Wear/Tear

by sisibakbak (bends)

Summary:

Thom didn't mean to keep Jonny's hideous hoodie. Jonny didn't mean to let Thom keep it. And yet there it stands, looming inside Thom's very apartment, totally out of place with its ridiculously long sleeves and bleach stains.

In their world, keeping someone's hoodie is seemingly a declaration of war. Or affection. Or both. Or none at all. They've never been great at telling the difference.

Notes:

Oh man - my very first published fic + writing for the first time in a while meaning I'm rusty af + non native English speaker = deadly combo, hell yeah! Definitely not nervous at all!!

Man, these guys are so very important to me.... they make me incredibly happy too, so I just had to scratch that itch and write something 'bout them, regardless of the questionable writing quality(TM). Haha yes. Anyway, hope you enjoy it <3!

Chapter 1: Loose Threads (Needle in My Side)

Notes:

Thank you Claire for going through the hellish task of beta reading this.. Ily!

It’s just a plain dark blue hoodie with fading, barely legible letters (Japanese characters, maybe?), still right where Jonny last discarded it: untouched and half folded over the arm of Thom’s worn-out couch, the sleeves dangling just enough to graze the floor of his quaint apartment.

It shouldn’t mean anything - after all, it’s just fabric, meant to be worn, stretched and shaped to the figure of whoever claims it. But Thom finds himself stopping dead in his tracks every time he passes it regardless, catching the faint, lived-in scent that perpetually clings to it.

There are lingering traces of Jonny’s detergent and the smell of a dozen gigs’ worth of sweat that, unsurprisingly, never really came out; because frankly, Jonny’s always been hopeless when it comes to laundry, going as far as washing colored and white clothes together… twice. No, three times in a row, in fact. By now, Thom has lost count of how many times Colin’s brought those tragic incidents up, just to ‘take the piss out of his baby brother’.

Thom still thinks it’s a score to be settled between the bickering Greenwood brothers, long overdue. The ludicrous memory threatens to make the corner of Thom’s lips twitch upwards into a small smile, but he rapidly bites on the insides of his cheeks to suppress it. Because as fond of that memory as he may be, right now, he’s pissed and upset. But he’s too much of a hardheaded, bordering on bratty cretin to reach out to Jonny first.

No calls, no SMS messages with blurry photos of their daily lives and accompanying captions, usually along the lines of ‘This reminded me of you’; Look at this shit. If this ain’t you’ or some variation of that. No cut off voicemails, no late-night rambling about whatever half-baked, yet highly intriguing concept Jonny’s obsessed with that week either. Nothing.

It’s the kind of silence that makes itself known in the apartment, ominous and… too fucking loud. It fills every corner until it feels palpable, with little monsters of anxiety lurking in the shadows, poking their heads out just far enough to laugh, mock, and sneer at him. And the worst part? Unlike Thom, these creatures have each other’s company for the rest of the night and weekend, at the very least.

How fucking pathetic, Thom thinks as he drags both his palms down his face in what he believes can only be profound catatonia. Or maybe it’s malaise. Whatever ostensibly fancy word he manages to conjure up in his hazy, racing mind. Doesn’t matter. None of it matters right now.

The tick of the vintage wooden clock - a family heirloom - now sounds too sharp, and the fridge’s hum too droning. Even the old couch springs have the audacity to groan, as if trying to get his attention. As if they miss Jonny too; an insulting reminder of how they squeak louder in protest under the added weight of two.

Thom glances over at the wall calendar with a huff. It’s March 5th, 1993, an uneventful, terribly slow Friday - when it’s too muggy to go outside, but not muggy enough to justify turning on the AC and risk paying extra for the already expensive energy bill.

Dispirited, he flops down onto the couch, deliberately distancing himself as much as humanly possible from Jonny’s forgotten hoodie. He holds his legs against his chest and leans full body against the opposite armrest with yet another huff.

They’d argued over something meaningless a few days ago. Something stupid, really, but enough to dig its claws right in. Different ideas for a specific chord progression or something else entirely, Thom’s been forcing himself not to think of it at all. Because the truth is, he’s a vengeful little shit who remembers every detail of even the smallest altercation from years back, and oh, Jonny and the other guys know that well.

More often than not, they’ll simply be peacefully going about their day when they’re suddenly trapped by the 5’5 sulking menace, who pounces like a stealthy cat, pushes a finger against their chests and, with all the severity of a no-nonsense courtroom prosecutor, hisses “Hey, you wanna hear something funny?” before resurrecting some ancient, trivial grievance they stopped caring about many, many moons ago.

It’s a bit, sure, but it’s also not. Thom seems to have this uncanny ability to nurse a wound like fine wine, letting it breathe until it’s potent enough to knock someone flat on their asses. 8 out of 10 times, it works, much to the others’ chagrin and to Thom’s sweet triumph.

This time, though, things went down a bit differently. The usually demure, absorb the hit and then redirect it into some dry, disarming remark Jonny had actually snapped back. Way harder than Thom could ever have seen coming. Indeed, Jonny had gone sharp. Feisty, even. And it’d left Thom staring at him in utter shock, not knowing how to climb back down.

Over the course of the last few days, the band noticed. And how could they not? Thom and Jonny, who usually hang around way past rehearsal hours, inseparable, haven’t even been so much as looking at each other, instead keeping a respectful, yet unsettling distance.

Even Colin’s well-intentioned attempts at lightening up the mood fell flat. “Aw, c’mon,” he’d said, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not like one of you nicked the other’s kidneys in the middle of the night. Right? Thom? Jonathan?”

Ed chimed in next, playfully elbowing the sullen pair. “Let’s see. What’s the worst that could’ve happened? Thom didn’t like Jonny’s new pedalboard? Jonny called Aphex Twin overrated? Oh, wait. He’d never survive saying that in front of you.”

Jonny didn’t look up from the amp cable he’d been slowly, meticulously coiling. Thom, wordlessly shuffling over to the opposite end of the room, proceeded to busy himself with a stack of lyric sheets that didn’t need straightening.

Colin’s grin faded entirely. “Bloody hell, it’s like someone died in here. See any corpses around, Ed?”

Phil, who’d been quietly tuning his snare for the last ten awkward minutes, finally spoke without looking at anyone. “Maybe leave it…” His tone wasn’t harsh, just careful. He knew when something between Thom and Jonny wasn’t meant for the rest of them to fix.

Still, Ed tried one last time, softer this time. He cleared his throat. “Not yet, no, Coz. So. Are those two going to talk, or are we pretending they’ve both taken vows of mutual silence like a married old grumpy couple?”

And that was when Phil poked both Ed and Colin’s sides with his drumsticks in one swift and precise motion, putting an end to their buffoonery.

Fast forward to the present time, another obnoxiously loud tick of the clock indicates it’s 11:50PM. Sunday would officially mark seven days of silence, a new kind of record for them.

Thom sinks deeper into the couch before grabbing the nearest cushion to scream right into it. He’s never been good at dealing with his own feelings, instead choosing to push them back into the very recesses of his mind or letting out snarky remarks in an attempt to deflect.

Deflect and deny, deny and deflect has been all but his life motto lately, especially given the sudden burst of fame Radiohead’s been experiencing thanks to their hit song, Creep, which he still secretly thinks is… well, less than stellar.

The song’s just started to pick up in the US, climbing Billboard like it isn’t a fluke. Theoretically, it’s every new and up and coming band’s dream come true, and yet they’ve still been splitting into the van after shows like their only payment was warm Stella and a pack of cigarettes from the tech.

Sweaty, packed and only halfway real gig after gig, half of the crowd only shows up because they’d heard Creep on the radio once by chance, and the other half because they’re drunk out of their goddamn minds. No one seems to give a shit about the rest of their first album, Pablo Honey.

No matter how Thom, Jonny, Ed, Colin, and Phil pour themselves through and through into every note, every lyric, the spotlight stubbornly clings only to that one desperate anthem that seems to resonate with an ungodly amount of people who miss the point entirely.

The irony of it all isn’t lost on Thom. He wrote Creep as a self-deprecating joke, a scathing commentary on his insecurities as a young adult going through the hellish experience of college years. Now, it’s morphed into a battle cry for every drunken frat boy in the front row.

It wasn’t even a song meant to be taken that seriously to begin with, and yet he feels like a fraud, a trained monkey performing the same trick over and over again simply to entertain and appeal to the masses. They all do.

Every time he sees the crowd howling the chorus back at him, he feels a little more of his soul shrivel up and die. Even Jonny, with his intense focus on his guitar and nearly unreadable expression, seems to feel it, too. Then again, Jonny internalizes it. Thom, on the other hand, explodes.

He screams his lungs out until he’s out of breath and his throat is sore. Paces around in circles, punches the nearest wall, pulls at his own hair, unbridled - never in that specific order, as Thom is well known for being the living embodiment of volatileness.

But he can’t even bring himself to get that worked up now. He’s just too exhausted. Just misses being able to fully lean into the familiar, calming weight of Jonny’s arms.

He finally lets his thoughts wander for a bit, remembering a time a few months ago when his head was in a similarly tumultuous state. It was past midnight after a particularly brutal gig, somewhere in Bristol, or maybe Sheffield.

Jonny had found out that it was nearly impossible to get through to Thom with words alone when he was about to spiral. So, what he did was simple, yet highly effective: he wrapped his arms around Thom’s tense body and kept him as close as possible, hands running up and down his back and making slow, soothing circular motions until Jonny could tell Thom had calmed down by the way his breathing gradually steadied.

Attentive as ever, Jonny also made a mental note that if Thom’s lower lip wasn’t jutting out slightly after he’d cooled off, then he pretty much had free rein to press kisses on his face. And so, he did.

Jonny kissed Thom’s forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, the tip of his nose - unhurried, and purposefully avoiding his lips, just because he knew damn well he could be a tease, too. And before Thom could even protest, Jonny had already dove down to kiss him properly, large hands moving from his back to cradle Thom’s face.

Finally, Jonny ran his thumbs over Thom’s warm cheeks, pressing one final kiss to the corner of his lips before pulling him close again. Chest against chest, resting his chin on Thom’s shoulder and whispering softly:

 

“I’m right here.”

“I got you, yeah?”

“Not leaving. No matter what.”

 

The cold air that suddenly invades the living room snaps Thom back to the cruel reality. He feels his chest tighten, and before he can stop himself, he’s already reaching for Jonny’s once relinquished hoodie. His eyes flutter close as he clutches it with trembling hands, taking in the scent of Jonny, now closer than ever.

“...‘Not leaving, no matter what’. ‘I’m right here’, he said,” Thom grumbles to himself, words muffled further by the fabric covering his mouth. “Load of bull. He hasn’t even come for his fucking hoodie yet.”

But just as he’s about to stand up, shove that damn hoodie into a plastic bag and push it way back into his closet, never to be seen or remembered again, he pictures Jonny noticing it’s missing and not saying a single word about it.

Instead, he’d quietly buy another, letting the old one slip into whatever limbo swallowed all their unspoken things. And that thought tugs right at his heartstrings.

Since when has Thom become this sentimental? Oh, right - ever since Creep started inevitably shaping them up to be that kind of ‘woe is me!’ band, for the most part appealing to the vaguely rebellious outcasts around. The so-called weirdos. Yeah, that checks out.

He lifts up the cursed hoodie - the latest bane of his existence, no doubt about it - and holds it above his head, narrowing his eyes and bringing it closer to inspect it. There are countless bleach stains scattered all across the dark fabric, each one recounting tales of laundry disasters: some small as raindrops, others as large as oil spills.

Thom shakes his head in disbelief, muttering a small “hopeless” as he turns it over in his hands. The ridiculously long sleeves nearly droop to the floor, like some medieval robe meant for a much taller, lankier saint. But it’s the label that grabs his attention: a smudge of red ink, handwriting scrawled in the same hasty way you’d write a setlist backstage. Just one word, plain as day: Jony.

Thom blinks, then instinctively scans the room like there’s a hidden camera somewhere, waiting to catch his reaction. Because there’s no way in hell Jonny, a functioning adult with opposable thumbs, managed to misspell his own name. Sure, it’s Jonathan, not Jonny, but still…

The absurdity of it gets to him first. Thom feels laughter bubble up in his chest, coming out in small puffs at first until it escalates into a full-blown cackle. He collapses back onto the couch, hitting the back cushions with a weighty thud as he lets out all the pent-up tension through loud, real laughter, until his ribs ache in the best conceivable way.

God, he had no idea how much he needed this. To let loose, away from the public eye and from those who judge and scrutinize his every move when they know nothing about him.

