It’s been months since he visited this particular project. It’stheproject, really. Tommy called it his magnum opus, and maybe it doesn’t deserve that title – isn’tgoodenough for it – but it’s survived his adolescence, persisted with him through all of his adulthood so far, and has ebbed and flowed in form and characterization as he’s grown. The story’s grown with him: a piece of his childhood imagination carefully tended and curated as he’s become the writer he is today.
Though that’s probably not saying much.
He finds, though, that after so much time away from it, he’s able to revisit it as a reader, rather than its creator. The sentences leap off the page, vibrant and fresh, as though he wasn’t the one who laid them down in the first place. His heart quickens when his heroes panic; he feels their fear, their desperation.
Tommy hits the end of the chapter and stops, his breathing audible through parted lips. His shoulders lift on each inhale, and when Lawson fits his hand around the side of his throat, he feels the rabbit-fast leap of his pulse in his palm, in sync with Lawson’s own.
“Oh my God,” Tommy says, finally. “That’s…not how I remembered it.”
Lawson shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and his knee cracks through the quiet room like a gunshot. “I’ve changed some things here and there. It’s been a long process.”
“No shit,” Tommy breathes. “It’s…”
He moves in a sudden burst of violence that has Lawson letting go of him and jerking upright: he scrambles around and gets up on his knees in the chair. Slaps his hands down onto Lawson’s shoulders –smack– and shakes him. His eyes are huge and feverish. “Lawson, this is – it’s – this is–”’
“Babe. Breathe.”
“This isfantastic,” Tommy hisses, like he’s angry, then spins back and drops back into the chair to reach for the touchpad. “Oh myGod.”
“Does that mean you like it?” Lawson asks, drily.
“Yes. Now hush.”
“There’s almost four-hundred pages there,” Lawson says. “You can’t finish it in one sitting.”
“Shh.”
“Fine, fine.” Truth told, it’s a relief that he’s back to being a dictator. Lawson couldn’t handle him being all tender all the time.
He retreats back to the bed, where first he sits, and then he lies down, and then he gets under the covers. He doesn’t know how much time passes – it’s silent save the occasional creak of the chair as Tommy shifts his weight – but he’s flirting with falling back to sleep, his eyes closed – damn these contacts, but he’s not taking them out now – when a solid weight lands on top of him.
“Oof.” He opens his eyes as Tommy lies over him, chest to chest, face to face, propped on his folded arms like he was earlier. “You’re back. Did it finally put you to sleep?”
“No.” Tommy’s grinning. With his sex-mussed hair, and the tired shadows under eyes bright with excitement, he looks a little insane. “But it’s after four and I’m gonna be dead if I don’t catch another hour.”
“Can’t have that.”
“Lawson. Do you have any idea how amazing that is?” He tips his head back toward the laptop.
“It’s weird.”
“Yeah, and that’s why it’s amazing. It’s you!”
“Because I’m weird. I get it.”
“No.” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Because it’s unique, and it’s full of your voice, and it’salive. Your characters feel like people Iknow.”
“To be fair, there’s a fair bit of you in the Luke Thomas character.”
“Yeah.” Tommy snorts. “That’s kinda hard to miss.”
“It’s a loving caricature,” Lawson defends, and then realizes,oh shit, he saidloving.
Tommy beams at him. “I don’t care what Leo says:that’syour book. That’s what you’re gonna hit the bigtime with.”
“Nobody says that anymore, you know. ‘Hit the bigtime.’”
Impossibly, Tommy’s grin widens. “Shut up and take the compliment, you beautiful doofus.”
