Work Text:
Derek found him in the fields. Father’s fields, that was, until two weeks ago.
Titch had been lying on the bare soil for… oh, he lost count of time. His jacket was thrown aside with no care, and he had loosened his tie, the black piece of fabric feeling like a hangman’s noose around his neck. The patch was chilly at night. He had felt the coolness at first, as water seeped through the dress shirt, but somewhen into the night he lost sense of that wetness too.
“You’ll get sick.”
Derek’s face emerged into his vision. Titch gave him a noncommittal hum. He wasn’t feeling talkative right now.
“What are you doing, anyway?” Derek continued, still blocking his sight. Granted, it was a boring night sky; thick, pitch black clouds had smothered any stars or moonlight that might be shining somewhere. But it comforted him, knowing the sky was as dull and empty as he felt.
“Can a man not rest in some peace and quiet now?” Titch snapped, but his voice came out weaker than he’d like. “What are you doing here? It’s Sunday, you’re off work. Go down to the pub or something, I dunno. Go fix your precious work-life balance that you’re always talking about.”
Derek exhaled, visibly exasperated. Good, Titch hoped he’d go away.
“You were gone after the funeral, I was about to ask if you want help tidying things up,” Derek said, trying and failing to sound casual. The man just couldn’t help it, he just had to be all caring and nice and helpful.
“Jesus Christ, I’m fine, Derek. How many times do I have to say this? Piss off.”
“Well, now I’m definitely not going,” Derek gingerly sat down next to Titch, giving him a cheeky little grin. “I’m off work, boss, you can’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m fine,” Titch repeated, trying to look angry. Mostly he felt nothing, though, TV static running in the back of his mind. It annoyed him, to have Derek see him in this messy state. Derek wasn’t meant to see this; no one was meant to see Titch tired and lying on Father’s fields. That was the whole point of lying on the bloody fields.
“I’m sure you are, now get up, or you’ll get sick tomorrow.”
And before Titch could make any protestations, Derek grabbed his arm and tried to haul him up. Titch only sat up, though, and slumped against his shoulder. He buried his face in the crook of Derek’s neck, exhaustion sunken deep into his bones. Sleep sounded great right now. Sleep, and he could stop the strange and oddly uncomfortable feeling of emptiness.
Something warm and smooth wrapped around Titch. Ah, that was Derek’s jacket, much too big for him. “Come on, love, let’s get you inside, yeah?” He nudged Titch with all the gentleness in the world. Titch peered at him. He could make out the eyelashes of Derek, the capillaries in the white of his eyes, the strand of curl falling down his forehead.
‘Love’. Derek called a lot of people that, but it made Titch’s nose twitch. A wave of emotions he couldn’t identify overwhelmed him, like someone had put a candle inside the hollowed out pumpkin that he was right now, and filled him with light and warmth. Titch wanted that right now. He wanted that candlelight a lot.
“Say that again,” he whispered, scared that if he spoke too loud he’d snuff out the light.
Derek blinked, eyes wide as an owl and oblivious. “Let’s go inside, love.”
Titch pulled Derek down by his tie and smashed their lips together. He wanted this, he needed this. He needed to feel something, anything right now, and the ache was ever so strong and he couldn't get enough of Derek. It was a messy, harsh affair. Titch was vaguely aware that he wasn’t being gentle at all, but he just couldn’t care. A man slowly suffocating to death would go crazy if they were given even an inch of airway, and Derek was like his oxygen tank now. He needed the air so bad. He wanted to be alive again.
Kiss me back, he wanted to beg. I need you to need me.
Derek returned the kiss after what seemed like a century, wrapping his arms around Titch’s waist. Large, kind hands moved to cup his face, thumbs tracing along Titch’s cheekbones. It lit a fire within him, and he let a hand wander on Derek’s chest, then slowly down to his waist. Titch could feel his ribs, his heartbeat, the rush of warm blood under his skin, the way it warmed him. He leaned forward, head full of greed and desire, moving in between the man’s ridiculously long legs.
