Above the façade front door of DeGroot Keep is an unreachable third floor, its purpose assumed by those who walk the streets below to be some sort of attic or perhaps storage space, if they wonder about it at all. What Tavish conceals above the stairs in the back of the kitchen is actually, in fact, his apartment, boasting one room and a claustrophobic little bathroom added sometime during the 20th century. It's space enough for him: there's a desk computer, a bed, a half-sized bookshelf crammed with fantasy paperbacks, and a tinkering table whose purposes are better left undisclosed. (Privacy is not the only reason the kitchen stairs are hidden. Such is the lot of men with less than legal hobbies.)
If you were to ask if he wants for anything, he might complain that he isn't able to move the coffee maker upstairs, but requests for further elaboration would be met with a dispassionate shrug. The kitchen isn't so far, and what he lacks in elbow room he makes up for in convenience; everything he needs in the morning is only an arm's length away. The way Tavish usually starts his day is by getting his shower in, shaving, and dressing all within the span of a half-hour, barely moving outside a few cubic meters.
The way Tavish does not usually start his day is with the unhallowed ringing of the landline he uses to make international calls to his mother every Saturday. The digital clock reads 6:46 in the watery light from the circular attic window, but it could be the witching hour for all Tavish wants to get out of bed. But out of bed is the only place he can silence the infernal thing, so up he gets.
"Hello," he grumbles his barely contained contempt into the receiver, rubbing rheum from his eye.
On the other side, there is heavy breathing.
A sterner man would have assumed he was being punked. A less stern man would have gone and grabbed the rosary from his dresser drawer and warned that he feared no evil spirits and he was well trained in the art of dispelling the profane. However, Tavish merely lapses, standing there in the middle of the room wearing nothing but his boxers, listening as the heavy breathing is intercut by the occasional apologetic mumble and several egregiously incomprehensible attempts at explanation.
The cold floor is biting him through his socks. He sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me the station number, I'll be there in a few."
There is a grateful keening noise, and the morning is sacrificed to a long and troubled drive that does not help the barkeep's ever-present hangover. He's been told once or twice that a businessman shouldn't sample his own wares, but in all fairness he's been an alcoholic a lot longer than he's been a bar owner. On the ride back to the Keep, he hushes Pyro several times, assuring them he's not mad and can we just save the explanations for when we're back home, aye?
However, as soon as they reach the tavern Pyro chooses that moment to clam up entirely.
"Oh come on now duck," Tavish tries to coax. "We're already bleeding Mayor Piggycorn dry here, the least you can do is tell me what went wrong."
Mayor Piggycorn—originally named for the construction paper horn taped to his head, and then renamed by the sticky note saying 'Pyro Bail Fund'—still has a few quarters jingling around in his belly, but only just. Tavish slips the bank back onto the shelf.
"I'll tell you what went wrong!" Jane, present when they'd arrived despite the fact that both people with the authority to open the bar had been gone all morning, says as Pyro futzes with their hands. "Your cook lights things on fire when they're in a bad mood, and they also light things on fire when they're in a very good mood."
Accuracy notwithstanding, this is clearly not the time, and Tavish shoots Jane a withering glare. To Pyro he asks, "can you at least tell me what sort of property you damaged?"
They mumble something. It sounds like 'dumpster'.
"Ah well that's not so bad."
Silence hangs for a few seconds. Jane is right though, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out this isn't a good mood sort of burning.
"Pyro," he says firmly. "What's eating you."
As though the words can't contain themselves anymore, it all bubbles out, hand waving and muffled cursing like this morning's phone conversation. They quickly grow frustrated with the inadequacy of this mode of communication, and switch to sign language.
"It's Scout! He's been avoiding me and I don't know what I did wrong!"
Tavish sighs. It's a sighing sort of day apparently. He should have known Jeremy would be the source of more Pyro troubles.
"He's just stopped…hanging out with me. Whenever I go home and he's there he pretends he doesn't see me unless I say hi first. And then he'll say hi but he'll just go back to playing whatever and he never invites me to join anymore and I feel really awkward asking for a ride so I've just been walking everywhere."
