Phenomenon

by spooky_action

Summary:

“Will it be a romance?” Paddy prodded.
Eoin gazed up at him, smiling, “It already is.”
“And will it be a happy ending? For your adventurer?”
Eoin shrugged, held out his hand for Quantum Theory by David Bohm, “Time will tell.”

 

Ambrose -

Boat to arrive 1400.

You may find him changed.

B.

__________

 

It was an honorable discharge, in the end. Eoin forbade Paddy from coming with him. There was a war yet to win, after all, and one of them should see Berlin.

“Don’t die,” the lad suggested as they stood on the docks at Saint-Nazaire.

“Ha,” Paddy took Eoin’s hand in a firm grip, a gesture as chaste as any David gave to Jonathan, before sending the lad on his way.

Paddy did reach Berlin. He stayed inside the city limits for exactly as long as it took to file the requisite paperwork, ignore the subsequent bureaucratic red tape, and accept well wishes from those whose opinion he cared about. Rumblings about a peace-keeping mission up in Norway caused a slight delay, but Paddy begged off, pulling every string he had left to pull. Then there was a plane to London and a train to Holyhead and the ferry to Eire.

There was a brief stopover in Belfast to collect Eoin from his brother, and then - 

There was a cottage by the sea. On a clear day they could make out the southern-most tip of Arran. Eoin sometimes liked to pretend that they were still living under the watchful eye of their old landlady Mrs. McGowan, mainly as an excuse to get Paddy to pick up his socks.

There was no talk of a return to law for either of them. Desks, offices, co-workers’ idle gossip, tedium.

Paddy fell into the fishing trade by accident. He’d helped an aged man haul his boat onto the shore one day in early spring and found that self-same boat left to him in the fellow’s will by early autumn. Along with a whole mess of lures and nets and a crate of seamen’s bric-a-brac.

Paddy took to the calling readily enough. The stretch of water between the Firth and the North Atlantic was a welcome challenge to navigate, even with aid of the motor he’d refurbished and mounted to the stern.

In the summer there were day trips to Rathlin Island – before Eoin’s troubles prevented such outings. The lad was fond of the puffins in particular, liked to watch them as they crowed and toddled over the grassy knolls.

Eoin himself took work in town, acting as editor for the local newspaper. Sometimes he could be coaxed into submitting articles or short stories to the Belfast Telegraph. They were near enough to family for their mothers’ comfort and far enough away for their own.

The years passed. There were hours of happiness, days even. But for the rest of it, they might have been at peace.

__________

 

Glenarm - October, 1954 

 

The rain came down like God was reconsidering absolutes. Or, at the very least, hastily-made promises. Rainbows indeed. This was no earth; this was no place for life.

Well, too late.

Paddy closed his eyes and lifted his face to it, did not add his spittle nor his salt tears. If this island became a mire, he’d build his lad a house on stilts and live on in blissful, intractable sin.

The lane bordering McNeely’s farm was already flooded, soon it would overtake the field. Not yet 2pm and all was slate-gray and bog-black, shapes upon shapes. Land against sky like a wet spill of ink. Drear and weary and…

Where was Eoin?

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?

It had taken two hundred pages before Paddy had warmed to John Ronald Reuel. Elves, magicians. Wizards, Eoin insisted. Alright, wizards.

A bit of sorcery wouldn’t go amiss just now, but all Paddy had was a torch and a waterproof. He’d have to get on via more mundane means.

There was a wee glen along the northern edge of their plot with its own wee trickle of water, too meager to be called a river. A small hollow of trees and stone. If Eoin was not in the studio, nor in the bath, nor in town, he might be there.

Paddy trundled over the last bit of moorland, took a care to watch his footing over moss and rubble as he descended into the shallow ravine. It took him a moment before he could make out anything other than the gray water, the black dirt, the white chalk embankment, but there –

Eoin was lying in the middle of the stream, with his own black hair and pale skin covered over by the icy current. Paddy lurched forward, almost costing himself his footing.

“Eoin?” he called, picking his way along the shoreline.

The lad didn’t turn, just stared straight up into the sky, naught to be seen but the whites of his eyes. Paddy waded hurriedly into the water, heedless of the state of his boots and trouser-legs.

“Eoin!” he called out, reaching down to grab the other man by the shoulders and give him a shake, “Eoin!”

It took a small eternity for Eoin’s eyes to refocus, for his hands to come up around Paddy’s wrists.

“Blair?” he rasped.

“Aye, lad,” Paddy got his grip around Eoin’s biceps, “Can you stand?”

“I think so,” Eoin murmured through chattering teeth.

“Alright,” Paddy braced himself, mindful of bad backs and dodgy knees, “One, two - ”

Eoin heaved and Paddy hauled and then they were standing upright, shivering together in the half-frozen water.

“Where did your clothes get to, then?”

“I dunno,” Eoin looked round, still dazed.

Paddy cursed under his breath. He shucked off his waterproof, slinging it round the lad’s quaking shoulders.

“Come on, then, sweet. That’s it, there’s a lad.”

They hobbled back to the cottage. Paddy wrenched open the door, hustling them inside before shutting it against the wind. He left the waterproof dripping at the threshold and directed Eoin over to the fire. He took the stairs two at a time, returning moments later with the blanket from their bed. Paddy rubbed at the lad’s hands and feet until color began to bloom under his skin. Once he was sure the thaw was well underway, he rose to make tea.

Paddy’s own jumper, soaked through, was shucked and hung over a chair in the scullery to be dealt with later. He waited for the brew to steep, plating a packet of biscuits just to have something to do with his hands. Then he fetched the whiskey and added a restorative dram to both their cups. A spoonful of sugar also, for Eoin.

He brought the lot out to the main room and set it down on the side table. He started to move away, but Eoin’s hand came up around his wrist. Paddy gazed down at him. He’d thought they were past shame, but there it was, twisting at the corner of his boy’s mouth.

“S’alright, lad,” he murmured.

Eoin’s grip tightened.

Paddy, at a loss, simply pressed the other man’s palm between his own. When the lad didn’t release him, he sat down, wet trousers and all.

“I thought the rain would do it,” Eoin muttered.

Paddy rubbed circles over his knuckles, stroked down the long lines of his fingers.

“Christ, Paddy,” Eoin groaned, finally turning to look at him, “I’m - ”

“None of that, now,” Blair shook his head.

Eoin watched him, eyes wide and lips turned down unhappily.

“I’ll have none of that,” Paddy repeated, giving the hand between his own a squeeze and one final pat, “Get that down you now. I’ll get us a change of clothes, aye?”

He retreated, mindful to take the stairs at a steady pace. He made it as far as their room before his knees gave out. He braced against the dresser, letting himself shake apart for one breath, two. Then he straightened and bent to his task.

When he returned, he found the lad had made his way through two biscuits and half his tea. He held up a dry jumper, gathered at the hem for ease of access.

“I’m your wain, then, am I?”

Paddy tugged the wool over Eoin’s head with verve, headless of the lad’s muffled protests. Eoin emerged from the collar a moment later, mouth stern, but eyes laughing.

“You can put your own pants on,” Paddy asserted, tossing them over.

“Oh, I can, can I?”

“If you don’t, I’ll not be responsible for my actions upon your person.”

“Who says that’s not the very outcome I was hoping for?” Eoin leered, the effect spoiled somewhat by the jaw-cracking yawn he let out a moment later.

Paddy scoffed, “Put your fool head down on that pillow and get some rest.”

Eoin sighed theatrically and did as he was told.

“Wake me in an hour?”

“Aye.”

__________

 

The morning dawned gray and still, though the clouds looked to be getting ideas. Paddy would have to go to market regardless.

“Coming to town with me?” he asked Eoin over the breakfast table.

The lad mulled over it a moment before shaking his head.

“Think I’ll stay in. Paint maybe.”

“Alright,” Paddy stood, placing his dishes in the sink.

He bent and pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of Eoin’s head, felt the lad’s fingers curl around the back of his knee. After several long moments, Blair forced himself to move away. He shrugged into his jacket and took his leave.

He set out in the old truck with a crate full of cod and pike. He’d see if Mrs. Riley over at the co-op might trade him for a rasher or two of bacon. Then he’d sue for some coin from the fishmonger.

“Good morning to you, Blair Mayne,” greeted Mary Riley upon his arrival.

Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?

“And to you, ma’am,” Paddy replied, shaking that Tolkienese nonsense from his brain.

“What have you got for us, then?”

“Cod.”

“Lovely. You just bring it round the back and have Michael give you a receipt.”

Paddy tipped his cap to her.

“Say, now,” she caught him before he could move away, “How’s that friend of yours? We hardly ever see him nowadays.”

“He’s well enough,” Paddy said, angling his body towards the exit.

“This weather cannae be good for his knee.”

“No.”

“Ah, but it must be a trial.”

“We manage.”

“Of course. You’ll give him a hello for me, won’t ye?”

“Aye.”

There was someone whispering behind him.

“What’s that?” Mrs. Riley called, “Speak up, now.”

“I was only saying about the poor lad,” a sheepish Emilia Coury blustered, “He looked powerful peaked last I saw him.”

“And when was that?” Paddy turned to look at her.

“Ah,” the lady glanced away, “Last month I suppose it was.”

“Wan he was,” put in Mr. Gilhooley, from his spot at Mrs. Coury’s elbow, “And muttering to himself, like.”

“He wasn’t himself, is all,” Mrs. Coury said hurriedly, watching Paddy with a wary eye.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Gilhooley mumbled.

“What nonsense are the two of you spouting?” Mrs. Riley cut in, “That’s enough of that chat,” she gentled her voice, “You just come back to me with that receipt, Mr. Mayne, and we’ll get you sorted.”

