deadlines and commitments [tommy]

6 july 2004 // newcastle

It was Tuesday, they said, but that didn’t matter much to him; he just wanted to go home. Artie pat his pockets again, feeling his keys, his wand, his wallet-- luxuries. He didn’t dwell on it for too long, keen to get back to Newcastle, his tiny flat specifically. Maybe his brother would be there-- or maybe he wouldn’t. Artie hadn’t told him that the early release was a possibility, didn’t want to get Tommy’s hopes up in case it didn’t pan out, then once it had panned out there was no time to send an owl, no phones at Azkaban.

He apparated as soon as he was able, not worried that he had forgotten how to do it at some point in the last three years. His building looked the same, the stairwell, hall-- all the same. The key still worked in the lock and Artie pushed the door open, greeted by stale, warm air and the sight of his little brother stretched out on the sofa, asleep. He looked taller, he thought, or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him, seeing him outside of that visiting room for the first time since--

The other changes in the room crept up on him; his television had been replaced by a larger, sleeker one; there were a few extra boxes sitting on the floor by the VCR, wires trailing to the television; the pillows on the bed had multiplied; there were dishes piled in the sink (and stacked next to it) to indicate Tommy had been cooking, had even used the stove.

Artie sighed, glancing at his brother again, still asleep. It was well past noon, so he didn’t exactly feel bad about it when he reached behind him for the door, closing it with enough force to rattle the lone window. “Rise and shine, mate,” he said with a cheeky grin, tossing his keys onto the counter.

@Thomas Harrison

Slam.

Tommy’s eyes snapped open and he rolled off of the sofa in a panic, hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thud and a rattling chorus of empty cider cans tipping over on the coffee table as he clipped it on the way down. He looked up, hands already poised to push himself to stand— “Artie,” he said; half-question, half-statement.

The blond wizard got to his feet, staring at his older brother like he was looking at a ghost. After a moment, he lunged forward for a hug. He stayed in the embrace for a long minute, gripping the other man’s form tightly as though he might fade into nothingness if he let go too soon. “You’re out,” he mumbled (unnecessarily — obviously he was out), then he remembered what month (and year) it was and—

“Did you escape?” he asked as he pulled back, hands still loosely on his brother’s upper arms and a look of worry on his features — his features that so closely mirrored the man he was staring at in disbelief. Azkaban wasn’t known for being escapable, but then there’d been at least two well-publicised ones in their lifetimes, and there weren’t dementors guarding the place anymore.

Tommy was on the floor and-- yeah, not giving him a nicer wakeup was a good choice. He was still grinning when his brother said his name, though the corners of his mouth dipped down a smidge as he clocked the cans littering the coffee table. But this was meant to be a good day; there would be time later to remind him about their dad and the increased likelihood of being an alcoholic if you had alcoholic parents-- yeah, now was not the time. Tommy got to his feet and Artie fixed his gaze on his face again, back to grinning widely.

There was some staring from Tommy, staring from Artie. He flattened his expression, narrowing his eyes, as if that might prompt Tommy to speak. He was reminded of how much taller his brother was as Tommy stepped toward him, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it before he was pulled into a hug. It took him a second to respond, but he wrapped his arms around the other man, giving him a good squeeze. If Artie was smart about it, this would be their only just-out-of-prison hug.

“I am,” he said, agreeing with the obvious you’re out statement. The hug ended abruptly and it was hard not to look offended as Tommy pulled back. Artie dropped his hands to his sides as he smiled again; he hadn’t escaped--had considered it but it would have been more trouble than it was worth--and he didn’t think this was time to joke about it. “Early release,” he said, offering the simplest explanation, the quickest way to wiping that worried look off of Tommy’s face.

Artie shrugged. “Would’ve phoned, but…” Tommy could figure out the ‘no phones in Azkaban’ thing for himself. Plus, he doubted Tommy would have been awake to answer it, considering. He took another step back, hands in his pockets, feeling like a right guest in his own flat. He glanced away from Tommy’s face after a few more seconds, his gaze narrowing again as he looked at the Springsteen tee he was wearing. “That my shirt?” He asked, looking exasperated as he glanced back up.

Tommy blinked, his fingertips still just-gripping the material of Artie’s shell suit jacket to make sure this was real — not some very convincing dream (wouldn’t be the first). “Really?” Tommy allowed himself a hesitant grin, almost not believing it but— his brother was here.

He lowered his hands finally, letting them hang limply by his sides. “Right, yeah.” No phones in Azkaban went without saying. Tommy took a deep breath in, laughing on the exhale. He opened his mouth to say cannae believe it, man just as Artie clocked his t-shirt. Tommy glanced down, stupidly, then back up, guiltily; he placed his hand over a curry stain on the chest (laundry day was tomorrow). “Aye,” he admitted, not feeling quick or defensive enough to lie about it. “You weren’t gonna be wearin’ it,” he pointed out helpfully.

It occurred to him then that ‘early release’ didn’t usually happen without some sort of forward planning, some approval process. “Why didn’t you warn me?” he asked, not not a little annoyed. “Could’ve got the place ready and that,” he explained as his eyes drifted over to the dishes in and around the sink.