They take a moment, shoving their hands in their armpits as they try to calm down. Tavish walks over to put an arm around their shoulders, glaring at Jane until he looks properly abashed.
When they're breathing steadier they try again. "Last night I asked him if he was mad at me. If I had said something to make him angry, and he got really defensive and said nothing's wrong. When I said all that stuff I just said to you, he did get mad, and said that he needed to…Think about things? And then! He just left! He went out and didn't come back to the apartment last night and I was pissed at him for lying to me but also scared that he'd never come home and so I went to the Lecture Valley Dolphin Shack and set their dumpster on fire."
Tavish shares a look with the outside of Jane's hat. "Ach, well…it wasn't right of him to lie, but sometimes we tell our loved ones nothing's wrong when we don't want them to worry."
"That's stupid."
"Aye, but Scout's a stupid kid."
Pyro looks at the ground. "He's my stupid kid. I just want things to be normal between us and not weird and awkward."
That phrasing clicks something into place in Tavish's mind.
"I don't want to go to class today," Pyro admits after a while.
"That's fair. Why don't you go sleep it off in the back room, alright? I'll bring you something in a bit."
Pyro collides with his stomach, wrapping him in one of their famous hugs with a muffled thanks Tavish to his chest.
"Ah, no need for that. Off you go."
Pyro does, and Tavish sets about making the forcibly delayed breakfast, though now for three. He may not have his chef's talent, but there are plenty of things a bachelor can make that can't be screwed up too badly.
"…You come away from that thinking the same thing I did?" he asks, cracking six eggs into a well-oiled pan.
"Unless it is a composition of the national anthem as sung by the Western Meadowlark, I find that unlikely."
Jane, who's followed him into the kitchen, leans against the countertop. The place is neater than Tavish left it last night, the man to blame playing with the raccoon-shaped salt & pepper shakers as he waits for the eggs to cook. Every once in a while he breaks into the Keep—the untidiness of Tavish's 'fortifications' apparently driving him crazy—and attacks the place in a frenzy until it can pass muster. It was disconcerting at first, but after a few times of finding the back of the bar perforcedly reorganized, Tavish figured that it was worth the small security flaw. Plus, Jane always hangs around after. Tavish pities any real burglar that tries to storm the place.
"I mean Scout and Pyro," Tavish says, pushing down the toaster. "You remember how Scout went with to that club the other week?"
"My memory is that of a hippopotamus, but I do not see the relevance."
"Just thinking." Tavish idly chews the inside of his cheek, a habit his dentist has railed against on more than one occasion. Tavish's reply is always that moriscatio buccarum is probably on the kinder end of things he does to his body. "Scout went on a lark it seems. I can't imagine what would drive a wedge between the two of them, you know how they're like together."
"Hooligans, bordering on hippie-dom."
"I mean they're affectionate," Tavish says. "Do you ever get the feeling…maybe there's something more there?"
Jane shrugs. "Possible, I guess."
"And he said he needed to go think about something," Tavish muses. Now that he's on this train of thought it's hard to stop. "Ah, poor kid. Must be rough thinking you're straight this long and then suddenly discovering you're in love with your best friend."
Soldier grumbles something that Tavish misses. Before he can ask him to repeat it, the toaster pops, and Tavish runs over to arrange the finishing touches. When he slides the platter in front of Jane, the ranger immediately attacks it with the salt.
"What?" Tavish balks, the highest offense in his pitch. "You're nae even going to try it first?"
The accusation is met only with a grin. Jane lifts the peppershaker (a black raccoon with white stripes, to differentiate it from the saltshaker's white raccoon with black stripes) and proceeds to upend it over the eggs as well.
Tavish huffs, then turns to where he knows he'll have at least one connoisseur with taste.
"Feeling better, duck?" he asks, sliding a plate and a glass of orange juice on the back room's lone folding table.
They mumble something through blankets and gasmask. Nothing will get better with Jeremy gone, it seems.
"Don't worry mate. I know just what's got to be done." With that, he leaves so that Pyro can eat in privacy.
Jane narrows his eyes as soon as steps foot in the kitchen. "What's got to be done? You better not be up to what I think you're up to! That crap with Mikhail and Ludwig was supposed to be a one time thing."
