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whumpcereal · 2 years ago

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the kennel recovery arc

part three of the kids not being alright (follows will and annie's povs), just prior to annie and will's first real date (which will be cute and come next, because yikes, this piece is dark). part of the kennel (masterlist here). tommy is...not doing well.

content warnings for: references to past noncon, trauma, captivity, and dehumanization, mobility issues, guilt, problematic self-talk, alcohol, adult language

first date, a prelude (tommy's pov)

Tommy’s not even sure where he is. He parked the truck once Annie went inside and walked to the subway. He got off the 7 at Bryant Park and then drifted downtown on the B or the D train or something. The line was orange. He knows that. He’d taken it a few times before, when was auditioning for the company.

He gets off at West 4th and climbs the dirty stairs back up to the sidewalk. He doesn’t even really remember where the company’s studio is, just that this was going to be his stop. He was going to ride that line every day. He was going to know this neighborhood.

He doesn’t know a thing.

It’s fucking cold, and, even if Tommy has no clue what he wants to do, standing on a random corner in the dark doesn’t seem like the world’s best option. He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, picks a direction, and starts walking. His right leg drags a little behind, the ankle turned at not-quite the correct angle, but he can still get around.

The streets are narrower down here, older, and they’re lined with bars and restaurants, stuffed with people who are celebrating the end of the work week or the start of a weekend bender.

Tommy envies them. The men in their three-piece suits, the women wearing precisely curated boots, the college kids who are dining out on their parents’ dime. Every one of the people he passes has a life. Tommy was supposed to have one too.

Instead, he sits in his parents’ living room and watches television all day. It was ballet documentaries at first, but they made his mother cry, and fucking Tiler Peck was so cheerful that it made Tommy want to scream. Lately, it’s been true crime. The First 48 and Unsolved Mysteries and whatever sordid cold case he can find. Mom won’t watch those with him. It’s too hard for her to think of what might have been.

When he leaves the house, it’s usually for therapy. For his brain and his body. Neither seems to be working wonders so far. He can’t rise to take a balance, he can’t hold a port de bras, and he can’t make sense of anything that’s happened, even if he pretends otherwise. He craves the privacy of his dark room, but he can’t sleep. No one’s noticed. Tommy’s a great show dog, after all. He knows his role. Tommy’s the lucky one; it’s Will everyone should be worried about, and they are.

It’s just that, maybe, Tommy envies the way Will gets to fall apart.

He steps off a curb the wrong way, and his ankle almost comes out from under him.

“Shit,” Tommy mutters, righting himself before he gets steamrolled by a cab. He steps out of the foot traffic and looks around. It’s still busy, but the storefronts aren’t as cozy and cutesy. He’s standing in front of black door with frosted glass windows. There’s a decal on the glass, styled like typewritten text:

the white swallow.

Well. Tommy’s pretty sure he knows what kind of place that is. He ignores the taste that rises unbidden in his mouth.

Tommy didn’t frequent the bars when he was in school. He was too disciplined. Drinking, he decided, would make him slow and soft. He had to stay focused, couldn’t afford to compromise his fitness. He had to be the best.

He was, for a while. The best. He isn’t anymore.

Fuck it, he thinks. He opens the door and pushes into the narrow vestibule.

It’s still early, so there’s no cover. A guy in tight black pants checks Tommy’s ID, but he’s barely looking. A quick glance, and then he thumbs Tommy down the hall. Tommy appreciates it; he doesn’t like it when people look too closely.

The bar is mostly empty at this hour. It’s dark: black walls, a smudged chrome bar with black leather rails on its edge, a bartender wearing a black leather cut who basically blends into his surroundings. The whole place smells faintly of musk and mildew and sweat. Like men. Tommy’s shoes stick to the floor as he moves to get a drink.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks. He’s staring at Tommy, looking him up and down, and Tommy feels his cheeks burn. Tommy knows the guy likes what he sees, and Tommy wishes that he didn’t. He just wants to disappear.

Maybe this wasn’t a great idea.

Still, Tommy clears his throat, keeping his eyes on the streaky bar. “Uh, vodka?”

“Straight?”

He winces. Of course, he doesn’t even know how to order a fucking drink. “No. With soda.”

“Lime?”

He nods.

The bartender’s hands are deft, and he turns and glides the length of the bar without effort. Tommy envies the ease in the guy’s every movement; he doesn’t even realize he’s staring until the bartender shoves the drink in his hand.

“You wanna open a tab, baby?”

Tommy nods, because that’s what people do at bars, right? They open tabs, they sit and drink, they pass the time. They exist.

He digs in his pocket and hands over his debit card. It’s connected to an account that his parents dump money into once a month. He still gets a fucking allowance.

