Chapter Text
The whole thing had started off as a bit of a joke. Well, the sort of joke Neil thought was funny, and Billy didn’t really, but he’d been told he was something of a wet blanket sometimes, so he tried to see the humour in it.
Neil did the course online, convinced Billy to pay for it and everything. This was after their breakup, or break from each other— Billy had called it the former, whereas Neil preferred the latter. It certainly made it sound less permanent when he put it like that. But Billy had really meant it to be permanent. So it made no sense that Neil was now sleeping on the couch in Billy’s flat and asking to be lent money like it was a foregone conclusion that Billy was going to say yes.
“This’ll be the start of something incredible, you’ll see,” Neil assured him. That was the kind of thing Neil said a lot. “I only need to do the beginner course really, learn the basics, and then I think I could just make the rest up on my own. I mean, it’s all made up in the first place anyway. I’ll do up some sort of certificate and put it in a frame, bet they don’t even have regulations for that sort of thing, and then I’ll be in business…”
Billy had thought there were a concerning number of steps separating the part of the plan where he lent (gave) Neil fifty pounds, and the part of the plan where Neil started making any money from this venture.
“So what actually is it, then?” he asked, leaning over to peer at the screen of Neil’s shitty pawn shop laptop. “This homo—”
“Homeopathy,” Neil corrected. “It’s some natural medicine thing, it’s all herbs and stuff, but here’s the brilliant part. They’re diluted like a hundred times until it’s basically just water. You’re literally selling people nothing.”
Billy thought that sounded extremely stupid. Surely people could tell if the supposed medicine they were being sold did nothing. But then, he often took painkillers that felt like they did nothing. For all he knew, those might be homeopathic too.
And he couldn’t say no to Neil. There was something about his face— even when you knew he was trying to play you, part of you felt like it might be a good idea to let him. Just to see what happened next.
And so, Billy had transferred him the money. Hadn’t even interrogated him over how he planned to make a business out of it or anything. He’d just figured that at least it would keep Neil occupied for a bit, and that was worth the investment. It seemed like it was even something legal this time. Selling fancy water with herbs in it. Harmless.
The cafe at the John Franklin Maritime Museum was extremely small, and generally very quiet. Sometimes they’d have two or even three employees on, when things got busier on weekends. Otherwise it was often just Billy there, making the occasional coffee, and wiping the counter down over and over again.
Billy didn’t mind working in the cafe. It was better than doing the cleaning after the museum closed for the night, which he sometimes did when he needed more hours. Working in the gift shop would have been better still, he’d get to sit down a bit more, but Tommy Armitage normally handled that because he couldn’t be trusted with a milk steamer. So Billy was stuck at the cafe.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Sometimes when Neil was on his break, he’d drop by to see Billy. He’d sit at the table closest to the counter, and they’d chat and flirt when Billy wasn’t serving customers, and for a moment his day would be a little bit brighter. This usually only lasted about ten minutes before Neil started getting bored and fidgety and ducked out for a cigarette, but it was nice. Visiting him at work was more than some of his previous boyfriends ever did for him.
Billy had been at that job a while, long enough to not only get to know his direct coworkers, but some of the higher-ups and the researchers as well. Everyone came to the cafe at some point, even Mr Crozier, the museum director. One time Mr Crozier had come by while Neil was there, recognised Neil as an employee, and bought him a latte. Neil had drank it with stars in his eyes, which was funny because Billy wouldn’t have thought he was the type to develop a one-sided crush on his boss, and Billy had looked on with vague amusement as Crozier had lifted the lid on his own double shot espresso and unsubtly poured in a slug of whiskey from his flask.