Paddy gave her a curt nod, turning away before he did something rash. He was nearly out the door before it reached him: a word he’d not heard outside of the nursery. He stopped in his tracks.

“What was that?” he said, turning back to lock eyes with Mr. Gilhooley.

“Eh?”

“What was that you said just now?” Paddy demanded, advancing on the man.

“Saints preserve us!” Mrs. Coury cried, shifting out of the way.

“Meant nothing by it - ” Gilhooley began.

“Then maybe you should have kept it to yourself,” Paddy growled, hand tightening on the man’s collar.

“Enough!” Mrs. Riley chastened, “I’ll thank you to watch what you say Brian Gilhooley. Mr. Mayne, please. He’s an auld fellow, is all. You just leave him be.”

Paddy stood for a beat, chest heaving. The next moment he was out on the street, hands clenched by his sides.

He quickly concluded his business in town, mood as black as the storm clouds gathering overhead. No matter what lines of poetry he summoned up, he couldn’t stop hearing that word, old as the hills and whispered like a curse: Changeling.

__________

 

“What’s happened?”

“Hm?” Paddy poked at a log in the fire in lieu of meeting Eoin’s eye.

“In town,” the lad pressed.

“Who said something happened in town?”

“Your face.”

“An unreliable narrator if ever there was one.”

“Paddy.”

“Eoin.”

“Blair.”

“Nothing happened,” Paddy replaced the poker and settled against the unoccupied side of the sofa, trying to project an air of serenity, “I only met that ‘blunt monster with uncounted heads, the still-discordant wavering multitude playing upon their pipe - ’”

Eoin pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Gossips,” Paddy relented, “Our wee town is overrun.”

Eoin snatched up a piece of paper and a pen, “The Telegraph will hear of this immediately.”

Paddy scowled to hide his smile.

“Well, what did they have to say, then?” Eoin asked, hand hovering over the page, “What was so incendiary as to get your goat?”

Paddy scowled in earnest, “Shite all. Nothing worth repeating.”

“Well, it can’t have been about you or you wouldn’t be so worked up over it.”

“Who’s worked up?”

“So it must have been about me.”

Paddy glared at the ceiling.

“You can say it, you know,” Eoin nudged him with his foot, “Whatever it was. Better to know.”

“Aye, best to know thy enemy.”

Eoin sighed, “They’re not the enemy - ”

“They may well be.”

“They’re just bored, Paddy.”

“Aye, well idle minds…”

“Spit it out, would you?”

Paddy pursed his lips, “As per usual, everyone is very concerned about your comings and goings. About your queer habits and the state of your health - ”

“That’s all?”

“Is that not enough?”

“Could be worse,” Eoin shrugged, “I’d wondered if they’d finally come to certain conclusions about our living arrangement.”

“Ah, no. Depending on who you ask, I am either the saint providing charity to a comrade down on his luck or the unholy terror that that poor, dear McGonigal lad has to put up with. Surely he’d rather be staying with family.”

“Surely,” Eoin smiled. Then he rolled his neck, wincing.

“Headache?” Paddy moved closer, pressed a gentle thumb against the lad’s temple.

Eoin hummed. Then he tensed. His eyes moved to something in the corner of the room. Paddy didn’t turn to look, he simply watched as Eoin’s gaze moved with whatever it was that he was seeing. Then the lad blinked and was himself again. The moment passed without comment, though Paddy thought he saw a flush crawling up the other man’s neck.

“What’ll we have for supper, then?” he asked, drawing Eoin’s attention away from wherever it was he’d gone to in his head, “Got some beef from Murray and some carrots if you’d fancy a stew.”

“You mean if I’d fancy making a stew,” Eoin cocked an eyebrow.

“No, no. I have it in hand.”

The lad’s brow climbed higher.

“‘Why are ye fearful, o ye of little faith?’” Paddy frowned, “Alright. You may supervise. But if you feel unwell, you’ll sit yourself back down again. Directly.”

“Yes, mam.”

__________

 

The itch began the moment Eoin woke up. By midday there was a ringing in his ears. The first headache found him by noon. The sounds that were not there came and went at their leisure, chattering and howling at all hours of the day. The shadows – gray, indistinct figures – flickered in his periphery. They walked beside him, past him, through him. Some days he swore he could almost feel their touch. He’d asked precisely once if Paddy could see them too. Took in the other man’s confused expression, wariness sliding into worry, and decided never to bring it up again.

For the better part of thirteen years, this had been the way of it.

In Italy, Eoin had taken to the bottle. In France, they’d found him pills that would buy him hours of uninterrupted sleep. Paddy, dear Paddy, had made exhaustive love to him, obeying when told to hold him tighter, fuck him harder, harder – anything to feel tethered to the earth. Anything to get him out of his head.

When Eoin’s war ended, and he gained the use of his brother’s claw-foot tub, he’d discovered a less dramatic answer. It was the first proper bath he’d had since before the jump. Underneath the water, time stilled and the world quieted. It chased away the memory of sand, of dry oppressive heat. He was not a body dragging itself across the desert, he was weightless, suspended, held.

Ambrose had teased him at first, bemoaning his decadence and making allusions to mermaids. He’d recanted readily enough when he saw Eoin emerge from the bathroom with clear eyes, the now perpetual tension smoothed from his forehead. Still, years later, it was one of the only things that helped.

The painting had been a surprise. It had begun as scribbles in his notebooks, hastily drawn things that he often ripped out and burned. Paddy noticed, of course he did.

“It helps,” Eoin had tried to explain, “To get some of it out.”

He’d mentioned offhand that it might be nice to have a studio someday, somewhere to spread out. Maybe he’d take up charcoals, or oils. The next morning he was awoken by the sound of Paddy erecting a structure in their backyard, using wood he’d gotten God knows where. In size it was somewhere between a bothy and a shed, with windows facing east and west to make the most of the light.

Eoin had raked his shirt sleeve across his eyes when he saw it, mastering himself enough to conjure up a wolf-whistle the next time Paddy bent to pick up a nail. He made sure to demonstrate the full extent of his gratitude later that night in their bed.

Coping, that was the word for it. A kind of Sublimation.

Back when he’d been fresh from war and more steadfast in his belief in modern medicine, Eoin had gone to see the old family doctor in Belfast, who smiled at him and seemed throughout their interview to be but one moment away from tousling his curls as he’d done when Eoin was a boy.

“You’ll be alright, lad,” the wizened man had proclaimed at the end of the exam, “Just find you some honest work and a good lass and you’ll settle in just fine.”

Because he was open-minded in a way Paddy was not, Eoin had gone to see three more physicians, just to be sure.

“Have you tried sodium amytal?” Dr. O’Rourke wondered.

Ah, he’d had enough of that, thank you.

“Have you been on the Mediterranean diet?” Dr. Bauer inquired, “Vegetables, whole grains, nuts. And the fish. Only the fish. No red meat.”

Eoin laughed. Fish only – yes, he’d have plenty of opportunity.

“Have you ever tried yoga?” Dr. Smythe asked, he who had just returned from a sojourn in Tibet.

Eoin, who had not experienced true stillness for several years, was unfortunately already aware that no amount of deep breathing, nor exercise, could settle whatever was rattling through his bones. C'est la vie. 

__________

 

When Eoin walked out of the desert, three weeks after he’d disappeared into it, Paddy asked no questions.

The lad simply appeared one morning, sunburned and ten pounds lighter, with a makeshift crutch and an Italian rifle in his hand.

The medic took one look at him before loading him into a truck and shipping him off to Cairo. The doctor there took note of the cuts along the lad’s hands, of his three broken ribs, of his shattered knee. To be expected. Could have been far worse. Paddy laughed until tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. The doctor had startled, but Eoin just watched him, patient and steady. Then his hand alighted on Paddy’s arm and the bloody whirling dervish in Blair’s chest settled into stillness.

Eoin’s physical wounds healed, mostly. He’d walk with a limp for the rest of his days, but he’d walk, he’d run – he’d dance if he was keen to.

Within five months, he was cleared for active duty.

Within the week, everyone in camp knew that something was wrong with Lieutenant McGonigal. No one dared speak of it anywhere near Paddy, but there were whispers. The lad came back different, the lad came back strange. Some of the men recalled their grandfathers, their uncles, their own das, men who’d gone to war and returned home changed. Men who’d been plagued by bouts of confusion, sleeplessness, irritability.

But everyone here was mad, one way or another. McGonigal had always been a bit too sane, really.

It wasn’t an issue, as long as the lad was fit. As long as he wasn’t a liability.

In the desert, Eoin’s symptoms were not so severe. Or, at least, he found them easy to conceal. Dizziness was, of course, on account of the heat. Hallucinations – ah well, it was a desolate place. The days were grueling, the nights were long, rations were scarce. The mind could play tricks.

And it was not so hard in Italy, to gloss over the signs that something was amiss. They were all strung out, worn down, homesick. Ennui was to be expected. Nightmares were textbook.

In France they were too busy to pay much mind to each others’ demons. Until.

The shot should have been easy for so seasoned a marksman. A German sitting in his truck, not forty yards away. Eoin breathed out, steady – his finger squeezed the trigger.

The sound of metal hitting metal was as loud as a thunder crack. The man scrambled for his weapon, almost getting a shot off before Eoin rallied. The next two rounds found their mark.

None of the men of the SAS said a word, but Eoin could feel the weight of their confusion, saw them glancing at each other out of the corner of his eye.

“Lad - ” Paddy said, low.

Eoin, who hadn’t missed a stationary target since he was eleven, found his hands shaking as though stricken with palsy. He heard Paddy rattle off some orders before he found himself being herded gently away.

“M’fine,” he muttered, “Paddy, I’m fine.”

