✓ | 3. soldier, soldier, spy [STEVE HARRINGTON]

eight.

CHAPTER EIGHT:
SUSPENDERS

[ THE SAUNA TEST ]

❖ ❖ ❖

Thomas was shoving on his round, thin-framed glasses as he stumbled out of the house. He'd pulled on the closest clothes: a dark button up shirt with a faint, pale green floral pattern, unbuttoned to his breastbone and tucked into shorts gripped by suspenders (fashion had become an interest over the past few months, though he didn't want anyone to know that; it really was queer of him).

"Hey, nice shirt!" a voice said from behind him.

Thomas whipped round half way through locking the door, glasses sliding down the slippy slope of his nose. He pushed them up hastily, and saw when things cleared that Stanley Müller stood at the bottom of the porch, one foot on the steps as if Thomas had burst from the house before he could climb them.

He tossed Thomas a cheeky grin as he confidently stepped up the next two stairs and onto the porch; his feet stamped as he did so, unintentionally, and Thomas thought something oddly philosophical: this boy had no issue being heard, or being seen, or with himself at all.

"You look... positively dashing," he said, teasingly, as he put his hands in his pockets. He was wearing cargo shorts of a peachy colour and an AC/DC shirt. Sunglasses nestled in his fluffy hair, and Thomas subconsciously touched his own before fiddling with his glasses.

"Ha, thanks." Then, awkwardly, because he didn't know what else to say and didn't know how to compliment people, especially not boys — and not even about a simple band t-shirt: "Sorry. I don't like AC/DC."

Stanley looked confused, then realised and glanced down at his slim chest. "Oh. Ha. Yeah, you don't quite strike me as the type." He flicked his eyes down. So teasing. "Nice suspenders, Deputy."

"Are you here just to take the piss?" Thomas asked. Although he knew Stan was joking, he was in a rush and was becoming increasingly touchy.

"Oh, no. No." His eyes softened. "Actually..." Hands deeper in pockets, a step closer. "I just came to see how you are."

"...Why?"

Stanley laughed. "Why — what kinda question?" He pulled a face of artificial I dunno and shrugged exaggeratedly. "Guess I'm just a nice friend."

Thomas scrunched his nose, which made his glasses slip down again. He was sweating a lot already in the sun; he was feeling the heat more than ever today — almost to a painful degree. "We aren't friends."