But it’s not like the bartender knows that. Tommy watches the guy file his card away, and he drains his drink in one go. It burns a little going down, but it’s not the worst thing he’s ever forced down his throat. Not by a long shot.

“Damn.”

There’s a soft chuckle beside him, and Tommy jumps. He should’ve been paying attention. He should’ve moved down the bar and found his own spot. He shouldn’t have made himself so vulnerable. He shouldn’t have come in at all. But it’s too late now.

He feels the man’s heat beside him before he finds the courage to look up. Already, Tommy’s body is on high alert, and he can hear Doc’s voice in his head.

Come on now, Champ. Good boys are always ready.

He can feel himself stirring, and he only hopes the guy doesn’t notice that or the tears of humiliation pricking at the back of Tommy’s eyes. Tommy might have thought the guy was cute, once upon a time. He’s tall and lean, dark brown hair and big brown eyes. He’s wearing a white dress shirt and navy blue chinos, his dark blue tie loosened just below his collar. He keeps one hand on the rail, opening his body toward Tommy, and he smiles.

Tommy can’t see the door. There’s no way out. There’s never a way out. He grips the leather rail and forces his eyes back to the bar.

“That was impressive,” the man says, nodding at Tommy’s empty drink. “Never seen you before.”

Tommy suddenly feels like he’s breathing through a straw. “It’s a big city.”

“It is,” the man agrees, “but this isn’t the kind of spot where we get a lot of tourists.”

“I’m not a tourist,” Tommy says. It’s true. It’s not like this is some pleasure cruise. He’s not on top of a double-decker bus taking in the tacky glare of Times Square. He can’t tour the life he should be living; he can only wander through like a ghost.

“New in town, then?” The guy leans in closer, letting his hip graze Tommy’s.

“I’m a dancer,” Tommy says without thinking. He doesn’t know why he says it.

The guy slips his hand into Tommy’s back pocket and squeezes. “Are you?”

No, I’m not. But Tommy is frozen. He can’t take it back now; he can’t even move. The hand on his ass is warm through the thin fabric of his pocket lining, and he can feel himself swelling against his fly.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

The guy slips even closer to Tommy, his pelvis against Tommy’s hip. He reaches up and gently tilts Tommy’s chin to face him. “I bet you are. Look at you.”

Look at you, Champ.

Tommy doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes until he feels the man’s mouth on his. The kiss is softer than he might have expected, and Tommy finds himself leaning into it. He lets the guy’s tongue sweep into his open mouth, and he groans. Teeth sink into Tommy’s bottom lip and skate gently backward. The man pulls away, and Tommy opens his eyes.

“What’s your name, baby?” the man asks, voice husky.

“Tommy.” Not Champ. Tommy. I’m Tommy.

“Tommy the dancer,” he says. “I’m Alex.”

“Alex the–”

“Administrative assistant,” Alex finishes for him. For just a second, his confidence cracks. “Not as impressive, but it’s a damn fine alliteration.”

A hesitant smile cracks Tommy’s face. He swallows a laugh. “Hi, Alex.”

“Hi, Tommy,” Alex says, dipping his head for another kiss.

His mouth is hot and cold all at once, warm breath and smoky whiskey and ice. His hands are in motion, turning Tommy toward him by the hips, slipping over Tommy’s chest, anchored on Tommy’s shoulders. When they come up for air, his forehead nods softly against Tommy’s.

“What are you drinking, Tommy the dancer?”

Tommy doesn’t answer right away; Alex presses forward for another kiss, and he can’t fucking think straight.

“Vodka. Vodka soda,” Tommy manages.

Alex turns his head and gestures to the bartender with one hand, letting the other rest at Tommy’s waist. “You’ve got a body to maintain. I understand. I respect it.”

Tommy only nods. He does have a body, and it’s his, his and no one else’s, and he wants Alex to touch it. He wants Alex to touch every inch of him until Doc’s fingerprints are covered over. He wants to run away. He wants another kiss. He wants to scream until his throat is raw.

He wants to leave this bar and go back to an apartment that has his name on the lease and wake up in the morning and go to the studio and feel his body move the way it’s supposed to. He wants Alex to be the guy he texts before he goes to sleep and when he wakes up in the morning. He wants to kiss and fuck and laugh and cry and for all of this to be normal.

He doesn’t want to hide. He wants Tommy the dancer to be real.

“Vodka soda and a Jack and coke,” Alex says over his shoulder, shoving his pelvis against Tommy’s. Tommy’s ass bumps up against a barstool, and Alex smiles. “And where does Tommy the dancer dance?”

He drops his head and scrapes his teeth down Tommy’s throat. Tommy’s head tips backward, and Alex’s fingers tangle in his curls. Tommy feels himself throbbing beneath his zipper; Alex grinds hard against him. Tommy can’t stop the moan that exits his open mouth.

