![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
immolate_the_silenceTitle: All Heart (And So Much More) (AO3)
Fandom: Ocean's 11 (trilogy)
Pairing & Characters: Linus/Rusty, Danny
Genres: Romance/Friendship
Rating: Teen
Summary: His mom has told him plenty of times that sometimes that’s all he is: all heart. Not that she doubts he could have anymore in him, just that if - when - it all fails, he’ll be left with nothing but that heart and that’s what will keep him alive. When everyone else is utterly destroyed, he’ll still be there: all heart, just a damn messy, sticky, stupid, foolish heart.
A/N: Written for Trope Bingo for the trope Rites of Passage/Coming of Age, specifically the sub-trope Coming Out (of the closet). I can’t stop writing Linus; I just love him so.
…
Linus is pretty much face down in his third beer when he builds up the confidence enough to recognize how perfectly reasonable the advice he had received from his third, best therapist yet is. He’s a lightweight when it comes to anything even remotely alcoholic, realizes maybe the only reason he came out tonight was the peer pressure, which he also realizes he’s much too old and practical to succumb to, but this is something he just needs to come out with it already.
Sometimes the only way to admit it to yourself is to admit it to everyone else first.
He has admitted it though, or he likes to think he has, likes to think he’s coping perfectly well with it. It’s not such a big deal, not like it would have been in the nineties even though Linus wasn’t sure then, but somehow admitting it to the guys makes it so. Maybe that’s reason enough not to do it; then again, maybe the only way he can grow is to say screw it all, this is who I am, if they can’t accept it then it’s not my problem.
Just shut up already. The only reason you’re doing this is because of him.
He practically hisses it, angry at himself for letting it get this far yet also oddly proud for reaching this point, this milestone. Pathetic, really.
He’ll finally probably know whether he has a chance or not.
Or Rusty, as always, will remain oblivious aside from the teasing that’s not really cruel exactly, not vindictive or callous toward Linus’ ambition, only fair game, just something to pass the time, to test Linus, to keep him on his toes.
Linus doesn’t know which version of Rusty would be worse.
Okay, definitely the obliviousness.
Danny and Rusty are trading half-stories, occasionally loud and substantial enough for the others to break off from their mini conversations and listen in. Linus is the only one listening to it all, the only one not participating, trying to keep himself small and relatively invisible so Danny and Rusty won’t move away or lower their voices even further. Most of it Linus can’t hear anyway, only snippets of sentences, sighs or glances or hums filling in for words never spoken. He is used to this and yet not in the way that he’s still annoyed by it. It’s weird, it’s envying, it’s entirely baffling.
The other guys tried to pull him into random, completely unrelated discussions once or twice but Linus is right where he wants to be: quiet, observant, barely there at all, listening to pieces of half a dozen conversations before allowing himself the temptation to be entirely mesmerized by the two men seated directly to his left.
God, but he wants to be them. He wants to be both of them, all of their traits and strengths and intricacies and eccentricities rolled into one person. If he can’t have all that, he’ll never have all that even if the two agree to teach Linus all the best parts of themselves, never holding anything back which they inevitably will, he’ll take at least something vital to his livelihood from each of them.
He knows they know he’s watching, Rusty glancing over at him from time to time with amusement and not the resentment Linus probably deserves but he can’t help it.
That same therapist told him it doesn’t matter if he gets what he wants all in this one night or not, that all the great loves fade, requited or not, that Linus will feel differently in time.
But Danny and Rusty are the two people he could never feel differently about.
And he doubts his infatuation for Rusty, that need so ridiculously beyond the boundaries of plausibility, will fade even a fraction. It’s so ingrained in him that shutting Rusty out would be like closing off his heart. His mom has told him plenty of times that sometimes that’s all he is: all heart. Not that she doubts he could have anymore in him, just that if - when - it all fails, he’ll be left with nothing but that heart and that’s what will keep him alive. When everyone else is utterly destroyed, he’ll still be there: all heart, just a damn messy, sticky, stupid, foolish heart.
It can’t possibly be what Rusty wants; it’s not anywhere near enough to offer to a man who doesn’t seem to want for anything, who just glides through life taking what he wants and more often than not getting it. If Rusty wanted Linus, he would have already taken him. He’s not the type to wait around, to hang back in the shadows.
Okay, so maybe he is kinda like that: working all the angles out in his head and pouncing when the time is right.
But this long? Not really. No way.
And yet that very same heart has all this hope, this infernal hope, dimmed down to a spark now with all this liquor soaking into his blood, making him sluggish and yet all the more wanting, all the more prepared to do something about it, all the less keen on sitting here like a good boy and keeping his mouth firmly shut.
