seen from Georgia
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“I can hold my liquor, Donald.”Â
“And that’s why you’re lying on the grass outside instead of dancing your life away to New Order, huh?”
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Make yourself at home. When did you say your mum finishes at work?”
Jimmy sits heavily, allowing himself to sink back into the cushions. “She works late shifts on a Thursday, so about 2am, I reckon.”
“Blimey,” Adil says, brows raised as he shrugs off his blazer and loosens his tie. “No point heading back then; you may as well stay the night and head over to yours to grab clean uniform in the morning."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Five years. Bloody hell.”
“Yeah,” Tony murmurs. “Five years.”
The headstone at their feet doesn’t seem to have weathered, dates as harsh against the granite as they were last year, and the year before that, and the one before that—He shakes his head. Too long yet not long enough for grief to have passed by.
He lets his eyes fall closed, content to let his hand ruffle through the blond waves spread across his chest. He’s seconds to dropping off before David’s voice breaks the comfortable silence.
“I can’t keep seeing you like this.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
When he gets in to said living room (and dining room and kitchen), Don can hear what he thinks is a duet of David and Cyndi Lauper from the bedroom. He smiles to himself, wiping rain-wet shoes on the mat and shaking out his umbrella. He could get used to this, not coming home to an empty flat.
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“So I take it there was nothing wrong with your swimmers, then?” Don chuckles. “Apparently not.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Typically, it is Don that rises first.
Not today, though. Today, David has the pleasure of watching Don doze.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Dirk frowns deeper. “It’ll kill you, you know.”
“Thank you for the unnecessary reminder of my impending doom. I’m sure if the cigarettes don’t get me, your driving will,” Todd quips back, pretending to scan Twitter in favour of avoiding Dirk’s hurt gaze.
The air hangs heavy between them, as acrid as the smoke trailing from between Todd’s fingers. He stubs the cigarette out.