Alex laughs and leans backward. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

The drinks arrive. Both glasses are already sweating. Tommy grabs his and throws at least half of it down his throat.

Alex’s forehead creases. “Hey. You good?”

Tommy nods, coughing against the acid burn of the alcohol in his throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He’s not, but who knows if he’ll ever be good again?

The drink shocks him back into semi-awareness. The bar is a shithole. Alex smells like sour sweat. Tommy should slow down. He has to be able to drive Annie home.

But Alex is touching him and no one is watching. No one but Alex is watching Tommy at all.

“Did you have a bad day or something?” Alex asks. His grip softens, and his hand slides gently back to Tommy’s hip.

“Or something,” Tommy mutters. He forces himself to put his drink down. He hopes Alex doesn’t notice the way his hands are shaking.

“Maybe we can make your day better,” Alex says softly. He dips his chin and his brown eyes–fuck, they look like Will’s–are big and needy. Alex doesn’t move closer this time, and Tommy understands: it’s his turn. No one wants to take advantage of the drunk bitch.

“Maybe,” Tommy says, and he wraps his arms around Alex’s neck. He feels heavy and clumsy, but Alex’s smile spreads like butter, and Tommy doesn’t let go.

Alex snakes his arm around Tommy’s body and reaches for his own drink; he takes a sip without breaking eye contact, the glass so close to Tommy’s face that Tommy can almost feel the cold wet on his skin. Like winter air. Like nighttime. Like everything he missed while he was locked away. He can smell the sugar on Alex’s breath. The drink makes its way back to the counter, and Tommy’s mouth makes its way back to Alex’s.

Tommy’s kisses are indelicate and pleading. He reaches for the loosened tie around Alex’s neck and pulls him close, knocking his elbow into his vodka soda.

The drink spills, and the bartender curses, and Alex pulls away, laughing.

“I’d ask if you want to finish your drink,” Alex says, “but it appears to be all over the bar.”

Tommy laughs. Or at least, he hears himself laugh. He can see himself against the bar, like he’s watching it from above. The sweat at his hairline, the nervous fidget of his hands. The beautiful man beside him who doesn’t know that he should run the other direction.

Alex cocks his head. “Well, Tommy the dancer, what would you think about getting out of here?”

Tommy nods. He leans against the barstool while Alex pays their tabs, taking his card when it’s handed to him, and he tries to make sense of what he’s about to do. He’s going to leave this place with a stranger, and he is going to ask that stranger to fuck him. Alex will do it, and they will be the only two people who know it. No one will be watching. There won’t be paid requests or camera angles to consider. Tommy is going to obliterate every memory of what Doc did to him in that glass box.

Or maybe, Tommy will fuck Alex. Not like Doc made him fuck Will. No, he and Alex, they’ll do it face to face. He’ll be able to hear Alex, to see on his face that he wants it. Alex’s brown eyes will be Will’s, and he will forgive Tommy.

Maybe they can do both. They’ll hold each other after. Maybe Tommy can bury himself in Alex’s bed and never come up for air again. That’s what he’s been trained to do, isn’t it? And he’s a good boy. He is. A champ.

“Tommy?”

Tommy jerks when he feels Alex’s hand on his arm.

“Hey, whoa. You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says weakly. “Just spaced out there for a minute. Let’s–let’s go.”

“My place isn’t far,” Alex says, pressing a quick kiss to Tommy’s cheek and lacing their hands together. “Noho. Maybe ten minutes walk.”

If Tommy’s life had gone according to plan, he’d know what the fuck Noho is. He might have an apartment there too. He might do things like go to greenmarkets on the weekend and make impossibly charming meals from scratch in his railway kitchen. He’d have a park he lies out in when it gets warm, a bodega where the guy behind the counter knows him. Alex might be his boyfriend, and he wouldn’t have to tell Tommy how long it takes to get to his place because Tommy would already know.

But it doesn’t matter where they’re going. He lets Alex lead him from the bar like the puppy he’s trying hard not to be. He needs someone to show him the way.

They only just make it out the door when Alex stops. He squeezes Tommy’s hand and looks over at him with concern. “Tommy the dancer, you are limping.”

Tommy had forgotten. Half a drink and a few kisses, and he’d let himself forget. He should say it’s a recent injury. Dancers get hurt all the time. But when dancers get hurt, there are orthopedists and physical therapists and fucking doctors. Their ankles don’t get broken and haphazardly set and then broken again. They aren’t made to hold their entire body weight for hours on a tenterhook of crumbling bone.

Tommy isn’t a dancer. He’ll never be a dancer, not ever again. It was stupid to pretend.

Tommy pulls his hand away and ducks his head; he doesn’t want Alex to look at him. Not anymore.

