Gladio Amacita

There is something particularly 'just another Tuesday' level of strangeness about unlocking the front door to your sorta-but-not-quite boyfriend's house with bags of groceries expecting to see the old guy he takes care of and instead getting hit by a wall of new knowledge. Of knowing more about waves and surf conditions specifically in California, of knowing the particular quirks of a classic car neither Wolverine nor Cyclops had ever known, of knowing pet names you never used and a world you've never seen and the taste of peanut butter in foods it doesn't belong in.

Of a burning level of love mirrored only by how you yourself feel for your not-quite-boyfriend and that you know he's never expressed to you.

It hurts. Hurts like a heart ripped out. Hurts like one of too many deaths. Hurts like dreams shattered and being out of time.

And still David continues into the house, because the groceries are needed for taking care of the old man and Tommy, if not for this new complexity as well.

"Hey old man, brought the groceries. I'm going to make a casserole. Billy Hargrove, what sort of foods do you like?"

Not as if David doesn't know. He just needs to warn the guy that it isn't Tommy at the door. That said he closes it behind him and bee lines for the kitchen lamenting that Tommy should have warned him that things between them had changed so much.