He’s back to clutching the hoodie tight and holding it close to his chest, smile slowly fading away as the truth hits. It’s because of Jonny he could crack up like that, even when they’re apart. He still finds joy in the small pieces of Jonny scattered throughout his dimly lit apartment and the years of shared memories, even when they’re not talking.

Thom can tell the little monsters of anxiety have scampered back into the shadows when the silence that’d settled in no longer feels painful. It’s almost bearable now, though he’s sure that the loud hum of the fridge isn’t normal, after all. Oh well. He’ll take care of it later - right now, he’s got something far more important to do.

He stands up, his resolve as strong as it was on the day he decided to bleach his entire hair at home. Marching over to the laundry room, Thom throws Jonny’s hoodie square into the washing machine. He presses a few buttons, waits for it to fill up with water and then slams the door shut, the clatter echoing in the apartment.

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching the lone hoodie swirl inside the washing machine: a single dark blue garment in a maelstrom of suds. He hadn’t even thought of gathering any of his own clothes. The rest of the week’s laundry - socks, shirts, pants - could sit and wait. All that matters is this one piece of fabric, a physical stand-in for the person he misses.

While waiting for the washing machine to do its job, Thom walks to the window and lights up a cigarette. He exhales slowly, staring at the night sky as the smoke dissipates into the air.

He grimaces when he realizes he’s started counting the stars and matching them up to Jonny’s freckles, but as embarrassing as that is, he doesn’t stop. Not this time. After all, he’s only human, flesh and bones, no matter how fierce a front he puts up daily for the sake of self-preservation.

Thom is reckless, obstinate and foul-mouthed, alright. But he also misses Jonny. A lot. So much it hurts.

Besides his family, Thom has only ever truly let his guard down with Jonny. When faced with Thom’s self-destructive tendencies for the first time, Jonny didn’t judge him. Didn’t tell Thom to “man up” or pretend his worries weren’t haunting him at all hours of the day. Never. Instead, he quietly supported Thom, listened to him, and acknowledged his feelings in a way only he could.

Thom would never be able to forgive himself if he jeopardized their bond because of some pointless argument, paired with stubbornness that stems from insecurities gone unchecked for far too long. There’s not really anyone else to blame but himself here.

The beeping of the washing machine snaps him out of his reverie. He puts out the cigarette on the windowsill and walks back to the laundry room. He opens the door, and a burst of warm, humid air hits him. He pulls the hoodie out, its dark blue now a richer, cleaner shade. The faint smell of Jonny’s detergent is no longer mixed with the smell of sweat. It’s just... clean, the way laundry is supposed to be done.

“I can do this much for you, yeah,” Thom mumbles, as if just uttering those words could conjure Jonny’s stupidly toothy grin into the room. “Just ‘cause you’re terrible at looking after yourself. How the hell did you even make it to your 20s?”

He hangs up the hoodie diligently and even pats it down, making sure there’s enough room for it to dry and that there are no wrinkles in the fabric whatsoever. The clock’s hit 2AM, which means it’s now Saturday and they’ve officially hit the six days without talking mark. But that’s alright. This whole clusterfuck is coming to an end at long last, because for once, Thom’s letting go of his mighty pride. Only a few hours left to go.

 

***

 

The loud chirping of the birds outside jolts Thom awake. The sunlight hits him in the face right after, making him wince and sit up. This must be the universe giving him not so subtle hints to get out of bed - and so, not wanting to push his luck, he does, kicking off the sheets and yawning loudly.

He rubs his eyes and squints to look at the clock. It’s 11AM. He’d woken up later than planned, having fallen asleep almost immediately after his head hit the pillow. He hadn’t realized just how exhausted he was. Surprisingly enough, though, he got some pretty decent sleep after a long time. And that came in handy because what lies ahead requires him to be on his best behavior and keep his temper under control.

At least a bad night’s sleep won’t be an issue, so maybe, just maybe, he’s allowed to believe things are finally settling into place and going his way. Not a bad way to start the weekend at all, he muses as he heads to the laundry room before anything else.

Thom stares up at Jonny’s hoodie, hanging there from the clothesline as the wind blows and causes it to sway slightly. The different-sized bleach stains flash in and out of view as the sunlight catches them.

For a moment, Thom just watches it sway, the sound of the pegs creaking faintly in the breeze. It’s ridiculous, really, how something so objectively hideous can still have him standing here like it’s a damn collector’s item or whatnot. What if he just keeps it out of spite? Sleep in it? He could sell it to an art exhibition and claim it’s a rare Dadaist piece, even.

A small smile plays on his lips as he steps closer, fingers brushing the hem. It’s still a little damp and cool from the morning air. The scent of detergent is stronger now as well, clean in a way that makes him think of fresh starts he doesn’t quite trust. Jonny would probably roll his eyes, mutter something about “it’s just a hoodie, mate,” and Thom would pretend to agree while quietly making sure no one else touches it.

Fresh starts. It’s been way too long since he’s made one or searched for one at all. He’s stuck in a cycle he couldn’t break out of yet, as he’s let his willpower get buried under stacking layers of cowardice and self-doubt. But the universe has been giving him signs that his life is in due time for a change - a much needed, and welcome one. So perhaps trusting that was the first step.

Thom takes a deep breath, then tries to reach the pegs above him. However, he can’t quite seem to even touch them; he gets on his tiptoes as he hopelessly flails his arms around, groaning in frustration. He doesn’t know what sorcery he pulled when he hung the hoodie up only a few hours ago, but now, it’s very much just out of reach.

He feels a surge of anger wash over him, his usual recklessness emerging rapidly as he bends his knees, picks up momentum and jumps instead of climbing on a chair like a sensible person would. He manages to grab one of the pegs, but in doing so, he fails to notice one of the hoodie’s seams had tangled up with the line. The fabric holds, and instead of pulling the whole hoodie down, the sudden tension sends Thom sprawling backward.

But the loud ‘thud’ that echoes when he lands on his ass is also accompanied by an equally loud ripping noise.

The ringing in his ears fades enough for him to register the slow, ugly tear still unfurling in the fabric above; a sound like Velcro being pulled apart by a vengeful god.

 

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

 

His breath sticks in his throat.

He doesn’t dare move, either, afraid the tear will keep going all the way through.

Where the fuck is Lady Luck when he needs her the most?

Notes:

Feedback is appreciated and all that jazz!!

Thank you for reading this far - it truly means the world to me!!!

Chapter 2: Wearing Me Out

Notes:

Hello again!!
Sooo, this is kinda awkward. This was originally meant to be a two-shot, but since I write too much & Cannot Be Concise(TM) for the life of me, I decided to break this into three chapters for better flow/readability. Yup, please don't give up on me just yet..... 🙏🙏

Thom has to stand up at some point. And when he does, after long minutes of processing… whatever it is that’s just happened, it’s with more intent and less flailing around this time. 

He prowls around the cursed hoodie, keeping a close eye on it and searching for any more tears. Thom swears one of the strings has even flipped him off at some point when the wind nudged it again, as though the hoodie’s daring him to come claim it before possibly disintegrating entirely.  

So much for a fresh start. Nice one, universe. A practical joke? Hoodie-related karma? Oh, is the hoodie god frowning upon him right now because he didn’t return it to Jonny sooner or something? Or maybe said god didn’t approve of Thom’s fancy citric detergent he bought on a whim. No way of knowing, and Thom isn’t asking either.  

He staggers into the kitchen to drag over the nearest chair - what he should’ve done from the start - and glances back to see if what’s left of the hoodie holds itself together until he returns. 

“Ack, fuckin’... No way this is happening.” Thom groans as he rubs his aching backside. Enduring the soreness, he climbs up on the chair and carefully removes the pegs from the line and then from the hoodie. 

He inspects it with surprisingly nimble fingers, as if he’s handling something fragile, delicate. And well, right now the fabric is indeed in a more ragged state: there’s a gaping rip right on the shoulder, barely hanging on by a few threads. Fortunately, that seems to be the full extent of the consequences of Thom’s foolhardiness. 

Alright. Think stuff through more from now on. Got it, Thom makes a mental note as he lowers the hoodie very, very slowly onto the washing machine, like it could either crumble away or explode right on his face at any given moment. 

He steps back, stretches out the kinks, and walks to the kitchen. Bowl of cereal now in hand, coffee for breakfast-slash-lunch and mandatory morning cigarette lit, smoke curling in the air as he, lo and behold, thinks his next move through. 

As someone who absorbs information much better when it’s laid out in front of him, Thom pulls out his notebook and starts jotting down a few possible solutions: 

1. Get Jonny a new hoodie and come clean (sidenote: come clean first and then buy hoodie? Go to the clothing store together and let him pick one? To be decided). 

2. Pretend the hoodie never existed in the first place. Act nonchalant if asked about it until Jonny lets it go. 

3. Hoodie exorcism. 

4. Try to sew it. Patch it up somehow, even though I’ve never done anything of the sort before. 

5. Ask Ed/Colin/Phil for help. (All of them together (?)) 

6. None of the above. Move to another continent. 

He tries to make it to 10 options, but trails off into doodles and scribbling random, unrelated things by number 7. 

Needless to say, he quickly crosses out numbers 2, 3 and 6. He almost goes with the fifth option, but decides against it since he’s not yet sure what would be the best way to explain how the hell Jonny’s least memorable hoodie ended up held captive in Thom’s place to begin with. 

Ultimately, Thom decides that number 4 is the way to go. Buying a new hoodie sounds simple enough, but if Jonny’s held onto this specific one for so long, it must be a limited edition of some sort, highly cherished. That makes this one piece of clothing far more valuable than Thom had expected - spoiled little ugly thing. 

Once he finishes breakfast, he rummages through his drawers for the needed tools. He finds an old sewing kit - this one inherited from his aunt - then takes Jonny’s ripped hoodie and slowly sits on the couch, ready for action. 

Well, almost. Maybe not that ready just yet. But he feels, deep inside his heart, that this is what he should do if he wants to make it up to Jonny in his own peculiar way. 

Needles and sewing threads diligently placed on the coffee table, he takes a deep breath. Sewing can’t possibly be that hard, right? 

 

Turns out past Thom was wrong. 

 

In the span of only a few hours, Thom’s already pricked his fingers around a dozen times, each yelp of “ow, fuck” more pathetic than the last. The needle is tiny and deceptively treacherous; the thread, a defiant enemy that keeps knotting and tangling around his fingers. He can’t get it to go through the tiny hole of the needle, and when he finally does, it snags on the torn fabric and pulls the whole thing into a messy clump. 

By the time he manages a few clumsy, uneven stitches that look more like a child’s scribble than a repair, the sun is already setting outside. 

At some point, he’d unconsciously stuck another cigarette between his lips. However, he didn’t want any ashes or the scent of smoke to linger on Jonny’s precious and freshly cleaned hoodie, so he refrained from lighting it up and just let it dangle from his mouth. 

Come the night, Thom finds himself leaning all the way back onto the couch, frustrated, picturing the seats opening and swallowing him whole. The hoodie, still very much ripped, sits crumpled beside him, having been cast aside for at least an hour now. 

Hell, Thom’s been through some worse shit in his life. Stage fright, stuck-up bullies who constantly tried to get under his skin due to his looks and lack of social skills in high school and college, losing his voice before a performance, to name a few; but he’s still here. Standing. Surviving. 

He found solace in music and amazing bandmates and friends who support him, angst-laden and vulnerable as he may be. 

And then there’s Jonny. 

From the very moment he’d joined the band, back when they were still called On a Friday, Jonny - the ever so kind, thoughtful Jonny - has been there for Thom. 

Furthermore, he’s helped Thom through his breakdowns on more than one occasion, grounding him, and never asking for anything in return. 

Warm, long hugs after an unsuccessful gig, fingers threading through wiry blond hair or a hand on Thom’s shoulder that said more than words ever could: Jonny’s quiet presence is a stark contrast to Thom’s whirlwind of emotions, but he doesn’t shy away from it. No, he stays, no matter how strong that whirlwind blows. 

Jonny patiently waits until the racing thoughts in Thom’s head subside, loosen their grip and let him breathe again. And taking in Jonny’s scent after bouncing back from his inner turmoil is never unwelcome. 

Thom adores all the guys in the band, he truly does. They’re his best friends and family. But if he were to name the one he considers himself to be the closest to, that’d be Jonny - no doubt about it. They share a bond unlike any other, as though they’ve already spent several past lives together. Thom feels it, and he knows it’s the same for Jonny. 

So hell no. There’s no way he’s going to be defeated by a stupid hoodie of all things, damn it. And if Jonny’s not coming for it - not coming for Thom - then he better be prepared for what’s coming his way. Call it the ‘Yorke Storm’, about to rain down hard on Jonny’s porch. 