Artie nodded, the hint of a smile on his lips. Really, really.

Tommy glanced down; Artie’s eyebrows went up. He didn’t want to argue about it--it was clearly his shirt and he was half expecting Tommy to deny it--didn’t want to point out the stain he moved to cover up. Artie’s laundry charms were probably a little rusty, considering. “Better not have stretched it out.” There was a tinge of a joke in his voice, but he was mostly serious. This wasn’t the thing he wanted to focus on, on his literal first day of freedom, but he supposed it was a step above getting worked up about the state of the flat.

Artie’s face fell when his brother questioned his motives, asking why he didn’t warn him about being home early. “Thought it went without sayin’, don’t wear me clothes.” He knew that wasn’t what Tommy meant, but it was easier than delving into any of the real reasons (not wanting to get his hopes up being the main reason). He raised his eyebrows again, glancing off to the side, looking around the flat as Tommy said he could have readied the place. “S’alright.” he said, meaning the mess, not that he hadn’t told Tommy he’d be home today. “I kinda--” he stopped and exhaled, wanting to clean but not about to admit it out loud. Mostly, he just wanted to use magic.

He exhaled again and took a few steps toward the sink, pulling his wand from inside his jacket before shrugging it off and tossing it toward the sofa. He started on the dishes, first clearing the sink and refilling it with warm, sudsy water; he twitched his wrist again and the dishes began to wash themselves. Aye, that felt right.

Tommy lowered his hand from where he was (poorly) covering the yellowy-orange stain on the chest and tugged at the hem instead. “I haven’t stretched it,” he argued, his voice trailing off towards the end as he thought about the fact he probably had: since hitting puberty he’d never been exactly slight, but living alone, drinking canned cider and eating shite all the time certainly hadn’t helped any.

Artie was still hyperfocusing on Tommy being in his shirt, so Tommy sighed exasperatedly and reached up to pull it off over his head roughly, storming through to the bedroom and throwing it at the general direction of the laundry basket (it bounced off), then picked up a clean-looking shirt—double checked it was his, gave it a sniff—and returned to the living area.

He pulled the t-shirt on as he entered the ‘room’ to find Artie washing the dishes — magically. He paused pulling at the slightly-too-tight round-neck collar as Artie set his wand on the counter, hit with the realisation that his brother hadn’t been able to do something as menial as charm dishes to wash themselves for three years, and here he’d been doing fuck all the whole time. He glanced up to meet his brother’s gaze and flexed his fingers awkwardly, arms by his sides. “I’ll get the place sorted,” he offered weakly.

Artie heard his brother come back into the room; he left his wand on the counter as he turned, leaning back to rest against it as he crossed his arms across his chest. It was a bit of a shock, looking at Tommy again—in his own shirt this time—and he blinked, trying to gather his thoughts back from where they had started running off to. “It’s fine,” he said, shrugging. It wouldn’t take him very long to clean it, once he got back into the swing of things.

“I, er—“ he scratched his nose, buying himself another few seconds. “Didn’t know for certain ‘til this morning,” he said, talking again about the early release. He had heard about it being a possibility last month and he had assumed it would have taken much longer to be approved and processed but he’d already said his piece. That ought to be enough explanation.

The dishes clinked behind him and Artie straightened up, sniffing. “What’ve you got on today?” He couldn’t imagine there would be anything soon and he didn’t think Tommy was employed steadily enough to not have time to grab a bite to eat. (He didn’t fail to remember that he knew next to nothing about Tommy’s day-to-day life.)

He moved to step around him, heading toward his—Tommy’s?—bedroom, keen to shower and change clothes whether or not Tommy had other plans. But he stopped in front of him, his eyes drawn to the necklace around Tommy’s neck, the ring hanging from the chain. “What’s that?” he asked, reaching for it.

Artie said it was fine in a manner that was pretty convincing, but Tommy couldn’t help but focus on the fact that this flat was technically his brother’s, and he was just meant to be minding it — and so he should have kept it in better nick. The corners of his lips pulled out in an apologetic line and he shoved his hands in his pockets.

He’d had zoned out a little, staring at the dishes as they floated off the stack one-by-one to dunk themselves in the sudsy water and be scrubbed by a dish brush that had seen better days, before being dried by a teatowel that was wearing thin in the middle. Tommy glanced back at Artie and his eyebrows rose a little, then he replayed that—for certain—in his head; so he had known there was a chance and hadn’t said anything — classic Artie, protecting him. Tommy’s jaw stiffened as he thought I’m not a kid anymore.

He couldn’t tell if Artie was asking out of curiosity or concern, but Tommy shrugged; “Erm, nothing like.” It took him a moment to mentally tally that it was Tuesday, and that he didn’t have any plans (i.e. favours) owing until Thursday — and he’d worry about that later.

Artie stepped closer and Tommy was about to move aside when he stopped before he started. He looked at Artie, then down, then back at Artie. “Dad’s ring,” he answered quickly, an edge of pride in his voice. “Found it behind the fridge at Mum’s.” She had asked for his help moving it when he’d been over for dinner and Lewis had been ‘out’, thank fuck — Tommy could only imagine how finding his wife’s dead husband’s ring would’ve gone down with that prick.

