10

They fall asleep warm, and drowsy, and content, Tommy happily little-spooning inside the strong curve of Lawson's arm. It's a peace that's in short supply by ten the next morning, as Lawson paces the room and tries not to hyperventilate.

Tommy's still in his pajamas, disguising his own nerves with usefulness; he's taking Lawson's sport coat out of its garment bag and checking for wrinkles. "Have you brushed your teeth?" he asks.

Lawson hits the window, turns, and rakes his hands through his shower-damp hair again. Tommy's not sure if he should bother trying to gel it for him; if he keeps pawing at it once the product hardens, they'll have a Cameron Diaz in There's Something About Mary situation on their hands.

"Yeah," Lawson says, distracted, then stops in the middle of the floor and frowns. "No. Maybe? I dunno." He heads for the bathroom and a moment later the tap cuts on.

The blazer looks fine, so Tommy hangs it off the back of the desk chair. The shirt and pants are already laid out on the bed. Tommy picked the outfit himself, and texted a pic of it to Dana the day before they left, not expecting a response, really. But a half-hour later, she texted back a thumbs-up and take the blue jacket, which he did. The two of them still haven't had a proper conversation, but he's taking that returned text as a step in the right direction.

Tommy sets out Lawson's belt, then, water still running in the bathroom, moves to Lawson's briefcase where it rests on the TV table. It was a Christmas gift from Dana and Leo: a smart fold-top, brown leather bag with a long shoulder strap in addition to its handle, soft-sided and with plenty of inner pockets for pens, notebooks, and flash drives. Chic, and modern, and very Dana-approved, Lawson looks like a laid-back professor when he carries it, the sort of teacher whose class students want to take, and who buys the first round at the bar once office hours are over. Inside, he double checks Lawson has what he needs; more than he could possibly need, really, but better safe than sorry. Laptop, fresh spiral notebook, three pens, business cards (that Tommy mocked up and ordered, despite Lawson's protests that "I haven't done anything worthy of a business card, dude"), and multiple copies of his manuscript: three copies of the first five pages, and then first ten pages respectively, and two copies of the whole thing, spiral bound at Staples.

Lawson comes out of the bathroom wearing socks, underwear, and a white-t-shirt, scrubbing his face with a hand towel. He pulls the towel down as he approaches the bed, and groans. "Oh man, I'm gonna hurl."

"Do not hurl." Tommy points to the clothes on top of the coverlet. "One thing at a time. Get dressed."

Lawson sets the towel on the nightstand, and does so.

Tommy moves the briefcase over by the door, collects the towel, and takes it to the bathroom.

At home, Lawson's fastidious in a way that Tommy knows – based on past experience and the way Lawson sometimes snatches up a dropped sock with a guilty look like he's about to get in trouble – isn't natural habit, but an attempt at pleasing Tommy. They've had enough tearful conversations by this point that Tommy thinks that Lawson worries Tommy might pack his shit and leave if Lawson leaves toothpaste flecks on the mirror, and that hurts his heart in ways he still can't clearly define.

He"s not been meticulous this morning: towel on the floor, water all over the counter, splashed on the mirror. Faucet only most of the way off in the shower so droplets plink, plink, plink down onto the tile.

Tommy smiles to himself, because this is what he expected when they moved in together. And maybe this is all because Lawson's freaking out about his meeting with Keith, but maybe, Tommy thinks, as he scoops up the towel, and shuts off the water, and starts wiping up the counter, Lawson's feeling surer than he did about Tommy's permanence in his life. He hopes so, anyway.

When he walks back out into the room, Lawson's dressed save for his blazer, shirt tucked sharply into his waistband in a way that makes him look extra Dorito-shaped, and he's popping his knuckles in an almost manic way as he mutters under his breath, like he's practicing.

"…summer book club potential, more like upmarket fiction, and it…Oh." He pulls up short when Tommy grips him by the shoulders and turns him. "Hi. What?"

"Sit down." Tommy pushes him toward the desk chair. "Your hair's a disaster."

"Oh." He pats at it absently with one hand while he folds down into the chair, and then makes a face. "I washed it."

"Yeah, and then fiddled with it. Let me fix it."

Air drying has lent it such volume that Tommy decides to smooth the flyaways and twist the waves into some semblance of shape rather than slick it all back, which has never been a good look on Lawson anyway.