"Ah…overheard that did you." Tavish resists the urge to rub the back of his neck: he's got nothing to be ashamed about, this is a good idea. "Well it makes sense, doesn't it? They love each other to bits, maybe they just need a nudge in the right direction."
Jane still looks unconvinced.
"At the very least you got to admit this time is important!" Tavish says in exasperation. "Pyro's heartbroken, Scout's gone rogue, and I'm not resting until I get them to make up."
"…"
"Nothing you say can convince me otherwise!"
Soldier dips his toast in yolk.
Tavish makes a noise of disgust, and leaves to get his tavern ready for another night of romance.
The first, and most important, preparation is to get Jeremy to show up. He shoots the boy a text, aiming for the weakness that he knows all college students in general—but athletes in particular—share: the promise of free food. There is technically an event happening at DeGroot Keep tonight, and Jeremy can have the leftovers if he comes. None of it a lie, per say, but Tavish fails to mention that the event in question is a date between him and his roommate.
"This looks familiar," Dr. Ludwig says as he sits at the bar and marvels at the candles. "You're not setting up another pair of your patrons, are you?"
His chuckle dies on his lips as Tavish quickly passes him his beer and says nothing.
"You are? Mein Gott. You never let up, do you DeGroot?"
"Oi, it worked out for you, didn't it?" Tavish says. In a careful change of the subject before Ludwig can ask which patrons, he adds, "where is Mikhail, anyway? You two are going somewhere tonight, right?"
"Indeed we are." Ludwig puffs up. "We're heading to see the opera in Las Vegas."
"…Las Vegas?" Tavish raises an eyebrow.
"Bah, fine, you caught me. Las Vegas, New Mexico."
"I take it the opera was Mikhail's idea?"
The offense on Ludwig's face is clear. "I happen to quite enjoy opera music. We planned this together."
"Didn't mean anything by it, Doc." Tavish holds up his hands. "It just seems like neither of you would have the, er, temperament for it."
"Then perhaps you know less about us than you think." Outside, a pair of headlights flash. "Ah, that's him. Auf Wiedersehen DeGroot, good luck with… whatever the hell this is."
Shaking his head, Tavish is just about to scoop up the doctor's empty beer when Pyro tugs on his shirtsleeve.
They look despondent, their mask-lenses are one step away from drooping like a cartoon character. A finger points at the kitchen, then at the side door, the universal expression of, "I'm heading out now."
Tavish glances at the (limited edition, Birds of the Southern United States) clock and sees that it really is getting late. But Jeremy still hasn't shown, and Tavish rushes to stall.
"…Actually, I was hoping you could run the lower bar for a bit? Just to take some of the pressure."
Somehow, Pyro's shoulder's drop further, and Tavish fends off a wave of guilt. But, loyal soul that they are, they plod down to the street-level.
Only needed on truly busy nights, the inventory of the lower bar is locked up tight since it can't be watched from all angles. Usually Broderick, (Tavish's authentic DeGroot heirloom suit of armor) mans the area, which means Pyro has to shove him aside in order to unlock the liquor cabinets. They do all this with the grace of the mortally condemned.
This isn't going well. Tavish checks his phone to see that Jeremy never even responded, not even one of his indecipherable emojis. Before long he's become glued to his screen, checking it every thirty seconds as the hour hand slowly moves towards the Belted Kingfisher, and one by one the late stayers trickle out. Tavish has never had a problem with barflies, (it's not the most lively part of town), but for once he very much wishes he'd have some sorry slob that he can't unstick from the bar with a spatula, if only for the excuse.
But enough time ticks by that Pyro approaches him again, and the bar's now empty enough that he can't deny them their request. They slink out the door, and a blue pick-up truck rolls to collect them.
There has to be some way to fix this. After closing the tavern he retreats to his quarters, desktop illuminating his face as he fails to turn on any other light in his bedroom. He hunts for Jeremy's Facebook, though right away he can tell it won't bring him any luck. The last post was months ago, a captionless picture of he and Pyro with their arms slung around each other's shoulders. They look happy.
He sends a you alright lad? text. Though, when he sees the timestamp reading 3:01 AM, he realizes that's an auspicious statement. He lies in his bed and fails to go to sleep.
