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tunastime · 9 months

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Close to the Heart

Mornings are made for reflection. Mornings are also made for sleeping in. Tired, but unable to shut his eyes, Tom does only one of those, it seems. or, in a little slice of a world far from the one he came from, Tom finds comfort in silence, and comfort in the two people he cares about the most.

some bangarry in honor of the yogship bracket (and because someone (@shepscapades) decided to throw me into the deep-end of yogscast and i had to learn how to swim) <3 it's been an honor to get to learn them, and there might be more where this came from :3c

(words: 3701)

(read it on ao3!)

There was something in the silence that was good. It wasn't true silence—or it was never just silence. There was always something else there, something to add warmth to the stillness of sound—or the near stillness of it. Something to add itself to the quiet, which didn't make it no longer quiet. Just less quiet. A tick above the pitch of silence. He remembers what true silence feels like. Space is true silence, when the engines quiet and the shuttle drifts through lightless-ness, suspended in the absence of gravity. Hallways are silent, and so are test chambers, chambers turned rooms, turned into holding cells, still quiet, even with the dull hum-buzz of electric lightning or air conditioning. It became its own sort of claustrophobic silence, but not like the silence of nighttime. That wasn't quiet at all, and it's just now he liked it. The silence was full of small noise, not enough to breach, but enough to be noticed. Like now, as a warm, comfortable, safe body next to him shifts a little closer, presses their face a little harder against the soft outside of his arm. The sigh that emits is sleepy and full sounding, breathing out over the crest of his shoulder with a small huff.

Ben keeps himself close, but sprawled out, taking up as much of his side of the bed as he can. His body is half turned toward Tom, half, like his opposite shoulder, up, like he had started to turn but didn't get that far. He breathes soundly against his shoulder, warm and even. Who would've thought that the sound of breathing, of sniffling, of snoring, would be such a comfort.

To his other side, his right, another rests, curled away. His back fits into the space of his side, each notch of his spine perfectly fitting to the curve of him. His arm is trapped against the mattress, pinned under the slot of Harry's neck. Harry's hand clasps firmly, even in sleep, even as he's curled himself tightly over one knee, brought to his chest, even as his face contorts into a frown as he sleeps, over his wrist. Harry's breathing tickles the inside of his arm, but he can faintly feel his pulse against the space right before his elbow.

Despite being effectively pinned in place, there's something of a comfort to it, to the others finding safety in his presence. He finds ease in the way Ben sprawls into him and the way Harry uncurls himself just a bit when he's tucked close. The way Ben leans his tired weight into his shoulder and the way that Harry's sleepy fingers trace out the palm of his hand, down to the fingertip. It's not morning just yet, but there's a dull, blue-grey light filtering in through the window. He'll take the dregs of sleep where he can get them. And he does.

When he finally wakes, the pins and needles have gone from his arm, and there's a new, comfortable weight over him. He blinks, taking in the warm light of the morning as it cuts through the door to the porch. He can see the crown of Harry's head, the hair brushed away from his face. He's still perfectly tucked into Tom's side, but rests with his head against his shoulder. His hand winds around Tom's—he can feel Harry trace out his knuckles even as he stirs awake. Ben is facedown, arm strewn across Tom's chest. His hand curls against Harry's shoulder blade, as if he had spent time tracing the bone out under his hand. Tom squeezes the fingers he manages to catch in his hand, listening to the noise of protest that Harry makes as he's interrupted in his tracing. When he returns to it, feather-light against his skin, he's watching the pricks of light form.

Tom cranes his neck, pressing his face into Harry's hair, and he smells a bit like sawdust. Something in his chest squeezes unbearably tight around his heart and he breathes out into Harry’s hair to try and loosen it. Instead he gets a tired laugh that peters out into a hum.

After a moment of lying there, Harry drags himself up, dislodging himself from where he had tucked himself close to Tom. He rolls, leaning on one elbow, still wedged between Tom’s side and his arm, but propped up, now. He smiles tiredly at Tom, his half-lidded eyes just a touch far away. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression carries a weight of its own.

Tom’s hand finds the smooth shape of the crook of his elbow, settling his palm there, thumb tracing the inside of his arm. The smile on Harry’s face grows, until he’s laughing under his breath, his shoulders shaking.

“Gettin’ sentimental in your old age, Tom?” Harry mumbles. Tom can’t argue—he scrunches his face up, and Harry laughs again. Tom watches, a bit absentmindedly, a bit self-indulgently, the line of his neck as Harry swallows down the last bit of a laugh, and as Harry furrows his eyebrows just a little, as if to ask some ludicrous question that he won’t say. Tom’s hand drags up his arm, skips over his shoulder. It finds the back of his neck, fingers twisting in his dark hair.