“Woah, woah, wh- what are we doing here?” Derek asked, lightly pushing Titch away. Titch took a moment to mourn (ha!) the loss of contact, gasping in air.
Derek’s face was dusted with a vivid pink, but Titch could feel him down there. Titch liked how he looked right now, the blush brought out the green in his eyes. He liked that he managed to catch Derek off guard, the man was always so calm and collected and had his shit together.
“You want me, I want you, let’s do this,” Titch said, still panting, before he dove right back in and started attacking Derek’s neck with kisses.
Derek felt even warmer to touch now, a furnace burning steady. Titch wanted to consume him. He took a moment mid-kiss to acknowledge that he was behaving like an animal right now, decided that he was fine with this unseemly act, who even gives a fuck now, and bit Derek lightly on the neck.
“Let’s- let’s go inside first, yeah?” Derek managed to say. “Let’s—”
“—Settle this, James,” Titch said. “We’ll have to talk to the lawyer soon about the will, we’ll have to settle everything between the two of us, and we’ll need to hold a funeral—”
“Yeah, but not today!” James said, between fits of sob. It hurt Titch to see his brother hurting, even though he felt empty and dead inside. “Not. Today.”
“We’ll have to do it sooner or later,” Titch tried again as softly as he could. “You should deliver a eulogy—”
James only cried harder, a faucet that couldn’t be turned off. He had always been a crybaby.
“I’ll handle everything, okay? It’ll all be fine,” Titch said quietly, sitting down next to James on the sofa and letting his brother lean on him.
“It’s not fine, and you know it!” James sobbed. Titch grabbed another tissue paper, on autopilot, and stuffed it into his hand. “Dad is dead, he’s dead, Jack! And I don’t give a fuck about whatever you just said, I don’t want to think about it!”
Titch let James cry, trying not to wince at the snot and tears on his shirt. And it was just fresh out of laundry too, he thought miserably, right before he mentally slapped himself in the face for even thinking that. I should be crying too. Why aren’t I?
“I’m sorry, that was, um, insensitive of me.”
“I don’t want your ‘sorry’, I want my dad back!” James spluttered, eyes red and puffy. It was weird to see his brother cry, Titch decided. He hadn’t seen that for ages. He awkwardly patted James on the back, shushing him like he always had when they were still children and James had nightmares.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, at a loss what else to say.
—It’s just words. You’re normally so good at words.
Titch stared at the notepad. He’d been staring at it for the past two hours.
He must have had things to say to Father. He must. The man took him in when he was still a child, raised him, adopted him into the family, gave him a decent childhood… Titch owed everything to him. Everything he had, everything he was today, it was all thanks to Father.
So why couldn’t he think of anything to say?
He rubbed his eyes. The funeral was four days away. Just about everything was ready and done, he just had to- write this eulogy. Five minutes. Seven hundred and fifty words. Surely it couldn’t be that hard.
Father loved him and James both to bits. They both loved him back too, losing their father felt like the end of the world. Or rather, like the world they had known all their lives had somewhere along the way warped into a place they could no longer recognize, and they couldn’t find their way out of this confusing maze.
Why couldn’t he think of any instances of it right now?
My father was a good man, he wrote. Paused. Gripped his pen—Father’s fountain pen—like it was Father’s hand.
Tell a funny anecdote. Make them laugh. Funerals are, like all ceremonies, performances of a sort. You gotta perform grief, and then they’ll perform the part of a comforting pat on the back, a ‘there, there’, a ‘my condolences’.
His mind was blanking. He couldn’t think.
The ink bled across the page. Like Father’s veins on his aging, shrunken hand.
His hand (healthy, normal, alive) shook.
“I just want to see some actual success from you, James. For once in your life.”
Titch tried to muffle the noises downstairs with his blanket, hands shaking. University hadn’t been easy at all, although he was managing it fine, and he’d really like to get some good sleep while he was back home. James and Father weren’t very loud, but Titch could hear them still. He’d always had a good ear.