Thom grabs the needle again, eyes narrowed, yet sparkling with something that borders on manic determination. This time, he manages to get the thread through the hole on the very first try, and grins. Time for vindication. 

 

***

 

2:37 AM. 

Thom sits half-shirtless now, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth slightly as he sews the last final seam with trembling hands. The cigarette that once dangled from his mouth is long gone, having disappeared somewhere in the living room. 

It’s done. It’s finally done. The rip on Jonny’s hoodie has been patched up and the beast has been contained. Granted, it looks absolutely messy with its brand-new wonky seams, but Thom’s managed to salvage it regardless.  

It seems the takeaway is that even someone as impulsive as him can pull things off if he puts his mind to it. Usually, he’d have given up halfway and wallowed in self-pity - could this be the fresh start the universe’s been hinting at all along? 

Thom folds the hoodie neatly and slides it into a paper bag. Then, he takes a quick shower and makes instant noodles for dinner - he was supposed to go get groceries today but got completely immersed in sewing instead. It’s fine, though. He’ll have something more nutritious tomorrow to compensate. 

He heads to bed with a yawn, surprised by how complicated sewing can actually be. But the nice part is that he’s taken the first steps to learn a new skill and, most importantly, to control his impulses more. 

By the time he tucks himself in, it’s already past 3AM, officially Sunday. Seven days of silence have gone by, but Thom’s only letting it turn into eight days over his dead body. 

 

***

 

Thom overslept. Again. 

He squints at the clock, eyes puffy, the circles under his eyes darker. 

It’s nearly 4PM. 3:58PM, to be exact. 

Well, fuck. 

He’d planned to write down whatever he’d say to Jonny when they eventually meet up again and even practice a bit, but there’s no longer time. 

Now, more than ever, he knows he needs to fix his messed-up sleep hours. As soon as possible. Ideally right after this whole hoodie fiasco ends. 

He jumps off the bed, makes himself extra strong coffee and wolfs down one more bowl of cereal. Then, he takes another quick shower (because he’s fussy), slides on his black and white striped shirt, ripped jeans and heavy boots. 

Lastly, he stares at himself in the mirror, tries to tame his hair by haphazardly patting it down and inhales deeply.  

Alright. Now’s the time. Can’t mess this up. 

And with that, paper bag in hand and phone and cigarettes tucked in his pockets, Thom heads out, hopping on his trusty bike. 

 

***

 

The ride to the Greenwoods’ place is fairly short, but every bump and hole on the road makes both Thom’s body and soul jump. 

Today, specifically, he’s extra tense, hyperaware of his surroundings. The cool breeze hitting his face as he pedals isn’t that bad, though, and helps keep him relatively grounded. 

His heart thumps faster the closer he gets, and his overactive mind starts wandering. What face is he supposed to make when he sees Jonny after what felt like decades apart? Should he play it cool by pretending their falling-out didn’t make him want to curl up, cry and disappear?

Thom doesn’t know when and if he’ll be filled with this much resolve again, but if it turns out Jonny’s not home, he knows he’ll have to deal with the crushing weight of disappointment. 

He grips the handlebars tighter, a barrage of what-ifs and self-doubt threatening to derail him on the spot. The thought of just leaving the hoodie there on Jonny’s doorstep and running off suddenly crosses his mind, making his stomach churn. 

No. He can’t do that. Won’t. He has to be brave for once and wait. He’ll sit on the front steps all night and even sleep on the porch if he must; like a ridiculous, bratty cretin of a sentry with impulsively bleached hair and a peace offering in the form of a weirdly patched up hoodie inside a paper bag. 

Thom pulls up to Jonny and Colin’s house, his bike skidding to a stop in the gravel driveway. The porch light is off. A cold wave of dread washes over him, but he shakes it off and walks over to the front door with a few unsteady steps. 

No turning back now. 

Thom stands right in front of the door, shifting his weight between his legs. He instinctively reaches for the cigarette pack in his pocket as he does when he’s nervous, but squeezes his hand into a fist to stop himself. He knows Jonny isn’t really fond of the smell of tobacco, despite never having heard him outwardly complain about it. 

Still, Thom did catch him not so discreetly waving his hand in front of his face to try and disperse the smoke one time. And remembering the way Jonny also scrunched up his nose almost makes Thom want to have a smoke right there, decorum be damned, just so he can see that adorable face again. 

He might not get to if he doesn’t get through with this, though. And that is much, much worse than the silence.  

Fucking get it together, Thom. Jesus. 

Three knocks on the door ensue, sharp and simple. The waiting game is on - it’s one Thom would rather not play, but he can only hope he’ll emerge from it without losing his shit completely.

The longer the door goes unanswered, the more scenarios Thom’s mind conjures up: Jonny’s indeed away. No, Jonny’s home, but he’s ignoring the door. Or maybe he’s home and has seen Thom through the window but doesn’t want to talk. Regardless of which one is true, if any, he’s not off to a good start, as five minutes have already gone by.

Thom’s ears strain for any sound from inside: a footstep, a creak, anything. His earlier resolve, so solid on the bike ride over, now feels as flimsy as the threads holding the hoodie together. Was this a foolish idea all along? What the fuck is he supposed to do, then?

He staggers forward slightly and presses his palm flat against the doorframe to steady his trembling body, chest heaving up and down as his breathing gets more erratic.

He stares down, eyes wide, trying, desperately trying to fixate on a crack in the concrete, willing his mind to trace it over and over again. Anything to avoid looking up. Anything to avoid the very real possibility of a door slammed in his face or finding no one home at all.

Thom takes a step back. Two. Three. Slowly lowers the paper bag on the floor, next to that same crack in the concrete. Stupid. This was a stupid fucking idea. He should’ve gotten off his high horse. Thought he had it all figured out, but-

His head snaps right back up when he hears the unmistakable click of the deadbolt sliding back, breaking through the chaos brewing in his mind and stuttering his thoughts to a halt.

For a split second, Thom wonders if he’d hallucinated the sound. But as the door opens all the way after six agonizing minutes, he gradually takes in the sight before him.

Standing right there in the doorway, looking dumbfounded, tired, but not angry, is Jonny.

He brushes his grown-out fringe away from his face, cocking his head to the side a bit. He doesn’t take the liberty of speaking up first, though.

His hand simply rests on his chest, careful, fingers slightly curled - making him look even more bewildered. His other hand is stuck deep inside his back pocket, as though he’s highly aware of his own body language and trying to gauge it.

Thom’s mouth opens and closes, meaning to say something that doesn’t quite come out. He looks at the bag on the floor, then takes it with still trembling hands. Neither seems to want to make the first move of making eye contact just yet, with Thom’s gaze fixed solely on the bag, and Jonny’s on anything and everything but Thom.

Thom had been looking forward to this very moment, to seeing Jonny again after too long. But the drawn-out silence makes him wish he’d told Jonny to come pick his hoodie over the phone, just so he could precisely avoid this moment of nagging awkwardness.

“… Erm,” voice barely above a mutter, Thom holds the bag up to Jonny with both hands, lightly pressing it against his chest while still averting his gaze. “I’d meant to return this to you sooner. Some stupid stuff happened, though, and now it’s, well. It’s… quite different from what it used to be. Think you can still wear it anyway, maybe.”

Jonny blinks, slowly taking the bag. He’s about to open it and see what’s inside when Thom frantically shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed. Watching Jonny go over the monstrosity he’s patched up when it’s finally back in his possession would only add insult to injury and make him explode with embarrassment on the spot.

Thom would most likely never recover from the nasty blow to his pride if Jonny - and later, the other guys in the band - knew he got his ass kicked by an ugly hoodie.

“Oh, God. Just… don’t do that. Not here. Alright? Go back inside first, then you can have a proper look at it.” He rapidly waves his hands back and forth, urging Jonny to step back in. Jonny nods in understanding, though his eyes glimmer with something close to uneasy, but genuine amusement.

Before Thom can spin on his heels to run back to his bike, Jonny instinctively reaches for his arm - his touch light, cautious. Thom flinches but doesn’t try to pry himself away from his grasp.

He’s half expecting Jonny to chide him, tell him he shouldn’t have come, that he wants nothing to do with him anymore. So, he squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the worst. He had it coming anyway and has no right to hold it against Jonny.

But rather than offering Thom any sort of uttered response, Jonny gingerly lets go of his arm first.

“… Um,” Jonny finally manages, fiddling with the paper bag handles and keeping his gaze steadily focused on Thom’s boots. He broodingly chews on his lower lip after a lengthy pause before finally speaking up, voice faltering slightly. “Sorry, you... coming in?”

Thom’s heart does little somersaults inside his chest. Three words - a simple question - is all it takes to shatter the tension that’d been weighing heavy on him; but he’s yet to find out whether the pieces will scatter into much needed relief or further panic, and if he’ll have to pick them up by himself afterward.

He clears his throat, trying to keep his composure by shrugging as he forces out a response. “Oh, uh. Yeah. Yeah, I s’pose. Sure.” Before his brain can tell his feet to retreat, he steps over the threshold and into the house. Jonny moves aside to give him space, quietly shutting the door behind them.

Thom moves about with small, calculated steps. Although he’s familiar with the faint smell of tea and the green-apple clean scent he’d recognize anywhere, it certainly feels like he’s visiting Jonny’s place for the very first time, the air of an overly polite guest all over him. He doesn’t let his eyes wander too much, staring straight at the excessively colorful carpet that doesn’t match the rest of the living room décor.

Thom scoffed at the frankly ugly thing once, saying he wasn’t even sure what aesthetic it was supposed to fit in with, given its disorienting, swirly patterns. Colin was so heartbroken that he had to spend the better part of an hour trying to take the words back, which served as a reminder that he shouldn’t poke fun at the Greenwoods’ exotic décor choices again.

There’s another dragged-out moment of silence, punctuated only by their breathing, occasional coughing, or sniffling. Thom sits down on the couch, legs crossed, dragging his palms down the denim of his jeans to smoothen nonexistent wrinkles and hopefully appear composed. Jonny doesn’t follow suit straight away: he hovers, fingers twitching at the hem of his wool sweater and pulling at the fabric lightly.

Finally, he lowers himself to the opposite end of the couch, leaving what Thom thinks is a comically large gap between them. Jonny’s still holding on to the paper bag but hasn’t opened it yet.

Thom tilts his head, curiously watching Jonny fidget with his sleeves. It’s always the sleeves with him; sleeves that are baggy and too long for his already long arms. Jonny drags the stretched cuffs over his knuckles, thumbs pressing against threads that have already started to fray. The same thumbs that scribbled ‘Jony’ on the label of the hoodie. The same thumbs that caress Thom’s face during intimate moments, that run over his lips before Jonny kisses him.

Thom scoots to the side, making the couch creak. Jonny goes still, eyes wide underneath his curtain of bangs.

“So-”

“So…”

“Oh, sorry. Go on.”

“No, ‘s alright. You first.”

Still as polite as ever, even now, huh? Thom sighs, running a hand through his own hair and then rubbing the back of his neck. “Remember that hoodie you left at mine last week? The, uh, dark blue one with stuff written on it? Yeah. I said it looks a bit different - you can have a look at it now.”

Jonny reaches into the bag and pulls the hoodie out, letting it unfold as he holds it above his head. Much to Thom’s shock, his expression remains largely the same, even when he notices the clumsy seams on the shoulder.

Thom’s body now fully faces Jonny’s, palms sinking into the cushions as he leans forward, impatient, waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come.

“You… you don’t see it? Look closer, Jonny,” he urges, voice cracking halfway through and giving away the eagerness he’d tried to mask as poise. “I fixed it. Or tried to. That’s why I didn’t bring it to you sooner - made a nasty rip on the shoulder, spent the whole night sewing it. Didn’t even know if I remembered how to bloody sew. And I didn’t. Had to figure it out as I went.”

Jonny’s lips quiver into a small smile. He folds the hoodie back over his arm, still staring at it with unnerving patience. His face is infuriatingly calm, too, unreadable - even though Thom should have him all sized up by now.

“… I think it looks quite nice. Thank you.”

Jonny mumbles, finally looking up to meet Thom’s eyes. His gaze is soft and covert, but those words are not nearly enough of a satisfying closure for Thom. If anything, they make him even more desperate.

“That’s it?” Thom blurts out, scooting even closer and effectively closing the distance between them. “A week. We haven’t spoken in a whole week and all you have to say to me is ‘thank you’ and some half-assed compliment? Fuck no. You know I’m not having that, Jonny.”