It’s Harry who leans first, closing the space between them until there’s barely an inch that isn’t touching. He presses their lips together, and though it’s gentle, it’s anything but hesitant. He kisses him the way he does most things, with conviction, and want, and will, and not wholly unconfident in himself but certainly the smallest bit shy, despite the aforementioned conviction and want and will. Harry runs his hand up Tom’s arm, and though nobody sees, he feels his skin prickle with energy, and he stamps down a laugh in his throat at the last second. He’s good at that—holding back a big, giddy wave of laughter until he can really let it out, so he won’t ruin such a lovely moment.

Harry smiles first, and when Tom feels it, when he tries to not kiss his teeth, when he finally pulls back to see, it feels like the world's most addicting punch to the gut. His eyes are half-open again when Tom finally gets a good look at him, a smile still tugging at his mouth. Tom traces his thumb down the side of his jaw, where it meets his ear.

From beside Tom, after a moment, comes a small noise of protest. When he looks over, Ben is blinking back sleep, a frown curving his mouth down. His eyebrows are furrowed together, making a crease that Tom nearly reaches over to smooth out. He instead curls his arm around Ben’s shoulders, running his hand up his spine and over the back of his neck. His fingers comb through the hair at the base of his skull.

At the same time, Harry leans over Tom’s chest, stretching out and over to plant a dramatic kiss to the side of Ben’s head. He lingers there, forehead pressed to Ben’s temple as Ben startles, a laugh bubbling up through his chest.

“That’s more like it,” Ben says, laugh petering out as he speaks. It still lingers in the way he smiles as he leans back against Harry for a moment. Harry scoffs, and though his eye-roll isn’t visible, Tom can put his money on it being implied. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Ben seems to bask in the moment of contact, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. As Ben leans away from him, Harry buries his face in the side of Tom’s neck, letting out a profound sigh. Ben leans as much as Tom pulls him forward to kiss him properly.

There’s something different about kissing him, something that feels like he’s always waited so long to do, something that feels like tying a loose end. He smooths his fingers down the back of his neck, as if he were feeling out the spaces of Ben’s spine. It feels safe, it feels secure, and it feels a little like Ben’s elbow is digging into his ribcage and feels a bit like the shiver Ben shakes out when Tom’s hand brushes the side of his neck, but mostly, it feels like love. And a lot of it.

Ben mumbles something as he kisses the side of Tom’s mouth. Tom hums, but only gets halfway through his question before Ben laughs. When Ben pulls away, he stays with his forehead pressed to Tom’s. A smile plays on his face as he looks at him, and it must be something about the light of the room or how close he is, enough that their noses bump together, that makes him look so much younger. Maybe his features blur together, or maybe Tom’s eyes just really aren’t that good without his glasses, but he finds the breath too stuck in his throat to let out.

Ben laughs again, and for a moment, Tom feels everything settle around him, everything adjusts into place, like the world isn’t weird and like they aren’t stressed and tired. It’s good, it’s better than good, it’s sweet and safe and secure. Ben’s laugh fills a space previously cold in his chest like he’s pressed himself into that space. Tom squeezes the back of his neck, letting his eyes shut for a moment, a precious second in time, where it seems to stand still.

From the column of his neck, Harry laughs warmly. Ben draws back from Tom after a moment, shifting so his elbow isn’t pressing into his sternum. He makes a questioning noise, reminiscent of a scoff, just something small and breathy in his chest as Tom’s hand lingers on his neck. Tom watches as Ben looks down his neck, away from the spread of gold freckles over his cheeks, away from him, and to Harry, breathing warmly into his neck. Tom runs his fingers over Harry’s back, following the dip of his spine. Though Ben’s arm doesn’t come back to Tom’s chest, he does lean, planting a hand behind Harry. Tom watches him lean forward, feels him settle his weight against his side, and sees as he quickly kisses the high of Harry’s shoulder. From his neck, where he can’t see him, Tom hears Harry make a startled noise. He turns his head; Tom feels him press a little closer before he peels away with a tangible reluctance. He sits up, scrubbing at his eyes, pushing his hair away from his face. Ben shuffles back. The smile on his face is entirely directed at the tired, confused look Harry is shooting back at him. Tom splays his fingers over the small of Harry’s back as it smooths down his spine. Ben’s hand still holds his. With his other hand, he reaches out to Harry, hand cupping his cheek. Harry’s face doesn’t change, even as Ben coos at him, even as he leans forward to kiss the bridge of his nose. Harry startles with what sounds almost like a chuff, jerking back, held still only by the hand on the base of his spine. Ben laughs. Harry tips his face into his hand, grumbling like he’s cursing, until Ben leans forward to kiss him square on the mouth.