Then again, he may never get another opportunity like this. There won’t always be another job; there won’t always be that necessity.
He will never get this chance again.
“I’m gay,” he blurts, not that loud but still loud enough for someone to have to be purposely fixated on not hearing him. The words come out less like a rudely started conversation and more like a joke of a revelation, and maybe that’s the only way. They come from some part of his brain that probably hasn’t been getting enough air taking control of the situation and deeming this the best way to handle the one exact thing he needs to get off his chest. Remember: according to his therapist, of course.
He tries to remember how he got to this point, to even needing some shrink to tell him what he should do and what doesn’t really matter when every little thing matters to Linus, doesn’t he know?
There’s - as necessity dictates - a long awkward silence that’s made only slightly better with the mundane noises of people drinking, eating and laughing in the background, and probably made so much better with how drunk he suspects he is, the only reason he’s still sitting here and not fleeing the scene of the crime he has himself absolutely committed.
No one has pushed him to this really, no one here has whittled him down to this.
He’s the only source of the pressure. He has only himself to blame.
Danny takes pity on him before that silence can start stretching out into what could only be described as eternity, flashing him a smile equal parts reassuring as it is dazzling. He should have known Danny would be the one to smooth things over and he is soooo grateful, grateful enough really for whatever his body’s soaking in to be more emotion than liquor. Maybe. “Good for you, Linus.”
Just like that, everything goes back to what it had been before. There’s smiles - genuine and fake and dripping with too much booze, bringing Linus’ recent college days looming large and embarrassingly bright - and outraged words and poorly received jokes and aggravated jostling, that last part entirely courtesy of the twins - and stories still going around, being twisted into memories hardly believable, stories Linus has heard before but not really with how much they change from retelling to retelling - and there’s still drinks being ordered because why not, they’re in a bar and what else are they supposed to be if not drunk?
There seems to be everything but what Linus has just traded his pride for.
He’s unnerved and relieved and it’s like it never happened at all, it’s like Linus will never take that step, that step closer to knowing Rusty just a fraction better because he has given away some vital piece of himself that needs to be loved; it’s not lost on him how there’s so much of him that needs to be loved it’s not practical at all. He has given away a piece of himself to be unraveled and picked apart and used against him. But really, what it is is that Rusty already has too much of him because Linus can’t hide a damn thing about himself and really why would he want anymore? He probably has enough Linus to last him lifetimes; he probably wants less, so much less than what he’s been forced to take in.
And Linus wants more, so much more of Rusty that it must be the only reason his heart is still pumping blood, the only fuel enough for that flame of hope, and it’s cheesy as hell but if anything that’s what makes it all the more substantial, more painful, more acutely Linus than anything else.
As Linus nervously shifts his gaze from one to the other in their group, less fixated on Danny and Rusty now because he has done what he came here to do, he reassures himself in that he’s hit the ball as hard as he could and it’s now one-hundred percent in Rusty’s court, which makes it his move whether he knows or accepts it or not. Unless Linus didn’t make a big enough scene, didn’t sound serious enough, will only ever be taken seriously up to a specific point and where the line ends he will never know…
It becomes easy to assume that no one is thinking about Linus or how not into girls he is.
Especially Rusty.
He rises from the chair that has been uncomfortably digging into his ass for two hours now, which he’s ignored and wishes he hadn’t now. He’s clumsy at first but opts to rest his palms on the table, waiting patiently for balance. It’s probably better that he has; no one’s paying any attention to him and they probably would have if he fell flat on his ass.
Linus vaguely remembers where the bathroom is and heads off in that direction, following a neon sign and hoping it’s the right one.
His palms are sweaty; his hair’s too long, sticking to the back of his neck; he’s still not steady enough and because of that he’s not even really sure he’s here anymore. He could be anywhere, he could be in any bathroom in Las Vegas or Chicago or Amsterdam or in some gas station in the middle of the fucking desert. He might have never gone to a shrink and it could all be just in his head.
It makes more sense for him to not be in a bar, makes more sense for Rusty never to have heard a thing at all.
He could hide in one of the stalls until something happens, until he’s confident enough to pull his head out of his ass and accept responsibility for his own damn life again.
But then the door opens and he knows who it is even before he catches the streak of perfectly gelled, perfectly spiked, just perfect in general blond hair; the tacky cream shirt splattered haphazardly with streaks of brown and olive green; the toothpick dangling out of the corner of a tantalizing, smirking mouth he absolutely should not be staring at, probably more for appearance sake than anything else.