“I know that, lad. We’re just taking a stroll.”

They stopped once the sounds of the men making camp had faded. Paddy pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one before handing it over. Eoin raised it to trembling lips.

The two smoked together in silence until the moon rose over the trees.

“We should head back,” Eoin spoke into the half-light.

Paddy turned to look at him, waited until he was sure the lad was looking back.

“You’re the bravest man I know,” he said, without preamble, “Whatever happens from this day onward, that is the truth of it.”

The gloom hid the shape of Eoin’s mouth from him, but he could hear the lad’s shuddering breath.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Eoin rasped.

“You’ll never leave me,” Paddy swore. He moved closer until he could feel the heat of Eoin’s body, “‘I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it.’”

“Ah, no,” Eoin laughed wetly, “Must be dire, indeed, if you’re quoting E.E. Cummings.”

Paddy’s hand came up to wipe tears from his boy’s face.

“Aye, well. ‘Tis a season for everything under the heavens.’”

“And the Bible - ”

Paddy didn’t need any light to find Eoin’s lips in the darkness.

__________

 

Glenarm - November, 1954

 

Paddy’s whistle drew Eoin’s attention away from his book. He looked up to see the man in question making his way down the embankment, grass giving way to mossy stone. Blair gained the rocky stretch of beach which made up their tiny cove, waving away any gulls that got too familiar.

He had a woolen vest on over his jumper and a shirt beneath to guard against the chill. He’d even jammed a knit cap down over his ears, something his mother must have made for him a hundred years ago. Eoin himself was only in a flannel over-shirt, a fact which his own dear love might have an opinion on.

“You’re gonna catch your fucking death.”

Eoin smiled. He reached out for the rope at the bow of the boat and began to haul himself in. Paddy sat down on the edge of their small dock, hooking his heels over the gunwale as Eoin drew up alongside.

“Made you a sandwich,” Paddy offered.

“Thanks, love,” Eoin accepted the small package wrapped up in wax paper.

Paddy waited until the lad was busy eating before taking off his hat and tugging it down over Eoin’s own curls.

“Who are we reading, then?” Paddy picked the book up off the bench.

“Ian Fleming.”

“Casino Royale. Card games, is it?” Paddy asked, dubious.

“Secret agents,” Eoin smiled, “Spy-craft. Intrigue. Fleming worked in Naval Intelligence, you know.”

Paddy hummed. He flipped through the book while Eoin finished his lunch.

“And how are you feeling?” he asked once the lad had only a bit of mustard left to lick from his thumb.

“It’s a good day,” Eoin said, “Only got dizzy the once. Being on the water’s helped.”

“You’re the only man who gets seasick in reverse,” Paddy asserted, “Contrary.”

Eoin reached out, lighting fast, and got a hold around his calf, “If you think I won’t pull you down into this wee lagoon - ”

Paddy held up his hands, but made no attempt to free himself from the lad’s iron grip.

“Do ye recant?” Eoin demanded, fingers finding their way up under his trouser leg.

The shiver that ran through Paddy was only somewhat to do with the cold.

“I’ll say whatever you like, lad, so as long as you let me take you home.”

Eoin grinned, “Now?”

“Sooner.”

Eoin laughed, “Twist my arm.”

Paddy offered the other man a hand out of the boat, held his book as the lad secured the rope to the piling. The two set off across the shoreline. Eoin paused for a moment.

“Do we have ice up at the house?”

“Aye,” Paddy said, waiting until it became clear that Eoin wasn’t going to offer anything further, “Why?”

“We’re gonna need it.”

Paddy next thought was interrupted by a sharp pain in his ankle. His foot had landed on a wobbly rock and twisted under his weight.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“C’mere, then,” Eoin tucked Paddy up against his side, “Only half a mile to go.”

Paddy grit his teeth, but soldiered on.

“Makes you feel for those lads you put through hell up on Goat Fell, does it?”

“I’ve no regrets,” Paddy muttered, hopping over a particularly large stone, “I’m sure they all think very fondly on that time.”

“No doubt,” Eoin laughed, getting his fingers hooked under Paddy’s armpit and hauling him over a mud-slick.

They made it back to the cottage without any further incident.

“Sofa? Or bed?” Eoin asked.

“The bed would be very nice.”

By the time they made it up the stairs, Paddy was sweating.

“Never grow old, my boy,” he cautioned, sinking down with a sigh.

“You’re thirty-nine, love.”

“‘I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled - ’”

“No, no, no. Do not start - ”

“‘These fragments I have shored against my ruins - ’”

“We’ll have no more Eliot today, thank you,” Eoin proclaimed, divesting Paddy of his vest.

Blair pondered this.

“‘Give me hunger,’” he began again, “‘O you gods that sit and give the world its orders. Give me hunger, pain, and want.’”

Paddy reached around to grip the backs of his boy’s thighs.

“Better,” Eoin allowed.

“‘I never knew any more beautiful than you,'” Paddy smoothed his palms up over the lad’s hips, “‘I have hunted you under my thoughts, I have broken down under the wind and into the roses looking for you.’”

He lifted the hem of Eoin’s shirt, laid a kiss against the lad’s pale skin with its dusting of dark hair, “‘I shall never find any greater than you.’”

“Blair…” Eoin whispered.

Paddy leaned in to feel the warm line of his lover’s arousal against his cheek.

The ice would have to wait.

__________

 

Belfast - June, 1946

 

“There he is,” Ambrose clapped a palm down over Eoin’s nape, reaching out to take Paddy’s hand with the other, “Mayne.”

“McGonigal,” Paddy greeted, “Is that the glow of fatherhood round about ye?”

“It’s the sheen of unwashed hair and many a sleepless night.”

“As I said.”

Despite his obvious exhaustion, Ambrose did, indeed, appear contented.

“Suits you,” Eoin smiled, getting an arm around his brother’s shoulder and giving him a shake.

“Come in, then. Mam and the girls can’t wait to see you.”

Ambrose led the way into the sitting room, where they were greeted by various exclamations of delight. Eoin was immediately enveloped by his sisters. Paddy winced as a small head collided with his knee. Tiny hands wrapped around his leg and wee feet hopped up onto his left shoe. He laid a hand over Anne McGonigal’s riot of curls and hobbled over to greet Richard.

“Alright, Blair?” Letty chirped, threading her arm through his.

“Aye, Letty, girl,” Paddy gave her a smile.

“Let me look at you,” Margaret McGonigal pressed Eoin’s face between her hands.

“Dia dhuit, ma.”

“Are you well, then?”

“Aye.”

Margaret searched his face for a moment before turning to Paddy, “And how is your mother, Blair Mayne?”

“Well, thank you, ma’am.”

“You’ll give her my best.”

“I will.”

Margaret nodded, satisfied, “Come now, girls. Help with the table.”

“And you,” Ambrose gave Eoin a gentle jab with his elbow, “Come and meet your namesake before he’s put to bed.”

“My – what?”

“Did’ya think we were going to name him after Dick?”

Richard rolled his eyes.

Ambrose led the way up the stairs, turning into Eoin’s old room at top of the landing.

“Seemed appropriate,” he smiled.

Patricia turned when they entered, revealing the black-haired bundle cradled in her arms.

She put a finger to her lips before mouthing a “Hello.” Paddy and Eoin crowded closer, catching a glimpse of one chubby cheek and a wee upturned nose.

“He’s perfect,” Eoin whispered.

A small hand disentangled itself from the blanket, reaching up to grasp at the air. As much to his own surprise as everyone else’s, it was Paddy who reached out first. He looked on, flabbergasted, as a tiny fist closed around one of his fingers.

“S’pose I’ll have to find a new roommate, now,” Eoin whispered, “Since you’ll be stuck here for the foreseeable.”

Paddy did not look too terribly aggrieved.

Eoin-the-second did eventually unhand him, drifting into slumber just before they were summoned to supper.

The meal was delicious as per usual, the company spirited. Several subjects were skirted; a handful ignored completely. Ambrose took the opportunity to spirit Eoin away after Paddy volunteered for clean up duty. They left him elbow-deep in suds and retreated to the porch.

“You’ve a place, then?” Ambrose asked, passing his brother a cigarette.

“Aye.”

“That’s good,” Ambrose paused, “Settling in alright?”

“We are.”

“Yous are,” Ambrose muttered, “He - ”

Eoin waited for a beat, “He what?”

“He’s good to you, then?” Ambrose’s gaze flickered between the garden fence and his own feet.

“Yeah. He’s…”

Ambrose looked up. Eoin took a deep breath.

“It’s him, Rose. It’s always been him.”

Ambrose took a long drag, blew the smoke out into the night.

“Yeah,” he said, finally, “I know.”

“Does mam know?” Eoin asked, low.

“She suspects, I suppose. She’ll never say a word about it, though.”

“Heaven forbid.”

They shared a wry smile. Ambrose finished off his cigarette, ground the butt down under his heel.

“Living out in the middle of nowhere with a lunatic,” he shook his head.

“Ah, he doesn’t mind it,” Eoin smiled, “And it’s only up the road, so.”

Ambrose cuffed him in the arm, “Hey, now, none of that.”

Eoin shrugged, unrepentant.

“You’re as sane as I am,” Ambrose insisted.

“That’s the baseline, is it?”

“Why you - ”

“Are yous done putting tar in your lungs?” Paddy’s voice interrupted their bickering, “Your mother wants you.”

The night finally drew to a close around nine.

“Best be off now.”

“Ah, well, if you must.”

“Good to see you, lads.”

It took Paddy and Eoin fifteen minutes to leave the sitting room, ten more to move down the hall, and seven to make it past the threshold.

“Let me know if you’ll be coming down next month,” Margaret urged.