But Billy’s favourite cafe patron— even above Neil, though he wouldn’t admit it— was Harry Goodsir. Dr Goodsir, actually, although he was “not that sort of doctor,” as he always awkwardly and unnecessarily added. He was a postdoc from the nearby university, a marine scientist, studying periwinkles or something like that. He was often in and out to look at the museum’s specimens or use their equipment. He would usually pop by the cafe afterwards, ostensibly to sit and get some writing done, but more often to talk Billy’s ear off about molluscs. Billy didn’t mind. He was a good listener, so everyone said, and Harry was a pleasant conversationalist, most of the time.
Today’s conversation had begun with an enthusiastic description of a new discovery that had been made about the life cycle of some obscure species of wasp. Billy had picked up enough to know that this was not Harry’s area of study, that he was in fact procrastinating, but apparently he’d read an article and just had to share his newfound knowledge.
Billy was unnecessarily rearranging the sandwiches in the cold display and making the appropriate noises of interest. It was a soothing background hum. Some people listened to podcasts, or ASMR, or whatever. Billy had Harry, describing the interior structure of a fig with great passion and some really emphatic hand gestures. He was actually kind of looking forward to finding what this had to do with the wasps, or if it was maybe a completely unrelated topic they’d just now moved on to.
“A parasite, from the greek para sitos,” said George Hodgson, a historian at the museum, and a man who liked a chai latte almost as much as he liked to invite himself into other people’s conversations. “That is, one who eats at another’s table.”
“Hmm?” said Harry. “Oh, well, some of the wasps aren’t parasites, they’re parasitoids, it’s a bit different. The distinction is that a parasitoid kills its host, whereas a parasite merely… disadvantages it. You see, one species of wasp lays its eggs inside the fig. Then another species of wasp lays its eggs inside the first wasp’s larvae. When they hatch, they eat the host. Parasites upon parasites.”
“Jesus, that’s a bit grim,” said Billy, handing George’s chai across the counter to him. “Could you go back to talking about barnacle penises, or whatever it was yesterday?”
“Did you know,” said George, who started a lot of sentences this way, “that there’s a species of parasite that lives inside the mouth of a fish? A kind of crab, I believe. It eats the fish’s tongue then attaches itself to the stub with its claws, functionally replacing the organ. I saw a photo of it.”
“Oh, that’s disgusting,” said Billy, genuinely repulsed. Seemed like everything he learnt about the world today was something he could’ve easily done without knowing.
“I’ve heard of it,” said Harry, “and it’s an isopod, actually. Cymothoa exigua.”
“My mistake,” said George, cheerfully. “I defer to your expertise in all matters marine.”
“Your chai’s going cold, George,” Billy pointed out. This fortunately prompted a change in subject, for which Billy was extremely grateful.
It hadn’t taken long after their breakup before Billy had started having mixed feelings about it, though he’d felt very justified at the time. The fact that it kind of resulted in Neil losing his job hadn’t helped, and had made it that much easier for Neil to weasel his way onto Billy’s couch.
The precipitating event went like this: it was early evening, after the museum had closed to the public, and most of the staff had gone home. Billy was diligently cleaning fingerprints off display cases on one of the upper floors. Neil was there with him. Billy agreed to let him tag along while he cleaned, on the understanding that he would keep out of Billy’s way and not make himself too much of a nuisance.
Neil had kept his promise for a little while. He’d simply followed Billy around, reading the labels on the exhibits, occasionally out loud. His boots weren’t even dirty for once. But he’d also kept trying to steal kisses, which was cute and maybe a little bit illicit and thrilling. And Billy, like an idiot, kept letting him take them.
In the aftermath, Billy won’t quite remember who had persuaded whom into the storage closet. He will tell that prick Irving that Neil had coerced him, and in his head he will mean it was his idea, I just went along with it, but he will honestly not even be sure if that much is true. Maybe he’d been the one to take things across the line from joking to serious, to haul Neil in by the lapels of his ugly khaki jacket and put his tongue in Neil’s mouth.