A long pause. No doubt James was mumbling out some excuses again. Titch supposed he was sorry for James; those A levels results were abysmal, at least by Titch’s own standards. His brother probably slacked off from school instead of studying. Again. And now he’d be stuck farming with Father.
Father sighed, the sound heavy and oppressive as the summer heat. “I don’t get it, what’s Titch got that you don’t? He’s not even my son by birth, and he knows to treasure what he gets! Look at him, he doesn’t need us to pay for uni! He’s got a full ride scholarship, he doesn’t need us to worry about him, and what have you got?”
Titch could picture it already: Father sitting on the sofa, that look of utter disappointment that Titch had always feared more than wolves, James standing there, brimming with anger and resentment. Titch didn’t know how he could argue back even when it was his fault. If he were James, one look of disapproval from Father and he would have died on the spot already. Imagining it was enough to make his heart beat faster.
“If you like him so much, why don’t you make him your son instead?” James said, just loud enough for Titch to hear. “You don’t need me anyway, you’ve got him.”
A whack. Titch huddled in the blanket, heart thumping. This was so bad, Father only hit them once, back when they were children and James convinced Titch to go swimming in the streams when Titch couldn’t even tread water.
“You’re my son, James! I want your name on the deeds of the farm one day!”
Titch tossed around, unwilling to hear anymore of it. He grabbed his earphones and the MP3 from his nightstand, blindly clicked on the first song that popped up, and turned on the volume until the music drowned them all out.
He hated it when James argued with Father. He always felt so awkward and uncomfortable, stuck between two bullish stubborn men. If James wouldn’t go to sleep yet, then he’d come to find Titch, wake him up and whine all about how unfair Father was, how Father just ‘wouldn’t get it’. Titch would do what he always did and tell James the truth: that Father loved James a lot, the shouting just meant that Father really cared about him, see, and he just wanted to make sure James could make a living when he was gone. James would then say that he could live off playing football and let Titch handle the farm, ‘you like it anyway.’
And then tomorrow or the day after tomorrow or next week, James would inevitably get caught fooling around with his friends again, and Father would grumble to Titch that he didn’t understand how James could turn out like this, so unlike Titch. How disappointed he was with James, how he worried that James couldn’t handle everything when he grew up, how he wished James could be more mature and grown up and like Titch.
And Titch would say something nice on behalf of his brother, no matter if they were true, like how James had been really stressed over the exams, and James tried very hard and did his very best, and James was good at so many other things, and it was fine even if he didn’t get into university and Father, you really shouldn’t worry so much. Look at you, you’re already graying!
This was routine by now. Routine that Titch would never escape as long as James and Father were both alive. He didn’t have any reason to complain about it, honestly, he wasn’t tiring himself out yelling across the houses and burning himself out with silent treatments. Titch was just the damage control, the negotiator. That was always his job.
The door creaked open eventually.
“James, it’s really late.”
“I”m sorry, Titch, I just—”
Titch took off his earphones with a sigh.
Mornings were quiet as always, a peaceful silence sprinkled with some occasional birdsongs. Only Titch felt no peace within him.
Should he write ‘Dear Derek’, or just ‘Derek’? He barely stopped for a moment to decide before he started scribbling.
What happened last night was a highly unacceptable breach of an employer-employee relationship. I sincerely apologize for my abhorrent behavior—
His mind whirled quicker than his pen. Soon, he was done, and he scanned the short letter, muttering under his breath.
Should you decide to seek employment elsewhere, I would be most happy to provide a reference letter, he added. That was, if Derek even wanted anything to do with him after this, he thought bitterly.
He tiptoed back to the room (his childhood bedroom, oh god they did all that in Father’s house, Jesus, he felt sick just thinking about it) and placed the folded paper on the nightstand, light as a speck of dust falling to the ground.
CLANG!
Titch almost jumped out of his skin, sitting right next to Father. Father had thrown down his fork, as James glared at the man across the table.