Linus peers at him through the mirror, way past the point of trying not to look so hung up when that’s all he’s become, and he doesn’t turn because then it might not be real.
Rusty locks the door.
It’s something that flits through Linus’ slow, boozy head until it has the grace to fly through again and sink thoroughly in: Rusty locked the door, why in the world would he lock the door?
That’s when Linus realizes that he’s really there and that he can stop relying on the mirror like it’s giving him a glimpse into a world he can never have. He turns away from it, away from the sink until his hands are grasping the counter-top in a clumsy attempt to balance when it’s his head that needs to be balanced more than his actual body, teetering halfway over the edge of a cliff from where he suspects there’s no return. His misty eyes are wide but it doesn’t help; everything is increasingly being blurred except for Rusty. He’s so close Linus’ hands could be on his chest instead, could be in that hair he’d feel more embarrassed to mess up rather than never taking the chance.
For now Rusty’s keeping his hands to himself, but Linus guesses it won’t take much from him for that to change. Linus won’t dare touch him first; he’s still coherent enough to feel mostly in control but that’s not the problem. The problem is those same hands he’s been dreaming about pushing him away, instructing Linus where not to touch, giving him some but holding back most.
A will so strong stamping onto his desire and twisting it into something infinitely more desperate, into something mildly resentful.
No, he won’t reach out first; he’ll play hard to get if that’s what he has to do. He’ll wait.
He’s waited this long.
“Took you long enough,” Rusty leans forward and breathes into his ear before Linus can react to that first bit. They could be touching, just barely, but Linus is so dizzy he can’t really tell if it’s just Rusty breathing on him. Some essential part of him jerks back to life once he realizes the words aren’t mere inexpressible words and fuses them together into their proper order, instinct more than what he necessarily wants to hear. He’s confident enough that he hasn’t misheard, even if he never had any warning and that should be warning enough that he hasn’t put the words in the right order, because he can’t be getting what he wants right now.
The universe, fate, luck, whatever can’t possibly be this good to him right now.
And Rusty, don’t forget Rusty, he’s standing right freaking here.
Rusty’s hands are on him first but somehow it still doesn’t give Linus permission. Those warm, deft, perfect hands are grasping his waist, spreading so much heat until he feels like he’s been thoroughly licked by fire, and he’s being moved gently away from the counter-top. It’s only at the last second that Linus releases his hands, half-winces at the marks left behind in tingling skin, praying that Rusty doesn’t let him go and that when he does he’ll be so much stronger than he feels right now, strong enough that he won’t fall.
Rusty doesn’t let him go. His hands very slowly, very expertly untuck Linus’ shirt, soft fingers brushing against his skin teasingly, dipping just below his belt until he must take pity on the panic in Linus’ eyes and eases away, spreading out a palm along his lower back before retreating, smoothing out his shirt as he goes.
Instead of touch, Linus flutters helplessly in place; it’s as if his wings have been folded for so long that now they’ve been released, he can’t do anything but shift in place and try not to topple over.
That’s when he remembers Amsterdam, remembers how Rusty’s didn’t always have flings, remembers meeting Isabel and envying the way Rusty would look at her. That’s when he remembers Rusty mentioning to Danny about taking a break, their paths in life no longer running in parallel directions. That’s when he remembers Danny telling Rusty how the first time isn’t always the charm, when Linus inevitably thinks of Tess and tries to picture Isabel as Rusty’s great, forever love.
He tries to picture himself instead, doesn’t really see that either but he tries not to dwell on it.
He’s not Rusty’s perfect match, that’s a no-brainer, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be…
“Is…” He can’t get her name out but he needs to know.
Rusty waits, patiently. His fingers settle now on Linus’ chin, tilting his head up slightly as if wanting to read the secrets behind his eyes. There’s still things he wants to know? There’s still parts of me he wants? “Is what?”
Maybe it’s Rusty being so attentive that leads him to find his voice again. “What about Isabel?”
That same hand cups his cheek, fingers splaying to collect the trail of moisture under Linus’ eyes, a thumb leaving trails of sparks dancing across his skin. “We’re through.”
Rusty’s a breath away from kissing him, there’s no other way to interpret all this and Linus inhales sharply, forces his mouth open and starts talking again because he’s nervous and confused and shaky and overwhelmed, because they’re in a public bathroom and Rusty seems so relaxed and Linus is dreaming, he has to be dreaming. “Through as in just now or…?”
“Through as in I’m available, Linus.”
