#tom jopson

Sol takes in the lay of the land in Ed's flat quickly - curtains shut, trash all over the place, the stench of dog piss under it all as a new addition to his mate's depression soup - and feels a sharp stab of relief at what he doesn't see. No broken glass, no blood, nothing smashed up in the immediate vicinity. He's been behaving himself then, it's been a paralysing bad time rather than a getting angry with himself one. It's not better either way, but it's easier to get Ed out the other side if he's not actively fighting help every step of the way.

The lad's got himself into a right state, has slid down the wall next to the front door and crumpled into his boyfriend's arms where he's hiccuping with proper sobs he can't hold in. Collins headbutts Sol's hand and he gives the poor animal a good scrub around the ears before focusing on the situation proper, establishing quickly that the usual has happened: Ed's gone off his meds and fallen into a hole about it. 

It's not reassuring that it's happened again (he's tried so many ways to keep Ed on the straight and narrow - pill organisers, reminders, alarms - but short of physically turning up every time his mate needs to take a pill, Sol's on the back foot and always playing catch-up with it) but it's at least familiar. It's something they've dealt with, something he can deal with again now.

"That," James spits out the word contemptuously, "is not remotely how it happened."

"I think you'll find it bloody was."

"Has the wet brain finally kicked in after all these years, darling?" The arch of Fitzjames's eyebrow is both pointed and infuriating, and his husband's glower sets in deeper when he sees it. "Or is it just dementia?"

"You walked into me." Crozier raises his voice slightly in order to hammer home his point. "On purpose."

"Yes, Francis. I approached you with the express intention of ruining my favourite cravat and gaining the most frightfully boring husband in history."

"I'm sorry I asked," Ed mutters, almost inaudibly, and Tom barely holds back a snort of laughter.

[James and Francis's first meeting, from two perspectives. Or: Francis hates people and things, James has the internal monologue of a gothic heroine, and Ed is very concerned about what he's marrying into.]

YOU HAD TO BE THERE 

"How's your bird?" He offers his mate a can of beer from the fridge after they carry the last box up, both sweating in the last dying vestiges of the summer heat, and Hartnell accepts after making the requisite noises about just the one then 'cause he's driving. "Lauren, was it?"

"Nah, mate. That's long off the table," Hartnell shakes his head as he pops the can and takes a thirsty swig, squinting consideringly at the brand after he tastes it. Ed drinks craft beer, Tom can't stand the stuff (and Ed despairs of him keeping fruity Koppaberg in the fridge - Strongbow if The Lads are over - so they're even on that front), so he's not to blame for whatever IPA nonsense his friend is dealing with. "Seeing this cougar type now. Old enough to be me mum, but the fucking-"