Titch took a moment to collect himself, speared his food with his fork, and mechanically put it in his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Tried to melt into thin air so neither of them could pull him into the fight.
James was very childish, in Titch’s opinion. And kinda dumb. If he had asked nicely to go play football a month earlier, instead of dumping the news on everyone the week before the football team retreat, there wouldn’t have been a fight at all. His brother was such a spoiled brat, he swore.
“I work day in and day out on the field to feed you,” Father boomed, the anger in his voice thick as smog. “And what have you done for this family? Every day you sneak out with your football and your little gang.” At the look of astonishment on James’ face that he couldn’t quite hide, Father said, “yeah, I know you never go help on the farm. Titch did all the work for you.”
Goddammit.
James turned his glare on Titch, and Titch said, “I didn’t tell him—”
The truth was that Titch didn’t tattle on James to Father, but he whined about it to Father’s farmhands, and one of them must have told him. Serves him right, Titch thought even as he choked on the blanket of hostility and rage over the dining room, trying to finish his food faster. Titch wasn’t the biggest fan of spending his whole summer on the fields either, no fifteen-year-olds dreamt of that. But he buckled up and did it anyway, because that was his duty as a son.
“Don’t go blaming your brother, I don’t need him to know that you’ve been slacking. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
Titch was now shovelling food into his mouth like a highly sophisticated robot built for this very purpose.
“Maybe I don’t want to farm,” James mumbled.
Titch couldn’t breathe. He swore that the room had gotten chillier within a moment.
“I beg your pardon?” Father said, deceptively calm. Titch stared at James, panicking inside, frantically trying to catch his gaze. Don’t say it, he begged James without words, I know what you want to say, but don’t—
“I said I don’t like farming! And I don’t want to spend my whole life in this crusty village!” James shouted, face red with the righteousness of a teenager convinced he was always right. “If Titch likes to work on the fields so much, you can have him then! I’m going to the retreat, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”
Titch placed a placating hand on James’. “James, I think—”
“—I don’t want to think right now.” Titch said roughly, as they tumbled upstairs.
Derek frowned, concern written all over his face, and Titch wanted to yell and scream and kick. He’d really had it with him and his sympathy, for fuck’s sake, what was so hard to understand? Titch’s brain was always noisy and busy and never ending, a constant drone in the background, and right now he wanted it shut off and silent. What was so wrong about that?
Derek opened his mouth, no doubt to say something about how he was oh so worried for Titch. Titch kissed him again, hard, to shut him up before he could say anything.
When he finally let go, Derek’s lips were swollen and red, like ripe cherries ready to pick. He looked very pretty, Titch thought, hair all mussed up. Titch lightly shoved the taller man, and Derek laid down on the bed agreeably. Looking from above, a part of Titch—the part that he always ignored—wanted to devour him, if only to fill the expansive hole in his heart.
Derek stared up at him, emerald eyes wide with desire and something else Titch refused to put a finger on, something soft as silk and warm as wool. “That’s okay, you don’t have to, love.”
Love. Derek was so nice to him, and for what? Titch wanted to break down and cry, but he wasn’t sure if he even had enough energy to turn on the faucet anymore. In fact, he wasn’t sure if his tear ducts were ever functional. A lot of his parts were dysfunctional, come to think of it. “I’m not your love.”
“I know,” Derek said, making fast work of the buttons on Titch’s shirt with his long, nimble fingers. “But we can pretend for one night, eh? I could be your love just tonight.”
“Yeah, alright,” Titch breathed out, resolutely ignoring how his voice broke as he practically tore the clothes of Derek. “Just—”
“Could you go and deliver the eulogy?” Titch said very quietly.
James didn’t look at him, head in his hands. Titch thought he might be crying again. James hadn’t done much beside crying, calming down from a cry, and gearing up to cry this whole week. Titch couldn’t even blame him for wandering around the house; that was James’ father with the mortician, for god’s sake.
A muffled voice. “You do it.”
“I can’t.”
