattice of blue veins protruding beneath his touch.
Tom tightens his grasp around Huck’s arm. He blinks, parts his lips in faint surprise. Then, he smiles that great, big smile of his, the one that crinkles his eyes and bares the small crook in his teeth. Before Huck can utter another word, Tom wraps his arms around him. Huck swears he’s melting, right in his hands. He can hear his breathing, soft and shallow.
“I love you too,” Tom hums, and Huck hugs him back, tight, burying his face in the crook of his neck.
He shuts his eyes and for just a little while, that’s all there is.
VI.
You’re one of the only people I known my whole life that makes me wanna be different, Tom wants to say, but doesn’t. Because this would feel like an insult to his character that he’s not always willing to admit.
You’re one of the only people I known who makes me feel like I don’t have to be, Huck would have wanted to say in reply. Because things are so much easier than they used to be when he was thirteen.
Regardless, both know.
VII.
Sometimes, especially now, Tom wishes he had paid greater attention to his aunt all those years she prepared home cooked meals for him and Sid and Mary. Unfortunately, he had underestimated just how much patience and diligence it requires—both things that are difficult to come by for him. He just hates working out the kinks of something in a first attempt and making a fool of himself in the process.
He almost feels a little embarrassed, slaving over a hot stove like some blamed housewife, but then he remembers that he’s in love with a man again, and many would agree there really isn’t anything that should be more embarrassing than that. That never stopped him before, did it? So he decidedly shrugs off the momentary shame and gets to work.
After all, celebrating Huck’s birthday isn’t something Tom is willing to pour only half of his heart into. He had bought Huck a few other small presents otherwise, but the picnic is supposed to be the highlight of an ideal day.
Tom recalls when Huck had told him the best thing he ever ate in his whole life was the roasted chicken served at the Douglas Manor. He had woken up bright and early before sunrise to take the dried chicken from the cellar, and some vegetables, and the ingredients for the cake. As long as he followed his aunt’s recipes, things should have been fine. It was as simple as reading, wasn’t it?
He just wants everything to be perfect. He had planned for everything to be perfect.
He watches now as Mary, still in her nightgown, opens the kitchen window and fans out the last remnants of the smoke from the room the best she can. Sid stands silently beside Tom, glare as fierce as a blazing inferno and foot tapping incessantly.
“Tom,” coughs Mary, “what on earth are you trying to do, kill us in our sleep?”
“No!” he bristles, sailing across the room to open another window opposite of her. “I was—Well, I was just trying to, to make some…” He hesitates. “...Uh. Some chicken.”
“Chicken!” Sid barks in disbelief, throwing his hands up in a theatrical display of exasperation. “You wake up at five in the morning to roast a chicken?!” Tom is about to parry back with some lame insult or another when Mary pipes up and makes it crystal clear whose side she’s on, and it isn’t Tom’s.
“You never touched that stove before in your whole life,” she practically seethes, spinning around and placing her hands on her hips. “What possessed you to now all of a sudden?” She never was a morning person to begin with, but her usually sweet disposition seems to have been left to completely wither away up in her bed the moment she awoke to the scent of smoke and the sound of hacking from the kitchen.
Tom falters briefly, seeing he is clearly outnumbered. He swallows thickly and replies, “It’s Huck’s birthday.” Does admitting the truth aloud sound less suspicious than it does in his head?
Mary’s shoulders droop, and her hands fall limp at her sides.
“Just listen to me,” Tom begins weakly, fully aware that he can’t talk himself out of trouble when the charred poultry lies only a few feet away on the stove top. “You know just as well as I do, no one was gonna do anything for him today. He never gets to eat nice, not like we do, and I reckon it ain’t much, but he never asks for a lot anyhow, so I—”
“I’ll help,” Mary swiftly interjects.
Tom shuts his mouth. He and Sid both gawk at her, absolutely gobsmacked.
“I mean, with what I can, leastways. Was it only the chicken you burnt?”