Whatever time the knocking starts is far too early. Having only gotten a total seven hours of sleep the past two days, he'd been planning to open the Keep late to recuperate, but another repetitive auditory signifier of modern home living has thrown that out the window. Speaking of windows. Tavish's mood is not improved when he looks out the porthole and sees that the knocking is coming from a lone police officer at his stoop.
"Christ, what did they do now," he murmurs.
Hair of the dog, he reminds himself. Hair of the dog. He pulls out a spare scrumpy bottle from underneath the bed.
"Not even at the right door, there's a bloody sign- canae help you, officer?" Tavish yells out the true entrance. He's still in his raccoon slippers (he's known Jane for many Smismasses now), and he has no interest in going outside. If the idjit wants to ignore perfectly readable advisories, that's his business.
The officer sticks his head around from the front. "Excuse me. Are you the owner here?"
Owner? Probably wouldn't be asking if Pyro had gotten themself in trouble again. Keeping his general distaste for coppers out of his voice is easiest done with one word answers, so he says, "aye."
"We've received complaints about an improperly parked vehicle on your premises. It appears someone is illegally habitating within it."
Tavish feels habitating probably isn't a word, but he's already getting worked up. "Complaints? Is it that Classic Rock 'n Roll bar down the street? Bloody goat-humpers. Those Classics have always had it out for me and my lads."
Whether it's the fact that Tavish burps halfway through his tirade or the volume of the denouncement, the officer looks quite pained. "We've had complaints from a variety of sources, sir."
Tavish grumbles something about pain trains in station town, before the cop's opening line finally catches up with him. "Someone's living in a car in my parking lot?"
"I'm afraid so."
"What in blazes-"
Slippers or no, Tavish charges into his rarely used back lot, usually traversed only by delivery trucks and the odd trash collector.
In it, is a camper van.
"Oi, open up!" He slams on the camper's door. "I don't know who the hell you think you are but if you're going to squat at my house-" With the creaking of someone swaying the suspension with each footstep, the door opens. "-Then you- Mick?"
Mick Mundy does an adequate impression of Tavish a few minutes ago, and blinks groggily. "Yeah?"
"What are you doing in that thing?"
Mick looks behind him briefly. "Livin' in it."
"In my yard?"
"Sir you can't take up residency, regardless of the nature of the vehicle, on businesses lining Main Street or Teufort's six main thoroughfares," the cop cuts in.
"Really?" Mick asks. Tavish facepalms.
" 'Fraid so," he continues, surprisingly straight-faced. "With the exclusion of national and state parks, parking an RV for more than 48 hours is similarly not allowed."
"Hm," Mick nods. "Guess I'll go to one of those then. Is a camper van after all."
Tavish facepalms with the other hand.
He can't even bring himself to chew Mick out before he packs up his van and leaves. The incident with the traffic cop was hardly a good start to his morning, and it doesn't improve with the opening of the Keep's doors. He goes for the harder, close-to-paint-thinner stuff he keeps in the custodial closet just to stave off the mounting stress of dealing with law enforcement. Jeremy has texted him at some point in the night, a noncommittal assurance he's fine. Tavish again asks if he wants to swing by the Keep tonight, to which he gets a yeah sure, whatever.
There's little time to plan. Tavish has to make sure things go right this time, has to make sure Pyro stays long enough, has to get Jeremy to stay long enough, has to also find a way to get Jeremy to admit his feelings. Which, easier said than done. It depends entirely on whether he's come to terms with things or not, and if he's just shutting down and shutting everyone out it might not even be possible.
Too many variables. All these unknowns are killing him.
Jeremy didn't say when he'd swing by and Tavish has finished off his good stuff. The candles are back, and Pyro's mopily tending the kitchen, but-
Fuck. Someone's vomited on the bathroom floor. He doesn't have the heart to ask Pyro to do it, even with the wonderfully convenient rubber suit, not when he made them stay late yesterday for basically no reason. So instead he has Pyro take his place at the main bar and goes to face the music.
