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Tom’s not a small man, he knows this. At 6’5, he struggles not to be noticed, standing a head above every crowd. There’s something easy about this, and, strong as he is, he can be intimidating when he wants to be. Rarely do other people pose much of a problem for him – those who enjoy conflict turned away by his stature, those who don’t, placated by his charming, self-deprecating nature. Ethical, easy-going, and handsome, with an endearingly low self-esteem – he’s the perfect man.
AJ, gorgeous AJ, certainly seems to think so. The way he looks at Tom, with those pretty eyes… Tom’s not sure exactly what he’s done to deserve this sometimes. It almost feels like a punishment, spending the rest of his life with a man Tom’s absolutely certain is too good for him.
This makes Tom feel small – frighteningly so. There’s an odd sense of slipping control, every time they argue, every time AJ gets too close to some young, pretty boy. Not that AJ’s gaze would ever wander, not like Tom’s thoughts do. And wander they do - far and wide, diving off cliffs worn down by raging seas of jealousy and anxiety, tearing through forests of carefully seeded hopes, leaving nought but footprints in their wake.
And Tom will sit there, still, mourning the very thing he breathes life into.
AJ’s big and strong. Not as tall as Tom. Not as strong as Tom. But it’s more visible on AJ, and Tom’s always happy to accept defeat when it works out on his favour. It turns out there are benefits to being laid out on one’s back. Especially when he can watch AJ’s beautiful face, those plush lips, freckles, beard, leaning over him, lips against his lips, chest against his chest, soft sighs and sliding of skin, and safety.
Tom doesn’t need anything from AJ beyond his time, for the rest of his life. But AJ gives so much, kisses, touch, little gifts. Stupid, silly things like remembering his birthday and buying him flowers on their anniversary, things that Tom’s sure he could live without.
And sometimes AJ just holds him.
The middle of the night, his arm over Tom’s chest and a leg over his legs, his face in Tom’s shoulder, fast asleep and breathing deeply. His eyelids twitch as he dreams about lenses made of chocolate and a gym full of tiny squids that sound like Tom. His breath puffs against Tom’s collarbone, his chest moving Tom’s arm back and forth.
On a sofa, before a show, Tom nestled between his legs, AJ’s face buried in his neck, sleepy, arms wrapped around his shoulders. Tom’s the only one he can stand before a show, needing something before he can manage to go out on stage, all smiles and energy. Tom worries about this, and then worries about worrying, not wanting to be a worrier. He also worries it’s too late to worry about worrying, and that he might already be a fully-fledged worrier, established in the Worrying Halls Of Fame.
On a balcony, in the rain, because Tom’s dying of cancer, and- no, wait, that was a nightmare.
On their balcony, in the sunshine, AJ’s head against his shoulder as they sip coffees and bitch about Sam. AJ shifts, puts his coffee down, and wraps an arm around Tom’s shoulders. Says something nonsensical, makes Tom laugh. A proper, chest-deep chuckle, making Tom’s shoulders move as he laughs, happy not to be on stage. As much as he loves his job, it’s nice not to be watched. He likes laughing.
And it makes him feel so small, in the best way. Because, in AJ’s arms, he doesn’t have to take on the world. Or that prick Danny from the bar last week. He can be small, and nothing more, or less, than AJ’s.
It’ll never be easy. But, Tom thinks, sipping coffee, watching the city blur as his eyes start to close, maybe it doesn’t have to be. Maybe it can just be his.