Tom nods, uncharacteristically quiet.
“Well, then. Get the sauce pan out. I’ll start with the eggs.”
Tom obeys without another word. When he places the pan on the counter, he gives her a small puzzled look. “Aunt Polly didn’t get up?”
“Nope. I ain’t got a doubt in my mind that woman would sleep through a fire if you let her. Now, get me the butter.”
***
“Funny how we keep on running into each other like this.”
Huck cranes his head around to see Tom standing a few feet away, carrying a picnic basket and wearing a gentle smile on his face.
“Happy birthday,” Tom finally says, much more softly.
Huck grins from ear to ear and stands to meet him. “For a little while I was worried you’d went and forgot about me,” he teases. Tom evidently does not find it very funny; it’s already 12 o’clock in the afternoon, and half of the day has gone by right beneath their noses. He knows his own guilt is to blame for his somewhat sour mood, and says so.
“You know I’d never forget.” Tom grimaces, fingers tightening around the basket handles. Huck looks at him expectantly, and Tom wilts. “I’m sorry, Huck. Honest. We were…I made you something for lunch. Took longer than I thought it might.”
Huck doesn’t actually appear to be dejected by Tom’s lateness, not in the slightest. “You did?” Tom must be feeling a little woozy, because the smile on Huck’s face makes any complaint about toiling in a kitchen for hours straight to cook an only half-decent meal seem distant.
“C’mere.” Tom motions towards an old tree nearby. They both seat themselves beneath its shade, and Tom hands the picnic basket to Huck, appearing almost sheepish. That isn’t a look many see on him everyday. “I hope you like it.”
Huck flashes him another reassuring grin and opens the lid of the basket, peering inside. “Oh, hey.” He pulls out a number of small bowls covered by cloth and places them down by his feet. “You made this, Tom?”
“Yes,” he half-lies, and then winces. “No. Yes and no. Mary helped.”
“Aw. It all looks real nice. I ain’t had anything to eat all day, so—“
“I couldn’t make…the chicken.”
Huck blinks. “What?”
Tom folds his arms over his chest stubbornly and frowns. “Roasted chicken. I tried to make you roasted chicken. I burnt it. Almost burnt the whole house down, actually. I reckon this is a lousy excuse for lunch. What, just—vegetables and cake.” He scoffs incredulously. “Well, I’m sorry. I really tried.”
By the end of Tom’s heated confession, Huck looks as though he’s stifling laughter. Which, of course, doesn’t sit well with Tom.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, hating how whiny his voice sounds.
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Huck chuckles. Tom promptly turns his head away and scowls at the ground, as though he’s suddenly taken great interest in the shoes on his feet.
“Tom. Hey, don’t start.”
Tom reluctantly listens. He raises his head and looks almost apologetically at Huck.
“I ain’t had many birthday celebrations, so I guess that makes you lucky I don’t know what a good or a bad one looks like.” Huck laughs in his throat and shakes his head. “I’m just fooling with you.”
“…Does it look good?” Tom asks quietly.
“Real good.” Huck chuckles. “Thank you, Tom.”
Without another word, Tom shuffles closer to the other man and rests his head on his shoulder. “Happy birthday,” Tom exhales. “Love you.”
“You too.”
Later, as they finish their slices of cake—which is much more deserving of praise than Tom had previously let on—he sucks off a glob of icing from his finger and places his plate down onto the grass. He leans back and drums his fingers idly, before asking, “Do you feel 22?”
“Not really, I don’t think. I don’t know. Is 22 a big one?”
”I think it is. Anyways…I reckon I could help with that.”
“…Help with what?”
Tom drifts closer to Huck until their faces are only inches apart. He kisses him, softly, and continues to slowly lean forward until Huck totters over with a small grunt and they fall to the ground. When Tom gently wedges himself in between Huck’s legs, Huck’s face brightens with sudden clarity.
“Oh,” he murmurs.
Bless this man’s heart, Tom thinks to himself, and kisses him again.
VIII.