It smells awful. The bathroom's décor is one of his prouder works; it's all vintage advertisements, wallpapering not only the walls but the low, sloping ceiling as well. Normally it's a pleasant little place to have a pit stop, but right now it's just-
Eugh. Words don't do it justice. It's-
Guh-
Very difficult to breathe in. His head is starting to feel light and the mop keeps slipping out of his hands as the booze rises to his cheeks-
Tavish wakes up.
He is in his bed and the blinds are drawn and it seems like it could be anywhere in that ephemeral hour between the end of sunset and the beginning of sunrise. He can, after all, see and he can most certainly feel, and what he feels is pain.
"Ach, me head…"
The voice that says these words is coming from his head, the central locus for all his pain. It was a mistake to say them, for any reaffirmation of the self is overshadowed by the revelation that his throat is also worthy of commentary.
"Here."
Jane is handing him a glass of water. The time to question is not now, because Tavish has never seen anything more beautiful than the glass he flimsily takes out of Jane's hand. The cool rush of water does a little to ease the pain. His mind can wander now, to realize that he's wearing the same pair of pants but a different shirt, and the only reason he can assume is that he threw up on himself. That or he landed in the other drunkard's sick. He doesn't want to think about the latter.
"I'm guessing that was a real bender I had just now?" he dares to ask once the water is gone.
"If by 'just now' you mean 'last night'." Jane's mouth is a thin line, and Tavish groans. In an attempt to reassure, Jane adds, "we cleaned and closed everything up. You don't need to worry about anything."
Nothing but the loss of income from a night's work, but even Tavish knows that's too bitter to fling at the man who helped his sorry arse through a binge, especially when any outgoes are his own damn fault.
Memory does come crashing back to him though. "Damn it, urch, did- did Scout come in last night?"
"For a little." Jane's frown only deepens with this line of questioning. "He left with all the hubbub going on."
"Damn it all," Tavish groans. "I'm still trying to fix things with him and Pyro. If I can just get them in a room together-"
The feeble attempt to sit up is cut short, Jane moving the short distance to the bed and pushing until he falls back down. The firmness in his voice is unmistakable when he says, "this is not a nudge."
"I…" But that's all Tavsih can muster. He averts his gaze guiltily.
They're still like that for a moment, frozen in the orange-tinted light that now more obviously asserts itself as dawn, Jane with one knee on the bed and Tavish knowing that he's right.
"I just want everyone to be okay," he admits finally. "That's not so wrong, is it?"
Jane retracts his hand, but now won't look at Tavish either. "I know you do. Dammit, it's impossible not to know that you want to make everyone around you happy, with your smiles and your jokes and doing everything in your fucker power to light up the whole damn world. I know you want to solve all their fucking problems. But you need to remember to take care of yourself too."
Tavish hesitates. He takes care of himself plenty, doesn't he? At least as well as he always has; it's not like this particular scenario of drinking himself to unconsciousness while on duty is all that unusual.
He doesn't want to entertain that that's exactly what Jane means.
"I will," he says because it's the path of least resistance. "But you can't tell me this whole situation isn't an issue."
Jane growls, but acquiesces, "…I don't like seeing Campfire all put out. It's a bad look on them."
"So I need to find out what's up with Scout. If only to get my cook back from blues town," Tavish reasons.
"Then why don't you just talk to him," Jane says, throwing up his hand. "Don't bring Pyro into it at all! Damn it Tav you're good at talking to people, it's what you do all damn day. Just ask him what's wrong."
Again, Tavish hesitates. "Do you really think it's that simple?"
Jane shrugs. "Could be. If anyone can make it simple it's you. Not as evidenced by your actions today, private."
Oh hell, now out come the privates. That's Jane's equivalent of a mum using your middle name when you've gone and done something dumb.
"Alright, I'll try it." He tries to sit, and is pushed back again.
"Not now," Jane tells him. "Now you are going to catch up on sleep, and open the bar late. Am I understood?"
Tavish grumbles, but there's no arguing with him. "Understood."
He does feel monumentally better the next time he wakes up, though it's nearing noon by the bedside clock. Jane's gone, but he has several messages from Pyro asking if he's alright, one from Dell who probably who heard from Pyro, and one from Pauling saying she'll be dropping his cook off at six. Tavish rubs the bridge of his nose. As though he needed the extra guilt, somehow Pauling's been roped into this as well. Poor lass has enough on her plate.