“Well sure, we’ll see.”

“And you’ll write once you’re settled?” Ina waited a beat, “Eoin.”

“Hm?”

“I said you’ll write once you’re settled?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?

“When?”

“Just now.”

“I didn’t hear you say anything.”

“But, I - ” Eoin paused, he looked to Paddy.

Blair shook his head.

“Ah, well,” Eoin laughed, looking at no one, “Must’ve just said it to myself. Aye, I’ll write. Of course I will.”

They made it halfway down the path before Eoin lost his footing. Paddy’s hand shot out.

“Don’t,” Eoin bit out under his breath, before Blair could get a hold of his elbow.

Paddy clenched his jaw but said nothing. He went to open the passenger side door and got a kick to the shin for his troubles.

“Fuck’s sake,” he hissed, moving around to the driver’s side and letting Eoin sort himself out.

The first half of the trip back to the cottage was made in tense silence. Finally, Eoin sighed.

“You need to let me try.”

Paddy drew in deep breath.

“I’ll not be coddled,” Eoin went on, “Not by you.”

Paddy opened his mouth. Shut it again.

“You need to trust me,” Eoin insisted, “When I say I’m alright. Can you do that?”

Paddy pursed his lips. He loosened his fingers where they were clenched on the steering wheel.

“Aye, I can do that,” he said, finally.

They drove on for another moment in silence. Fuck it, Paddy thought.

“They’d never think less of you,” he hazarded, watching Eoin tense out of the corner of his eye, “We none of us will ever think any less of you.”

The lad sat stock still for a long moment. Then he tipped across the space between them. His head landed heavily on Paddy’s shoulder.

Had Blair the teeth of Culann’s own legendary hound tearing at his flesh, he’d not have shifted an inch. He only turned his head so that he might press a kiss to his boy’s hair.

__________

 

Glenarm - December, 1954

 

The editor-in-chief at the Glenarm Weekly was a man who appreciated results. He was also kindly enough to overlook any and all eccentricities re methodology so long as deadlines were met and the quality of the writing was first rate. For this, Eoin was immensely grateful.

When he couldn’t get himself into town, Mr. O’Hanlon was happy to ferry drafts to and fro via Paddy or post. It was agreed, however, that Eoin would do his upmost to attend staff meetings once a month whenever possible.

He was on his way to honor this pledge when a voice called out to him from across the road.

“Captain McGonigal!”

He turned to see a lad approximately ten years of age approaching him at speed. A harried looking man, no doubt the boy’s father, followed apace, pausing to wave at the car his son had cut in front of in his haste.

“Captain McGonigal, sir,” the boy came to a halt in front of him, “Would ye sign my notebook?”

Eoin looked down to find himself face to face with rather well-drawn picture of a familiar winged insignia.

“He’s just been learning about the SAS in school, Captain,” the lad’s father offered, hat in hand, “You needn’t pay him any mind, though, if you’re in a hurry.”

“No hurry,” Eoin assured, taking up the notebook. Next to their badge and its famed banner there were a handful of notes detailing their early exploits in Africa. Names of places he hadn’t seen in over a decade, names of men he hadn’t spoken to in years. Names of those they’d left buried in France, in Italy, in Libya, in Egypt.

Captain McGonigal! Captain McGonigal, sir!

For a moment, Eoin’s hands were empty – of pages, of pens. The echo of a car horn rang in his ears. Footsteps clattered over the tarmac -

He came back to himself with cough. His fingers tightened around the booklet. He signed his name with a flourish, trying to hide the shaking of his hands.

“So this is what it feels like,” he said, smiling, “To be ancient history.”

“We’re much obliged to you, sir,” said the lad’s father, “For your service. And for taking the time.”

“Aye, sir. Thank you, sir,” the boy echoed.

The two headed off, leaving Eoin alone in the street. He took a moment gather himself before moving towards his destination.

Thirty minutes later, he exited the newsroom, meeting dutifully attended and latest works handed off. He made a beeline for the post office.

“Anything today, Clara?” he asked the girl behind the desk.

“Ah, Mr. McGonigal! Let’s see, now...ah, yes. Here we are.”

Eoin took the large manila envelope with a smile and a nod of thanks. He went back out, ducking down a small side street before opening the package. He saw to the enclosed note first:

Dear Captain McGonigal,

It was very good, indeed, to receive your letter. Gratifying to see that my research has made it to your corner of the world. It is not often that I get to discuss the subject with those who have a personal investment in the topic. As to your theory, I believe it is very possible. I’ve enclosed some reading material for your perusal -

Eoin read through the missive, smile growing wider with every word. When he was finished he folded it up and slipped it carefully back inside its envelope, trying to school his features into a less jolly expression. God knew he got enough curious stares as it was.

He mulled over the last line, already making plans.

Should you ever want to continue this discussion via telephone, you can reach me at my office.

Yours,

Dr. Jonas Eder

University of Edinburgh

__________

 

“What’s this, then?”

“Hm?” Eoin looked up, “Ah, nothing. Research.”

Paddy held the pale blue book aloft – Quantum Theory by David Bohm. On the table he espied another thin beige tome – Elementary Particles by Enrico Fermi.

“For a story?” Paddy wondered.

“Aye. Science fiction.”

Paddy hummed.

“Like your man, what’s his name?”

“Asimov.”

“Aye.”

“Sort of.”

“And who is the protagonist?”

“Ah, no one, really.”

“An ingénue?”

Eoin snorted, “No.”

“A soldier?” Paddy asked.

“He was once,” Eoin allowed.

“And now? An explorer of strange new worlds?”

“Something like that.”

“And will it be a romance?” Paddy prodded.

Eoin gazed up at him, smiling, “It already is.”

Paddy nodded, “And will it be a happy ending? For your adventurer?”

Eoin shrugged, held out his hand for the Bohm, “Time will tell.”

More literature began to arrive over the next couple weeks, littering the surface of Eoin’s desk and spilling over onto side tables and couch cushions. Books, articles, literary journals.

“The Geometry of High Dimensions” followed Eoin on his walks. “Spacetime (Die Raumzeit)” - translated from the original German, sat at his elbow at breakfast. “The Particle Problem in the General Theory of Relativity” by Albert Einstein and Nathan Rosen lay open by their bedside. “The Current Situation in Quantum Mechanics” lived in Eoin’s coat pocket.

Paddy took note, but left the lad to it. Eoin kept the plots of his stories close to the chest until he deemed them worthy enough for Paddy’s discerning eyes. Blair did have to admit, however, that he was curious.

__________

 

“How goes the gardening, then?”

“It’s January, Babs.”

“I know that. There’s root vegetables.”

“Aye, well, we’ve just the parsnips now. The chard will overwinter well enough. And they’ll be broccoli come February.”

“See, now. Plenty to do.”

“Aye.”

“Speaking of – our mother wanted me to relay to you that if you’re too busy to come down, she’s more than happy to come up to you. We missed you at Christmas.”

Paddy’s grimaced into the receiver.

“Might be hard,” he muttered, “Getting away.”

Barbara hummed, “How is Eoin, then?”

“Well.”

Paddy could hear his sister’s doubt through the phone.

“As well as can be expected,” he amended, “Keeping busy. He’s working on a new story.”

“Oh, yes? What’s it about?”

“Space. Quantum something or other.”

“Quantum mechanics?”

“Aye.”

“Interesting subject. What drew him to it?”

“He’s always been one for that sort of thing. Read those pulp novels back when he was a wain. Now it’s Bradbury and Einstein and some lad with a cat.”

“Schrödinger?” Barbara laughed.

“Aye, him.”

“Well it’s good to hear he’s getting on. How’s the rest of it?”

“The same.”

“He still gets those headaches?”

“Aye.”

“And is he still having trouble – with wide open spaces, is it?”

Paddy rubbed a hand across his forehead, “Just the open ocean. Says it reminds him of the great sand sea.”

“There’s research being done on that kind of thing, you know.”

Paddy scoffed.

“Blair,” Barbara’s voice was gentle in a way that made his hackles rise, “Phobias are treatable - ”

“He doesn’t have a phobia.”

“As is shell-shock,” Babs went on, speaking over him, “We don’t live in the dark ages anymore. If there’s something the matter with his mind - ”

“There’s nothing the matter with his mind,” Paddy bit out, “And I won’t have some headshrinker telling him that all he needs are these three little, four little, five little pills and then everything will be tickety fucking boo - ”

“Blair - ”

“I can’t, Babs.”

He took a breath; it didn’t help.

“Listen, I’ve got to go. Give my love to the girls.”

He rang off without waiting for her reply. He would feel bad about it later, but he needed to get away before he said something he’d truly regret.

__________

 

“Paddy?”

“Hm?”

“Did’ya move my notebook?”

“No.”

“The green one.”

“I’ve not seen it.”

“It was on my desk this morning.”

Paddy looked up from his book, took in Eoin’s frown, his pinched brow.

“I will help you find it if you like,” he offered.

The lad stood staring at the empty spot on his desk as though the notebook might jump back into existence at any moment. He dug his thumbs into his temples.

“No,” he bit out, then, belated: “Thank you.”

 

There was a clatter and then a loud thump from upstairs.

“Fuck.”

Paddy listened for a moment, “Alright?” he called.

He was met with silence.

“Eoin?”

“Yes,” Eoin snapped, “I’m fine.”

Paddy went back to his descaling, trying to ignore the knot of tension building at the base of his skull.

 

A clank came through the open window. It was followed by the creak of old hinges. Then the rut-tut-tut-tut of an engine trying and failing to turn over. Paddy went outside to find Eoin behind the wheel of their old truck. There was a smudge across the bridge of his nose and a stormy expression on his face.