“Put your head back in and quit your squirming!”
“Tom! Will you just—hey!”
Tom tips the pitcher and cold water streams over Huck’s mop of hair in a freezing torrent. He squirms, just like Tom tells him not to. But it doesn’t really matter, because Tom’s strong fingers are pushing his head back down into the basin again before he can budge another inch.
Aunt Polly wanting to treat Huck Finn to a nice dinner on an outing to her favorite restaurant; would anyone have ever imagined it in a million years? Huck appreciates her kindness more than words can express, considering years ago, she nearly fainted at the thought of Tom and Huck even exchanging a passing glance. But now, things are different. He and Tom had spent a week painting the house together, and she insisted on repaying him for his hard work.
He never truly had a choice in the matter. Could he really say no to the poor, jaded woman? But he knew then, of course, he’d have to get spruced up for the occasion. After Tom had very directly wondered aloud how grand you’d look in a suit, Hucky, Huck had received the message, loud and clear. He’d agreed with a smile and a shrug and Tom had accepted the challenge with delight. Now, Huck is far from being in the mood to smile at anything.
“I’m almost finished, ya big baby,” Tom barks. He empties the last of the water from the pitcher over Huck’s head, rinsing away any last traces of rich lather from his hair, and grabs the small towel beside the basin. As he begins to restlessly dry Huck’s hair, Huck must grab the edge of the table to keep from swaying beneath the force of Tom’s vigorously working hands.
“Not so rough!” Huck practically yelps. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had him hunched over with his head in a basin of sudsy water.
After he finishes, Tom slings the towel over his forearm and stares proudly at a very frizzy-haired, nonetheless dry Huck, a satisfied smirk on his lips. “You see? Wasn’t so bad.”
“My neck’s aching now,” grumbles Huck listlessly.
“If it’s any consolation,” chuckles Tom, “I reckon you’ll forget all about your poor neck once I get you all dandied up.”
***
Tom is brushing his curls back with a hair comb when Huck wordlessly approaches him—notably lacking any trousers—the bow around his neck in a knot and his eyes sunken in defeat. Tom places the comb on the chest and just as wordlessly begins to untangle the knot with ease.
“Still can’t fix your own necktie, I see,” Tom says, not distracted enough with the task at hand to fail to be faintly amused. “Could’ve just let it be if you didn’t know how, instead of making it worse like this. Or asked me to do it in the first place.”
“I’d forgotten how much trouble I had with it,” Huck mutters beneath his breath. The necktie feels just as suffocating as he imagines a noose might, and he can’t help but begin to paw restlessly at his crisp white collar. He disregards the small huff that leaves Tom’s lips at this and frowns. “I ain’t worn a suit in years.”
“I know. Most men put their pants on before they set to fixing their tie.”
As if remembering he is, indeed, pantsless, Huck drifts over towards the bed and retrieves the trousers laid out. He nearly trips over himself hopping into them, and Tom stifles laughter at the sight, exasperated and endeared all at once.
“They’re a little long, huh?” Huck murmurs. Tom shakes his head and kneels on the wooden floor, beginning to rummage beneath his bed.
“I got something for you,” he crows, “while I was out the other day. I’d been hoping something like this would come along for a little while.”
“Oh, you didn’t. What is it, Tom?”
Tom simply smiles at first in an open-mouthed grin before he drags out a pair of brand new leather shoes from beneath the bed, polished so clean Huck can see his shocked reflection in them staring back.
“Tom, you didn’t!” he repeats incredulously. He slowly reaches over to run his thumb along the slick, dark surface. “Why would you go and do a thing like that?”
“Don’t matter to me if you only wear ‘em just once,” says Tom, placing them down. Huck listens as they fall heavily against the floor boards with a solid thunk! “You only got your boots, and I reckon a nice pair of shoes like these would’ve looked best with a suit. You can borrow my clothes and it don’t stand out too bad, but I can’t make my shoes fit you.”