Tom visibly sees Harry tense and relax, hand reaching across Tom to latch onto Ben’s shoulder. He spiders his way across it, smoothing his thumb over the fabric. Tom feels Ben squeeze his hand. He runs his thumb over the ridges of his knuckles, and when Ben pulls away from Harry, turning to glance at him, he grins. His face is flushed across his cheeks, pink at the tip of his nose, and Harry’s no better. He’s worse, even, leaning into Ben’s temple, hand falling to the inside of Ben’s elbow. Ben laughs a little, leaning back into him as much as he can. Tom drags his hand over the small dip of Harry’s back. He wonders, just for a moment, what exactly he might be thinking, what all this might be like for him. Ben kisses between his eyes again, his cheek, pulling a face as Harry squirms away from him.

Harry lies back down, draping himself over Tom’s stomach, groaning in protest. Tom runs his hand absently over his back as he tries to hold in a quiet laugh, to keep Harry comfortable where he lies. Ben sighs, tsks, face morphing as he looks over at Tom, softening around his eyes, mouth curving into a frown—and a pitying one at that. He runs his hand over the back of Harry’s head, burying it in his hair. Harry makes a tired noise in response, but doesn’t lift his head.

“Right,” Ben laughs. “Okay.”

“Legs aren’t working,” Harry says, muffled from where he lies face down.

“Not working?” Tom asks.

“Nope. Ben’ll have to carry me.”

“Wha—” Ben snorts, leaning back a bit on his free hand. “And why’s that?”

“You took him out, Ben!” Tom starts, hand pausing on the center of his back. Harry interrupts with a drawn out, tired noise. Tom resumes his tracing. Ben meets his eye, looking between him and Harry laid out across him.

“Did not—!”

“Fucks sake,” Harry drawls, drawing out the vowels. Ben shakes his head.

“I am not carrying you, Harry.”

Tom laughs again. It shakes Harry from where he rests, but doesn’t seem to draw any complaints from him. Smoothing the flat of his palm against the center of his back, Tom shifts to sit up. Harry doesn’t sit with him, but instead falls from sternum to stomach to lap, until he’s draped himself over his knees. Harry’s hand shoots out, searching blindly in front of him as he lies over Tom’s legs, trying to find any point of contact with Ben in front of him. He’s unsuccessful, though, as Ben worms back out of reach, giggling to himself. Tom takes up the task of raking his fingers through Harry’s hair, feeling him sag as he relaxes again. In about thirty minutes, Tom won’t be able to do this anymore—Harry’ll be back to his usual self, much less pliant and much more annoying. Tom’s heart swells with affection. Ben glances over from where he stands at the bedside. He sweeps his arms over his head, eyes screwing shut as he stretches, bends this way and that to work out the kinks in his spine. He raises an eyebrow as he settles, glancing down at Harry. Tom shrugs.

“Mrgh,” Harry complains, barely a word at all. Tom snorts.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

Sighing, Tom prods Harry’s ribs. Harry jolts, squirming away from the ticklish spot and further off Tom’s legs. He lies partially across his side of the bed, eyes half open, looking almost defeated alongside the pathetic, fake sob he whines out. As Tom stretches, climbing off the side of the bed, his eyes follow.

After a moment of standing at the bedside, Tom sighs, low and deep in his chest. He shuffles over to the opposite side. There, he meets one of the cats, still dozing on Harry’s cold pillow, and Harry’s shin, as his legs are thrown across his side of the bed. He gives it a firm pat before he stands there, arms open.

Harry squints up at him.

“What?”

“Come on.”

“Seriously?” Harry says, suddenly a touch more alert than he was previously. He sits up on his elbows.

“You wanted to,” Tom prompts.

“Well, I didn’t mean it,” Harry backpedals. The pale stretch of skin up his neck is turning pink.

“So you don’t want me to,” Tom asks, drawing back. His hands sit between them, half open, half welcoming him forward and half pulling away. A lazy smile worms onto his face, eyebrows raised expectantly. A floaty, fuzzy feeling roots around in his chest, in the pit of his stomach, watching the uncharacteristic flush grow on Harry’s face. Ben leans against the banister of the stairs, watching with his chin in his hand. Harry shoots him an icy look, but the expression melts as soon as it freezes. Looking back to Tom, he deflates.