Paddy leaned through the driver’s side window, “I thought we said we’d take care of it tomorrow.”

Eoin’s nostrils flared. He gave the door a shove, dislodging Paddy and freeing himself from the cab. He moved to hunch back down under the hood, reaching into the machine’s innards and twisting something. He grit his teeth against the effort. When his hand emerged, it was covered in so much grease you could barely see the white bandage wrapped around his palm.

The day before had been a comedy of errors, culminating in Eoin losing his grip on a teacup before losing his equilibrium entirely. His left palm had taken the brunt of the fall. Paddy had picked ceramic shards out of the lad’s heart and life lines, stitched up the gash across the base of his thumb, and very wisely advised that the other man refrain from putting the hand to heavy use over the next forty-eight hours.

Blair eyed the edges of the fraying linen, black with old blood and new filth.

“Don’t start,” Eoin picked up a wrench and started in on a cylinder head nut.

Paddy sighed, “It will get infected - ”

“What did I just sa - ” Eoin cut himself off with a hiss. The wrench fell from his hand, pin-balling past distributor and crankshaft and oil pan.

The lad went to fetch it from under the fender, but Paddy was faster. He snatched it up from the grass and chucked it unceremoniously into the garden.

“Paddy, what the fuck - ”

“Let me see your hand.”

“Get tae fuck - ”

“Let me see your fucking hand, you buck eejit. How am I now the voice of reason now? Here, look, you’re bleeding - ”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eoin hissed, trying to pull his hand away.

“It fucking does matter - ” Paddy tightened his grip on the lad’s wrist.

“Paddy,” Eoin’s lips were a thin white line, “Let go of me.”

“Will you go and have a wash if I do?”

Eoin said nothing. His eyes were black with anger. A muscle ticked in his jaw. They stared at each other for a long moment in fraught silence. Paddy broke first, releasing the other man from his hold. Eoin spun away and was gone.

 

Paddy threw their least lumpy spare pillow down on one end of the couch. He was just assessing the efficacy of an old moth-eaten blanket when Eoin appeared on the landing.

“Will you come to bed?” he murmured.

Paddy looked up at him, “Aye. If you like.”

At Eoin’s nod, he abandoned his makeshift nest and switched off the downstairs lights.

They lay side by side in the dark, the silence like a third bedfellow.

“I’m sorry,” Eoin whispered, finally. He let out a shaky breath, “I just wanted to be useful.”

Paddy reached out and found his hand under the covers.

“It was...a bad day,” Eoin went on, “But that’s no excuse - ”

Paddy raised the lad’s fingers to his lips, heard the hitch in his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Eoin rasped, “Blair…”

Paddy reached over and got an arm around his shoulders, rolling the other man into his arms. Eoin shuddered against his chest, weeks of exhaustion and frustration and pain pouring of of him.

Paddy couldn’t know what it felt like, to live inside his boy’s brain. The noise of it, the torrent of sensations, the bevvy of irritants. The stinging betrayal of it, not being able to trust your own body. Paddy would’ve done more than try and fix a truck, he’d tell you that much.

And he’d certainly resorted to language far bluer, and would do so again. Anyone that knew him had an anecdote detailing a time where he’d sailed well past rudeness into rank belligerence. 

If Eoin’s own temper took him away from himself and set them at odds, well, his sweetness, his sportsmanship, his stalwart and ready grace would invariably bring him back to Paddy in the end. Theirs was an agreement older than recollection, deeper than memory.

And so, Paddy held the lad until he cried himself out, ignoring the ache in his own chest.

“‘The Road goes ever on and on,’” he muttered into the lad’s curls, “'Out from the door where it began. But I at last, with weary feet, will turn towards the lighted inn, my evening-rest and sleep to meet.’”

Eoin sighed, newly bandaged hand gentling its grip on Paddy’s shirt, “Read to me?”

Paddy glanced down at him, “More of the same?”

“Yeah. Please.”

And so Paddy picked up their battered copy of The Two Towers, skipping past betrayals and saving battles for another day.

“‘Meanwhile the hobbits went with as much speed as the dark and tangled forest allowed, following the line of the running stream, westward and up towards the slopes of the mountains, deeper and deeper into Fangorn. Slowly their fear of the Orcs died away, and their pace slackened…’”

It did not take long before Eoin was asleep, hopefully dreaming of tree-men and of evil up-rooted. Paddy lay awake for a good while longer.

__________

 

“I heard he goes round in the middle of the night in just his pants,” Colin Smith confided, “Howlin at the moon.”

“My mam says he’s been a quare one since the war,” Danny Walsh asserted.

“My brother heard that he makes sounds just like a bean sídhe – wailing, like.”

“Cannae be a bean sídhe, can he? He’s a man.”

For a moment, the wee consortium was stumped.

“I heard,” Simon Keanes was the first to rally, “That he eats fish raw, straight from the ocean. Just puts his hands down into the water and they come swimming up to him.”

“I heard it was worms!” Jasper Doyle said, slicking out his tongue.

“No, it’s birds he eats, feathers and all,” a voice interjected.

The children startled, eyes darting up to land on Mr. McGonigal.

“At least that’s what I heard,” Eoin said with a wink.

The lads in attendance turned tail and ran like the very devil were after them. Eoin’s smile took on a wry quality as he watched them disappear across the street. Then he looked down at the lone girl left standing before him on the pavement. She watched him with her large gray eyes. A black velvet bow sat eschew on her small blond head.

“Not afraid of me are you, Rosie Branagh?” Eoin asked.

The girl shook her head.

“Brave lass.”

Eoin reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of sweets.

“Lemon or pear today?”

“Pear,” Rosie smiled.

“Excellent choice,” Eoin handed over the fruit drop and sent the bairn on her way.

He crossed to the payphone outside the post office, asked the operator to put him through to Edinburgh.

“And how are you today, Captain?” Dr. Eder’s voice came down the line.

“Grand, Professor. And yourself?”

“Well enough, sir, well enough. Now, have you had a chance to go through the reading we discussed?”

“Aye, though I’m afraid it’s not offered as much insight as I’d hoped.”

“Ah, well. These theories are still in their infancy, it’s true. But surely some of the passages shed some light on your query?”

“The particulars checked out, sure enough,” Eoin confirmed, “But it’s more next steps that I’m concerned with.”

“That is the very thing I wished to speak to you about. We wish to turn the theoretical into the practical, yes? There is an experiment that I believe would be very useful to you – you can undertake it in any room in your house, so long as the right conditions are met…”

__________

 

The final notes of “Black Coffee” petered out. Paddy stirred, rising to change the record. The deep, mellow tone of John Coltrane’s saxophone filled the room. Eoin was the real musical connoisseur, but Paddy had amassed a respectable collection of his own.

The lad favored torch singers. Paddy liked bluesmen. They both agreed that Ella Fitzgerald was grand and Duke Ellington was great craic. Eoin made a pact to only listen to Charlie Parker when Blair was out of the house (there was a difference of opinion over what constituted “too much” trumpet). The lad was easing Paddy into an appreciation of rock n’ roll, but it was slow going.

Paddy thought about pouring himself a finger of whiskey. He retreated to his chair instead.

He tried several times to pen a response to his mother’s latest missive before throwing in the towel. Not even reading could distract him. He settled in to wait for the subject of his preoccupation to arrive home.

The wind nipped round the side of the house, rattling at a loose pane. A storm was brewing. Paddy eyed Eoin’s waterproof, left hanging on its hook by the door. He threw another log on the fire.

The music played. The wind howled. The clock ticked. Paddy’s mind churned, chewing over the subject he’d spent the last thirteen years avoiding.

There was a box of photographs tucked away in his old war chest. Pictures of palm trees and camels and wild bearded men sat in jeeps or sprawled out over sand dunes. There was Johnny Cooper sunning himself on the roof of a canvas-covered truck. There was Jim with his Bible and Pat with his dime novel sat propped against the wall of their fort in Jalo. There was Jock Lewes with Thermite in his mustache and diesel oil up to his elbows, hunched over his latest prototype. There was a pensive David Stirling surveying a map of Sicily.

There was a giddy Eoin with his arm around a smiling Bill Fraser – a rare sight – must have been after one of their 48 hour desert treks. There was Eoin with his arm in a sling, back in Heliopolis (an impromptu rugger gone awry). Eoin walking through Cairo, nut-brown and grinning. Eoin in his parachuting gear, thumb and pointer giving Paddy the “OK”.

The best of these had been printed and framed, but there were others, hidden at the bottom of the pile. Pictures that Paddy hadn’t looked at in nearly a decade.

The first one, taken two months after Eoin’s miraculous return, featured the lad sitting up in his hospital bed, offering Paddy a weary smile. The image was grainy, blurred as though Eoin had been in motion. In another Eoin was posing with his rifle on his first day back at camp. In this one too, the lad was out of focus, though everything around him stood in sharp relief. In Italy, Paddy had captured Eoin lying on his cot, fast asleep. In it, the lad’s whole face was smudged – as though someone had run their thumb over his very existence, scattering him like so many grains of sand.

The pictures filled Paddy with a strange sort of terror – with a kind of sickly, creeping dread. He never could bring himself to show them to Eoin.

Their men had seen the lad loose the steadiness of his hands. They’d learned the sudden limits of his prior indomitable ease and ever-present wit. They saw him flinch at nothing, speak to no one. They met his hollow eyes over the mess table, watched as he struggled to put on weight.

Only Paddy saw how the air around Eoin’s body would sometimes waver, like heat rising. Only Paddy knew that no watch on Eoin’s wrist would ever keep time.

The creak of the front door interrupted his reminiscences. A damp gust proceeded the man himself into the room.

“It’s blowin a hooley out there,” Eoin grinned, “Good thing I got back before it started really comin down.”

