The Lighthouse: A Tom Hardy FanFiction

The Lighthouse

Twenty Three months later.

"Forrest would you calm bloody down, come back here!!" I shout as he bounds away from me along the pavement towards the flat. Not even the snow slows him down. Honestly, that bloody dog. He wouldn't let me put the leash back on him as we'd left the north gate of The Meadows, instead ignoring me and bolting off home towards the flat. 

I watch as he kicks up puffs of white and stops to sniff an older couple who look nonplussed by his excitable efforts about their legs. "Sorry about that," I tell them as I reach him, moving him on with a light tug on his blue collar.  He sets off once again, bright copper coat shining under the rising moon. My breath feels hot and it clouds in translucent puffs in front of my face as I hurry along the pavement back home.

It's going to be bitter tonight, I can feel it already; the nip of February freezing the landscape into a glittering world of white.  Up ahead I see Forrest stop dead at the foot of the stairs to the front of the building, his tail waggling uncontrollably as he drools over yet another willing victim. Whoever it is is sitting down on the front step and so obscured by the low garden wall. I can only see legs and the clouds of airborne breathing, and then heavily clothed arms as two gloved hands reach out to rub at Forrest's thick glossy coat.

Just then a bus slushes along the road past me and I jump back as the brown muck leaden snow splashes up my legs. It doesn't get me too badly but I still glare round at the vehicle as it rolls past me.
"Well thanks very bloody much!" I snap at the thing, glancing angrily at the double decker. As I look up at the bus my heart leaps into my mouth at the sight emblazoned across the side of it.

His name in bold. His co-stars name in bold. The release date two days from now, in bold.

Will I go see it? I haven't decided yet. Sitting in the dark watching him from a twenty foot screen seems safe enough but I've had difficulty enough just looking at pictures of him for even the briefest moments for almost two years. I miss him. Which is odd. I've experienced a feeling of supreme loss since the day I dropped him off at the dock that bright February morning and it hasn't really abated any. Get over it Frankie.

Sometimes I think that maybe I'd dreamt the entire thing.  The whole thing had merely been some madness of the mind induced by too much wine, solitude and freezing temperatures. Safer that way. Less painful. I was going mad thinking about it anyway. Madness was at the end of every direction of thought open to me.

Still grumbling at the bus as it pulls away from the bus stop, I hurry along the snowy pavement to catch up with Forrest and his new friend. When I'm about ten feet away from my front door the figure stands up and takes a step down onto the pavement to stand in front of me. I glance up and almost skid to a stop, my snow boots crunching to a halt into the snow. Okay.  Yes.  I really have gone mad.

He's wrapped up well - green army style jacket, black hoodie underneath and a thick black woollen beanie style hat. His hands are gloved and shoved deep in the pockets of his dark baggy trousers and his boot clad feet are set about a foot apart giving him a far too relaxed stance. As I drink in the sight of him I feel my body start to warm all over as the memories start to rush in.

The memory of his mouth as it marked its way across my skin whispering desire into my ear. His hands as they teased and touched and tortured me in pleasure. His arousal as it slid deep inside my body. For three whole days we had lost ourselves in each other. Memories that I was supposed to leave on that island. Memories that I was supposed to bury somewhere inside me — memories that were not supposed to be jogged by the man standing in front of me now looking better than he ever had.

"Hello Frankie," he says softly. He thinks about smiling but mostly decides against it, the side of his mouth twitching up only slightly, temptingly.