This, James actually looked at him, all red rimmed eyes and eyebags. “What do you mean, you can’t?” There was a low note of something lurking in his voice, something ready to strike at the slightest trigger.
Titch decided not to mention the nights of sitting down with a pen and paper and coming up with nothing. “You’re his son, you should do it.”
“And you’re not? You’re not his son? Aren’t you my brother? Didn’t Father take you in when we were both still kids and raise us both?” James’ voice grew with each question. “What, you can’t even go on there and talk about him now?”
“I- I know your father- our father adopted me, and he gave me food and shelter and an education and a safe place to grow up when I had no one else, and I’m very thankful for that, but I just can’t!” Titch cried. I love Father, and I love you, I know I should do it, I swear to God, but don’t make me do this, I can’t I can’t I can’t—
“Can’t you do it?” Titch choked down his desperation, panic overtaking him. Can’t James just not ask so many pesky questions and do as he’s told for once? “I’m already taking care of the will, the deeds, the funeral, is it so much to ask you to do one thing for me? For us?!”
“Of fucking course,” James muttered, rolling his eyes, before he turned to Titch again. “You and your work and your moral high ground, it’s always like this with you! Would you like a medal, Titch? A fucking pat on the head?”
Titch winced; he would like some acknowledgement actually. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, though, guilt rose in him. God, he was so selfish.
Words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I want you to help me out! I’ve always been taking care of things for you and fixing your messes. I don’t care if you don’t give a shit about this farm, I can do the numbers and the logistics and deal with our partners, if you’d rather fuck off and play football with the kids all day! But for once in my life I want some help from you, if you don’t mind!”
Titch stopped, mildly surprised at how venomous he sounded right now. He shouldn’t be so cruel, not when James was grieving and exhausted. But he was tired too, and since when did exhaustion stop Titch from getting things done? “Or are you so pathetic that you can’t even go up there and talk about your own dad for five minutes?”
“You let me up there and I’ll tell everyone that he stuck me in this farm for my whole life, when I could be out there chasing my dreams. We had a fight right before he—” James croaked, unable to say the word. Titch looked away; seeing James about to cry again made him feel uncomfortable. It reminded him that he wasn’t crying, he wasn’t being a good son right now. He was doing everything all wrong.
“I don’t know what nice things I could say about him,” James continued, not bothering to wipe the tears away.
“He loved you,” Titch gaped at James’ audacity. That was their Father, he thought incredulously, couldn’t he think of even one good thing about the man who raised them, who raised Titch when he didn’t have to? “Father always loved you. Look at all these things he gave you, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Funny how I didn't really feel it sometimes,” James spat out the words. “Between the two of us, he always said one of us is the better son, the smarter half, the one he’s proud of. Only one of us got locked up in this farm forever, and it isn’t you.”
Titch flinched at the words ‘locked up’. “Don’t say it like that.”
“You know it’s true. You like this farm? Fine by me, I’m glad you got what you wanted, but I never had a choice to be anything else.”
Something about the way James said it lit a fire in Titch. How dare he. How dare he act like Titch could have chosen to be anything other than a farmer!
“I chose to stay because it’s my duty! I wish I could have a dad who cared enough about me to worry what I’d end up being too, but it’s just my shit luck that I ended up in the system! Your family took me in when they absolutely didn’t have to, and it’s my job now to repay this kindness by making sure the family farm stays running,” Titch said hoarsely, throat dry. “But what would you know about duty, James? You never had to work a day to earn a smile from Father.”
James’ face fell, but it only enraged Titch even more. He didn’t want pity, goddammit. James didn’t get it, did he?
“That’s not how it should be—”
“I’m not complaining, that’s the cards I’ve been dealt with, it’s no one’s fault that I’m adopted, and I do like farming.” Titch cut James off, with a sense of hurry that he himself didn’t understand. The idea of James getting offended on his behalf was so absurd he didn’t know if he should laugh or scream about it. “But I wish you’d see your hand of cards too, and stop whining about it. It’s really getting on my nerves.”