He glanced at Paddy, who was still sat, half-lost in thought, “Alright?”

“Aye.”

Eoin came to stand in front of his chair, leveling him with a doubtful look.

“What?” Paddy asked.

“You only listen to jazz when you’re feeling sentimental,” Eoin accused.

“It’s nothing. Come here.”

Eoin’s skepticism did not subside, but he obeyed readily enough, folding himself down onto Paddy’s lap. Blair grunted as Eoin’s full weight settled atop him.

“You asked,” Eoin smiled, unrepentant.

“Aye,” Paddy said, wrapping an arm around the lad’s middle, “You’re right where I want you.” He stroked his thumb over Eoin’s bad knee.

“How’s this holding up?”

“Grand.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“Yes.”

Paddy dug his fingers into the meat of Eoin’s thigh, just above the worst of the scarring. Eoin let out a hiss that turned into a groan midway through as the muscle began to loosen.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Eoin breathing through the pain and Paddy content to keep up his ministrations.

“Tell me?” Eoin finally murmured, cold nose pressed against Paddy’s temple.

Blair swallowed around the sudden knot in his throat.

“It’s gotten worse,” he asserted, “These past few months.”

Eoin drew in a breath, “Yes.”

Give Paddy a gun, a grenade, a bayonet. Give him a soapbox or a pen and he could best any corporeal combatant. But this was something he couldn’t outgun, couldn’t outwit or out-maneuver. He was powerless.

“If there was any way that I could take this from you - ”

“I know, love. Whisht, now, it’ll be alright.”

“I should be the one reassuring you.”

“We’ll take turns. Tonight, I’m the one with joie de vivre and you’re the one listening to Coltrane in the dark.”

Paddy hummed, “You had a good day?”

“Aye.”

Paddy’s palm curled around Eoin’s ribs, fingers fitted into the grooves so that he might feel it every time the lad breathed. His other hand continued rubbing circles against the other man’s thigh. Eoin had lost some muscle mass these past few years, but he was still strong, still lovely.

The slant of his eyes was still sweet and wicked, despite the dark circles beneath them. The language of his heavy, swooping brows still needed no translation. His face in profile never failed to bring Paddy up short – that fine nose, handsomely curved, the upturn of those lyrical lips, the sharp jut of his stubborn chin. His skin, white as cream and dusted over with black hair and beauty marks. His shoulders, sharper now but still broad. His winged hipbones, the dip at the base of his spine -

Paddy breathed him in. Eoin’s hair smelled of peat smoke and petrichor and cigarettes. The scent of his body was just beginning to overpower the sandalwood of his cologne. Blair wanted to find all the places where the lad smelled only of salt and sweat and himself.

From the crown of his head to the tips of his long-boned feet, Paddy loved him.

His musings were interrupted by the rumble of the lad’s stomach.

“Will you have supper?” Paddy offered, “There’s soup on the hob - ”

“Not just now,” Eoin’s eyes were dark, “You just keep lookin at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you did when I was twenty and still at my fighting weight.”

“Fishin for compliments, are ye?” Paddy tucked a smile up against one of Eoin’s dimples, “You’re a ride and you know it.”

The dimple deepened. Eoin turned his head and pressed their lips together. His hands came up to grip the front of Paddy’s sweater, pulling him in as if they could get any closer. Blair needed no encouragement. He could already feel himself stirring under the lad’s warm weight. He got his own hand up under Eoin’s jumper, relishing the feel of him. He slid the fabric higher, watched as goose flesh broke out over newly exposed skin.

The next moment, the lad was up off his lap, grip still tight around Paddy’s collar. Blair followed, chasing Eoin’s lips. He crowded the other man up against the nearest wall, taking that slim waist between his palms and sliding a thigh up between his knees.

The lad flinched, suddenly, sucking in a breath that had nothing to do with pleasure. Paddy paused, leaning back to look at him. Eoin shook his head.

“Don’t stop,” he pleaded, “I need...I need to feel you.”

Paddy obeyed, pressing in closer, slotting them together from chest to calf. His lips found the side of Eoin’s throat. The lad’s arms came up around his shoulders, clutching him tight.

“Do’ya want - ?” Paddy slid two fingers under the waistband of his trousers.

“No – like this.”

“Only - ”

“Horizontal,” the lad confirmed.

They made it up the stairs and down to their underthings in record time. Paddy swept Eoin onto their bed, making room for himself between the lad’s thighs. Something in his lower back protested the movement; Eoin caught the wince. He hooked his good leg over Paddy’s hip and rolled them sideways.

“Better?”

Paddy nodded, getting a handful of the lad’s arse and pulling them flush together. They both groaned, half in pleasure and half in relief at the blessed lack of pain. Eoin’s hand came up to curl around Paddy’s nape.

They moved together in a practiced rhythm, parting only to meet again like the rolling of the tide. When the friction of their thin cotton shorts became too much, Paddy drew them both out. He pressed the length of his cock alongside Eoin’s, swallowed the other man’s gasp. The lad got an arm around his back, nails digging in to Blair’s shoulder blades. Paddy could tell by the hitch in his breath that Eoin was close. He held his boy tight as the lad writhed against him, chasing his release.

“That’s it,” he praised, “Take it, love. Take what you need.”

Eoin let out a cry, eyes screwing shut as he trembled through his orgasm. Blair followed close behind, spilling between their bodies.

They caught their breath. Music drifted up the stairs, merging with the gentle patter of rain against their window. Eoin rolled his neck, raised his arms and arched his back like a cat until something popped at the base of his spine.

“Soup, was it?” he mumbled.

Paddy smiled against his shoulder and went to fetch the washcloth.

__________

 

“Eoin!” Paddy called, leaning out the back door.

The lad was not in the house and he was not in the glen. If he’d gone to town he would have said – or else left a note.

“Eoin!” Paddy skirted the garden, came to a halt outside the door to the art studio.

Blair hadn’t been inside the workshop since the day he’d finished building it. The reason why was simple – he’d never been invited in.

He did not begrudge Eoin his circumspection. Every man needed a place to go where he might be alone with his own thoughts. Though Paddy had harbored a burning curiosity about the place, he’d never breached Eoin’s trust. But now -

All he could think about was Eoin lying naked in a freezing river. Was Eoin crumpling to the kitchen floor, his blood smearing across the wood...

Paddy had a hand on the knob before he knew he was moving. The hinges let out a mild protest as he eased them open.

“Eoin?” he called out again, hoping for a response in that familiar voice. Nothing.

He opened the door fully and slipped inside. He took in the contents of the room, illuminated as they were by the late afternoon light. The blood drained from his face.

From floorboard to rafters, the space was packed with dozens of canvases in varying sizes – some as small as his palm, some as tall as Eoin – each and every one of them painted pitch black.

On every bit of table, across every inch of floor, there were reams upon reams of paper black with ink, black driftwood haphazardly piled like the charred remains of a forest fire, black stone precariously stacked.

The lad had even started in on two of the walls, from the baseboards to where the tips of his fingers had managed to reach. The topmost edge was a mad collage of black hand prints, smeared as though made by a creature attempting escape.

Paddy felt his whole body go hot and then cold. Nausea roiled in his gut. He turned abruptly away, stumbling back into the yard where he doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees. Years. It had been years. And this was what…

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone closing the front door. He heard his name being called as Eoin moved through the house. The lad appeared a moment later, eyeing Paddy quizzically.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Paddy swallowed, “Where have you been?”

“I walked into town. O’Hanlon needed that draft for Thursday,” Eoin stepped forward, concern clouding his features, “What’s happened?”

Paddy shook his head.

“Were you - ” Eoin paused, “Did you go in the studio?”

“You never said - there was no note,” Paddy rasped, “I thought - ”

Eoin drew in a sharp breath.

“ - that you might be injured or - ”

“Paddy,” Eoin entreated, “Breathe.”

Paddy breathed. He accepted the hand held out to him, allowed himself to be tucked against Eoin’s chest.

“Just breathe with me. There you go....”

He felt his heartbeat gradually slow. He looked up into his lad’s eyes, hoping that Eoin would read the question on his face. There were no words that would come to him.

“Aye, love. I’ll tell you,” Eoin said, “But let’s go inside, yeah?”

Paddy followed, watched as Eoin moved to make tea, like this was any other day. Well. What was normal for them, anyhow? Paddy stifled the hysterical laugh trying to claw its way out of him. He sat himself down by the fire instead of dissolving onto the floor.

He took the warm mug when it was offered him, allowed himself to lean back his armchair. Eoin perched on the edge of the couch cushion adjacent, picked up his own cup before setting it back down again. He was quiet for a long moment, bringing his palms together as though in prayer.

“I know it’s mad,” he said finally, “But...it’s what I saw. When I was away.”

Paddy frowned.

“After I fell,” Eoin clarified, “Before I woke up in the desert. It was just...darkness. Except - ”

He picked up one of the his notebooks, flipping through until he found one of his drawings.

“Except for this.”

He turned the page towards Paddy, tapped a spot in the upper right corner – there, in the abyss, a tiny white speck. Barely visible unless one knew where to look.

“I didn’t know where I was, or what had happened,” Eoin went on, “But I knew I had to follow that bit of light. I knew that that was where you’d be.”

Paddy reached out and traced the mark with his forefinger.

“Wherever I was,” Eoin continued, watching him, “I think...I think a part of me is still stuck there. I’m...tethered, like. Entangled. But I don’t know why. Painting it helps. It’s like, if I could just remember all the details, I could figure out what went wrong.”

Paddy looked up at him.

“I know how it sounds - ” the lad began.

Paddy rose suddenly.