"I look like a poodle," Lawson declares, afterward, but he's grinning. "Or like one of the Brat Pack."

"It looks good," Tommy says, capping the gel. "You ready?"

Lawson exhales. "No. But yeah."

Tommy throws on jeans and a t-shirt so he can ride down in the elevator with Lawson and see him out to the sidewalk. Lawson protests that he doesn't need to, but quickly begins talking a mile a minute in a clear effort to distract himself from the meeting.

"…I just think," he says, as they push through the lobby doors and out into the humid, exhaust-scented midmorning air, "that making a live action version of a movie immediately kills everything magic about the animated version."

There's a cab idling at the curb, empty, and Tommy hails the driver with a wave of his hand and gets a nod in return. Then he stops, and turns to Lawson, and reaches to straighten his collar. "I don't disagree with you, so I don't know why you're arguing about it," Tommy says, "but it's time to go."

Lawson closes his eyes and screws his face up. "Do I have to?"

"Yes." Tommy plucks a stray thread off his lapel and brushes down his shoulders just because he can, because he loves how wide and strong they are, exaggerated mouth-wateringly by the jacket. "You're gonna kill it, babe."

Lawson cracks his eyes open to squint at him. "You're just saying that."

"Nah. It's true. You should try listening to me for once: I'm pretty damn smart."

"Well, you married me, so…" When Tommy socks him in the arm, he smiles, and that's what Tommy was aiming for.

"Kiss me and go, dummy."

Lawson leans down and does so, and Tommy shoves him away when he grips his waist and tries to deepen it.

"Go, go," Tommy says, laughing, "I love you, good luck."

"Love you!"

Tommy watches the cab pull away from the curb and into the flow of traffic, and that's when the practical calm that's powered him through the morning abandons him completely, and nerves turn his hands jittery on his cane. So long as he was propping up Lawson, he was fine. But now, all he can envision is Lawson, alone, sitting across a massive mahogany desk, being told no, thanks, you're not what we're looking for. Lawson's big, but he looks small in Tommy's mind, in that nightmare scenario, tucked down into himself and swallowing thickly as someone with no idea how extraordinary he is dashes his dreams to pieces.

Tommy whips out his phone and texts Noah: ur taking me to lunch. Somewhere w/ a liquor license. Then goes back inside to fetch his wallet.

~*~

"Is this just what you do now?" Noah asks a half-hour later, after Tommy's thrown back his first whiskey neat and signaled the waitress for another. "Day drink and scowl at people?"

Tommy shoots him the bird. "I have a job, dipshit."

"Riiiiight." Noah nods, mock-sage. "Selling insurance."

"Fuck off."

The interesting thing, he notes, in an absent, distracted way, is that he's not even actually angry. The insults are rote, part of an automatic call and repeat that's been his entire relationship with his twin. Everything he loves about Lawson – how much taller and larger and stronger he is; the way he pushes all of Tommy's buttons; his loud laugh and his inappropriate comments – has always irritated the shit out of him on Noah. It's the love goggles. Or maybe the fact that he knows Lawson cares more, capable of intense gentleness when he senses it's necessary. Whatever the case, he's usually pissed at Noah for some reason or other, but today, his digs roll right off Tommy's back.

And Noah, cop that he is, notices, perking up in his chair. "Damn."

"What?" His drink arrives, along with a basket of fries. "Thank you." When she's gone, he repeats, "What?"

"Do you like selling insurance?"

"It's not the worst thing I've ever done for a paycheck."

A muscle in Noah's cheek twitches, and Tommy wonders which on-the-job shooting he's thinking of. Or if he's remembering the hospital, the wires and machinery hooked to Tommy's body.

Then his face softens, and he grows serious, all traces of mockery gone. "Yeah, okay. But are you happy? Like, really happy?"

Tommy frowns, but he's still not angry. "How often do we Skype, dude? You've seen me."

"Yeah, and usually your Bigfoot half is loitering in the background. I'm sitting here talking to just you, and I wanna make sure: are you happy? Tom," he presses, when Tommy rolls his eyes, "you spent twenty years saying you were gonna go back to Eastman, and then you did. It would be normal if it turned out that wasn't the happily ever after you always thought it would be."