Billy was the one to drop to his knees entirely of his own volition, he will remember that much. They throbbed a bit as he knelt there, and he knew he’d be feeling it tomorrow, even more than he usually did after a cleaning shift. Neil looked down at him, pleased but a little hesitant. Billy knew he interpreted it as a gesture of submission, and liked that, probably liked the idea of doing it hidden away when Billy was on the clock, too. Billy knew all this about him and tolerated it just fine. But Neil was kind of weird in that he usually didn’t much like being sucked off. It made him tense, Billy had noticed. Billy was hoping the degenerate thrill of a workplace rendezvous would be enough to get him to relax and enjoy it for once, because fuck it, he liked sucking cock.
They were both being pretty quiet, but the small space amplified every tiny noise. The zip of Neil’s fly and the rustle of fabric, the huff of Billy’s breath out through his nose, Neil’s little sighs of pleasure. Billy relaxed into the feeling of it, let his mouth be filled, let the spit gather in the corners, let his thumbs stroke gently over Neil’s hips. He wanted to make it good. He felt perversely pleased by the idea that he was, technically, getting paid to do this. Two employees of the museum, helping each other get off on company time. He thought maybe Neil was thinking the same thing, because he was beaming when Billy flicked a glance up at him, amusement crinkling his eyes up into glossy little crescents. Billy would’ve smiled back, if his mouth wasn’t currently occupied.
It was this expression that Billy got to watch slide off Neil’s face, as somebody tried to open the door. Luckily, Neil was leaning against it, so they weren’t able to. Billy flinched back, and had to clap a hand over his own mouth to stop himself yelping in surprise as the door jolted behind them again.
“Shh!” Neil hissed at him, rather unnecessarily Billy thought.
“Is someone in there?”
Fuck. That was the voice of John Irving, Billy’s supervisor. What the hell was he still doing there at that time of night? Neil scrambled away from the door, hurriedly stuffing himself back into his trousers, as Billy wiped his mouth with his sleeve and patted his hair down and hoped to god he didn’t look too much like he’d been doing exactly what he’d just been doing.
The door opened, and Billy and Neil were illuminated. Irving stared at them, a troubled expression on his face.
“Billy? What are you doing in the storage closet?” Irving asked.
“Um,” said Billy, struggling a little. Belatedly, he hauled himself up to his feet. “I’ve been. Cleaning?”
Irving continued to stare at him.
“I saw a mouse, or it might have been a rat,” Billy added, gathering steam now. “And I ran into, uh, Cornelius here, he’s one of the contractors who’s been working on refitting that ground floor bathroom, and he said we should try and find a trap, he’s been helping me… look for them…”
Billy wasn’t a good liar, he knew he wasn’t, he was sweating and stammering and struggling to meet Irving’s eyes. Next to him, Neil— visibly adjusting his belt, the absolute bastard— was radiating smug complacency. Irving’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, and Billy could tell he was uncomfortable too. Uncomfortable and suspicious.
“Well, he shouldn’t be up here after hours, all the other contractors have packed up and left,” said Irving, frowning. “And you should be able to set up a mouse trap without assistance.”
“Of course he can, Mr Irving, isn’t it?” Neil said. “I’ll be on my way, then.”
“See to it that you are,” Irving stiffly replied, before turning and hurrying off.
Billy felt cold, sick fear settle in his stomach. Neither his poor excuse nor Neil’s faux innocence seemed to have made any impact on Irving whatsoever.
“He’s going to tell Crozier,” Billy moaned, already panicking.
“Nah,” said Neil, utterly unbothered. “He won’t.”
Billy turned a disbelieving face in his direction. He wanted to stride out of the storage closet and pace around anxiously, but Neil was just standing there. Leaning against a shelf with his arms crossed. Billy spotted a box of rat traps on the shelf right next to his head, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. “I’m going to get fired. Maybe even worse, if you being up here counts as trespassing...”