“Blair, please - ”

He pressed a hand to Eoin’s shoulder before disappearing upstairs. He returned a moment later, stack of ancient photographs in hand. He offered them to Eoin, watching as the lad flipped through them with increasing urgency.

“Paddy, this - ” Eoin’s hands shook, “This is it. This is what it feels like. I’m here, but I’m not here. Not all of me.”

“How - ” Paddy tried, finally finding his voice, “How is that possible?”

“I dunno. I was out of time, I think. I really did die - ”

“Don’t say that.”

“No, what I mean is…I was outside of time.”

“For a moment, very brief, you were gone,” Professor Eder’s voice came down the line, “Separate from your body. Outside of linear time. Where, then, did you go? To the Sidhe, somewhere underneath their fairy hill? To God? To a universe parallel to our own? Who can say? All that we know is that you seem somehow to be tied to that place. That ‘in between’. There is a part of you that never left. And so, you are out of sync.”

“With what?” Eoin asked.

“With reality,” Eder asserted, “Psychologists get much of it right with their diagnoses of mental disorders. Schizophrenia, psychopathy, gross stress reaction. But I think they often miss this key element. It is not only the mind working against itself, it is also the body, right down to its very molecules.”

“That’s our working theory. Mine and Dr. Eder’s,” Eoin supplied, “He’s a professor of physics in Edinburgh. I’d read one of his articles in the Telegraph and, well, I took a leap.”

“So, all those books you’ve been reading...”

“Aye. I...didn’t want to say anything until I was sure there was something in it. If I told you, if I said it out loud, it would be real. As long as it was just me and the professor, I could pass it off as an intellectual exercise at best, a lark at worst. It’s...a lot to believe. ”

Paddy pursed his lips, loosened his fingers where they were clenched around the arms of his chair.

“I’m sorry. I - ” Eoin started.

Blair shook his head. He reached out to grip his lad by the wrist, “‘My life had stood: a loaded gun in corner till a day - the owner passed, identified, and carried me away. To foe of his I’m deadly foe, none stir the second time on whom I lay a yellow eye or an emphatic thumb.’”

He leaned in, meeting Eoin’s gaze, “I’m with you, lad. Even if it’s the space-time continuum we’re up against.”

Eoin let out a startled laugh, tilting forward until their foreheads touched.

“Eder says,” he murmured, “That many people who have near death experiences report feelings of disorientation, paranoia, malaise. That they often have auditory and visual hallucinations, trouble sleeping, trouble concentrating, dizziness and decreased motor function.”

“Sounds familiar,” Paddy curled his other hand around the lad’s nape, “Migraines?”

Eoin nodded, bowing his head so that Paddy could dig his fingers into the base of his skull.

“There’s another component, potentially,” Eoin said, sighing as Blair found a particularly sore spot, “The soul, if one believes in such things. Eder says that part of my spirit, my psyche, might be trapped somewhere out in the cosmos as well, metaphysically. Stuck in a ‘cycle of trauma’. Says that everything’s interconnected, in ways we’ve only just begun to understand.”

Paddy hummed, “And what does your professor suggest that we do about this conundrum?”

Eoin sighed, “Jury’s out. Science has only gotten so far as studying the effects of entanglement on individual particles, not entire organisms.”

Paddy hummed again, raking his fingers through the lad’s curls, “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Eoin murmured, “‘Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread.’”

Paddy smiled, despite himself. He pressed a kiss to the crown of the lad’s head, “‘It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not.’”

Eoin looked up, eyes bright, “‘Valor needs first strength,'" he whispered, “‘And then a weapon.’”

“‘To foe of his I’m deadly foe,’” Paddy reprised, drawing Eoin’s hand to his lips and laying down a kiss where in another life he would have laid a ring.

__________

 

“What am I looking at?” Blair asked.

The two were stood in the spare room. Bed and books and a chest of drawers had been pushed to one side to make room for the projector that Eoin had picked up God knows where.

“It’s called the “double slit” experiment,” the lad asserted, “It demonstrates how light travels. Paved the way for the modern study of quantum physics.”

He picked up a board with two horizontal slits cut into it, “We’ll shine a light through this. It’ll land there - ” he gestured to a piece of photosensitive paper taped up on the far wall, “And make a mark. Now, we’ve had to modify some things – hand me that slide, would you?”

Paddy obliged.

“This,” Eoin said, holding it up the square of dark glass, “Will filter out some of the colors from our bulb – seeing as we don’t have the right kind. Needs to be monochromatic.”

“Is the white bulb not monochromatic?”

“The white bulb contains the full spectrum, actually.”

Paddy hummed.

“So we’ll just hold it over the lens like so,” Eoin demonstrated, “But before that we’ll need to get the room as dark as we can.”

“Hence the curtains over the window,” Paddy said.

“Hence the curtains over the window.”

“Right,” Paddy turned off the main light, hovered over the lamp on the end table, “Are we ready, then?”

Eoin nodded.

Paddy flipped the switch. Eoin held the filter steady over the lens, “Alright, pick up that board, now. Keep it as level and as still as you can.”

Paddy did as he was told.

“Alright,” Eoin breathed, “Here we go.”

He turned on the projector. A beam of light shone across the room.

“Steady now,” Eoin bid, “It’ll take a moment.”

They waited for the results to register. Once enough time had elapsed, they lowered their implements and turned on the lamp. Eoin led the way to the back wall. On the paper were ten horizontal rows.

“Light travels in waves,” Eoin explained, “Like ripples in water. So, the waves go through the two slits and, when they come out the other side, they diffract – they spread out – and start interfering with each other. That’s what causes this pattern. Makes sense?”

“Aye, I’ll take your word for it."

“Alright, so, this is where it gets tricky,” Eoin went on, “Say we did this experiment with atoms instead of light – keeping in mind that photons move in a certain way and atoms, or any particles with mass, move in another. To run our test, we would first begin by covering up one of the slits whilst keeping the other one open. If we shot the atoms towards the board, they would move through the single slit and create a relatively orderly row of dots on the other side. One opening, one horizontal line. It would follow that if we opened up the second slit, we would get two orderly rows instead, yes?”

“Aye.”

“But we don’t,” said Eoin, leaning in, “We get several rows of horizontal lines, just like when we were measuring light. Somehow, at some point, the particles start behaving like waves. When this was tested for the first time in a lab, it confounded one and all. So, in order to observe the atoms’ behavior as they traveled, the scientists set up a sensor. But! When they put up that sensor, something changed. They shot the particles through again, but instead of several rows, the atoms now formed two orderly queues. Like schoolboys being watched by their Headmaster.”

Paddy hummed, “Contrary.”

“Aye,” Eoin grinned, “So, the scientists went a step further. They left the sensor up, but didn’t turn it on. When they fired the atoms through this time, the wave pattern returned – as if the atoms themselves somehow knew they were no longer being observed. It’s mad, but all this seems to indicate that atoms inhabit a superposition – they, ah, exist in multiple positions simultaneously – unless observed. Then, they settle into a fixed state. Almost like they’re making a decision in the moment.”

“If it were merely a matter of making a decision,” Paddy opined, “I believe you would have solved this riddle long ago.”

Eoin took a deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh, “Aye. That’s so. But...what if I’ve just not found a way to really focus on what I want?”

“You have not been short of motivators, lad.”

“But now I know exactly what I’m trying to do. Maybe understanding more about what’s happening will help.”

“As you say. Well, then, how would you like to go about it?”

 

Eoin sank down into the bath. Paddy drew his chair up to the edge.

“Do your best not to touch me,” the lad warned, “Even if it looks like rough going. I’ll need to concentrate.”

Paddy pursed his lips, but nodded.

“Okay,” Eoin breathed deep, “Here goes.”

He went down, not stopping until his whole head was submerged. As usual, just being under the water helped muffle the worst of it.

Eoin honed in on the physical sensations, grounding himself. The temperature of the water, the fullness of his lungs, the cool air on his exposed knees. He was here, in this body, in this house, in the county of Antrim, in the country of Northern Ireland, on planet earth. He was here. He wanted to be here.

For a moment, everything was still. And then – a tug. Impossible to describe, but there all the same. From the darkness, from that place.

Eoin’s chest began to burn. He rose up just enough to get another lungful of air before diving back down again. Focus.

He was Eoin Christopher McGonigal. He was six-foot-one and a half. There were scars on his hands, on his legs, fine silver lines on his cheeks. Fine silver hairs just beginning to grow at his temples. Deep crows-feet at the corners of his eyes. His knee ached. His lungs burned. He was here.

He rose, took a breath, sunk down again. Twice more, three times.

Paddy looked on, hands clenched around his own knees. He watched his boy come up for air like a wee whale before dipping down again, lost in the depths of himself. Each time, Eoin stayed under longer. Each time, Paddy himself forgot how to breathe. It must have only been ten minutes all told, but it felt like hours.

Eoin’s face screwed up in frustration, his hands clenched. He stayed under for a full minute. A minute and a half. Two. Suddenly, the water bloomed pink. Paddy startled, but held himself back, even as blood seeped from the lad’s nose. He waited, tense as a bowstring. Then Eoin was rearing up out of the water, his hands searching for Paddy. He had the lad in his arms in an instant.

“I can’t - ” Eoin gasped, “Fuck, I can’t.”

“Hush, now, lad. I’ve got you,” Paddy swore, “I’ve got you.”

__________

 

Jalo – December, 1941

 

The doctor had already come and gone. Eoin would be shipped off to Cairo first thing in the morning.

The other man had been cleared for visitors provided that they kept it brief and didn’t do anything to excite him. Paddy lingered in the corner, watchful.

It took a herculean effort to wait until the rest of the lads had had their chance to welcome their favorite Irishman back to camp. But of course they all wanted to see Eoin – their comrade, their Cyrano, their miracle. Finally, after many well-wishes and careful handshakes, the last of them cleared out.