Thom’s façade crumbles by the minute, his explosive self threatening to burst out of the cracks.

There it is: the 'Yorke Storm', in the flesh. Only it's raining down hard inside, and right on Jonny's couch.

Notes:

As always, thank you for reading this far!! Feedback's appreciated - AND THE GOOD SMUT IS COMING IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. I PROMISE. HOLD ON TIGHT AND THANK YOU EVER SO MUCH FOR THE PATIENCE <3

Chapter 3: Seamless (At Last)

Notes:

Hello again!!

LONG AS FUCK CHAPTER JUMPSCARE. Yes... I'm really sorry for taking so long to update this fic - work was absolutely kicking my ass, then came writer's block + self-doubt haha. Just, well, Not Very Amazing Things™ overall.

Anyway! Thank you for the patience and for not giving up on me. Hopefully this VERY LONG final chapter is still enjoyable, despite my inconsistent chapter lengths (I'll do better next time, I promise;;;)

<3

A mix of pent-up emotions surge through Thom: anger, frustration, longing. Is he the only one who missed this? Who missed them? Did the past seven excruciatingly dragged-out days of silence mean nothing to Jonny?

Upon crawling closer, Thom clutches the fabric of Jonny’s pants, then tugs at the loose threads of his sweater, as if that could drag more words out of him - or rather, a reaction more in line with his own.

Despite Jonny’s tranquil mien, he’s no impenetrable barrier, and the cracks have already begun to show: they’re subtle, but it’s in the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he dry swallows and how he holds his breath when Thom’s fingertips brush up against his knee and thigh.

Thom notices that and wants to believe he’s finally getting through to Jonny. However, the devil on his shoulder, who’s got two curled up tufts of bleached blond hair for horns and a chewed up aux cable for a tail, is quick to deride him.

God, you’re such an annoying little piece of shit, you know that? Just stop. Aw, don’t get all bummed out when Jon-Jon gives up on you too. Everybody does, in the end. It viciously mocks, jumping from shoulder to shoulder,

Cruel as those words may be, the devil’s got a point. Jonny did, in fact, not reach out first. Didn’t call either. He’s not to blame for getting fed up with Thom’s brazen behavior, though.

From his impulsiveness to his excessive worry that borders on paranoia, Thom knows he’s a handful. He can’t stand himself sometimes, so why should Jonny? He’s too much of a good lad to have to deal with Thom, who’s chaos incarnate, leaving trails of destruction in his wake.

He ought to be a decent friend for once and spare Jonny the trouble, lest he drains whatever remains of his patience like an insatiable leech.

“… That’s all? All you have to say, then?” Thom chokes out, voice wavering and hands trembling. He’s not sure who that question is directed to anymore; himself or Jonny. “Fine. Forget it. This was a shit idea.”

Thom backs away, letting go of Jonny and standing up slowly. Retreating is, by all accounts, the right thing to do, but that doesn’t make it any less painful.

But it’s fine like this. This is… nothing compared to what Thom’s been through. Nothing at all.

He’ll get back home, throw himself onto the bed, scream his lungs and heart out into the pillow and even cry about it until the pain subsides. Afterwards, he’ll be good as new and go about his life as if nothing ever happened.

That’s how he’s learned to cope and deal with his feelings, and it’s been like that for years on end. So, again, why should it be any different now, just because Jonny didn’t give him the attention he’d selfishly desired?

They’re both adults, for God’s sake. It’s about time Thom stopped being such a whiny shit, for better or for worse.

The second Thom turns away from Jonny, his eyebrows deeply furrow and his eyes well up with a sudden, hot sting. He bites down hard on his lower lip, the sharp pain a desperate effort to fight back incoming tears.

The one person he’d thought he could rely on is seemingly shunning him away. It’s his worst fear come true.

Too much. Not enough. Never enough. Not then, not now.

The devil smugly sits atop his head, smirking as if saying told ya, just to drive in the knife deeper.

His vision grows blurry as he staggers to the door, eyes red and watery. He grips the doorknob so firmly the cold steel burns his skin, reminding him that this isn’t the kind of haunting nightmare he’d have during terrible nights of sleep.

That’s right. Run away, you fuckin’ coward. Run away like you always do, with your tail tucked right between your legs.

“Thom-”

Standing behind him, Jonny places a hand on Thom’s shoulder, his touch so featherlight and cautious he’d barely registered it. But the sound of Thom’s own rushing blood pounds in his ears, too blaring, drowning out everything else.

The two voices then rapidly overlap, and Thom’s so panic-struck he can’t tell them apart.

His knees buckle sharply once, and he’s unable to bear his own weight any longer. His legs give out right after that and he slides down listlessly, his forehead lightly hitting the door.

It’s truly a miserable sight: Thom’s trembling figure, knelt in Jonny’s very living room. His arms are tightly wrapped around his own body in a last-ditch attempt to shield himself from his inner critic.

Jonny crouches beside him, but this time, the stillness in his frame has nothing to do with self-consciousness. The hand on Thom’s shoulder moves down to his back and lingers there, steadying and tentative at first but growing firmer when he feels the ragged tremors underneath his palm increase.

“Thom, I…”

“Shut up.”

Jonny flinches at the snap, but he doesn’t pull away even when Thom bends his head forward and shrinks further into himself, his unruly bangs simultaneously hiding everything, hiding nothing.

“I didn’t- I really just, um, I just wanted to say-”

“You don’t know shit about me. You think- think you’re so fuckin’ smart, donʼt you?” Thom continues hollering, squeezing his eyes shut and causing tears to flow out.

“Who do you think you are, calling me a coward? Didn’t I come all the way here ‘cause of that bloody hoodie?! Taught myself to sew, pricked my fingers until they bled... Fuck, isn’t that- isn’t that enough for you? Am I not enough? What do you even want from me?”

Jonny shakes his head, puzzled by the seemingly groundless accusations. He’s about to question them, but then, all of a sudden, it clicks - and when he opens his mouth, it’s not words that slip out, but a soft gasp.

Thom’s mistook Jonny’s silence for indifference, hasn’t he? Assumed he was no longer seen, heard or cared for. And for someone burdened with deep-rooted insecurities like Thom, that misconception bears devastating consequences.

Jonny thought he was doing the sensible thing by giving him space, but he should’ve known better. Should’ve known better than to leave him in the dark when he was fending off his self-loathing thoughts.

The more Thom tenses up, the more his voice breaks.

“Tell me to leave, Jonny. Just say it, just- fuckin’ say it. I know I’m a pain in the arse. I know. Too loud, too wrong. God, you’d be better off- you’d breathe easier without me dragging behind you like some dead weight. Just one word and I’m gone, gone. I’ll vanish, you’ll never have to hear me whine like some stupid baby ever again-”

Before Thom can blurt out any more self-hatred laden remarks, Jonny, usual bashfulness nowhere to be seen, covers Thom’s arms with his own.

Everything he says about himself is unfair, mean and untrue, and it’s starting to profoundly pain Jonny, too. He feels like a total moron for letting them hit rock bottom like this.

Jonny gives Thom’s trembling frame a firm, reassuring squeeze. It’s something he’s done before to prevent Thom from spiraling further, familiar territory; only there’s no sign of doubt in the way he embraces Thom and nudges into the crook of his neck now, keeping him close all the while.

Thom’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t try to pull away nor reciprocates the touch immediately.

If Thom’s resolve falters, Jonny can make up for it. Back him up. He did say it, after all: “Not leaving. No matter what.”

What he needs is the right push in the right direction, and to take action more from now on so Thom won’t feel relinquished like this again.

“Thom, listen to me, okay? Please.” Jonny urges, the warmth of his body and breath gently hitting the skin of Thom’s neck slowly but surely stuttering his neurosis to a stop. Thom doesn’t look up yet, though, a bit taken aback by Jonny’s unusual self-assurance.

Jonny’s never been much of a talker, not even during vaguely awkward interviews with local TV or radio stations where he’s expected to. But when he does talk, especially with this much purpose, the least Thom can do is to hear what’s on his mind. And so, he does.

“Don’t want you to leave. Stay. Don’t vanish. ‘M sorry for not saying anything sooner… that was terrible. I was terrible. I know. ‘M sorry.”

Thom’s grip around himself loosens as he takes in those words, his emotional walls crumbling to let Jonny back in, bit by bit. He sniffles quietly as he opens his eyes, still slightly red and prickly from the tears.

He can feel Jonny’s heartbeat on his back, and it’s… just as erratic as his. Really, Thom shouldn’t be that surprised - it’s just that Jonny’s so good at keeping his feelings in check that he may come off as detached sometimes. But the truth is that he feels things just as intensely as Colin, Ed, Phil and Thom himself do.

That intensity of his shines through in his unconventional, yet incredibly innovative way of playing guitar: he puts his whole body and soul into his string-hitting, wrist-flicking techniques to create synergies of sounds that would otherwise clash if not done by a man who feels things too deeply.

“… You wanna know why I’ve been, well, quieter than usual? Distant, even?” Jonny asks, but doesn’t wait for a response from Thom. He sighs, absently fiddling with Thom’s coarse hair, fingers tangling for just a moment.

“Been… arguing with mum a lot lately, that’s what. Every day after rehearsal, for the past two weeks or so. Long phone calls that lead nowhere, and… quite a few screams here and there too. Yeah. Proper nasty stuff.”

Jonny pauses and lets out a shallow breath, pensive. He swallows before continuing; Thom unconsciously swallows, too, as if taking in Jonny’s worries along with him.

“She’s, um. She’s not really thrilled about me dropping out of uni. Says I’m going mental, that I’m throwing my life away, and…” It’s Jonny’s voice that falters now, like the fingers on Thom’s hair. “… that I should be more like Colin. Focused. Read more books and not waste my time with a bloody guitar and a band.”

It’s a strange parallel, this one. Thom, dealing with his inner critic; Jonny, dealing with external critics. Thom’s found ways - albeit largely self-destructive - to drown out his inner voice. Jonny, on the other hand, can’t exactly not talk to his mom as it stands, right?

Thom repeatedly clenches and unclenches his hands, setting them on his thighs. He’s been ready to accuse Jonny of coldness, of turning his back on him and leading him on with empty promises, and yet...

And yet here Jonny stands, baring his heart to Thom in that ever so mellow voice of his. Carrying the same devastating self-judgment, the same fears he knows all too well.

Once the initial wave of panic recedes, Thom feels a weird combination of fury and tenderness coil deep inside him. He wants to shake Jonny like a damn snow globe for not telling him sooner, for hiding his problems - and for letting Thom believe he was truly giving up on him without so much as an explanation or a single text message.

“... God, you’re so...” Thom rubs his eyelid in disbelief as he trails off. “Jonny, you...”

Jonny narrows his eyes, preparing for another possible outburst from Thom, likely out of sheer anger this time. He has all the reasons to be mad at him, though, and if he’s yelled at, it’s not unwarranted by any means.

 

Whatever Thom’s got in store for him now, he’ll dutifully face it. Stay. Exactly how he promised.

 

But instead of telling Jonny off or worse, pushing him away, Thom wriggles in his arms before finally, finally turning to face him. Chests touching, eye to eye - and Thom fits in there so effortlessly, so naturally. Always has.

Thom’s mouth opens and closes involuntarily. Jonny’s been courageous enough to be openhearted and vulnerable, and his confession keeps replaying in Thom’s ears.

For a long moment, Thom just stares, wide-eyed and unbelieving. Then, since more tears would feel too humiliating, he sputters out instead:

“Oh, my God. You. Fuckin’... Twat,” Thom enunciates slowly, lightly tapping his forehead against Jonny’s shoulder as he speaks, though the words lack their usual bite. “Should’ve told me all that sooner. How the hell was I supposed to know you were having problems with your mum?! You’re just- unbelievable, you know that?”

Jonny snorts softly, hands moving up and down Thom’s back to both keep comforting him and to convince himself that this is really happening. That he’s got Thom in his arms again, pressed close enough that he can bask in the scent of unreasonably pricey detergent and the faint smoke-laced edge beneath it.

Frankly, he’s always hated that part: how it seems to linger on Thom’s hair and clothes no matter how many times he thoroughly washes them. And yet, here, with Thom’s cheek resting on his shoulder, Jonny holds on tighter instead of pulling away.

The smell is faint, but even if it weren’t - even if it was choking and made him wrinkle up his nose in that stupid way Thom seems to adore - he’s pretty sure he’d still take it. Because it means Thom is here, and Jonny would much rather breathe him in, cigarettes and all, than risk losing this again.

