cursed dick energy

He regrets it immediately when Evan goes stock-still against him and then fights against the push of Tommy's hand to lift his head again. Howie once made a joke about that Studio Ghibli was going to sue the Buckley siblings for copyright infringement when it came to their sad eyes. Tommy hadn't really understood what he meant by that until now.

"Jesus, you could kill someone with those," he mutters, looking away.

"Tommy," Evan says, quietly devastated. "Y-You were there?"

He stares at the thousands of little mountains jutting out from Evan's popcorn ceiling and wishes he could throw himself off of one, but instead he bites out, "Yup."

"I-I was in the third grade, which means you would've been in high school," Evan says, because while the difference between their ages isn't a big deal he's contractually obligated to bring it up in the worst possible ways. "But my friends and I—we watched the news coverage for weeks. We wanted to see footage of them, you know? Hell, w-we wanted to be them. We pretended to be. Scotty Anderson assigned one to each of us and Jamal Bello's mom made us costumes."

That gets Tommy to look back at him. It's not the first time he's heard of kids claiming their colors and mock fighting at recess, but it's definitely the first time he actually cares to hear more. "Yeah? Which one were you?"

"Blue."

"Good choice," Tommy says.

That ought to be that. The next steps for the night should be for Tommy to kiss Evan, lose a layer of skin peeling his body away, and then go hide in the shower for ten minutes before getting out and Door Dashing something from his favorite Haitian place in WeHo. He's been craving fried plantains for a week.

But Evan's always read from a different script, because he follows that up with, "Yeah, I guess, but that's who Jamie picked for me. I wanted to be gree—"

"No, you didn't."

It explodes between them like the crack of a whip, and Evan startles back from the sheer vehemence of it.

Tommy's a little taken aback, too. He's never let his voice rise above a certain volume unless he's trying to be heard over wind and rotor blades. He's never yelled at a significant other. It drove Abby insane that he wouldn't shout during their fights. She thought it meant he didn't care. He didn't know how to explain that he used to shout so much that he had a constant sore throat for the entirety of his junior year and didn't want to feel that particular pain ever again. 

"I—Christ, I'm sorry." Tommy clears his throat, swollen with a phantom rawness. "Sorry, Evan. I-I didn't mean to yell. I just meant… blue really was a good choice. Suits you, honestly. I always liked that one."

A tentative smile tugs at Evan's mouth and Tommy hates that he's the reason there's even a little uncertainty in Evan's expression, but one of the many things he admires about Evan is his ability to rally. 

"So… you really were there," Evan says again. "That day."

Exhaling through his nose, Tommy thinks fondly of the shower he's not currently taking. "I was."

"D-Do you mind me asking… what it was like? I know it must've been scary, but… it must've been so cool, too. I mean, getting to see them fight. Was it cool?"

He doesn't remember the actual fight, but he does remember how his helmet cut into his cheek because the visor had shattered. He remembers Zach's gasping breaths and the sound of Kimberly sobbing and Billy's frantic mumbling about probabilities and timelines, and how Jason screamed that none of it would have happened if Tommy had just been strong enough to withstand Rita. He remembers wondering why victory felt so much like defeat. He remembers how heavy Trini's body was in his arms as he carried it to the riverbank on the edge of town and how she was swallowed up by the small bed of daisies he laid her on. He remembers the grinding pain of his broken ankle and ribs with every step he took toward home. He remembers the way gold stuck like treacle to every surface in the city center and how it smelled like absence. He remembers the massive burial they held for everyone who died. He remembers sneaking his dad's revolver out of its safe and sitting in the yard with the barrel in his mouth, waiting to see the sun one last time. He remembers how hard his dad's fist hit his healing cheekbone when his dad found him with it. He remembers the name of the recruiter he talked to the next day—Mark Machado. He remembers the pen he used to fill out the forms was a Uni-ball Vision with blue ink; Mark let him keep it after welcoming him to the Army. He remembers trying to salute, but being unable to because of his ribs. He remembers throwing his power coin at Kim when she found him at the bus stop and begged him to stay.

"Yeah," Tommy rasps. "It was cool."