“You mean legal trouble?” Neil's expression was a picture of poorly hidden amusement. “I wouldn’t worry about a silly thing like that. Besides, did you see his face? The man looked like he didn’t know whether to slam the door shut or invite himself in. Mark my words, he’s not going to tell. Your Mr Irving is going to go home, have a quick wank in the shower, and then do his best to forget whatever he imagined was happening in here.”
“Don’t be disgusting,” Billy scoffed. “Not everyone secretly wants to have sex with you.” He was furious with Neil for his flippant attitude, and for his part in allowing them to end up in this situation in the first place. If he got fired from this job, what were the chances of him finding another one where they were so patient with his limitations? And he wasn’t at all convinced by Neil’s confident assertion that Irving wouldn’t report them on account of being too… what? Awkward? Uncomfortable? Closeted?
“Don’t they?” asked Neil, grinning, but Billy was already pushing past him to hurry back to work.
The next morning, Billy woke up, and his body hurt. It could’ve been any bloody thing that set him off, but he fancied it was the shock of adrenaline from the night before. He’d scolded Neil into leaving, finished his shift in a daze, then gone home to pace in circles around the kitchen until his flatmate yelled at him to either fret more quietly or go the fuck to bed.
Billy intended to go into work that day like he was supposed to, he really did. He made a valiant effort to hobble into the kitchen for his usual morning cuppa, and then he had to lean against the wall next to the fridge for a bit and breathe while the pain swept through him in waves.
He should know better, he really should know better. His doctor told him the key was to avoid stress, get plenty of sleep, eat a balanced diet, all that sort of rubbish. But instead he was getting paid minimum wage to mop floors, and dating the most stressful man he’d ever met. Billy was practically begging the universe to hurt him.
His knees ached, of fucking course, and he hadn’t even managed a proper blowjob for his troubles. His elbows ached too, radiating out through his forearms and his biceps, and his back and neck and hips throbbed a little quieter in chorus. His head felt tender, and heavy with exhaustion.
He couldn’t face a whole day standing and serving coffee, and then cleaning after that. He just couldn’t. With very great reluctance, Billy conceded that he was going to have to call his supervisor.
John Irving’s phone number had been saved into Billy's phone since he first started working at the museum. But Billy prided himself on being reliable, showing up to his shifts when he was supposed to, solving such problems that arose without having to go hassling his supervisor for help, so the number had gone largely unused before now.
Irving’s voice, therefore, sounded surprised and a little wary when he answered the phone.
“William?” he asked. “What is it?”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to come in today,” Billy replied, cringing at Irving’s retreat into the formality of his full name. Nobody called him William, Irving must be really uncomfortable. “You remember how I told you about my fibromyalgia? I’m having a bit of a bad day with it.” Billy hated revealing even that much about his health issues. If he had to suffer, then he would rather do so privately. But it seemed like the cost of calling in sick was often that your employer felt entitled to know about your personal business.
There was silence in response, for a moment. “That seems awfully convenient,” Irving said stiffly, and then, of all things, he hung up.
Billy stared at his phone in disbelief, then jumped as it started ringing in his hand.
“Hello?”
“I’m very sorry, that was not what I meant to do at all,” Irving spluttered. “What I mean to say is, of course, if you’re absolutely certain you’re too unwell to work...”
Yes I’m bloody certain, you colossal dickhead, I can barely walk, Billy thought. Out loud, in a carefully measured tone, he said, “I’m sure of it, yes.”
“Well, in that case, I suppose I can probably get Jopson to cover for you, provided Mr Crozier can spare him,” said Irving. It wasn't exactly a glowing display of sympathy and support, but it would do. “But I expect you will be up and about for your shift tomorrow. You know God only gives us burdens that He knows we can bear, if we put our minds to it.”
Ugh, Billy thought. Did the man have to be so relentlessly fucking Christian about it? Quite clearly both of them were dearly longing to not be having this conversation, and trotting out condescending little platitudes was not going to make it go down any easier.
Struck by a sudden inspiration, Billy decided to push his luck. Maybe there was something else he could do, to try and repair the situation.