“I’m sorry. Really, I am,” Jonny repeats, his lips brushing against Thom’s hair. “I just, um, didn’t wanna bother you with any of that. I mean, it’s something I’m supposed to solve, right? Didn’t say much about it to Colin either, ‘cause this is just between me and mum, I feel.”

“... I’m sorry, too. But still,” Thom raises his head and hands to hold Jonny’s face... Only to squeeze his cheeks, eliciting a small wince from him. Oh, c’mon, he had it coming. “Aren’t you the one who’s always going around saying I’m not alone, that I don’t have to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders, blah blah blah? That goes to you, too, idiot.”

Jonny blinks, surprised, as if what Thom just said wasn’t clear from the start. But he nods, grateful. It’s nice to have that kind of reassurance, even if it comes only after being called a ‘twat’ and an ‘idiot’. Jonny’s not upset, though.

“Ouch, ow,” Thom suddenly grimaces, shifting his weight between his thighs. “Couch. Now. Knees hurt. Bones hurt.”

Jonny laughs - really laughs - as they stand up carefully. Neither wants to let go, therefore what follows is a weirdly tender tango of limbs: Jonny backing them onto the couch with unsteady steps and Thom clinging to him like a spoiled house cat, hands fisted in his sweater.

Jonny hits his heel on the coffee table and nearly makes Colin’s precious flowerpot fall over, but they make it to the couch in one piece otherwise.

They plop down unceremoniously, arms and legs everywhere. Thom nuzzles into Jonny as soon as they cozy up and sighs, contented.

“So… Work on our communication, was it?” Jonny asks, running his fingers through Thom’s hair and gently scratching his scalp with well-trimmed nails. “We can do that, I reckon.”

“Mm, guess so, yeah,” Thom hums in delight as their shared body warmth, comforting like never before, envelops him. “Oh, and about what you said earlier… You don’t have to be like Colin. You two are already brilliant in your own ways.”

“… You really think so?”

“Absolutely. Ah, wait, I know - how about you bring your mum to one of our gigs? That way she can see how passionate and serious you are about music and all that.”

Jonny tilts his head to the side and places a hand over his mouth, pondering. Thom smirks. “Just mind those guitar demolishing techniques of yours if she does come. Wouldn’t wanna scare her off now, would ya?”

It’s Thom’s turn to let out a hearty laugh. Jonny can’t help but huff and follow suit, though his own comes out just a little reticent, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed this. Allowed to laugh, with Thom relaxing in his arms, after all that hurt.

When the laugher dies down, what’s left is silence. But this one is hushed, comfortable; a serenity where neither of them needs to fight or defend or explain or talk. Just listen. Feel.

Listen to their uneven heartbeats and breathing syncing up. Feel how much they’re mutually cherished without the real need for words.

“Wouldn’t scare her off,” Jonny mumbles, nosing lightly against Thom’s temple. “She’d probably be too horrified to even look at me.”

Thom refutes by poking Jonny’s upper arm. “Jonny. You’re her son, for Christ’s sake. Nah, she’d be in the crowd yelling, ‘those are my babies!’, while pointing at you and Coz.”

Falling back into their easy banter rhythm is only natural and puts them at ease. So much so that Jonny yawns, glancing over at the clock, which reads 7PM.

It’s still early, but Jonny feels exhaustion washing over him. He hasn’t been getting much sleep lately, and judging by Thom’s more visible than ever dark circles and puffy, sunken eyes, he hasn’t been doing any better.

“… Hey,” Thom rasps after a while, arms wrapped around Jonny like he’s a big, gangly teddy bear. Jonny’s dozing off, head drooping again and again. Thom’s voice barely reaches him at this point. “Erm, tell Coz I’m sorry about all the racket. And yelling. Won’t happen again, I promise.”

Jonny yawns, loud and long, his reply delayed. “Oh, right. He’s not home. Said him and Ed were going out on a date or something and left a while ago.”

Thom’s weary mind manages to pick up on that very interesting piece of information, a tiny, dangerous spark going off in his brain. He arches an amused brow, lips quivering.

“A date, you say?” He lifts his head a fraction, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ed and your older brother? And just where’d they go?”

Jonny’s eyelids twitch in response, as if even acknowledging the question takes more energy than he’s got left. “Mhm. Some new pub down the street, probably. Dinner and drinks. The usual.”

“That so?” Thom purses his lips, wondering if he can get some more juicy intel out of Jonny, who seems to have switched to sleepy autopilot mode. “Aah, blast it! I knew I should’ve made that bet with Phil. How long’s that been going on for anyway?”

Jonny’s long body curls closer to Thom’s. “I dunno. A while. Weeks. Months, maybe. Don’t ask me more, can’t think-” Another yawn swallows the remainder of his words as he carefully lays sideways on the couch - Thom goes down with him without protest.

There’s hardly enough room for two people on the couch, which essentially locks them in one single position. If Jonny tries to so much as stretch an arm out, he’ll push Thom off the couch in one fell swoop.

They cling to each other as much as physics allow regardless, smiling wide, all giddy. Thom’s leg lazily dangles from the couch, his back glued to Jonny’s chest.

Ideally, they should’ve grabbed something to eat, then discussed more about the plan of taking Jonny’s mom to their gigs. Set a date, put the logistics on the table. But for now, they’re not too worried about that.

They both end up falling asleep. No muttered groggy ‘g’nights’, no drinking their heads off. They drift into peaceful dreamland, just like that.

Together again.

 

***

 

Jonny’s alarm goes off. Twice. Thom’s goes off next, but as the sunlight shines harsh and bright on their peaceful sleeping faces, neither budges.

“Ugh. Five more minutes…” Thom grumbles into Jonny’s sleeve. Jonny’s right leg twitches a single time in silent protest.

“Oh, come on, you two! Look, I’m really glad you made up and all that, but seriously?!”

Colin, who’s been walking in circles around the couch for the past five minutes, huffs, throwing both his hands in the air and turning to Ed with an offended look on his face.

“They do remember we’ve got to be in that venue by 1PM, don’t they? Our producers said we can’t be late. Gotta do the soundcheck and go over today’s setlist as well.”

Ed suppresses a laugh by clearing his throat, nodding half solemnly and crossing his arms to try and add to the feigned look of seriousness. “Beats me. Wait, Coz, holy shit. D’you think they sha-”

“Don’t,” Colin warns as he swiftly presses an index finger to Ed’s lips, glaring up at him. “Do not continue that. Just help me out here!”

“Hmm. If only they knew what we’ve been up to these days. Isn’t that right, dearest Colin?” Ed smirks and shamelessly kisses that same finger. “Alright, alright. I know just what to do, hold on a sec.”

Colin whines an appalled “Edward!”, pushing Ed’s back a few times to drive him off before he can say any more embarrassing remarks. Ed bursts into laughter as he walks upstairs to Colin’s room, locating and then grabbing his bass.

He returns to the trio, noticing Colin’s red tipped ears and rosy cheeks, but deciding to spare him from his teasing for the time being.

Ed plants himself right in front of the couch, lifts the bass strap over his shoulder, makes sure he has a strong grip on it and gives Colin one last wicked grin.

“Alright, lads of all ages. How about this?!”

He doesn’t even bother to tune it: just slams his whole full hand down the neck and rips through a thunderous, distorted chord that roars through the room.

The walls shake. A photo frame rattles against the plaster, Colin’s flowerpot skids to the very edge of the coffee table and the old couch springs practically jump under the vibration.

No mortal bass string should ever produce such a noise, which can only mean Ed’s drawn it out from the depths of instrument hell somehow.

Thom lets out a shrill yelp, jerking upright. His hair sticks up everywhere, like he’s just been struck by lightning - only the lightning in question is unreasonably tall, is named Edward and, on top of all that, is an absolute fucking bastard.

“Holy-!” Thom clutches hard at his chest, puffy eyes locking with Ed’s and his annoyingly smug grin. “Jesus Christ, Ed! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Could’ve given me a fucking heart attack!”

Jonny doesn’t so much jolt awake as slowly, slowly peel his face off Thom’s shoulder, lids heavy and hair a mess - unlike Thom’s, it’s still mostly tame, though.

He squints, unimpressed, like a grouchy old cat pulled out of an imperative afternoon nap. “… Ed, mate. Was that necessary?” He mutters, voice flat and dry, before dropping his head back down onto the cushion like he fully intends to fall asleep again. “I’m not existing yet. Go away.”

“Oh my God,” Colin elbows Ed’s side and rubs his temples. “You’re totally dealing with the neighbors if they come at us full of noise complaints later! Anyway, get up, you two. We get on stage in only a couple of hours, so c’mon and hurry.”

That’s more than enough to make Thom and Jonny both hastily spring up and step on the gas; because yes, they completely forgot about today’s gig.

Before they all rush out of the Greenwoods’ place, Colin pulls Ed to the side by the arm and whispers:

“Ahem. That was quite a good Plan, Mr. O’Brien. Yes, let’s see if I can reward that quick thinking of yours after we perform today. Think of it as… something of a private encore. I owe you that much, after all.”

Ed blinks as his brain connects the dots, and he rubs his hands together. Someone’s hit the jackpot good today.

 

***

 

The gig goes unbelievably well. In fact, it’s one of their best and most consistent in months.

They all hit just the right notes and are in perfect sync, not to mention their stronger than ever stage presence. And this time, the crowd sings along to Ripcord, How do You? and Vegetable. Actually sings along, cheers and claps to the rhythm.

And most shockingly? No Creep encore. They play Inside My Head instead, and the audience can’t possibly be more ecstatic about it. Countless fists swing in the air, as if that’s the anthem they’d been waiting for all along - not the self-loathing, gloomy one, but the manic-punk leaning and highly energetic one.

They don’t just play the songs. They inhabit them, and the crowd, more energetic than ever seen before, explodes, nearly moshing itself to smithereens.

By the time they’re done and Thom rasps an earnest ‘thank you!’ into the microphone, his voice thoroughly shredded, there’s silence… But not really.

It’s quickly replaced by a wall of noise: cheering, howling, stamping feet that produce a mini earthquake on the floorboards. The band glances at each other, covered in sweat, pupils blown wide from adrenaline and chests raising and falling at a nearly equal pace - still tuned in to the same wavelength, even then.

They know when it’s been good. When they did good. They can feel it in their sore arms, tired knees and in the way the instruments seem to want to play several final triumphant chords themselves.

It’s an indescribable, otherworldly experience where they feel like they’re floating, watching themselves play from another plane of existence. And honestly? Their other existence selves, wherever they may be, can confidently say they killed it.

Thom staggers back from the mic stand, his classic Fender hanging crooked and proud at his hip. He looks at Jonny with a grin that hints at rapture and disbelief.

Jonny, already fiddling with his volume knob, gives him a thumbs up and a smooth hair flip, the universal “fuck yeah” between them. His current expression, however, is anything but unreadable, and his usual modesty has been replaced by a sense of pride that can be felt and seen from miles away.

Phil deftly twirls his lucky chipped drumstick in one hand, Ed’s still clapping like he wants to replay the set from the top, and Colin, diligent as ever, is already unplugging, but still buzzes with energy and smiles from ear to ear.

Thom finally murmurs, “Whoa. Just, whoa. That was…” and doesn’t even finish the sentence. Can’t. The crowd generously finishes it for him, chanting their names, noisy and delirious.

 

***

 

The band tumbles offstage one by one, downing bottle after bottle of water and chattering loudly, still riding the adrenaline high. Their limbs feel like jelly from all the exertion, but they’re still glowing, confident and overjoyed.

“Did you see that? Did you?! They knew. They heard of our other songs, Jonny. Memorized the lyrics, even!” Thom hollers, bouncing on the balls of his feet and slamming his hands down square onto Jonny’s shoulders. Jonny’s body reflexively jumps at the sudden impact, but he nods vigorously to match Thom’s energy.

“Christ, this has got to be a dream. C’mon, Jonny, pinch me! No, actually, don’t. If this is a dream, I don’t wanna ever wake up.”

Seeing Thom this genuinely ecstatic after so long warms Jonny’s whole heart up, and he really has to hold back from pulling him into a hug right then and there.

“Not a dream,” he settles on ruffling Thom’s hair affectionately, messing it up even further. “We did quite great today, yeah. All of us.”

The promoters clap their backs with both hands, yelling something - likely lavish praise - that doesn’t quite reach their ears, still buzzing with the multitude of sounds. Everyone’s on cloud nine, from the staff to the techs to the roadies to the band members themselves, all smiles and laughter. Which can only mean their plans of celebrating at a nearby illustrious pub permeate the air, expensive drinks and five-course meals included.