“She said I could have it,” Tommy added, in case it sounded like he’d just taken it. Then it occurred to him that Artie might want it, because Artie actually remembered their dad properly. He grabbed the chain around his neck, ready to (reluctantly) take it off. “Did— Did you want it?”

Artie leaned in as he picked the ring up off his brother’s chest, getting a better look at it. Dad’s ring, he said, and Artie let go, taking a step back and straightening up. Christ. He glanced back up to Tommy’s face as he went on, talking about how he found it behind their mum’s fridge. Christ again. Artie remembered that-- Jimmy had thrown it across the kitchen, presumably at Mum (Artie was only hearing the argument), a couple minutes before he had thrown a glass against the wall, too. Artie had cleaned up the glass after Mum had gone for a lie down, had been tasked with looking for the ring after she was up again. They never found it, obviously, and Artie could remember the fight about that, too.

And then Mum said Tommy could have the ring, so what the actual fuck. He knew what they had been telling Tommy, that it was easier than telling him Jimmy had left by choice, but wasn’t this a bit much? Letting him have the ring was one thing, but wearing it? Artie had been planning to make today an easy day--he had started his day in Azkaban, after all--but now he thought he needed to pay his mum a visit.

Did he want it? Fuck, no, was what he wanted to say, but he waited a second to let that impulse pass him by. “No, I--” he replayed all the imagery from a few seconds before-- “Just remember when he lost it.” He smiled smally, as if that memory had a happy story behind it--we spent all afternoon crawling about the flat and while we didn’t find the ring, we did found a ten pound note so we went for ice creams instead--and as if he had no reason to not want Tommy to hold onto it.

He was quiet for another second, looking from the ring and back to Tommy once again. “How’s mum?” It was the typical question to ask-- she never visited him, or wrote to him, or asked after him, he bet, but she was still his mum. And it would be better to know before he went over there if she were in a state.

Tommy stared at Artie while Artie stared at the ring on a chain around his neck. He hadn’t seen his brother this close in three years, and it was surprising what details he’d forgotten; the exact shade of blue his eyes were, the same nose Tommy saw in the mirror, the same jaw — but some things were different, too: Artie looked stronger, his neck had those muscles that went down into your shoulders now, which Tommy was sure he hadn’t had before (and Tommy certainly didn’t see those in the mirror).

He inhaled slowly, as if doing so sharply might give Artie the hurry up. Artie was still looking at the ring, so Tommy kept looking at Artie — but at his expression, more so than his features now. And he couldn’t quite pin it down, whatever his brother was thinking. Tommy bit his lip softly, selfishly hoping that Artie didn’t want it—

No—phew—just remember when he lost it, he said, and Tommy wasn’t an idiot — wasn’t the kid he’d been back then. He assumed it had been ‘lost’ in an argument, and then lost enough that they genuinely hadn’t found it again — and that was why he hadn’t brought it up with mum, what with dad being dead. He didn’t want her feeling guilty or upset. But Artie had smiled, so maybe this time it had been a funny story— or maybe Artie was just doing what Tommy had finally cottoned on to.

But he wasn’t going to ask Artie about it now, or ask again if he wanted the ring because he really did want to keep it.

Tommy pulled a face. “Alright like,” he said. ”Lew is still a cock.” He put particular emphasis on ‘Lew’ because that was what Lewis preferred to be called — bellend. “She has us over for tea sometimes. Went round the other week,” Tommy continued. He didn’t know if he ought to highlight that he hadn’t noticed any new holes in the walls lately or if that was tempting fate. He also wasn’t under any illusion that Nancy invited him over because she had any interest in his or his brother’s lives, now that they were able to live in the world she’d been excluded from; “She usually needs something done that he can’t do. Lazy git.”

Mum were alright, which he supposed he already knew; he figured he would have heard if she were sick or in hospital, but it was nice to hear, anyway. Nice of him to ask, he thought, which was more than he could say about her. But again, she was still his mum. Lew, however, was still a cock, naturally. Artie laughed–more of a scoff–almost relieved that he wasn’t actively trying to hide that fact from Tommy, too.

He nodded along as his brother went on about the other week, wondering if that was when he had found the ring because he hadn’t seen it before now. Then again, he had told Tommy a much more sparse visiting schedule than the prison actually allowed, counting on him to not look into it himself, so when Artie took that into consideration, he supposed he had denied himself opportunities to learn about the ring before now.

“He’s a shitbag,” he said, getting back to the more important topic at hand: Lewis and his shitbaggery. He smiled crookedly. It was nice to say things without worrying about the consequences; Lew wasn’t there, and even if he was, Artie was bigger and stronger, the like. “And here I was thinkin’ he were too busy to post a care package.” He didn’t know what was funnier, Lewis being busy or receiving a care package in Azkaban. His smile evened out a bit.

He took another step back, giving Tommy a bit more breathing room. “Wanna go for food?”