“Brother—”
“Don’t bother. Write it if you want, don’t write it if you really hate him so much. I’ll come up with something either way. Lord knows I always have.”
He gathered his bag, stuffing the notepad back in it, and rushed out of the house. He just couldn’t do this anymore, he couldn’t spend even another minute inside the house Father’s house. He would die in here, James would know all about how he was failing and Titch would be a butterfly pinned on cardboard and pulled apart and he needed to get out—
“Come back to bed.”
Titch half turned, heart pounding. Derek wasn’t loud at all, but Titch felt hazy, the high of orgasm having given way to a sense of nothingness, of something missing, and the sudden jerk back to reality was harsh.
He blinked. Derek was standing at the door, wearing only his boxers, hair wet. So that was what Titch forgot. Shower.
“I don’t know what you can wear tomorrow, I have any clothes here that would fit you, so…” Titch shrugged, lifting up the basket to let Derek see his shirt among Titch’s laundry. “I’ll send your suit to dry cleaning tomorrow.”
Derek chuckled lightly. The sound made Titch blush; he hoped Derek wasn’t making fun of him. “You’re doing laundry? Right after a shag?”
Titch fumbled, hating how stupid he seemed to be right now. “Well, when you put it that way—”
“Come on,” Derek pried the basket from his hand gently but without room for argument, and Titch couldn’t quite find the strength inside him to fight him.
God, you’re so bad at this.
With a frown, Titch headed to the kitchen, and took a beer from the fridge. Father’s pack of beer, he corrected himself in a daze, that he hadn’t finished before— well. Father never liked it when people moved his things without asking him, but it seemed silly now to let the alcohol go to waste, when it could play nice, go inside his veins and shut his brain up.
“You don’t have to do all this,” Titch said quietly later, when Derek ushered him out of the shower, after insisting that he cleaned himself up a bit.
“Uh, yeah, I have to. I like to feel clean when I cuddle,” Derek said with a small smile, watching Titch took his childhood blanket, walked out to the small balcony and sat down. The action came to him like second nature. Distantly, he registered that the cushions he had put down on the balcony floor as a child were still here. Titch didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to go to bed right now. The thought of actually, literally sharing a bed with Derek was simply too much.
He cracked open the can, and took a drink from it. Titch wasn’t a lightweight by all means, and usually he prided himself on his ability to match the older farmers when Father invited them around, but right now he very much wished he was one.
He heard a sigh behind him, and then strong arms embraced him from behind. Derek took the blanket from him, and wrapped it around himself. With how close they were, Titch could feel the vibrations in Derek’s chest as he spoke.
“You know, usually people go and sleep afterwards. Or they cuddle in bed.”
He was really shit at this, wasn’t he.
Derek’s head shifted a bit from above him. “No, no, I wasn’t complaining, just wondering what you’re thinking right now.”
Titch belatedly realized that he had said it out loud. That was very embarrassing. He took another swig of beer, swirling it around his mouth. He tried to focus on the bitterness, the shock of chill, and then the heat as he swallowed it down and let it burn his chest.
“Was it good?” Titch asked. “Did you feel good?”
“Yeah, I thought I was rather vocal about it,” Derek said, a teasing lilt in his voice. Titch liked that a lot, the way words sounded from his voicebox. He wanted to record them and put them somewhere safe, like in a music box.
“Good,” Titch nodded as firmly as he could manage right now.
Derek tilted his head, and Titch could feel his gaze on him, a gentle shine of curiosity in his eyes. Titch looked firmly ahead at the trees far beyond the farm, dark and tall and towering. He could map out the woods with his eyes closed, the way no one else quite could.
“Honestly, I worry more if you liked it,” Derek said finally.
“I do,” Titch said quickly. A beat too quick, perhaps, judging by Derek’s eyebrow raise.