However, there's one person Tavish needs to check in with more than anything.
Jeremy's hoodie is uncharacteristically disheveled as he comes peering in through the front door, not the least because it's still far too warm to be wearing such outerwear. He checks around each individual corner, making sure they're as alone as it appears they are. Maybe he really is avoiding Pyro.
"Ey there lad, you're looking glum," Tavish greets when Jeremy finally slinks up to the bar.
"Mmm. Yeah." He folds his arms and rests his chin on them.
Well, it's better than yelling nothing's wrong and running off into the night. Tavish slides a drink toward him. "Something new I've been working on. Tell me how you like it. Oh, I almost forgot."
Next to the club soda he keeps several cans of room temperature Bonk!, which he saves when he knows Jeremy needs a pick-me-up. After pouring a toxic layer on the top of the drink, Tavish adds a crazy straw (the straws are technically Pyro's, but Tavish knows which of the two of them enjoys them more.) Blithely, Jeremy eyes the concoction before him. Then he slides his whole body to meet the crazy straw and slurps.
"Hey, pretty good man," he finally concludes, and to Tavish's relief there's a bit of warmth back in his voice.
"Glad to hear it."
"Yeah it's like…spicy. But not like hot spicy, more like uh…"
"It's probably the ginger beer."
"Oh yeah, yeah that's it. The ginger." With the termination of this statement, his thoughts catch up with again, and the contemplative half-smile is chased from his face. Instead, he lowers his gaze to the mahogany wood beneath his palms, and begins to trace patterns in the condensation rings.
"…Okay lad, you got tae tell me. What's eating you?"
Jeremy flinches. "Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing's wrong. Nothing that…nothing that I want you to know about anyway."
Tavish dries a glass. The squeaking of water on wood continues. He tries, "c'mon lad-"
"Stop," Jeremy hisses. "Just stop. It's. Freaking hell it's too much to talk about all at once. And I can't even think when you keep…"
"Just start at the beginning."
"Okay, fine. You know what? Fine. So Pyro's president or whatever and they finally get me to come to their stupid school club and…I meet people there. Lots of people, and it was kinda weird at first but then it got easier and this one girl started talking to me and it turned out she was really cool."
"And you, what? Have a thing for her?"
In the fastest turnaround, Jeremy's eyes narrow, staring daggers into the barkeep. "What the fuck man? Just because I make jokes sometimes doesn't mean I'd actually ever step out. Jesus. I ain't that kinda-" He makes a frustrated growl. "Anyway, don't be an asshole, alright?"
"…I have to admit, you've lost me."
"How could I have lost you? I started from the beginning like you said!"
"For one thing I thought this story was going to end with you realizing you have feelings for Pyro."
To describe it as 'incredulity' would not be doing it justice. It was more like Jeremy had just walked into his home only to find that every single piece of furniture had been nailed to the ceiling and a group of cats were asking him what he was doing in their house.
With the cautiousness of a person who senses they're being tricked, Jeremy says, "Pyro and I have been dating for six months."
"I…what?"
"How did you not freaking know that?" Jeremy sounds as flabbergasted as Tavish feels. "You helped us move in together for crying out loud."
"Move in to be roommates, I didn't know it was a…" Tavish makes a vague gesture.
"We do all the couples shit, though. We're always hanging out, and going to movies together, and I drive them to work, an'-" Ticking them off on his fingers, Jeremy stops abruptly, guilt wrinkling his features. He shoves his arms back against the bar and buries his face in them. "An' I run out on them. And I'm an ass who yells at 'em when they're just trying to help."
As delicately as he can, Tavish says, "I'm sorry lad. I guess I er…didn't understand the situation as well as I thought. But hiding from me isn't going to help either."
"Psh. Ain't you just proved you don't know anything?"
There's some mild indignation at that. "Well when Pyro takes you to meet their friends and you come back with an identity crisis, what am I supposed to think?"
Jeremy grits his teeth. "It's not a sexuality thing."