“I’d also like to apologise for what happened yesterday, John,” he said. “I know it wasn’t very professional, but I just wanted to say it’s not what it probably looked like.”
Silence down the line once again. Awkward silence. Billy could hear Irving breathing.
“Yes, I recall your little story about the rat.” He sounded wary, but at least Billy hadn’t scared him into hanging up again.
Billy shook his head. Even if Irving couldn’t see it, he felt like a little bit of play-acting could only help him sound more plausible. He tried to channel Neil, a fluent liar, tried to really believe the thing he was about to say.
“Well, it’s like what you just said about God and burdens. I feel like God is challenging me, and this is my chance to improve myself. I want to live a clean and honest lifestyle, I really do, and I know I could if I wasn’t around so many bad influences…”
The next day, before work, Billy stood in the museum atrium for a little while, and gazed at the whale skeleton on display there. Those huge, heavy bones, with such a cavernous space inside them. He imagined the whale as a living creature, its bones hidden by muscle and fat and thick, rubbery skin, with barnacles growing on the surface.
Did its bones ache too, while it was alive? Did it wash up on a beach somewhere? Was it partially devoured by scavengers before the museum recovered it? Or maybe it was never alive, maybe the skeleton was merely a replica. It looked real enough, but it occured to Billy that he’d never bothered reading the signs around it. Maybe he’d glanced over them once, when he came to the museum some time as a kid, and everything inside it was novel to him. But he saw those monumental dead things nearly every day of his life, and they started to fade into their surroundings. A display case full of important historical artefacts was still just another thing to clean.
Billy broke things off with Neil, of course. After the excuse he gave Irving, they really couldn’t keep seeing each other. It was an unpleasant conversation, and for a few days Billy sulked a lot and missed Neil quite badly, but overall he felt much better once it was over. It certainly made his life easier.
Eventually, he mentioned it in passing to his flatmate, Tommy, who’d probably overheard some of it anyway. He explained that there’d been a bit of a misunderstanding between him and Neil, and that they’d broken up, and it was all for the best, and that Tommy was to keep an eye out and let Billy know if he caught Neil hanging around.
“Is that something we have to worry about?” asked Tommy, giving Billy an anxious look across the kitchen table. “Is he gonna cause trouble or anything?”
Billy thought about this seriously for a moment. To tell the truth, in the time since their breakup, he’d been expecting to come home to find out someone had put a brick through his window, or worse. Their flat was only on the second floor, the building’s security wasn’t that great, and Billy wouldn’t put it past Neil to do something petty and vindictive. But he hadn’t seen Neil at all— not even at the museum, as they worked in different parts of the building. Irving had drifted into the cafe once or twice, to make earnestly sympathetic faces that Billy had no idea what to do with. But when Billy said he didn’t want to see Neil again, it seemed Neil took him at his word.
“I don’t think so,” he said eventually. “I was worried he might, but he’s been leaving me alone since we broke up.”
Because the universe was constantly conspiring to screw with Billy, this was when the doorbell rang. Tommy leapt to go answer it before Billy could even think about getting to his feet. The door opened, Billy heard a brief, muffled conversation, and then…
Tommy re-entered the room, and behind him was Neil. Because who else could it be. Tommy had a very carefully neutral look on his face.
“What do you want,” said Billy. He was too tired to be nice.
Neil gave him a tentative smile. His eyes were red rimmed, the tip of his nose red too. He looked eminently pitiable, and Billy didn’t want a fucking bar of it.
“Got kicked out of my sharehouse,” Neil said, clearly attempting to project a sort of quietly wounded dignity. There he was, a semi-feral cat who picked a fight he couldn’t handle, limping back home for dinner and attention.
Billy had been to Neil’s place, and calling it a sharehouse was a little generous. It was a dilapidated shack of an East End townhouse that he shared with a rotating cast of far too many other people. Billy was not entirely sure if Neil was illegally subletting from one of the other tenants, or if they were all just outright squatting there. Either way, he hadn’t been in a huge rush to visit again.
