#fff279

It kind of made sense.  Virgil’s hands always seemed to be moving – dancing across the piano keys, applying brushstrokes to canvas, or sketching on almost any surface, artfully deploying exactly the right tool for anything that needed fixing, or gently but deftly applying first aid. 

But for Gordon the most memorable thing those well-muscled and well-used hands could do was to give expert massages to sooth overworked swimmer’s muscles, or gently relax a cramp.  He couldn’t remember how or when it started, but it had been quite a regular thing between them.  Somehow Virgil always seemed to know exactly when he needed the sweet relief of warmth and pressure working all the tension out of his back, shoulders and neck, and would be there to provide it in exactly the right measure.

He'd often wished he could return the favour, and with today’s rescue being as rough as it was, Gordon could see that now was the perfect time to do so.  But he couldn’t even approach those heavy-lifting muscles without doing some important preparation first.

Luckily, preparation was something Gordon was very good at.  He usually employed this talent when planning pranks, but the surprise he was planning this time should produce a much more favourable response.  And preparation for this one had begun during post-flight checks when Thunderbird Two had returned to her hangar.

Under the guise of restocking the medical supplies Gordon had grabbed a couple of the tiny packets containing air-activated heat packs.  Later, once checks were completed, uniforms shed and he’d showered and changed into his regular attire, the packets were opened and shaken and then clutched in each hand.

After half an hour with the little heat packets kept within reach – in his pockets when not in direct contact with his hands – he deemed himself ready to put the next phase of the plan into action.

Virgil was sitting at their dad’s desk, most likely making a start on post-rescue paperwork when Gordon decided to make his move.  Making his stealthy approach from behind, avoiding the squeaky floorboard, he gave the little heat packs in each pocket one last firm squeeze each.

When he placed his warm hands on his big brother’s shoulders he felt the muscles tense at the unexpected contact.

“Gor- . . . Gordon?” Virgil’s voice started with the low warning tone that usually accompanied an unapproved activity, but quickly rose in pitch and inflection.

“The one and only!”

As Virgil tried to turn his head to face him, Gordon gently redirected the movement with one hand and started kneading tense muscles with the other.

“What are you doing?” Virgil directed his gaze forward again, allowing Gordon to knead with both hands.  “And how are your hands so warm?  They’re never this warm!  What did you do?”

Gordon chuckled.  “Don’t you worry about that.  Just relax and let me do this for you.”

Right on cue he found and pressed against a particularly tough little knot that had Virgil groaning and relaxing into the massage as the knot released.  There was an easy silence between them for a while, broken only by the soft grunts that let Gordon know he was finding all the right spots.

“Where’d you learn to do this?”  Virgil asked somewhat sleepily.

“Kind of from you.  I’ve been on the receiving end enough times.”  He paused a moment, concentrating his attention on another nasty knot.  “But I’ve always kind of wondered how you learned to be so good at giving massages.”

“I guess it started when you decided to get serious about swimming competitively.  I wanted to be able to support you, and I had an interest in medical treatments, so I looked into the kinds of medical complaints swimmers often experienced and how to treat them.  I mostly learned from video tutorials and trial and error on unsuspecting family members.”

Gordon laughed again.  “Well, I’m very glad you did.  Of all the massages I’ve had, yours are always the best.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gordon.  There’s no way my efforts can compare with a professional.”

Gordon paused his thumb circles long enough to offer a playful tap to the side of Virgil’s head.

“I’m not kidding, Virge.  You’re massage skills are awesome, and I need you to know I appreciate every single one you’ve given me over the years.  And if the tension that was in these heavy lifting muscles is anything to go by, I think I need more chances to pay you back.”

It was Virgil’s turn to give a chuckle.

“If you think I’m bad you should try it on Scott.  When he’s tense his neck and shoulder muscles feel like steel girders.”

Greg had taken his hand then, tangling his fingers with Mycroft’s longer, elegant ones that he was sure had awakened something in him, and had realized he really really didn’t want to let go.