"Then what the bloody hell else could it…"
When Jeremy looks up, there is jaggedness, laced by the angry tears that are pricking at the corner of his eyes, and once again Tavish realizes what colossal idiot he's being.
"Oh," he says. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh."
There are many sounds Tavish has grown used to when tending the Keep all alone: the tick of the clock, the water heater jumping to life every now and again, the various strung-up seashells that rattle sometimes even though there's no draft. Now, midday light filtering through the frosted windows, he hears a drip where the kitchen tap hasn't been turned all the way, and the scrunch of Jeremy running his hands fruitlessly through his hair.
Tavish throws aside the rag he was using to clean, and makes the long walk around to the other side of the bar. He slides a stool closer, wraps an arm around Jeremy's shoulders, and squeezes them together.
They don't shake. Or if they do, it's with frustration.
"Freaking…" Jeremy croaks eventually. "Freaking unbelievable. Like I can't be, for fuck's sake. You've met me. I can't be, you know. That."
Tavish does not want to upset this, not when the walls are just starting to come down. Gently, he asks, "and why can't you be?"
"Because everyone would freak!" Jeremy lurches to a sitting position. "Everyone I know, all my classmates, my family, the guys on the team…oh fuck." He groans and rubs his face. "I didn't even think about that. I…I can't get kicked off the team. I'd lose my scholarship, and my grades are slipping and Ma already threatened to sick my dad on me if they didn't pick back up and-"
"Hey, hey calm down…mate," Tavish is quickly realizing dropping haphazard lads into this conversation hasn't been helping. He squeezes a little tighter. "That's all a bunch o' maybes right now. Don't think that far ahead. Just breathe."
Jeremy does, out slower but shaky. "I can't. I can't not think about it. The more I think and the less I'm sure and…would they even let me play on the girls' team? Ah Christ."
His hood has come down at some point in the panic. And his face may never have gotten to the point of true tears, but his eyes are still red. Still furious.
Tavish squeezes him tighter, and to his surprise, Jeremy hugs him back, snapping on like a barnacle. "I'm usually better at not thinking about whatever I don't want to think about. Shit, what's wrong with me?"
"Nothing's wrong with you mate. You can work through this. You got lots of people who want to help."
Jeremy draws in a breath. "…Yeah."
"Why are you avoiding Pyro?" Tavish asks. "I don't mean to be cold, but all things considered they'd have much more insight into all of this than I would."
"That's…that's the problem. Shit." Jeremy draws back, retreating again to guilt and a focus on the tavern floor. "This…this is going to make me sound like a huge asshole okay but, when they first came out to me I wasn't…I've been a real shithead at some points in my life, you know? Not always this cool and awesome ally and stuff. When that was first going on I said something like 'haha me too' and then like…fuck I don't know. Made an attack helicopter joke or whatever."
"Attack…helicopter?"
"Never mind," Jeremy waves him off. "Anyway when all this started I didn't want them to think I was…making fun of them again. Somehow. Or just playing around."
There's a beat. When it's clear that he isn't going to continue, Tavish says, "no offense mate, but that's total malarkey."
Jeremy grimaces.
"You've been friends for how long? And you've changed a lot in that time, they know you're not that person anymore. If you talk to them, really talk to them instead of pushing them out, they're not going to abandon you during something this serious."
"I know, you're right, I know." Rubbing his face, Jeremy finally straightens his shoulders. "I was just scared. Not that I'm scared now or nothin'!"
At the return of the more familiar bravado, Tavish chuckles. "O' course. The Scout I know isn't afraid o' anything. If I were from where you're from I'd be dead, 'n all that rot."
"That's right." A bit of a smile passes across Jeremy's face. Then it twitches, spinning more contemplative. "And…as long as we're saying things about being Scout…uh. Just um. Just don't call me Jeremy right now. I'm still like figuring things out, but since you guys always call me Scout anyways…"
"Can do. Anything else I should keep in mind?"
"I…no. Not yet. If that changes I'll let you know. But you can spread that first thing around, tell the other guys and stuff. I'm sure they'll…"
Tavish claps a hand to his shoulder. "I'm sure they'll understand," he finishes the thought.
Scout smiles, and Tavish makes him promise to go talk to his partner before they start moving on to burning whole restaurants.