Tommy sends him a sharp look. Feels the first stirrings of anger.

He picks up his glass. "Talk shit about my husband and see if I don't throw this in your face."

"Christ," Noah mutters, spreading his hands. "I'm not. Holy shit, can you not chill? Isn't marriage supposed to mellow a guy out?" Tommy glares at him, but sips at his whiskey and enjoys the warmth of it. Deep down, he knows that Noah knows better than to trash Lawson. He was the one, after all, who stood between him and Frank from the very start.

"Eat something." Noah nudges the fries closer. "Don't get sloppy at noon, man."

Tommy tsks, but takes a handful of fries.

Tone careful, Noah says, "Why are you drinking? Are you that nervous about his meeting?"

"Yeah. And I may or may not have been a huge jackass about it a couple weeks ago." Without really planning to, he spills the whole story about what happened at Flanagan's.

Noah's frowning by the time he's finished, and shakes his head. "Okay, first off, if this Leo guy is that much of a pussy–"

"He's nice. Unlike you and me."

"I'm nice," Noah says, unconvincingly. "You're a shithead–"

"Fuck you."

"Thanks for proving my point. But, like, come on. You were looking out for your guy. And you maybe had too much to drink on an empty stomach." He reaches across the table and Tommy pulls his drink out of reach. "Was Leo even upset? Or was it Dana?" he asks, a knowing glint in his eye.

"Mostly Dana," he concedes. "And Lawson."

Noah's brows flick, surprised.

"He thinks – he thought," he corrects, because he doesn't believe Lawson truly thinks this, and after last night, he doesn't see how Lawson could doubt his commitment. But his stomach still twists when he thinks about Lawson's face in the mirror that night, the way he doubted him. "That I was pushing this author thing because I wanted us to have more money. Because I was tired of the way we live."

"Are you?"

"What? No. I'm not–"

"I mean. I can see why you would be. It's–"

Tommy slices a hand through the air. "Stop. That's not what I meant. That's not why I'm nervous."

Noah looks at him expectantly.

Tommy considers his drink, and then sets it aside. He doesn't need it. It's a stupid crutch, and he wants to be clear-headed and well-spoken when he says what he's about to, because even if Noah has been sympathetic and supportive in most ways, Tommy doesn't know if he gets it.

"When I was living and working here, I tried not to wonder too hard what Lawson was doing back in Eastman. Honestly, I assumed he wasn't there anymore. I thought I'd have to track him down on Facebook, or go ask his parents where he was and what he was doing. I really didn't expect…"

"For him to be–"

"Careful," Tommy warns, and Noah puts up his hand.

"Miserable. I was gonna say miserable." At Tommy's narrow look, he says, "Hey, I saw him at Coffee Town, too. That was not a happy and fulfilled man I, uh, may or may not have threatened at his place of employment."

"What the fuck?"

"I was playing mob guy," he says, with an eyeroll of dismissal. "I wasn't gonna actually do it. My point is: yeah. He wasn't happy."

Tommy shakes his head. "None of my worst-case mental scenarios involved him being that unhappy. I kept imagining that he was in a relationship, or that he'd forgotten all about me. That he'd run off and become a millionaire, recluse novelist in a cabin mansion somewhere. Or that he hated me, or he'd hit me, or–"

"Dude. Take a breath."

He does, and massages at the tightness in his chest, the way his patched-together insides clench uneasily against one another.

"I want to make him happy," he says, in a small voice. "I want him to have everything he wants, and I can't do anything about this writing thing except sit back and hope for the best."

To his surprise, Noah smiles. And it's a kind smile, though his sigh is exasperated.

"What?"

"Do you even hear yourself? You want to make him happy. Don't you think that you are the thing that makes him happy?"

"I know, he makes me happy, too, but–"

"No ‘but.' Here." He picks up his phone where it rests on the edge of the table, and scrolls for a minute. When he finds what he wants with an "okay," he turns the phone around and shows Tommy the screen.

It's a photo from the hospital, and at first Tommy's shocked by how pale and small and half-dead he looks, sitting upright in the bed, still hooked to an assortment of IVs and monitors. He's talking, though, mouth open mid-word. Frank's standing at the door, arms folded, clearly giving him good-natured shit about something.