“I mean, I’m not judging,” Derek said, his voice deliberately light in a way that Titch had come to understand meant he was judging, “but what you just went through today was… emotional, so to speak. Most people don’t go looking to get laid right after their parent’s funeral. ”
Laughter bubbled up, and Titch let it escape his lips. ‘Emotional’, it sounded so funny for some reason. “For James, maybe, but I don’t really feel anything right now, it’s not that emotional for me.” He scrunched his nose, examining the moments that he could remember right now. It was all a bit hazy, hopefully that meant the alcohol was starting to work. “Well, I felt pretty chilly in the fields, if you count that.”
“Titch…” Derek sighed, his breath tickling the side of Titch’s face. It was warm, too, Derek’s breath.
“You’re warm,” Titch decided. “That was nice. A nice warm-up.”
“Is that what I am now, a warm-up?” Bitterness had crept into Derek’s voice. Titch misspoke, didn’t he? It seemed he really couldn’t get anything right today, or indeed, for the last two weeks.
“No, no, no, I like you.” Night wind brushed against his exposed skin, and he burrowed himself into Derek’s arms a bit more. It wasn’t just about temperature, Titch thought, there was something else there, but his tongue felt heavy and he didn’t know how to say it. “It was really cold and loud and shitty out there, but you’re very warm. And now I feel warm too, and the world has gone a bit quieter now.”
Derek was quiet for a moment. “Can I say something?”
“Have you ever not?”
Derek ignored his little jab, and murmured, “you haven’t really cried, I’m worried for you.”
Titch drank some more beer. “Couldn’t cry,” he shrugged. “Couldn’t turn it on, I dunno why. I’m real bad at this shit.”
Derek looked at him, eyes impossibly soft. “Crying?”
“Feelings.”
(“What the fuck were you thinking?”
Titch looked up as Derek stormed into his office, wearing—surprisingly—not his dress shirt from yesterday. Good, at least he had the senses to go home and change first, before coming back to work.
“I wrote it down for you.”
“Yeah, I got that part alright,” Derek said, lips tightly pursed, fire blazing in his eyes. “What the fuck?”
Titch barely batted an eyelid, even as he saved the files on his computer first. Just in case. “I’m sorry if the letter wasn’t enough of an apology, I’m aware that what I did yesterday was—”
“I don’t want any apologies.” Derek strode back to close the door loudly, before he continued, quieter but no less fierce, “well, I’ll admit using me for sex to avoid processing your emotions is a real dick move, but I’ve also been dreaming of sleeping with you for ages. Don’t you dare say sorry.”
Titch blinked, dumbfounded. “You’re very forward with your feelings,” he said carefully, “have you… not had your coffee yet? I made enough in the pot for you.”
Derek walked up to him, staring Titch down in all his six foot five glory. Titch stared right back, not one to ever lose a staring contest. “You remember what I said last night, don’t you. You weren’t that drunk.”
Titch refused to look away on principle, but he’d admit that the quiet desperation in Derek’s eyes made him very uncomfortable. “Yes, I do,” he forced out.
“Nothing I’ll ever say can compare to how ‘forward’ I was,” Derek said, doing mocking little air quotes as he copied Titch’s words.
“Right, sorry.” Titch felt like he did something wrong here, although he wasn’t sure what it was exactly.
Derek took out the letter, and tore it in half. Then he tore the halves in half again, eyes still boring holes into Titch. He stuffed the pieces into the cup of coffee on Titch’s desk, and Titch was too shocked to grieve for the death of a perfectly good cup of coffee with the perfect amount of shots.
“I’m gonna woo you, Jack Gardner.”)
The image of James sobbing his heart out on the funeral entered Titch’s beer-soaked mind, and he suddenly giggled. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Derek hummed in assent, and Titch went on in a stage whisper, “James was really good at fake crying when we were kids. He cried all the time whenever things weren’t going his way. He didn’t do it to bully me, but it was really funny to watch, all screams and no real tears.”
After a few moments, when Derek didn’t answer, Titch chewed on his lips and said, “it was pretty smart actually. When you’re a kid and you throw a fit, you get the toys and candies you want.”