“Good,” said Billy shortly. “That place was squalid, you’re well shot of it. Now you can try and find somewhere nicer to live.”
“That’s the goal eventually, yeah,” said Neil. Billy only just now noticed he’d an overstuffed duffel bag with him, as he hitched the handle up where it had slipped down his shoulder. “I can’t afford it right now, though, ever since I got fired.”
He said this last bit so matter-of-factly, like he was reminding Billy of a well-established fact that Billy already knew. But he hadn’t brought it up during their argument, so it must have happened since then.
“You got… fired,” Billy said. “Sorry to hear that.” Over Neil’s shoulder, Tommy made an exaggerated, silent wince. Billy felt like a rabbit that had emerged from its burrow, and hopped right into the jaws of a fox.
“Technically, I resigned,” said Neil, with a deep sigh. “Mr. Irving made it clear to me that leaving quietly was the better of the two options available. For my eternal soul or whatever, but also in terms of legal ramifications. So I’m between jobs, which means I’m without income, which means I’m without housing.”
Laid out like that, it was all a very simple cause and effect— Billy talked to Irving, Irving pressured Neil into quitting his job, Neil got kicked out of his home, and now he was here in Billy’s. Billy tried to figure out a way to make this sequence of events not be his fault, but while he was thinking, Neil pushed his way past to deposit himself and his duffel bag in their tiny lounge room.
“Hang on, wait,” Billy called out, hurrying after him. “You can’t just move yourself in here— you can sleep on the couch tonight, obviously, if you’ve nowhere else to go, but that’s it.”
“Of course,” said Neil, looking very contrite. “I don’t want to impose. I remember everything you said, the last time we saw each other. It’ll just be until I can get back on my feet.”
The last time they saw each other was when they broke up. Billy had said some things that weren't very nice, things he didn’t feel particularly proud of. But that had all been in the interests of getting Neil out of his flat and out of his life, not setting up camp in his bloody lounge room.
“Not until you get back on your feet,” Billy insisted. “Until tomorrow morning. You can check into a, a hostel or a shelter or something after that. Hell, I’ll pay for a motel room if I have to. But you can’t stay here.” Even as he said it, Billy was aware that making this offer was a really stupid thing to do. The last thing he wanted was for Neil to take him up on it— and then keep taking. He didn’t have the money for that. But he could not allow Neil to move into his flat.
“I wouldn’t want to take your money, Billy,” said Neil. Sitting on the couch in his oversized jacket, he looked small and deceptively fragile.
“Yes, you would,” Billy said. “Directly out of my wallet at times.”
Neil shrugged. “Only when I really needed it,” he said, as if that made much difference. “And never more than you could spare.”
Billy really, really did not feel like arguing the toss on that one, especially not with Tommy still hovering in the background. Speaking of which, that might yet be an option for getting rid of Neil. Turning, Billy asked, “Are you all right with this, Tommy? If he stays here for the night? No more than that, mind you.” He tried to silently communicate say no say no please say no to Tommy, but as usual, Tommy did not pick up on it.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Tommy said blithely. “I don’t mind if he stays a bit longer, even. I heard the rental market is brutal right now.”
Completely unbelievable. Wasn't it just five minutes ago they were discussing the possibility of Neil showing up to cause trouble? And now Tommy had literally opened the door for him to do it.
“Okay, great!” Billy said, fighting off a wave of despair. If Neil stayed there for longer than a night, Billy would never get rid of him. He was like a bed bug infestation.
Neil gave him a watery, grateful smile. “Thanks, Billy,” he said, and he sounded heart-wrenchingly sincere about it. “I knew I could rely on you.”
“Well, don't get used to it,” Billy muttered, but it was too late. Neil had already got his teeth in, Billy could feel it.