But then Tommy spots Lawson, sitting right up near the head of the bed, rail folded down so he can rest his arms in Tommy's lap, and Tommy's struck dumb by the look on Lawson's face. He's seen his crinkle-eyed, tearful smile in profile in the photo by their bedside at home, the one with Lawson's face buried in the top of his head on their wedding day. But here, there's nothing hiding his expression, and the soft curve of his smile, the joy glittering in his eyes as he stares up at Tommy, is staggering.

"Oh," he says, softly. It's not even the first time he's seen that look on his face – Lawson wore it last night – but in the photo, they aren't having sex, or even alone together, Noah clearly took the photo standing opposite the door of the room, and Lawson is gazing at Tommy's bristled, washed-out face like it's the most incredible thing he's ever seen.

"Tom," Noah says, pulling his phone back. "Has he seemed miserable since you got married?"

"No," he says, automatically, but that's not totally true. He's looked miserable when Tommy's gotten upset at his own stupid body, when he's cried, or insisted he didn't need help, or pushed Lawson away. "Well. When I'm an asshole."

"You've got to chill out," Noah says. "I get that you want him to, I dunno, chase his dreams or whatever. But he wasn't unhappy because he was there, or because he wasn't an author. He was unhappy because he missed you."

Tommy buries his face in his hands and works to even out his breathing. "And I can never go back in time and fix that," he mutters. And that's the root of it all, isn't he? He can't undo the damage he did. Can't make up for the lost years. He would if he could, in hindsight: thirty-eight-year-old him wants to take seventeen-year-old him by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattle. Fuck Frank, fuck the job, fuck Gino. Dad's dead. Avenging him won't bring him back, but Lawson's alive, and he loves you, and you're going to destroy him.

"What's done is done," Noah says, softly. "Are you really gonna fuck up the future because you're stuck on the past?"

"No." He sniffs. "I don't want to."

"Okay, then," Noah says, like it's that simple.

And it is, isn't it? He thinks of Lawson getting home from work, and kissing the top of his head with a "hi, baby," and his sharp burst of laughter when they talk shit about whatever movie they're watching; and the way Lawson always wants to touch him, only pulling back when Tommy insists he's fine.

Noah pats the top of his head. "You're a real pair of codependent idiots, huh?"

Tommy nods, and Noah laughs. Then flicks him in the forehead between his spread fingers.

"Ow."

"Time to order."

When Tommy lifts his head, he sees that their waitress has arrived, looking between them uncertainly.

"Get the bacon lovers' burger," Noah says, like an order, and he does.

~*~

Lawson texts much sooner than Tommy's expecting. "Shit, he's done already," he says, staring down at his phone.

I'm done, where r u? :)

Tommy texts back the address of the bar, and then says, how did it go?????

Be there in 10, Lawson says, the dick.

"What'd he say?" Noah asks.

"He didn't. What an asshole." Tommy's stomach gives a shiver of disquiet, and he sets his phone aside and pins Noah with a look. "Hey, stop avoiding the question."

Noah sips at his water and plays innocent. "What question?"

"You picked a ring. You showed me the ring! Why have you not proposed?"

Noah sighs and flops back against his side of the booth. "I don't know. I just…"

"Keep in mind that there's no answer you can give here that I'll respect."

Noah scowls. "Fuck you. I'm nervous."

"About what?"

"Dude, getting married is a big deal. It's normal to be nervous."

Tommy scoffs.

"It's normal for normal people to be nervous. Just ‘cause you're some kinda Jane Austen character pining your whole life for your one true love or whatever doesn't mean the rest of us don't go about it the normal fucking way."

"Fuck you, I'm not a Jane Austen character."

Noah grins. "I want Anne Hathaway to play you in the movie of your life."

"Fuck you."

There's a couple in the booth behind Noah, and the woman turns around to glare at them. Oops. They're being loud.

"See?" Noah says. "You're so dramatic, your story was made for the big screen."

"Yeah, and yours is for a shitty advice column. Stop trying to sidetrack me."

Someone arrives beside their table with a squeak of shoe soles and a rustle of cloth, and a familiar, large hand settles on Tommy's shoulder. He scoots deeper into the booth so Lawson can slide in beside him, not even needing to double-check that it's him.