“Auww, fuck,” he sighs, scrunching up his face. If Tom has any less common sense he might be tempted to call it a pout. “I didn’t say that…”

Tom holds out his arms, waving him over. With a start, Harry wades over through the rumpled comforters, his initial surprise shifting into something much more self-satisfied as he meets Tom. Tom scoops him into his arms, feeling Harry hook both of his arms around his neck. One of Tom’s hands curls around his hip, Harry’s back resting in the crook of his arm, where the other rests under his knees. Harry leans his forehead against his temple, slouching to nose at his cheek, humming something about how he didn’t have to, but that soon morphs into how he always takes such good care of him, that it’s the best, or maybe that he's the best. Tom tries to crane his neck to plant a kiss on any open spot he can, but finds none as Harry jerks away from him, pressing his face to his shoulder, twisting himself in his arms. Tom laughs again, and so does Ben from the banister as Tom wanders over.

“Proud of yourself?” Ben asks, affection flooding his voice, despite the roll of his eyes. He runs his hand over Harry’s knee and down to his ankle, giving it a squeeze before letting go.

“Maybe,” Harry says from where his face is buried. He lifts it for a moment to presumably glare at Ben, but his voice sounds too full of a smile to really mean anything. “Fuck off.”

Ben sticks his tongue out.

“Please, boys,” Tom starts. Harry grumbles, cutting him off as he tries to make his home in the side of Tom’s neck a little more comfortable. Tom shifts him in his arms as he wanders to the stairs. “You’re both unbelievable.”

Ben laughs at the same time that Harry huffs. Neither of them are particularly heavy. Well, Harry isn’t heavy, he’s just awkward and tall, and Ben isn’t heavy, he just goes completely dead-weight, and there’s no way Tom could carry either of them much more than twenty minutes without needing to switch how he was lifting. He wasn’t exactly made to carry anyone. He puts the thought aside for now, as much as it makes him laugh to entertain the thought of lifting them both.

“Ben,” he says, leaning his head to him. “You mind putting the kettle on?”

“On it,” Ben says. The infectious smile that lingers on his face is back, and he must shoot one at Harry, too, because Tom feels him sigh against his neck, feels him get a little heavier. He soothes his thumb over the divot of his hip, finding a strip of exposed skin. He’s still sleep-warm, clinging to Tom’s neck, dozing off again most likely. Tom takes the stairs slowly, making sure not to jostle him too much.

As he reaches the final step, he moves them both toward the kitchen table. Ben’s already at the stove-top, putting a kettle with chipping paint on the stove, alongside a tin coffee pot. With his foot, Tom pulls out one of the chairs, sinking to set Harry into it. Harry goes, a touch unwillingly, leaning back until his legs stretch out under the table. He sighs.

“Normally you’re the sleepy one, Tom. You’ve gone and rubbed off on me, what the fuck.”

“Not my fault you came in late last night,” Tom argues. He takes down three mugs, lining them up on the counter beside the stove. Ben nods his thanks. “That’s on you.”

Harry scuffs, sighing, but leaves it at that.

Tom lingers at Ben’s side as he starts breakfast. They work in tandem, as if tethered, Tom watching Ben’s hands move as he slices bread, as he finds the tin of sugar, as he searches for a spoon that Tom hands him instead. He laughs, scrunching up his nose, and Tom smiles, warm and full. He leans into him after a second, as Ben lifts the kettle off the stove and leans back into him, laughing low and to himself. Tom kisses the side of his head. His chest feels full up through his lungs with affection, and his body tired and heavy with it, too—though he would put money on it being sleep that still lingered behind it all. From the kitchen table, he hears Harry hum to himself. Tom glances over from where he rests against Ben’s shoulder.

“Look at you two lovebirds,” he says, leaning on his hand. His mouth curves into a smile when Tom meets his eye. Though Ben declines to comment, aside from a soft huff that only Tom catches, Tom sighs, a touch dramatically, against Ben’s cheek, earning another laugh from Ben in his direction.

The rest of the morning moves in relative silence, as it often does. Aside from the playfulness, and the genuineness that hides behind it, most of their language is in silence, like it often was. Ben pours two cups of tea, adds sugar to black coffee. Tom sets a cup of coffee in front of Harry and leans to kiss the side of his head. From his spot at the table, Harry flushes, even now, even after so much time of being kissed, being held, and being loved. It always seemed to catch him a little by surprise, even with his bravado. Ben passes Tom a cup of tea, keeping it warm in the cradle of his hands. Tom smiles, as he often does, more often than not, as he takes it, sitting across from Harry at the table. And finally, Ben joins them, poking Tom’s shin with his foot, shutting his eyes as he takes a long sip of hot tea. They wait for the toaster, they sit in silence and drink, and they glance through the ice crusted on the window. Inside is warm, safe, and loved. Inside is home. Inside is where Tom keeps a special sort of silence close to the heart, where it belongs, and where it can settle, understood.

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