“Let me guess, you never faked a cry,” Derek said, the humor evident in his voice. “In fact, you never even looked at the general direction of toys or candies, you thrived on horticultural books and local produce alone.”
Titch winced. He knew Derek was taking the piss out of him, but something about the joke irked him. He needed more alcohol to deal with this. Taking another sip from the can, he said, “I actually played with dolls and trucks, and I really liked Hazelnut Cadbury bars. Still do.”
“You still play with dolls?”
Titch swatted Derek’s arms lightly. “You know what I meant.”
“And you never tried to get your way with your dad?” Derek had his chin rested on top of Titch’s head, almost nestling Titch within a cocoon. Titch found that he couldn’t really complain about this.
“Nah, I couldn’t do it. Father and Mother always looked so bothered and annoyed when James cried, like he was a real hassle. They gave in a lot of the times, y’know, but I didn’t want to be a hassle to them. They were already so busy raising the two of us. Seems wrong.”
“Did you get them then, when you never cried?” Derek whispered, so softly the words could melt into the breeze. “Your dolls and trucks and Cadbury?”
Titch looked down at Derek’s hands, gently thumbing his knuckles. The gesture comforted him, the feeling of bones under smooth skin. Derek was real, and he was here, and he was very warm. “I got to bring my favorite doll when I moved in, and then… well, I started getting pocket money when I was… eleven, I think? So I could save them up for candies. Grew out of toys by then, though.”
He thought about his childhood piggy bank that he never could bring himself to break, and smiled. “James didn't get any pocket money until he was fourteen, you know, he was always whining that I got to spend money and he didn't. Said it was unfair.” He rolled his eyes, amused at how immature James was, “Father and Mother bought him all those football stuff he wanted anyway. He’s such a baby.”
Derek made a soft noise from the back of his throat that Titch had no idea what it meant. “I’d buy you a doll if you want. Or a toy truck.”
“I literally work with trucks all the time now.”
“I’d buy you a doll then. You could comb her hair, or dress her, or… I dunno, whatever it is kids do with dolls. I wasn’t very fond of dolls as a boy.”
That’s a waste of money. We both know I don’t have the time for playtime anymore, you’re being stupid right now.
Instead, Titch said, “Why?”
“I think it’d make you happy.”
Titch’s nose twitched with an unpleasant tingle. “It’s not worth it.”
Derek flicked Titch’s arm, giving him an exaggerated pout, “it’s my money, I can decide what's worth it or not, thank you very much, mister.” And then a pause too long, and his voice softened, dangerously so, “and anyway, you’ve made me very happy tonight, Titch.”
The tips of Titch’s ears were burning, and he desperately hoped that Derek wouldn’t notice it in the dark. Damn him and his sincerity. Titch sighed, frustrated, his head starting to hurt. “It's just one night, Derek.”
“I know,” Derek said very quietly, and for a moment Titch was stupidly, irrationally scared he'd leave him right here on the balcony. In a fit of panic, he grabbed Derek’s arms and pulled himself closer into Derek’s hold, before Derek continued, “but it was a happy night anyway.”
Titch tried to imagine if it was Derek who only wanted to spend one night with him, and then he would leave Titch’s life forever. He couldn’t.
“Why?”
“Because you let me love you tonight.” Eyes green as oak leaves looked at him, with none of the hostility of the woods Titch grew up with. “Because I love you.”
Titch inhaled shakily. He couldn’t return Derek’s gaze, gentle but bright as the moonlight. All he could feel was the thrum of Derek’s heartbeat, steadfast and strong. Somehow, even as he tried to drown his mind in cheap beer, there was still enough clarity within him for one thought: he was a massive asshole. Derek deserved someone kind, someone with a heart, someone who’d cuddle in bed and not out on the chilly balcony. Someone who would return to him night after night.
Why?! He wanted to ask. And then, you shouldn’t. And finally, but I want you happy.
He thought he might be a little in love with Derek too.
“I’m sorry.”