A/N: Looks like today is the day everyone is posting a fanfic! Wow! Im so happy to see so many new fics! And yes, since I do nearly everything in sets of two, here's another fic about Hobart. So what :P This time, tho, it's gayer. Warnings for abusive relationships, child abuse and violence.
…
His relationship with his father was a mixture of violence and fear. His young life was spent in a bubble of fear and concern that what he was doing was wrong, that he wasn't right. It was spent tending to his mother, who invoked their father's ire far more then he did.
He never thought that other people must have it different, must have it better. He just thought their parents were far better at hiding evidence, that their mothers must be perfect. It made him angry that his mother wasn't like theirs, that his father wasn't like theirs.
So he was angry too.
He remembers rubbing the nose of a boy into the dirt when he was ten and liking the power of it. He remembers the struggling and laughs and yelling as he sat on his chest.
He also remembers his bruised knuckles for weeks later.
He never really forgives himself for giving into his anger, but never really hates it enough to stop it.
…
His first relationship with a girl occurs when he's 19, just joined the force, following his father's footsteps the way he always wanted. He's forging a name for himself, slowly. Her name is Angela.
Derived from Angel.
She was nothing like that.
She liked to hit him, playfully at first, harder later, once, he was noticeably swollen for nearly a week. He never hits her back, he would never hit a girl, his mother didn't raise a savage, after all. But he loves her (Or so he thinks) and it was normal to him, it had been his whole childhood.
And now it was his adult life as well.
Angela was five foot tall. Bill could easily pick her up and when they first courted he did. He would spin her around and they would dance and laugh. But later he didn't even really like being near her.
She left him one night, a neatly typed letter explaining her move to Perth, and an apology for taking his money.
…
After Angela, he meets Jonathan, and they get along well
He's never considered himself homosexual before Jonathan makes him feel like he might be. They kiss in the privcacy of their bedroom, and sleep in the same bed.
They treated each other like shit. Jonathan was mean and he retaliated. Jonathan understood violence better then him, he's a painter, his paintings are violent. A mixture of hatred and anger. Jonathan tells him once that one of them was an image of him, even though Bill doesn't see it, he believes him.
They beat the shit out of each other, once, Bill smashed a plate over his head. Once, Jonathan broke his leg. Both times the hospital staff look at them funny.
There were sweet moments too. Ones where they kissed and laughed and spoke of work and their childhoods.
Bill was the one to end this relationship after Jonathan kicked one of his teeth in.
He seems him years later at an art gallery with a pretty woman on his arm doing her best to hide the hand shaped bruise on her wrist. Bill feels the psychosomatic burning on his own wrist.
…
Charlie Davis is different to any of those relationships. He is prickly and brittle. He is not violent. Bill thought he would be, given his apparent like of yelling and occasionally aggressive nature, but he's not, at least, not in the way Bill was used to.
It occurs to him one night, as they sat on his couch, watching game of Champions that they haven't fought yet, haven't even really decided what they are. And that is fine with him.
…
Their first kiss is quiet and calm. Angela has her fingers on the back of his neck, their lips press, before turning furious and searching. Perhaps a show of what was to come.
Jonathan was never calm, a heated envelope of passion and anger that was all teeth. They didn't kiss as much as he would have liked.
Charlie was sweet, and soft. His kissed with the sort of innocence Bill has never known. He can't help himself, he wants more of it, more of Charlie
…
"Do you love me?"
It's so quiet. Bill is nursing a broken finger, and he wants to sleep for a hundred years. Angela is lying next to him, her head on his chest, ignoring his bruised ribs. He does, he tells himself. He must love her a lot to put up with what he puts up with.
"Of course."
…
"Do you love me?"
Jonathan has a bruised nose and us lying on the sofa. Bill is repairing socks and he thinks that he must, because why else would he allow for the man to treat him the way he does? When else would he ever find someone who could be as violent as himself?
"Of course."
…
"I've fallen in love with you."
The statement is as brittle as Charlie himself, dredged up from his very core, spoken one night, with their ankles wrapped around each other, Charlie facing the back of his head, and him facing the other way, having refused Charlie's attempts to initiate contact post-coitus.
A pause.
"You prick."
Bill laughs softly, but doesn't turn around for several seconds. When he does, he appeases Charlie's desire for contact by pulling him close.
…
Lucien Blake is a first.
"Bill can I speak with you?" He indicates to his seats, telling Blake he should sit. Bake does. He wastes no time. "You've been sleeping with Charlie."
Long pause.
"Did he tell you?"
"No. I saw it. The way he looks at you."
Long pause.
"What of it?"
Long pause; Blake considers. Bill likes Blake. He's violent. They fought once. He won. Of course, he would never give the man the satisfaction.
"Are you serious about him?"
Bill has never been more serious about someone in his whole life. But he knows it won't be forever. These relationships never are. He imagines Charlie will end up with a nice girl, in a nice house, pretending he isn't desperately unhappy.
Charlie is hard and brittle, but equally so sweet and soft. A beautiful juxtaposition.
"Are any of these relationships serious?" He inquired.
"What sort?"
"My sort. The homosexual sort." Blake looks distinctly uncomfortable. Good. And then, "Why do you care?"
"Charlie's talking about moving in with you." At first, Bill thinks he might be joking. He's deadly serious.
"We've never discussed it."
"He's deadly serious about you."
Bill meets Blake's eyes. He says nothing.
…
He flatted with Angela.
He rented with Jonathan.
…
He lives in a townhouse, one he owns, and is paying the mortgage on.
Charlie spends more and more time there, more and more nights that he begins to feel his absence all the worse when he's gone.
…
He'd known he was living off of burrowed time. But he's still not ready for it when it happens.
They do not fight often, and they are usually over in the hour. But this one is bigger. Charlie wants him to say how he really feels about him. He wants Charlie to realize that this is temporary, a passing pleasure.
And he snaps.
And he slaps Charlie across the face.
And Charlie stumbles back.
And he rubs his cheek.
And he stares with those infinite blue orbs deep into his soul.
And Bill hopes he will hit back, they will fight, they will yell and beat and scream.
And none of that happens.
And Charlie leaves.
And Bill is alone.
…
It's so quiet without Charlie.
He's not talking to him at work. Blake is starring at him, confused. Frank is oblivious.
He is alone.
…
Charlie comes over on Friday. His face wasn't even swollen. He seems calm. To calm. He asks why.
Bill breaks.
He tells Charlie everything, every gory detail of broken fingers and bruise knuckles, concussions and split lips, chipped teeth and nails bitten down to the bed. And Charlie sits, listening, quiet and thoughtful.
Afterwards, they sit on the sofa like nothing happened. Charlie's head is tucked against his chest in some strange mockery of submissiveness. And for a while, everything is peaceful.
And then Bill whispers that Charlie needs to go, because Mrs Beazley will be expecting him home for dinner.