Paddy got to his feet. He raked his eyes over Eoin’s body, cataloging his various injuries, moving with frank amazement over each familiar feature.

“Come sit down, lad,” Eoin murmured, morphine and exhaustion finally taking their toll, “You look like breeze could fell ye.”

But Paddy was already falling, knees hitting the sand with a muffled thump. He gripped Eoin’s hand as a drowning man might grip a raft. He tipped his forehead against the lad’s hip, burying his tears in the rough fabric of the hospital blanket.

“Ah, Paddy,” Eoin whispered.

His boy held him as he shook. Once there was no longer an ounce of salt left in him, Paddy looked up to find rivers cutting through the dust on Eoin’s cheeks.

Blair raised himself up on shaking legs, leaned down to take the lad’s face between his hands. Eoin breath hitched, his eyes going wide. Ah, God, but he’d never thought to see that mouth again…

The kiss was not the gentle thing it should have been, but Blair’s whole body was ablaze. He drew back, searching Eoin’s face. The boy looked gobsmacked.

“If I’ve the wrong of it - ” Paddy started, pulling away.

Eoin’s hands came up to grip him by the arms, weak as a babe, but determined, “You – Blair, you…” he huffed in frustration, struggling to keep his eyes open, “Not wrong.”

Paddy lent down to press their foreheads together, brushed his lips against the corner of the lad’s mouth.

“Rest now,” he said, “Tomorrow we shall see if this has all been a dream.”

“Not,” Eoin insisted, “Dreaming,” he tightened his grip on Paddy’s shoulders, “I’m here.”

“Aye, lad. You’re here. Rest now.”

Eoin's eyes fluttered shut. Paddy watched him breathing.

You're here.

__________

 

Glenarm - March, 1955

 

The day dawned crisp and clear, though that meant very little in their part of the world. Indeed, though the sun had accompanied them on their drive into town, by noon the clouds had begun closing in.

Eoin went off in search of food stuffs, leaving Paddy to haggle at the fish market. He was just making his way back to the truck with his purchases when he caught sight of a small crowd gathered along the wharf.

He approached Nick McNally, “What’s the craic, Nicky?”

“Storm’s come up,” the man reported, “One of the fishing boats put out a distress signal. Some of the lads went out to see what they could do.”

Eoin looked out into gray-capped surf. A sheet of rain moved over the water. It broke upon the shore a moment later.

“Who went out?” he spoke over the wind.

“Joe Kearney, the Fry brothers. And your man, Mayne.”

Eoin didn’t stay to hear another word. He jolted forward, moving further down the quay. He could just make out the trawler listing on its side, already half-sunk. A small motorboat was making its way back from the wreckage with four men aboard. None of them were Blair.

“Where’s Paddy?” Eoin asked Eamon Fry as the man hauled himself onto the seawall.

“Couldn’t fit in the dinghy, too much weight. Told us to go on and come back for him.”

Eoin’s eyes cut back to the water. Only the tip of the trawler’s bow was visible now. He could barely make out a small figure bobbing along in its orange vest.

“You left him in the water?” he shouted through the rain.

“He insisted - ”

“Never mind. Get this thing turned around.”

If Eoin had taken a minute to take stock, he would have noticed how hard he was shaking, would have registered the panic building in his chest. He’d not been to sea in…but there was no time for any of that.

They started off across the bay, the motor whining piteously as they pushed her over the waves.

It was more than the wind howling in Eoin’s ears. A horrible sort of keening sound began to build inside his head. A terrible pressure settled, leaden in his chest. The water stretched out before them, endless. Suddenly, it was sand stinging his eyes instead of salt. He was back in Africa, delirious, bent double under the unforgiving sun. He was dying, he could feel it -

But that would have to fucking wait. There was naught but a single thought left in his head: He had to get to Paddy.

Then, suddenly, there he was – Eoin’s own force of nature floating amidst the tempest, skin gone only slightly blue -

“Blair!” Eoin called, voice hoarse.

“What are you doing, lad?” Paddy shouted over the din.

“Never mind that. Just get in the fecking boat.”

They had their old Commando training to thank for how quickly they got Paddy aboard, in spite of numb fingers and aching bones.

“Where is your life jacket?” Paddy hollered into Eoin’s ear.

Eoin grit his teeth.

“Fuck’s sake,” Paddy ground out.

“You can be mad at me once we’re ashore,” Eoin snipped, clutching Paddy to him as they sped back over the water.

A wave crashed over the stern of their little boat, flooding the floorboards. The old motor whined, sputtering sadly before finally giving up the ghost. The next surge overtook them. Eamon cried out and was swept away. Paddy was flung to the side, hitting his head on the bench seat and turning to dead weight in Eoin’s arms.

Suddenly, there was nothing but the water. Nothing but the freezing waves above and oblivion below.

The sound in Eoin’s head was a roar, was the shriek of a mortar round. His lungs were on fire, his limbs were numb. None of it mattered. He tightened his grip around Paddy’s middle. He swam.

__________

 

Eoin awoke to darkness. His first thought was: Fuck, not again. I can’t do this to him again.

Then he opened his eyes. It was still dark, but this darkness was finite, broken by several small halos of light. Candles. And their old oil lantern. In the midst of this illumination, his own dear love sat scowling at him.

Paddy had the look of a man who’d taken Eoin’s promise of delayed reprimand to heart. He had clearly been stewing for several hours, chomping at the bit for an opportunity to give Eoin a piece of his mind.

“Power’s gone out,” he said instead, with visible restraint, “With the storm.”

“Ah,” Eoin offered.

Paddy pursed his lips, “I’d ask you not to do that again, but I know you’ll not heed me - ”

“Blair,” Eoin said suddenly, “Hush a moment, will you.”

Paddy looked almost comically affronted.

“No, it’s just - ” Eoin cocked his head to the side, listening.

The realization would have brought him to his knees were he not already laying down.

“It’s quiet,” he whispered.

“Aye…”

“No, Paddy - ” Eoin rasped, he brought a finger to his temple, “It’s quiet here.”

Blair rose and sat down by his side on the bed, “What are you saying, lad?”

Eoin raised his hand, held it out, palm down. It was steady. Steady as it hadn’t been for a great many years. Eoin’s breath hitched.

“What’s happening?” Paddy asked, “Are you…”

“I dunno,” Eoin spoke around the sudden tightness in his throat, “I just – nothing hurts. Well, the knee...but I – Paddy.”

Blair took the lad’s face between his hands, smoothed his thumbs over those familiar cheekbones.

“No voices?” he asked.

Eoin shook his head, “Just yours. And mine.”

Paddy pressed their foreheads together, breathed deep, “And you’re not in pain?”

“No,” Eoin said, halfway to laughing, “I just feel...myself.”

_________

 

“Eder says that my fear of losing you overwrote the previous trauma of my death,” Eoin relayed, having just returned from a very long, very animated talk with the professor, “Reset my neural pathways.”

He could hardly believe it. But it had been two days and the quiet had persisted. Only the sounds of the present moment remained.  

Paddy hummed, “Fits with your theory.”

“Aye,” Eoin looked at him, something strangely shy in his smile.

“Come here,” Paddy bid.

Eoin sat down and settled in against his side. Blair’s hand came up automatically to massage the back of his neck. Not necessary now, only very, very nice. Eoin sighed under his attentions, curling his fingers into Paddy’s shirt.

“Like a big tom cat,” Paddy grinned. He could feel Eoin’s lips twitch against his neck. Then a warm tongue began to lick along his jawline. Well. He had only himself to blame.

“Stop that, now. We’re due at your mother’s.”

Eoin sighed, but obeyed. They sat for a long moment in companionable silence.

“It’s not so surprising, really,” Eoin spoke into the quiet, “I...needed to be here. I needed every bit of myself to be here, in that moment. Because if you were gone - ”

He caught Paddy’s eye, half desperate. Blair caught his breath.

“Aye, lad. I know.”

He rubbed circles between Eoin’s shoulder blades, a warm, steady point of contact.

“What will you do now?” he asked.

“Hm?”

“Now that the rest of you’s made it home.”

Eoin hummed, “I think I should like to go down to the pub and beat you at a game of darts.”

“You think you’ll win, do you?”

“I’d say there's a fair chance.”

Paddy pursed his lips to hide his smile, “And then?”

“I’ll read an entire book in one sitting.”

Paddy nodded in approval, “And then?”

“I’d ask you to take me out to sea. So that we might go see the lighthouse on the island.”

“And the puffins?”

Eoin smiled. His cheeks ached from smiling. And Paddy – he hadn’t seen Paddy smile so much since…

Well, he’d never seen Paddy smile so much.

“Aye. And the puffins.”

 

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading!

The concept of being "out of time" has haunted me since I saw Stephen King's The Langoliers on TV as a child. This was also heavily inspired by the book/film Picnic At Hanging Rock - definitely check it out if you like a dreamy/eerie mystery.
I also realized partway through this that it was becoming kind of a spiritual cousin to velvetnap's wonderful, uncanny, romantic A More Genial Soil. Please go give that a read if you haven't already!

The science here is extremely simplified and hand-wavy, my apologies. If you would be so kind as to suspend any disbelief re light wave experiments done in the home. Quantum physics is very cool, though, and everyone should study it for real! It's where I got my username!

A heartfelt thank you to Jay Tryfanstone for giving me some very helpful feedback on the first bit of this and for cheering me on along the way. I hope you enjoyed how it turned out!

Paddy and Eoin quote Tolkien, Shakespeare, a bit of slightly anachronistic E.E. Cummings, T.S. Eliot, Carl Sandburg, and Emily Dickinson.