“Tommy? Hey, man, are you–”

Tommy bats Alex’s hand away before it can touch him. “I have to go.”

“What the fuck? What did I–”

“Nothing,” Tommy says to the sidewalk, and his voice splinters as a lump of tears hits his throat. “You didn’t do anything. It’s me–I–I can’t–I just have to go.”

“Are you okay?” Alex asks. “I mean, you don’t seem drunk, but–”

“It isn’t that,” Tommy interrupts. “Please. Let me go.”

But Alex isn’t touching him, and nothing’s really happened. Still, Tommy wants to fall on his knees and beg. It’s all he knows how to do.

“Tommy?”

Tommy shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t do this. I can’t–

Alex’s hand brushes against Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy screams. Alex jumps back.

Tommy shouldn’t have screamed. He isn't allowed to scream. He isn’t allowed to fight. He knows that better than he knows anything. If Alex wants to take him home, Tommy should let him.

Just now, it doesn’t really look like Alex wants to go anywhere with him at all.

“Fuck! Shit, man. Look, I don’t–is there someone I can call?”

A half-strangled laugh bounces out of Tommy’s mouth, and Alex flinches like it’s hit him in the chest. Who the fuck would he call? His mother? And it’s not like he can interrupt Will and Annie, and fuck if Will wouldn’t think Tommy was reaping what he sowed. And he is, isn’t he? Tommy deserves this. This fucking misery is his just desserts, and for just a second, he’s glad he can feel it. He’s glad he doesn’t have to pretend.

“No, there’s no one,” Tommy says wildly. “And it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter.”

“I don’t–”

“It doesn’t matter if I want it,” Tommy cries. “Don’t you know that?”

A few passersby glance at them, and Alex takes another step back. “Jesus Christ.”

Tommy turns away, raking his hands over his face and dragging his tears with them. He can feel the vodka sloshing in his stomach, and his chest burns. He braces himself against the building.

“Look,” Alex says, his voice careful and even, like he’s talking to a spooked animal–which, Tommy supposes, he is. “I don’t know what your deal is, but I don’t feel right just leaving you here.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy murmurs. “You can–you can go.”

“Yeah, sure you are.”

I’m not, Tommy wants to say. But he doesn’t, because what would it accomplish? Alex isn’t going to touch him now, and Tommy still doesn’t know if he wants him to. What does this guy know about him? Nothing. He thinks that Tommy is a dancer. He doesn’t know what Tommy really is, and Tommy can’t tell him. Tommy can’t tell anyone. No one wants to hear. He’s supposed to be better. This is supposed to be easier than it is. But he can feel Alex’s eyes on his back, and it’s like he’s back in the glass box.

He should have just stayed in the truck. He should have sat and stared at his phone and waited for Annie.

He should have gone home with Alex, and now it’s too late. It’s too late for so many things.

Tommy’s phone suddenly buzzes against his hip. He swipes his arm across his eyes and digs into his pocket.

Annie Barker On our way back. Ready when you are.

The screen lights up again.

Annie Barker We’ll wait out front.

“Tommy?”

Another message comes in.

Annie Barker He wants to see you too. <3

“Okay,” Tommy murmurs. He keeps his phone in his hand, keeping his other hand pressed against the wall. “Okay.”

“Look, can I give you my number?” Somehow, Alex hasn’t left him yet. “No funny business, just–will you let me know that you get to wherever you’re going safely? You’re going somewhere, right? You have somewhere to go?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. He forces himself to stand, and he turns to face Alex, letting his left leg make up for his right. He doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“Tommy the dancer,” Alex says softly. Tommy feels him move closer again, but Alex doesn’t touch him. “I’m sorry. For whatever it is that happened to you.”

He reaches his hand out, and Tommy hands over his phone, letting his fingertips crest softly over the heel of Alex’s palm when he draws away. Alex taps in his number and hands it back.

“Will you make it okay?” Alex asks.

“I’ll be okay.” It’s what Tommy’s meant to say, even if he doesn’t know how to believe it. “Really.”

“Make sure you let me know that you are,” Alex says.

Tommy slips his phone into his pocket and taps it against his hip. “I will.”

Alex leaves him then, and this time, it’s Tommy who watches. He waits until he can’t see Alex anymore, and then he heads back toward the train, his gait slower and more stilted than when he started. Every step is a reminder of what he’s lost, but he is still standing, and Will is waiting for him.

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1926, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake

#the kennel #tommy mahoney oc #is really not having his very best day #or series of days #but alex the bar guy is there to help #kind of #look this is tommy just letting himself feel what he feels for a minute #and he deserves that #tw past noncon #next time will and annie will have a date and it will be cute and soft and adorable #but for now #pain

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