Mycroft’s hand was cool against his own. It somehow didn’t feel like the freezing cold of the night, but more like a comforting reassurance, just like the man. That was when Greg had given in to the urge and softly kissed the back of his lover’s hand.

Today though, just weeks into their engagement, in what was supposed to be the beginning of the happiest days of their life, the hands that cradle him are warm and steady. As he breaks down, he realizes he’d somehow gotten home, and he’s in their living room, kneeling on the carpet. He’s aware of the soothing hand on the back of his neck. He feels it as if through a second skin. But he feels it. And it grounds him.

The hand around his waist draws tight. He feels its warmth through the fabric, bringing back feeling in spite of the hot and cold pin pricks all over his body. The shock leaves his body at the same time awareness hits him square in the gut, ugly and wrenching at his insides. He curls himself into the warm body against him with a whimper and Mycroft’s arms, so incredibly tender, pull him close.

“Myc-” he gasps.

“I know,” Mycroft whispers, his long fingers on his fiancé’s neck moving up to pet his hair. “I know.”

“What are we- oh god-”

“We will get through this. Whatever happens next, my darling, I’m here. With you.”

Greg can feel himself falling apart, trembling helplessly in Mycroft’s hold. He burrows in, closer, into his lover’s neck. He almost doesn’t notice being coaxed into releasing his death grip on Mycroft’s shirt. But he does notice the soft fingers holding his hand. They’re warm, reassuring and everything Greg had needed.

Greg feels a kiss being placed on his knuckles.

“You’re not alone,” Mycroft says.

Win sat rigidly upright on the sofa in the waiting room, her children asleep on either side, the hours blending into a hazy continuum as a storm raged outside and Fred battled for his life in the operation theatre down the corridor. The surgeon’s entrance roused her from her desperate prayers, and she watched his deliberate gait and uncommunicative face, heart in mouth as she waited for his verdict.

A few minutes later, the Matron was leading her into Fred’s hospital room, the kids having been thankfully dispatched home with Peter. Watching the nurses bustling around her husband’s still form, Win found it difficult to reconcile the sight of his almost grey pallor and the transfusion bag hanging by the bed with the surgeon’s reassuring words. Tamping down her worry, Win forced herself to focus on what the Sister was saying about the hourly checks on Fred, nodding along as though she understood it all.

Settling into the armchair by the bed, she ran her eyes carefully over that familiar stalwart frame, normally her bulwark against the world but now looking quite concerningly fragile under the precision-folded blankets. Having reassured herself that Fred’s right hand and forearm were free of needles and tubes, she stretched out her left hand to gently clasp it atop the blankets. It felt, not cold exactly, but nothing like the strong and vital warmth she was used to. But it wasn’t cold, she reminded herself, bringing up her other hand to gently chafe his fingers.

As the hours passed, the nurses came in and out to perform their checks, but none of them bothered her or asked her to move - something Win knew she should be grateful for, and she would once her mind had room for anything beyond Fred. At some point, fatigue must have caught her up, for she fell into a doze and her right hand slid down to lie in her lap.

Some indeterminable time later, Win felt a slight pressure on her left hand, which seemed to be somewhat uncomfortably extended in front of her. Blinking the sleep away, she opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented and unsure of where she was. As awareness came crashing down upon her, she felt it again - a slight but unmistakable squeeze of her hand. 

Focusing on where her left hand lay over Fred’s right, Win realised that the fingers linked in her were warm. Not fever-hot, but comfortingly warm, the way Fred’s hands always were. The warmth that had sustained her through the horrors of the war years. The same warmth that had soothed Joan and Sam in their little trouble and ailments, that they had all taken for granted as theirs to lean into.

A paean of thanks coursed through Win as she returned the gentle pressure of Fred’s hand. Watching the lines of pain smooth out slightly on her husband’s brow even as his handclasp got stronger, she found herself thinking of all that those strong warm hands would now be able to do.

One day they would cup Joanie’s smaller, slighter hands one last time before placing them in her chosen husband’s. They would rest on Sam’s shoulder in fellowship and support as the boy grew into a man. And in the fullness of time, those same warm and strong yet tender hands would cradle their grandchildren.