He’s available and I’m the first choice but maybe not the only one.
Does it matter?
“I’m not…” Your plaything, your toy, your sometime boyfriend, your convenient reason to get laid tonight by someone who adores you and will do whatever it is you want for almost nothing in return. Is there any way he can put it that won’t make Rusty glower or laugh?
As it is, his eyes are almost cold and that’s why Linus never finishes, feeling more acutely now than ever before how he’s known too well. Rusty, for whatever reason, doesn’t push. “Not into me? Now I know that isn’t true, kid,” he teases. He’s teasing him at a time like this and it’s making Linus hot and irritated and gooey and somewhat thankful and mostly on the verge of being reckless.
No, he won’t waste this; he won’t be reckless. “I don’t… I don’t want some temporary thing, Rusty.”
Rusty pulls back, not far enough to make Linus upset but enough to make him regretful. His hands brush the underside of Linus’ arms before slipping away and Linus pulls them up and crosses them, building an invisible wall that has no chance of holding. He’s aware he’s being stared at as if that admission brought forth a boldness he should never have been allowed to share; it’s this that makes the anticipation more painful than uncomfortable.
He never has been able to read Rusty and maybe that’s part of the draw, maybe he’s brave enough to want that blatant unpredictability, and yet it also adds a hundred more blades for Linus to fall onto. Rusty could be wondering whether Linus is really worth all this trouble, whether he’s biting off more than he wants to chew. Maybe he’s just now realizing that Linus isn’t who he wants at all.
Either Rusty is speechless or it’s still all planned and Linus doesn’t actually want to know. He turns toward the mirror and fixes his perfect hair, washing his hands as if what he’d just touched was unclean and he had to be rid of it. Linus stands there like a self-immolating idiot, staring, waiting, tears already beginning to form again… “Linus,” he’s asked by the figure in the mirror, “do you want to go steady?”
His heart starts beating so fast… “Rusty…?” … he can hardly hear what follows.
“Do you want to be my boyfriend? Because I would like that very, very much.”
And the way Rusty says it, Linus just… crumbles.
He does start crying then, the tears spilling over before he can push them back, quiet and vulnerable. His hands fly to the stinging, betraying organs, damp fingers scrubbing across his face, tearing and pinching and digging because there’s so much to feel and he has to get some of it out. He’s ecstatic, over-sensitized by his love for Rusty, more afraid that if he forces words out they won’t stop coming than of this, this childish, weak-minded display of joy. It’s only when hands rest on his shoulders and pull him close, reminding him to breathe deeply, that he jolts back to a semi-okay, degrees more coherent state.
Closer still and the two of them are resting against each other, cheek to cheek, Linus having been unaware that Rusty could be this sweet, this caring and considerate and loving person who wants Linus to be his boyfriend and his heart jumps inside his chest, throbbing to the beat of an eternal music against his ribcage. He can feel Rusty’s pulse against his cheek once his head slides down, cocooned between head and shoulder, and that somehow means everything to him.
The tears are soaking into Rusty’s shirt and into his very skin and it must be gross and annoying but he doesn’t seem to mind. He only murmurs words like: okay and easy and slow with each gasping inhale Linus sucks in, wanting to breathe Rusty in all at once like a starving man would too quickly devour food. He wants to tell Rusty how long he’s wanted him, how much, how sometimes he couldn’t breathe and had to hear Rusty’s voice, but in the way he’s being held and spoken to he becomes acutely aware that these things are already known and have been for a long while.
How could you do this to me?
How could I let you do this to me?
He’s drunk and tired and happy when Rusty starts talking again, rousing him from the semi-conscious state he was falling into, his low, soothing voice no longer murmurings but plans for the future, their future. Linus feels dizzier than the moment before but he’s being held tightly enough that he’s convinced he doesn’t need to concern himself about it. He listens to Rusty as if he may never hear actual words again: entangling himself wholeheartedly and yet helplessly in every word, every intonation and pitch of his voice…
“We’ll flip a coin. Tails says we swipe my best suite and I let you take a whole half of my closet,” and endearingly adds, “for starters. Heads says I come hang out with you in Chicago for a while and we find a place down the road. One that suits us both. Sound fair?” The last part is an afterthought, really, but why would Linus care when it’s everything he wants and more?
Giddy from relief and over-excitement, Linus doesn’t have it in him to do anything more than giggle. On second thought, he presses a kiss into Rusty’s neck and nuzzles there, looking forward to being able to do this many more times.
Wait ‘till his therapist hears about this.
FIN