Although their budget isn’t necessarily the most enviable one around, they all deserve to indulge themselves from time to time.

Colin’s already halfway through his… third? Water bottle, pouring it down his throat. “Five-course meals? Oh, that’s too posh for me! Gimme some greasy fish and chips and I’ll still be celebrating.”

Ed frowns and groans dramatically, wagging a finger in the air. “No way, Coz, you gotta learn how to enjoy the great things in life. We’ve earned steak. Thick and juicy slabs of it. A pint of Guinness the size of Jonny’s head, and we all get to hear Thom admit he’s addicted to… What was it, that fancy thing? Crème brûlée?”

“I’m so not! You really gotta stop pulling info out of your arse,” Thom retorts, squeezing Jonny’s shoulders as if prompting him to back him up. “Besides, you’re not gonna hear any of that, ‘cause Jonny and I have other plans for the night. Right, Jonny?”

Thom’s tone isn’t even suggestive, but the way Jonny rubs the back of his neck and mumbles a small “We have?” makes Ed and Colin share a knowing look between each other, eyebrows raised.

Phil approaches them and pats their shoulders, offering a smile so warm it could bestow peace upon the world.

“Hey, you! I’m really glad you two set the record straight. Just try not to have such a bad fight again, yeah?! Makes it easier for all of us to shine up on the stage.”

And with that, they split into two separate groups: the rowdy pub goers and the match made in heaven. Thom’s got an arm wrapped around Jonny’s waist, leading them to the exit and holding a water bottle to his lips, insisting he ‘sounds and feels too dehydrated still’.

 

***

 

It’s a short walk back to the hotel.

They laugh and goof around the entire way through, talking about memorable nonsense at first - Phil, the drum wizard, dropping his stick mid-song but recovering so quickly no one in the crowd seemed to notice, Colin jumping excitedly whenever he nailed the basslines, and the buttons of Ed’s shirt valiantly trying (read: failing) to hold themselves together.

The conversation only filters out when Thom reaches for the cigarette he’d tucked behind his ear and Jonny gives him a look of genuine concern, though expectedly, he doesn’t address it directly. He knows it’s Thom’s life and that it’s not his place to dictate the choices he makes, but that doesn’t stop him from worrying about his well-being.

As they pass under a streetlamp, Thom catches a glimpse of Jonny’s troubled expression. So instead of grabbing the cigarette, he stops his hand just in time and scratches the back of his head, almost apologetically.

“Nasty habit, I know,” he shrugs, gaze dropping down to their boots as they walk. “Been thinking of quitting. Still makes me look cool for the cameras, though. Less ugly and whatnot.”

“Yeah, I suppose. But, um… Is it really worth fucking up your health over it?” Jonny asks, his tone far from accusatory. “I think you look cool basically all the time. Not ugly. Not one bit.”

Thom squints at him, lips twitching up into a wry smirk. Jonny feels that smirk on him before he even sees it but doesn’t back off - he simply braces himself for what’s to come.

Anytime now…

“What was that? Did you just- Oh, no way. No way in hell, you proper charmer!”

Thom takes a small step back, bends his knees and pounces in just under a minute. Yup, there it is.

Jonny catches him in his arms - muscle memory, at this point - and only avoids toppling because he’d seen it coming, and because he knows Thom like the back of his hand.

“Sly little thing,” Thom says between peppered kisses to Jonny’s face, still clearly thrumming with leftover energy. “You’ve been learning some new things lately, haven’t ya?! Who’s teaching you all that? Edward? Colin? Our deceptively calm Philip? Go on, tell me everything.”

“‘s just the truth. You’re not ugly, Thom. Far from it,” Jonny chuckles, rubbing their noses together. “Ah, look - there’s the hotel. Down you go, you blond koala.”

Thom would usually grouse about the ridiculous nickname and having to relinquish body warmth, but he’s currently more focused on getting into a shower, scrubbing off all the post-gig grime, and pulling on something clean and comfortable. Preferably something that doesn’t insistently dig into his skin (even though he knows how unbelievably hot he looks in tightfitting clothes).

They check in and head to their room. Thom unlocks and then opens the door, making a face when it suspiciously creaks.

Inside, they’re greeted by walls so thin they can practically hear people breathing from the other rooms. The painting above the bed hangs skewed, a generic, sad watercolor of some unknown fjord, and the old-fashioned radiator makes a concerning noise when Thom throws his jacket over it.

The checkered floors are a jarring combination, clashing with every possible law of color theory. There’s a single small bathroom that looks like it hasn’t been touched since the late 60s, with chipped pastel-blue tiles and a sink that wobbles under the weight of a single toothbrush. A crack runs straight down the mirror, and its silver backing has already started to peel at the edges.

But hey, the bed’s king-sized and the pillowcases, curtains and sheets match, so what’s there to complain about?

“So, this is why they could afford fine dining tonight. Yeah, makes sense,” Thom walks to the bed and carelessly tosses his bag onto it. The mattress doesn’t squeal, at the very least, which he chooses to take as a good sign. “Bet if I flush, the whole building floods.”

“S’pose it could be worse,” Jonny shrugs, tossing his bag next to Thom’s. He then jumps onto the bed to further test the mattress’ durability - it squeaks this time, but his body sinks only slightly before springing back up. “Mm. Nice back feel. You go have a bath first, yeah? I’m just gonna lay here a bit longer, maybe not move ever again...”

Thom rolls his eyes at the unabashed display of laziness but lets Jonny be for now. And since he was so generous to offer, he takes his sweet time in the shower, washing every nook and cranny of his body and feeling the warm water continuously run down his skin.

After nearly an hour, he emerges with a towel draped around his neck, bleached hair still damp and stretchy. He’s changed into a plain black T-shirt and loose gray sweatpants - stretchy and much cozier. Perfect. Yawning, he sits next to Jonny and kicks his feet above the hideous checkered floor.

“If the shower wasn’t that small, I’d surely have dragged you right in there with me,” Thom comments offhandedly, stretching his arms out. “Oh, and have we brought our guitars?”

Jonny, sleepier than he was earlier this morning, shakes his head no slightly, seemingly not picking up on the implications of showering together. “Think the staff put them back in the van after we left.”

Thom groans, tipping his head back. “Fuck. Well, figures. See, I had this whole thing in my head… Could’ve shown you that progression I nicked from Million Dollar Question the other night.” His fingers wiggle in the air as if he’s playing an invisible fretboard.

“We’re always keeping them close. Dunno why we didn’t tonight. Had other stuff in mind, probably,” Jonny yawns as well, eyelids drooping with fatigue but still alert enough to follow Thom’s ramble. “You’re still showing me that progression when we get ‘em, though.” He shifts to lay on his side and lifts his own hands, miming some chord shapes automatically.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s see. I’ll, erm… write some lyrics then,” Thom opens his bag and pulls out his notebook and a chewed pencil. But before he starts scribbling away, he scans Jonny’s sprawled out body, thinks for a moment… and runs a hand along Jonny’s back thigh, over the denim of his pants. “And you? You get in the bath already. I’m not sleeping next to you t’night if you don’t wash up.”

Jonny blinks and sits upright, legs crossed. He presses his palms down in the gap between them, flustered, much to Thom’s amusement. “What? See any other place to lay down in this bloody cubicle?” Thom coos, leaning in to kiss Jonny’s flushed cheek. “Thought so. Now off you go.”

Jonny nods and awkwardly shuffles toward the bathroom. Thom watches him like a hawk, only averting his gaze when the door clicks shut. Adorable.

 

Thom can’t tell if it’s the exhaustion that’s fogging his mind up, his perfectionism kicking in or the two combined, but he can’t come up with any decent lyrics. He taps the pencil on his chin, chews on it some more, rolls on his stomach, then on his back - only to write one line that seems half coherent, but sounds incredibly dumb when read out loud.

He rakes his hand down his face, a familiar cloud of frustration starting to form above his head. It’s a variant of the Yorke Storm, though this is one that he usually fails to control.

“God fuckin’…” Thom curses under his breath, eyebrows deeply furrowed as he grips the pencil harder. He holds the notebook up and tilts it to the sides, as if looking at the paper from other perspectives would lead him to an epiphany of sorts. Surprisingly, he does manage to put together and write down the lines:

 

You do it to yourself, you do

And that’s what really hurts

 

He squints at his rough scrawling, trying to convince himself they make sense somehow.

Jonny emerges from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, noticing the shift in Thom’s mood as he pats his hair dry. Thom’s nose is nearly buried in his notebook, so immersed he doesn’t even hear Jonny cautiously approach.

It’s only when Jonny sits beside him and makes the bed springs squeak that Thom looks up from the open page, brows still furrowed.

“Jonny. Come have a look at these. D’you think they’re bollocks or what? What else should I-”

Thom’s jaw drops down and he gasps unintentionally when he realizes Jonny’s wearing a familiar piece of clothing.

 

Dark blue fabric, fading letters and absolutely wonky seams on the shoulder. The cursed hoodie.

 

“… Wait,” Thom croaks out after a couple of seconds, dropping the notebook and pencil and slowly placing his hands on the cloth, as if making sure he’s not hallucinating the sight before him. “Jonny… Why is this thing here? Did you- did you really-”

Jonny’s expression softens. He looks down at Thom’s hands, lets him feel the hoodie about, then nods soundly, running his fingers through coarse blond hair. “Mhm, of course I did. You worked so hard on it. Said you pricked your fingers until they bled. You thought I was just going to throw it away?”

Thom’s throat tightens, pride and embarrassment pooling in his chest. He swallows hard and grips at the fabric, gaze flitting between Jonny and the uneven stitches.

“You… you really wore it. After all that. Even though it’s rubbish,” his voice wavers as he runs a finger over those same stitches, unable to stifle a huge grin. “You know you’re gonna have to hand wash it from now on, right? It’s 100% unraveling if you chuck it into the washing machine. Might just explode as well, damn cursed object.”

“Not cursed. And even if it was, it still helped us get back together, didn’t it?”

It’s a weird thing to be allowed to feel this elated. Terrifying, almost. Thom’s always thought he’s too much, that he feels and hears and thinks and says too much; and yet Jonny looks at him with nothing but tenderness in his eyes.

Jonny’s left the usually quick-witted Thom at a complete loss for words. All because of a hoodie.

No. It’s because Jonny sees him. Sees way past the ‘creep’ and ‘weirdo’ frontman figure that’s been built around Thom, sees him for who he truly is - not for who he so desperately wants to be: anyone else but himself.

 

I’d be better off being someone else entirely. Less noisy. Someone who’s not fuckin’ deranged.

What’s even there to like about me, Jonny?

A lot. Really. But I like you for you.

 

Overcome with emotion, Thom pounces again, beaming, his eyes wide and glowing. Only this time, Jonny doesn’t see it coming and falls back onto the bed with a soft gasp of his own.

“Ah, hey…! Thom?”

Thom clings to Jonny tight - like he needs to be physically tethered to Jonny somehow, needs the contact to keep breathing.

“… You’re ridiculous,” he replies in classic Thom fashion as he rests his head on Jonny’s chest. “You’re so- what’d I even do to deserve you? Why are you still here, putting up with my bullshit? You don’t have to, y’know.”

Jonny caresses Thom’s back and kisses his head lovingly. “You’re right, I don’t. But I want to. Still here, ain’t I?”

Thom grumbles a heatless ‘bastard’, cradling Jonny’s face and stroking his jaw with his thumbs. No sudden cheek squeezing this time, only unconditional affection.

“You smell like… you,” he says, leaving kisses along Jonny’s sleek jawline. “And cheap hotel soap.”

“Yeah?” Jonny chuckles in response, hands stopping at Thom’s hips.

“Yeah,” Thom tilts Jonny’s head up, kisses his forehead, the tip of his nose and his lips. “Bit like my detergent, as well.”

They gaze at each other for a while as though they’re memorizing every little detail of their faces again, worrying that the memory of these features might’ve faded after seven days. The atmosphere has also changed: still affectionate, but escalating into something more intimate now.

“Hey. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, y’know that?” Thom tucks Jonny’s fringe behind his ears, regarding him with adoration and need. “You look so bloody amazing when you’re on stage - like you belong there. Hittin’ all those strings like it’s nothing and making stuff sound good like some- like some Telecaster freak.”

Jonny’s first instinct is to joke; maybe throw in a quip about Thom being an amped-up, rambling mess even after a warm bath that should’ve wound him down - but in that fraction of hesitation, Thom decides for both of them.

He’s waited way too damn long for this.

