Chapter Text
Luke, Sam and Tom know close to everything about him, thirteen years in. He sees evidence of it every day – the soft smiles Tom gives him and the way Luke will laugh; Sam’s put-on sighs as he points out yet another ‘AJ-ism’.
It is no longer a talking point when AJ finds a corner of their dressing room and pulls his hat over his eyes before a show. No one mentions it when he slips earphones in and finds the only playlist of songs that will let him nap.
They don’t even question it if he needs a post-show nap as well. They always let him shower first on the now-rare occasions that they all have to share a hotel room. They know he drinks coke because he likes the taste even if he can’t stand the texture of fizzy drinks.
(He remembers having a conversation with Sam about it once. He asked how Sam put up with the way those drinks made the inside of your mouth hurt. Sam looked at him like he’d gone slightly mad, then scrubbed the top of his head fondly and told him for the umpteenth time that he was a strange one.)
It doesn’t bother AJ – never has, given that the teasing has only ever come with affection – to be called quirky or weird or strange. He knows they have his back on the off chance someone else makes a comment.
That’s just AJ, Sam will say with a shrug.
We’ve all got our quirks, Tom will remind them.
He’s always been like this, Luke will point out.
Maybe that’s why AJ hasn’t tried to explain the clear differences in the way he processes the world compared to everyone else. Because these three friends who have long since earned the title of family have never made a big deal out of it. They joke about it, sure, because they wouldn’t be good friends if they didn’t do that.
(But they worry about him, sometimes. Quietly – like they’re not sure they’re meant to.)
When AJ runs himself into the ground, Tom tries to take on some extra admin work to lighten his load. When he forgets to complete basic life tasks, Sam invites him over for dinner and sends him packing early enough to ensure he might get a full night of sleep. And when he gets lost in something or other and forgets about the rest of the world, Luke messages him until he finds his way back.
They don’t see AJ at his lowest.
All of them have had their moments.
Luke’s move to Spain hit him like a freight train, one month in. He pretended he was fine until they told him he clearly wasn’t and then he spent two hours darting from topic to topic on a group call with all three of them. Worrying about something happening to his family – something happening to them – and not being able to get back. Feeling detached from everything around him because his Spanish was fine but he wasn’t exactly fluent. Wanting to come home in moments that felt childish before realising that he was home already, even if the sun and the sea and the unfamiliar surroundings felt far from it.
Tom would go through ups and downs with his ADHD. Most days, it was just a part of him that he’d learnt to get on with but sometimes it seemed to be scheming actively to take him down. When he tried medication and only seemed to get the side-effects without the benefits, it still took three weeks of that before he finally admitted something was wrong.
Sam’s first marriage fell apart behind closed doors. He didn’t mention any problems until it was already over – nothing beyond the usual gripes with a long-term partner. None of them saw it coming and then suddenly he was single again and moving in with his parents in the midst of a pandemic that wore all of them down.
They were good at checking in with each other although AJ thought the internet gave them too much credit for the healthiness of their friendship. Sure, they were good at the casual parts – at the small moments and the affection and some of the honesty.
But only some of the honesty.
It always took something big for one of them to fall apart completely. It always took something life-changing for them to feel comfortable enough demanding that sort of focused attention that a breakdown demanded. And it didn’t matter how many times they went through the same thing and promised each other they’d ask for help sooner, the cycle would repeat itself eventually.
No one wanted to be a burden. No one wanted to take more than they gave. And no one ever likes to admit that they can’t cope.
So, they don’t see AJ when he isn’t coping. They don’t see him when it feels like his head is splitting in two – not out of pain, although it isn’t exactly comfortable, but rather due to a distinct feeling of wrongness. It’s pressure more than pain – like his brain is expanding out of his skull or at least trying to.
He squeezes his hands into fists and tries to dig his nails into the soft flesh of his palms. Anything to distract from the all-encompassing feeling of wrong.
Sometimes, their acceptance of him is almost a death sentence. Because he tells himself there’s nothing wrong – because they say there’s nothing wrong.
That’s just AJ. We’ve all got our quirks. He’s always been like that.
So AJ tells himself the same.
This is just how you are. You’ve got a few quirks, that’s all. You’ve always been like this.
You’ll always be like this.
Sometimes he sits in the midst of a conversation and feels like he’s hearing his neighbours through the walls. Sometimes he tries to imagine opening his mouth to contribute, a sentence right on the tip of his tongue, but the thought of speaking is unreachable. Sometimes he catches himself watching one of them – usually Tom – interacting with someone who likes their videos and he files away a good response to use the next time he’s in that situation.
He curls up in a ball when he can’t get to sleep, tucked under his duvet and feeling five years old when it soothes him. He catches himself staring blankly at a wall, calling himself stupid when the simple act of doing nothing seems to make him feel so much better. He taps his fingers in rhythms that make sense and jostles his leg under meeting tables and spins back and forth on laminate flooring when he’s just in his socks.
He misses his hair sometimes. Not that he admits it to them – he doesn’t have a death wish and knows the jokes would be brutal. He prefers the way he looks now – now that he’s got used to it. But he used to tangle his fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and tug, just lightly, and the pressure always felt just right.
And in a world where ‘just right’ doesn’t seem to apply all that often, it felt like something significant when he lost one of those comforts.
Stepping onto the tube without his earphones feels like walking to an execution. In a carriage with an open window, the screeching brakes cut through him like a knife. The only blessing is the stream of cooler air replacing the stale heat that he can’t stand either. It’s just one of those things he’s particular about.
He’s often been told he’s particular about a lot of things.
It took months for him to agree to hiring a couple of editors. He came up with a hundred reasons not to until Sam smiled fondly and accused him of not wanting to lose control. AJ had shrugged, caught out by the truth in the observation, and picked at a loose thread in his jumper until they were talking about something else.
It’s probably not normal to frequently be unable to verbalise a feeling. AJ’s emotions are more sensations than words though. When one of the others asks how he is, sometimes he wants to reply spiky, like things are crawling over my skin and its vibrating beneath them and everything’s at the wrong frequency…
He normally says tired, or weird, or just plain off if he really can’t think of anything else.
There’s an order to things now when that conversation takes place.
How are you feeling, AJ?
Off.
Anything we can do to help.
Probably just need a nap.
Then AJ finds the nearest soft surface and curls up with his hat pulled over his eyes. A sofa is preferable but in the makeshift backstage areas they’ve had in the past, the floor has sometimes been the only option.
Tom despairs when AJ decides he’s going to nap on the floor. He points out how dirty it is or that surely it will be uncomfortable. To save AJ, he’s even sat on the floor to offer his leg as a pillow in the worst cases.
In those moments, AJ feels that sense of wrongness more acutely. He sees the look on Tom’s face and knows he isn’t behaving normally. His skin somehow manages to crawl more than it already is and he weighs up the benefits of pretending he doesn’t need the rest when his body is crying out for the darkness and silence and the fifteen minutes of peace it will give him.
But the others – they never seem to judge him for it. They shake him awake in time for the show and ask if he’s feeling better. The jokes fall away to quiet worry that AJ tries to accept rather than recoil from.
They don’t try to fix it. They don’t try to explain it. They don’t ask AJ to change.
But sometimes he wonders – maybe he should be trying to explain it. Maybe there’s an explanation that would take away some of those fears that he’s different or broken or wrong.
Or maybe he’s nothing special. Maybe he’s just AJ and he’s got a few quirks. Maybe he’ll always be like this.