2005, the Outside World

Music blasted from the loudspeakers. Bottles of European wine strewn on the table and on the carpet. The apartment, an extravagant loft in the middle of Tokyo, was more than modest that could accommodate a family of three. Instead, its owner, a certain Taigen Itoh, a 47-year-old bachelor and a supervisor from an international company lived there alone. He was celebrating the recruitment of Yukiya Kitayama in his department. Taken by his new younger colleague’s charisma, Taigen thought Yukiya’s strategy on management and leadership was impressive. He watched him intently for days now that when he had the opportunity to invite him at his home, he leaped in happiness after Yukiya said yes.

“It is not a big deal,” Yukiya assured him.

Recalling the Great Tengu’s advice that networking with the human beings was important, Yukiya dragged his feet to the loft.

The everyday after-work hours were unnerving, most of all they drained Yukiya’s heart. This charade was something he despised in Yamauchi where he had the habit of presenting the nobility a smile that did not even reach his eyes.

But in order to make the mission a success, it was detrimental that he had to endure for the sake of Yamauchi’s survival.

Learning the language was not particularly difficult. He found himself capable of interacting with the humans. It was not always easy, but he was coping. The hardest part was the moments when he missed his master, his friends, his mother, and brothers, even his hometown. There was no love lost between him and Yukimasa after the latter realised the deceptive act he played for many years. There was embarrassment there, a hint of betrayal too.

I don’t care what he thinks anymore.

Taigen loved to play music on his beautiful sound system. He showed Yukiya his collection. He was particularly proud of his Bruce Springsteen records that he bought.

“I saw him in ’97. He wowed the audience when he performed here for four days.”

“And you saw him in all those days?” Yukiya crossed his legs and spread his arms on the black leather couch making himself more comfortable.

Taigen giggled, feeling awkward. The blush on his cheeks highlighted the two dimples that appeared. It was charming.

“Y-yeshhh…”

The music was not at all bad. Not his type, but Yukiya found kinship surprisingly to one song after his colleague noticed that he could not stop listening to it.

It is alright… it is alright…it is alright, yeah. *

A warm hand snaked its way to his neck, then softly touched his face. The first instinct was to swat it away and leave the room, but Yukiya did not do any of those things. Instead, he found himself succumbing to it.

How lonely he must have felt.

“I am sorry.” Taigen got up, glanced at Yukiya whilst slowly gauging his reaction. He put another record after the last song played on “The Rising.”

You sit there in your heartache / Waiting on some beautiful boy to / To save you from your old ways / You play forgiveness / Watch it now, here he comes… **

When his supervisor sat next to Yukiya again, he found himself opening. This was not something he did not have any idea about. He was not a young child anymore. He knew where this would lead.

A pair of lips touched his own, but he did not recoil nor kiss back.

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus / But he talks like a gentleman / Like you imagined when you were young… **

When he decided to place his hand on Taigen’s shoulder, the latter looked him in the eye.

“Jeez, Yukiya, I think I’ll pass out.”

Just like that, his host began to snore. Yukiya was not even tipsy. You could not even be called a Northerner in Yamauchi, a region famous for its sake and warriors, if you were not able to hold your liquor.

Taigen’s flat was not so far away from where he was staying that he opted to walk to clear his head. Besides, the metro’s last trip was an hour ago. He was not in the mood to call a taxi.

The music stopped playing but the lyrics stayed on his head.

And sometimes you close your eyes And see the place where you used to live / When you were young…**

As soon as he got up, his boss occupied now the couch sleeping like a foetus. He searched for the off button and pressed it down, switched off the remaining lights and then closed the door behind him.

Half a kilometre more until he reached his apartment. The scarce lamp posts illuminated his pathway.

It began to drizzle. The gentle drops of rain caressed his cheeks, cold, refreshing in summer nights.

It is all right. Tomorrow is another day.

~ fin ~

—

* Lyrics taken from “Lonesome Day” by Bruce Springsteen

** Texts taken from The Killers’ song, “When You Were Young”