"Sidetrack you from what?" Lawson asks. A glance proves he's carrying his blazer, and he hooks it on the corner of the booth so he can unbutton and roll up his sleeves.

Tommy watches, not caring that Noah's there, enjoying the pleasant prickling of his skin as he watches Lawson expose his strong forearms, tendons flexing, long fingers nimble on the shirt cuffs. "Noah's too big a chickenshit to propose to Nat."

"Oh, dude." Lawson points at Noah across the table. "I saw that yesterday. Where's the ring? What the hell?"

Tommy leans in to stage whisper, "He's nervous."

"About what?" Lawson picks up the last third of Tommy's burger and sniffs it. "Damn, is this two kinds of bacon?"

"Yeah, it's amazing."

Lawson takes a bite and talks around it. "She's gonna say yes," he tells Noah. "You understand that that's a foregone conclusion, right?" He swallows and says, "Oh my God, this is the best burger I've ever tasted."

"We're coming back for dinner."

"Oh, definitely." To Noah: "So maybe you're the one having second thoughts."

"What? No."

"Is it ‘cause her dad's in jail?" Lawson presses, and offers the burger back.

Tommy shakes his head. "No, I'm done."

"Or because she used to make sweet, beautiful love to your brother?"

Tommy and Noah make matching sounds of disgust. Tommy elbows Lawson hard, and he laughs and ducks away. "That never happened. You know that never happened."

Lawson's still laughing as he polishes off his burger and wipes his hands and face with a paper towel from the roll on the table, then pushes the basket aside and folds his arms on the edge of the table. "Okay, look, I'll be serious for a second: you guys don't have to get married. It's not the be-all, end-all ultimate pinnacle of a romantic relationship or whatever."

"Uh…" Tommy drawls.

Noah snorts. "Yeah, that means a lot coming from you."

"Okay," Lawson says, unfazed, "it was for me. But you guys don't have to get married, if it doesn't feel right. But you bought the ring, so I think that's a strong sign you want to get married. Just ask her, man. I think she'll say yes. But if she doesn't, that doesn't mean you have to break up. And," he says, holding up a finger when Noah starts to protest, "I really do mean ask. Have a conversation. Don't, like, hire a skywriter or do it on the Knicks Jumbotron or whatever."

"You think Natalia likes basketball?"

"I think you need to talk to your girlfriend," Lawson shoots back, and grins.

"Law," Tommy says, and manages to maintain a falsely patient tone. He scratches at the back of Lawson's neck in the way he knows he likes. "How was the meeting?"

Now Noah grins. "I can't believe you made it this long without asking. You're vibrating out of your skin."

Lawson turns to him slowly, and blinks. "My meeting?"

"Lawson."

He chuckles. "Yeah, okay. It went well." His cheeks pink, and he smiles, small, almost hesitant, but deeply pleased. "Actually, it went really well."

Tommy's hand is still at the back of his neck, and he cups the width of it and squeezes. "How well?" His pulse is juddering, and he can hear the unsteadiness of his next breath.

Lawson's grin widens. "I signed Keith as my agent. He's already shown the book to a friend at Doubleday. He wants to know if I can go in tomorrow and maybe sign a publishing contract."

"That's–" A high whine starts up in Tommy's ears. Blood pressure, he thinks, absently. "That's fast, right? Is it fast?"

"Yeah. But Keith says his friend's been looking for something just like it, and he's excited about it, so I think sometimes–" He stops talking when Tommy grips his face in both hands.

"Does this mean you're getting published?" Tommy asks, breathless and not caring.

Lawson smiles Tommy's favorite smile, eyes scrunching, lips spread so wide his cheeks get smushed between Tommy's hands. "Yeah. I'm getting published."

Tommy doesn't breathe for a second, and then, when he does, it's to make a wild, wordless whoop that startles the people behind Noah, and which makes Lawson laugh. Then he hauls him down and kisses him, hard and smacking. Mwuah, like a cartoon character. Then he flings both arms around his neck and hugs him as tight as he can. He might be crying; he doesn't know or care.

"I'm so proud of you. Oh my God, I'm so proud of you."

Lawson hums and hugs him back.

"Ugh, you guys are gross," Noah complains, but when Tommy finally lifts his head and glances his way, Noah's expression is nothing but soft fondness.