Thom’s mouth finds Jonny’s in a shaky, urgent crash. Their movements are rather clumsy at first, prompting Jonny to utter some hushed apologies as their teeth scrape against each other. However, neither pulls away. They bump their foreheads together, try again until they find their rhythm - and when they do, it’s pure bliss.

Fingers tangle up in Jonny’s lush hair as Thom’s tongue slips inside his mouth, hips rolling down onto Jonny’s crotch and dragging shallow pants out of him. Thom’s shins and knees rest on either side of Jonny’s torso, effectively trapping him there, right underneath Thom.

Not like the thought of escaping crosses Jonny’s mind at any point. Though if he attempts to hide his flustered face behind chunks of hair - which happens when Thom briefly lets go to press into the nape of his neck - Thom can stop him right in his tracks.

“Don’t hide from me, c’mon.” Thom insists, not letting Jonny’s hair fall forward this time as he brushes it back with both hands and flattens it down slightly on top of his head. Jonny reflexively squeezes his eyes shut, not used to being exposed and seen up close when he’s this red-faced.

Right now, Jonny’s an open book that Thom can read and reread to his heart’s content, as many times as he wants and however he wants. Despite that, Thom doesn’t let up.

“That’s it. Lemme see you. Everything.”

Thom’s words are punctuated with another kiss, messier, hungrier, lightly pulling on Jonny’s lower lip as he takes it between his teeth. Jonny’s eyes remain closed, but he no longer squeezes them - his body’s earnestly reacting on its own, willing him to give in to Thom’s deft touches, to let himself go even when his mind tells him it’s embarrassing (and unfair) to be this turned on over his cruel tease of a bandmate.

“Jon-Jon,” Thom croons right into Jonny’s ear, nipping at the shell and the lobe and making shivers run down his long spine. “Won’t you be a good boy for me and open your eyes? ‘Cause, hmm… I’m quite sure you won’t wanna look away from this.”

Sweat trickles down Jonny’s back and temples, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. A heady mix of anticipation and nervousness coils in his gut as he hears the rustling of sheets and the faint sound of their clothes rubbing together as Thom shifts, turning his body around.

Warily, Jonny cracks an eye open, curiosity getting the best of him - and he’s greeted with Thom’s plump ass wiggling in front of his face as he pulls at the waistband of Jonny’s plaid pajama pants.

“Been thinking about this,” Thom hums, a mischievous grin stuck on his face as he paws at Jonny’s crotch and pulls his pants down so slow it’s agonizing. “About having my throat stuffed full till I can’t breathe. Till I can’t sing. Staff asking why? Fuck ‘em. They won’t know it’s ‘cause I was dreaming ‘bout your cock.”

Jonny gasps, but not from shock; it’s a sound of pure instinct. Those filthy words, spewed brazenly by Thom, make Jonny’s head spin, stripping him off every bit of rationale so easily it makes him ashamed.

God damn it, what even is he? An overly hormonal teenager who gets aroused by the slightest of stimuli?

It certainly feels like it, because Jonny’s already helplessly twitching under his boxers, both eyes now open and trained on Thom as he finally pulls his pants down to his knees and whistles, all smug.

“Fuck, look at you,” Light-headed with adrenaline and smirking like a maniac, Thom drags a fingertip over the dark, spreading stain left by Jonny’s precum on his boxers. He presses open-mouthed kisses along the forming bulge, enveloping it with his lips through the fabric. “Already so hard and leaky for me… that’s a good boy.”

Jonny’s ears burn at the compliment, and he brings a hand to his mouth to bite down on the fleshy part of his thumb. Thom glances back over his shoulder and tuts at him when his moans start coming out muffled, halting his movements momentarily.

“Jonny. No holding your voice back either. You’re so close to fucking my mouth… Wouldn’t wanna stop now, would you?”

Nimble fingers bring Jonny’s underwear down next and let his cock spring free, achingly hard, thick and veiny. Beautiful. Jonny inhales sharply, toes curling into the bed sheets as he feels Thom’s breathing fanning hot over him.

“Oh, fuuuck yeah,” Thom licks his lips, shiny and sticky with Jonny’s precum. Enthralled, he rubs his cheek over that swollen cock before nosing along the ridge, inhaling and letting out dreamy sighs, like he’s savoring Jonny’s scent alone, high on it. “Missed this. You smell so fuckin’ good, mmm- why is everything about you so perfect?”

“… ‘s-‘s really not,” Jonny’s attempt at downplaying Thom’s praises comes out in a broken whisper, and his hands end up flying to Thom’s waist. “T-there are plenty of- ahn!”

Jonny’s hips jerk, a moan tearing from his throat instead of words as Thom gives a long lick up the shaft; from the base to the head, his tongue outstretched and catching droplets of oozing precum. He hums at the familiar salty tang and leaves a trail of kisses up to the leaking tip.

“That’s it. That’s the sound I wanted. Keep ‘em coming,” Thom spits on Jonny’s cock and gives it some lazy pumps, gliding easier now, his thumb circling his flushed head. “You’re doing so well, Jon. So good for me, always. Don’t hold back.”

Thom smears some more precum and saliva around with the pad of his thumb, feeling Jonny stiffen up in his hand and grinning in satisfaction. He flicks his tongue over the slit, prodding into it to lap up more precum like he’s addicted to the taste.

Jonny all but writhes under Thom, the grip on his waist tightening as Thom sticks out his tongue more to lightly slap Jonny’s cock onto it. It’s sinful, obscene, and blood seems to rush everywhere but Jonny’s brain.

After pumping Jonny some more and getting him nice and slick, Thom takes a deep breath, parts his lips and takes the head in, moaning around it. The vibrations rush down the length, and Jonny has to force his hips down to not abruptly buck right into Thom’s mouth.

“Th-Thom-!” Jonny’s voice cracks at the consonants, pulse hammering in his cock like it’s synced with his heart. His entire body heats up by the minute, and for a moment, he wishes he hadn’t worn the hoodie - it’s getting dirty and sweaty again, undoing Thom’s laundry work.

Thom doesn’t seem to mind, though. He hollows his cheeks and sinks deeper with a frantic gulp, trying to relax his throat as much as possible while breathing through his nose. He swirls his tongue around Jonny, bobbing his head unhurriedly at first, getting used to the shape and letting the taste spread inside his mouth.

Behind Thom, Jonny’s moans rapidly increase in pitch, the wet heat of that mouth making it increasingly more difficult to keep himself still.

The mental image of Jonny’s pretty, wrecked face encourages Thom to take more of him, nose soon pressing into his balls. A sloppy choke bubbles out when Jonny’s cockhead hits the roof of his mouth, but he stubbornly doesn’t pull away, aching for more.

Thom fights through his gag reflex, clawing at Jonny’s pants the more his throat stretches wide to accommodate Jonny’s girth. His eyes water from the sheer pressure and his throat muscles distend with the effort to take it.

Filthy sounds echo across the cheap hotel room and leak through the thin walls - but they don’t dare stop. Can’t stop, even if they get complaints from other unassuming guests.

Yes, they’re that obnoxious couple for the night. The ever so considerate Jonny, however, lost the ability to care the moment Thom deepthroated him like a willing, Jonny-exclusive throatsleeve.

Thom pulls away just enough to cough-chuckle, his voice already growing hoarse from that first throat stuffing. Saliva and cum pool at the corners of his mouth and dribble down his chin in a display of pure debauchery.

“Mm, yeah. Could live on just this. No food. Just Jonny’s cock,” he rasps. Jonny raises both eyebrows, incredulous that Thom just talked about him in third fucking person, this madman. “Still hungry. Gimme more.”

And Thom doesn’t even let Jonny so much as breathe. He’s already going down on him again, his ass high up in the air and back arched all daintily and feline-like. He’s picked up the pace, too, wrapping his hand around the base and moving it up and down in rhythm with his head, twisting and pumping.

The sight of Thom’s desperate need does something to Jonny. Through the haze of arousal, instinct finally overrides his usual restraint.

Thus, his hands, useless once, now move with purpose - it’s his turn to start pulling at the waistband of Thom’s sweatpants.

“Mnn?”

A small squeak escapes Thom, his pants folded mid-tight after some more insistent tugs. When he pulls away from the mouthful of cock to protest, a thin string of saliva keeps his lips connected to the tip, wet and glistening under the faint room light.

 “… Jonny, what’re you up to there? Didn’t say you could take those off yet, perv.”

Jonny presses his lips together, his submissiveness cracking just enough for a bit of boldness to slip through. “I know you didn’t. I just… wanted a proper look at you.”

A suspicious glare is sent Jonny’s way, but Thom doesn’t try to swat his much larger hands away. His underwear comes off next, leaving his ass bare and smooth in the open.

Maybe, just maybe, Thom secretly likes it when Jonny’s bolder. He’d rather walk through burning coal first than admit it aloud, though.

“Fuckin’ greedy, aren’t you? Can’t even have my fun without you- ah!” That witty remark cuts into a whimper when Jonny’s palms meet the curve of Thom’s asscheeks - squeezing, feeling, owning. Thom’s own cock throbs untouched beneath him, the head tapping against his stomach and dotting beads of precum there.

“… Greedy, yeah,” Comes Jonny’s admission, blatant as that, his tone more assured than before. “Not- not my fault you kept… shaking your arse like that, you know. Watching you on me, with your mouth stuffed full- needed to touch you. Couldn’t just sit here and not do anything.”

Jonny’s head is tilted to the side as he watches Thom’s hole quiver, nostrils flaring as he teasingly circles the rim with his thumb. Thom chokes out a wanton moan, eyes half-lidded and glassy - his bravado sways with Jonny’s straightforwardness, but his pride demands him to keep the act up a little longer.

“O-ooh, Jon-Jon. Look at you, finally getting your claws out. Told you you’re a sly little thing, hah.” Thom tries to cover it with another mocking remark, but his cock keeps leaking, begging for release. And just as he’s about to stroke himself, Jonny spreads him open with both hands, his hole pried apart at the same time.

A flush creeps up Thom’s neck at being exposed further by Jonny, his bravado dwindling. Normally, he’d get cranky at being toyed with like this, but right now, his yearning for Jonny’s touches overcomes just about everything else.

Jonny coats his fingers with saliva, and he runs his index and middle over Thom’s hole before pressing onto it. There’s a bit of resistance before Thom eases up through deep, steadying breaths, letting Jonny’s fingers in and clenching around them greedily.

“A-ah, fuuuck,” Thom whines, his body jolting forward at the overwhelming sensation of fullness. Any mockery has long disappeared, and garbled sounds spill out uncontrollably. “Fuck, yeah, Jon- fuck me with those long fingers, mmm-!”

Jonny gladly obliges, brows knitted in concentration. The tip of this tongue pokes out slightly as he makes scissor-like movements with his fingers, working Thom open in a steady rhythm. He pushes deeper and repeatedly curls his fingers right against the spot that makes jolts of pleasure shoot through Thom, whose thighs quake violently.

The air fills up with lewd sounds as Thom slams back to shamelessly fuck himself onto Jonny’s hand. Blond hair sticks to the nape of his neck and sweaty forehead, but he doesn’t care how disheveled and ruined he looks right now. All he can think is, Jonny, fuck me fuck me more more more-

Jonny plunges in one last time, all the way to his knuckles, before pulling his fingers out in one fluid motion. Thom’s strangled yelp dissolves into more broken, indiscernible noises, his hole rapidly flexing around nothing.

“Think you’re ready,” Jonny singsongs, grabbing his rock-hard cock and teasingly rubbing it over Thom’s face. “You… you know what to do now. Right, Thom-Thom? Ah, did we have condoms anywhere?”

Sweat drips into Thom’s lashes until he slowly blinks them clear. He takes a moment to recompose himself and glances back at Jonny, who’s got the same wild expression as when he’s playing on stage, feeling the music deep in his bones and owning every single note.

There’s no denying it. Thom’s fallen hard for Radiohead’s musical prodigy and continues to do so every single day. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“No condoms. Want you raw.”

At this point, Jonny’s gone enough that he can’t bring himself to object to that. He simply nods, watching as Thom shifts his hips higher and arches his back to steady his hand at the base along with Jonny’s own, both tingling with anticipation and need.

The swollen tip nudges Thom’s reddened and stretched rim, nearly knocking the air from his lungs. Slickness spreads with each pass, drags the ring of muscle wider and coaxes his body to yield, even as instinct tries to clench tighter.

“J-Jon- ah, f-fuck- goin’ in-” Hissing, Thom forces himself to breathe through the initial sting. His thighs quiver as he gradually sinks in, lips parted in a permanent ‘O’ shape.