He gently jostles Huck’s knee and beams eagerly up at him, and Huck can’t help but notice then how strikingly handsome he looks, with his tailored suit and his auburn hair falling lightly around his face.
Tom shoots up from the floor and sits beside Huck, fingers reaching out to comb through his hair. “Lemme put your hair back for you—“
“What? No, don’t bother with that, Tom, I—”
“But I like it when you tie it back,” Tom bemoans.
“Well, I think your aunt will hate it, so—”
There comes a knock on the door suddenly. Tom hastily twists forward and places his hands in his lap.
“Come in,” he hollers, and Mary pops her head in, eyes roving thoroughly over the pair.
“Oh, you look wonderful in that, Huck,” she says sweetly, and Huck mutters his thanks, offering her a crooked, sheepish smile in return.
“You boys ready?” she asks, and Tom nods.
Huck supposes he feels as ready as he’ll ever be.
***
Surprisingly, the night goes better than Huck had expected. Save for a few pointed glances from Tom as he obnoxiously cleared his throat and demonstrated the proper way to use a fork and knife, the outing goes without much criticism. Which amazes him, considering who sits across from him presently.
Aunt Polly flattens a crease in the skirt of her dress and peers at Huck in a mixture of kindness and intrigue over the rims of her glasses. She clears her throat and Huck almost starts at the sound. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. Showing how grateful you are never hurt nobody.” She nods in his direction and smiles pleasantly. “I’m real appreciative of the good job you done painting the house with Tom. It looks better than it has in a few years.”
“It weren’t any trouble, ma’am,” he replies, somewhat shyly. He fiddles with the napkin laid neatly on his lap.
“Well, I still reckon a man deserves to be rewarded for his hard work.” Huck can almost see a faint twinge in her eyes as they flit towards Tom briefly, as if she hates to admit it aloud: As Huck is a man now, Tom is as well. But then, the twinge is gone, and she regains her composure with a small puff of the chest. “So you just enjoy that meal, alright?”
A small smile finds its way onto Huck’s lips before he can help himself. He nods wordlessly and shovels another spoonful into his mouth.
“I can appreciate how long the two of have been friends as well, I suppose. Tom always wanted to take after you, Huck. Why, I remember when he was but 16 years old, he’d try and light up his pipe that Mary gave him, but he couldn’t get in a couple breaths without going green in the face—”
“Aunt Polly!” Tom whisper-cries, mortified, silverware dropping to his plate with a small clatter. Sid claps a hand over his mouth and snorts.
“What? You’re lucky I can laugh about it now, Tom, because I nearly skinned you alive for smoking in the house—”
“Shut up,” Tom hisses to Sid, and twists around towards his aunt again, face so red it threatens to burst into flames. “Nobody needs to hear about that!”
“Don’t speak to your brother so.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t go on about that of all things!”
As the two proceed to bicker, Huck can only lean back in his chair and release a heavy sigh.
He has to admit, there’s nothing that makes him feel more part of a family than this.
IX.
Another year has passed without much notice from either man.
Three years it’s been now. Tom thinks to himself, his mother and father had known one other for less than that before marrying. Almost two years, but not quite.
He tries to picture wedding bells clanging noisily from overhead the chapel, but not even he has an imagination broad and wild enough to allow it, not for long. Stupid and pointless and cruel to even try, really.
Huck lies asleep beside him, lips parted and chest gently rising and falling with each breath. Tom twists around and just looks at him in silence for a minute or two. Then, he reaches out to push the chestnut hair from his face and tuck it behind his hair, like always.
He does that often for him. Almost as if to remind him to stop hiding, because, It’s only me, Huck.
He sighs and draws closer, pressing his lips to his brow, and then puts out the candle on the bedside.
Marriage bells may seem entirely impossible to imagine, but traveling far out where a body has a few acres of property to themselves and some privacy…this doesn’t.
Tom settles on this with a faint smile, and lets his eyes drift shut.
He’ll just have to raise the thought to Huck sometime, won’t he?