Jonny’s eyes flutter shut for a second, his jaw tight. Thom drools - actually drools - as Jonny’s hips roll up, sliding deeper until he’s buried halfway. His nails dig right into Jonny’s wrist where he still holds his hand, grounding himself as his body opens more for Jonny.

“… S-so big. You’re so fuckin’ big. Stretchin’ me open, fuck,” Thom babbles, feeling Jonny throb inside him and giggling like crazy. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop, want you, need you-”

When Jonny’s finally buried himself all the way to the hilt, they don’t move for a while. Jonny’s face twists between pain and ecstasy as he feels Thom clamping around him. And while Jonny’s fingers are thick, they can’t compare to this - to being filled up with cock, the real thing.

Thom pushes back against Jonny’s cock with a needy sway of his hips, greedy for the stretch, for Jonny to finally claim him from the inside out.

“Y-you okay? Feeling good?” Jonny’s voice is gritty as he presses a palm flat into Thom’s lower back. He’s still thoughtful as ever, even when he’s halfway through stuffing Thom up. “So tight, Thom-Thom…”

No words come out when Thom tries to speak, so he sways his hips again, harder this time. Jonny takes that as a green light and thrusts up once, testing - and Thom all but topples forward, holding onto Jonny’s leg.

Jonny pulls almost all the way out before shoving himself straight back in with a wet, mean smack that echoes in the room. Thom keens, high and unrestrained as Jonny starts a steady grind of his hips, rutting into him and feeling his cock drag along the ridges of Thom’s insides.

When a more strained moan vibrates through Thom’s chest, Jonny knows he’s hit his prostate. Thom scratches Jonny’s thighs, leaving red streaks on his skin, hole spasming around him.

“Yes, yes! R-right there, harder, mhm- fuck me, ruin me-!” The words tumble out in broken syllables, and Thom sobs, laughs, moans, thoroughly delirious. They gain momentum, Thom slamming himself down onto Jonny and Jonny bucking up at the same time, assaulting his sweet spot relentlessly.

“Hnngh, Thom… turn back around,” There’s no more hesitation weighing down Jonny’s words, his voice low and tone so uncharacteristically demanding it makes Thom’s head snap back to look at him. “Go on - wanna see that pretty face while I fuck you.”

Thom’s brain practically short-circuits. Jonny rarely ever curses or says any vulgar words at all, so hearing him spew dirty words himself is something Thom wants permanently etched into his memory. The fact that it’s him driving Jonny this wild makes it all that more satisfying.

“F-fine, you perv.”

Cum and saliva dribble down Thom’s plush thighs and onto the sheets as he pulls himself off Jonny’s cock carefully. Jonny smirks, a bit of teeth showing as he scoots back to sit upright and rest against the headboard. He beckons Thom closer and is even insolent enough to wink at him.

“That a challenge or what, Jon-Jon?” Thom asks while returning the smirk, their eyes locking as he crawls closer. He straddles Jonny’s lap, hovering above him but not quite sinking back in yet. “Oh, how ‘bout this? Whoever comes last gets to choose the chords for that song I was writing. Deal?”

“Any chords? See how many we can get into it, how’s that sound?”

“Oh, hell yeah. You’re so going down, Jonathan.”

They seal the deal with a handshake and another heated kiss, and Jonny coos: ‘we’ll see about that, Thomas,’ when their lips separate.

Fired up and raring to go again, Thom spreads himself and rubs his dripping hole against Jonny’s sensitive cockhead a few times. His eyes roll back as he descends slowly, gripping Jonny’s shoulders for support.

The one downside of facing Jonny is that Thom sees the hoodie from the corner of his eye, plus the flimsy seams he’d made. Yet they don’t stop him from having his way with Jonny - if anything, Thom rides him faster, harder, out of spite, self-reassurance and to remind himself of who’s the winner.

Yes, he won. Thom defeated his worst enemy in recent times, a blue hoodie, and he’s about to emerge victorious from their challenge, too.

“Hey, what’re you smirking about, Thom-Thom? Wanna tell me about it?”

Lost in his self-aggrandizing thoughts, Thom failed to notice Jonny’s hand snaking up to tangle in his hair. With his other hand, he grabs Thom’s cock, neglected until now, and begins to stroke it, palm sliding easily thanks to Thom’s own cum. Jonny’s hand is so much bigger that it nearly covers Thom’s entire length as it glides up and down.

Jonny picks up speed, crushing Thom’s prostate as his thrusts hammer up vigorously from beneath. Gravity does what it does best and pulls Thom down hard, skin slapping against skin, his weight making every drop an unstoppable collapse onto Jonny’s cock.

“Hnnn, fffuckk, Jonnyy-!”

Thom’s voice (or what remains of it) rips raw, unbridled, cracking more each time Jonny punches into him. Every single one of Jonny’s thrusts is angled and precise so that the thick crown of his cock grinds over Thom’s abused swollen spot again and again and again, and Thom’s vision grows blurry with tears. His cock pulses in Jonny’s hand, and Thom grits his teeth.

Not yet, he thinks desperately, need to hold back, gonna win, ‘m gonna-

“Not gonna answer me? That’s- nngh- quite a shame.”

Suddenly, Jonny grabs a handful of blond hair and yanks it right back, exposing Thom’s pale neck. Then, he leans in, licks some stripes along the skin of his throat and bites - just like that, no warning and no politeness whatsoever.

Teeth sink into soft flesh, and a sharp, searing hot sting blooms under the surface of Thom’s skin. His eyes shoot open, jaw going slack as he can no longer tell pain and pleasure apart. He grips Jonny’s shoulder with as much strength as he can muster up, his whole form wracked with spasms as several pearly-white ribbons of cum forcefully spurt out of his cock.

Jonny grunts loudly underneath Thom, mercilessly fucking him through his orgasm. Thom’s head threatens to droop back, but Jonny brings it forward by using that fistful of hair as a handle and rests Thom’s forehead on his shoulder.

Ragged, throaty moans sync with Jonny’s thrusts. Thom zones out, his eyes rolled back and his brain thoroughly melted as Jonny slams in one last time, balls-deep in him and spearing his hypersensitive prostate. He comes deep inside Thom, filling him up; an arm squeezed around his lithe waist and his hand still tangled in that heap of blond hair.

Thom claws mindlessly at whatever’s within reach. Skin, fabric, anything to anchor himself as his vision whites out. His nails catch on something - a weak seam that had given way under the intense movements, the one he’d mended so carefully - and pull.

Both Thom and the fabric come apart at the same moment, the telltale sound of ripping resounding loudly. But they’re too blissed out to fully grasp what just happened, and desperately cling to each other, chests heaving up and down in unison.

 

Jonny doesn’t let Thom collapse even as they sag with the aftershocks. The grip on Thom’s hair loosens, but Jonny keeps him close and mumbles sweet nothings as he kisses his head languidly.

“You did amazing, Thom-Thom. Took me so, so well.” He smiles, swelling with pride and lightly scratching Thom’s scalp in that way he knows helps soothe him. It pays off almost immediately - Thom sighs, spent but contented, and nuzzles into his neck.

“… Fucker,” Thom drawls after a good while of catching his breath, voice nearly gone. He’ll definitely need a few days to recover - fortunately, they don’t have any more planned gigs for the week. “Biting and hair pulling? Where’d you even learn that from, huh?”

At first, there’s no response from Jonny, who just shrugs. He’s clearly back to his meek self, but Thom’s too curious and stubborn to leave it at that.

Lifting his head slowly, Thom squints his eyes at Jonny, hands moving from his shoulders to hold his jaw so he won’t retract into his shell. Jonny huffs, averting his gaze and thinking for just a second before speaking again.

“… Um, I- Ed,” Jonny mutters under his breath, cheeks flushing more as he shifts uncomfortably. “It was… Ed.”

Thom’s mouth open and closes, eyebrows furrowing like he didn’t quite hear Jonny right. He blinks blearily, gripping Jonny’s jaw tighter so those eyes can’t slip away.

“Ed? I knew it. Is that why- ahn, fuck,” when Jonny unassumingly shifts again, Thom’s reminded that he’s still got cock inside him. So, he pulls himself off Jonny one last time, slow and careful, and globs of warm, fresh cum trickle down his inner thighs. “… Is that why Coz is letting his hair grow, after all?”

“What?! Don’t ask me that, how am I supposed to know?” Jonny’s response comes as fast as lightning this time. He pulls his knees up a little, protective, and waves his hands in the air. “Ed just- he just said it might feel good is all, so I decided to, um… test it out. Now, no more questions. Please. Can’t think. Too tired.”

Thom tries to laugh, but his throat is dry and sore, so he ends up hacking instead. Then, his gaze falls upon the hoodie, now missing a whole sleeve - it’s slid down to Jonny’s forearm, the seams at the top completely undone.

The detached sleeve looks like a sad excuse for a gauntlet, and Thom isn’t sure whether he should laugh or cry. He scratches the back of his neck, lips pressed together in a slight grimace.

The fact that there’s cum sliding down Thom’s thighs is overshadowed by the new hoodie predicament before him. He looks back up at Jonny to see if there are any signs of disgruntlement or anger on his face, even though he’s also still coming down from his orgasm high and essentially has his brain capacity reduced by half.

“Erm, so. Listen, about, well, this-” Thom points at the sleeve and then at himself a few times, chewing on the insides of his cheeks. “I can, uh, get you a new one. We can go visit that new clothing shop tomorrow mornin’, or something. Unless this was a limited edition one, ‘cause if so, I’m really, really sorry-”

“Thom,” Jonny cuts Thom off before he can spiral, his voice as soft and calm as ever. “It’s alright. Think I got it at some pound shop years ago. Wasn’t really special or anything.”

“Really? You mean it?” Body going limp with exhaustion and relief, Thom exhales as he collapses back onto Jonny’s lap. “Why would you keep such an ugly thing, then?”

“Don’t call it ugly when it’s already proper destroyed,” Jonny chuckles, removing the sleeve from his forearm and holding it above his head to examine it. “Besides, why wouldn’t I keep it if it helped me stay warm just fine?”

Thom could argue with that. Could tell Jonny there are far less tacky hoodies for half the price out there, tell him he’d lend him his own stylish clothes if Jonny weren’t this freakishly long and tall - but he’s too tired, and there’s cum on his thighs, on the bed sheets and even in Jonny’s hair, for God’s sake.

“You know what? Gimme that.” Thom tries to snatch the sleeve from Jonny’s hands, but he reacts way too fast for a man who just came inside someone and was supposed to have diminished reflexes.

“Thom.”

“What?”

“You’re not cleaning up all this cum with my sleeve.”

“Wh- I wasn’t- fine. Stand up, then. Shower again. ‘m all sticky and gross.”

So Thom says, but they don’t lift a single finger. And theyʼre okay with staying like this a bit longer.

They don’t have to worry about waking up early tomorrow - unless Jonny does want to check out that store Thom mentioned. But they can talk about it in the morning or later on when they’ve rested enough and feel like moving again.

 

They have all the time in the world, after all.

 

“… Thom?”

“Yeah?”

“Guess who’s filling that song up with chords.”

“… Bastard. Best of three?”

“Alright. But only ‘cause you’re a bad loser.”

 

***

 

A few blocks away from the hotel, inside that renowned pub, Ed, Colin, and Phil are all in high spirits, huddled together at a table. They’re on their nth glass of some expensive wine with a name only Colin can pronounce accurately but is currently too drunk to do so.

“Say, Coz! You never getting your hair cut again?” Phil asks, reaching his hand out to twirl a strand of Colin’s hair around his finger. “I’d never seen it this long - it’s almost on your shoulders now.”

Colin shrugs, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Oh, I don’t know. I quite like it this way. Don’t you think it suits me?”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re going bald, Phil,” Ed interjects and snickers, his glass of wine slapping gently against his palm as he gestures. “Christ. Don’t wanna see steak in front of me again for at least a month.”

Phil gasps dramatically and places a hand on his chest, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know, this shiny forehead here? This is my crowning glory. You lot wouldn’t understand style if it hit you in the face!”

They all laugh boisterously and raise their glasses, clinking them together. When Phil looks away, just for a moment, Ed and Colin exchange coy smirks. Colin nudges Ed’s leg under the table, then casually places a hand on his thigh after pulling his chair closer.

 

Colin knows how much Ed loves his long hair.

Notes:

Thank you for reading this far!!! I love Thonny a lot. So much. They make me very happy :D

And of course, special thanks to Claire, Gaybes and Vik for encouraging me to post this and hearing me yap about it every single day. If not for you guys, this fic would likely never left Word to begin with. I love you <3

(wanna write some CoEd soon.. Hmm)

- sisibakbak ♡