Tom and Neil are out walking to the store for groceries when a hand lands on Neil's shoulder and whirls him around.

"Neil! Neil Mackay, I'll be damned." Tom turns to see the speaker; a man in his early thirties with blonde hair and incredibly blue eyes.

"Frederick." Neil's acknowledgement is less than friendly - Tom can see his shoulders tensing up, his body automatically assuming a fight-or-flight pose. "What brings you to Paris?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Frederick replies with a broad smile, and his eyes move to Tom. "Is this . . ."

"A friend." Neil's voice is quick and biting, and Tom isn't sure why he's so tense but he does know that if Neil doesn't want to be talking to this person, he shouldn't be.

"You know, Neil, we had some good times, back in the day." Frederick is rambling - Tom is beginning to suspect that he's drunk, although he's hid it well thus far. "You, me, that spot behind the barracks -"

Neil walks away.

Tom follows him, nearly running to keep up with the other man's fast pace. "So what was that about?" He asks, glancing over at Neil. He's expecting a cryptic answer, or none at all - what he isn't expecting is to be dragged into an alleyway and thrown up against a wall, a forearm pressing the air out of his throat.

"What - the - hell?" He gasps, but Neil doesn't remove the pressure.

"Not a word." He says in a low voice, and for one brief moment Tom thinks that he's joking, that all of this is some sort of weird prank. He lets out a choking laugh, and then all the air is just - gone.

He can't breathe he can't move he can't think past needing just one breath of air -

"One word of this to anyone and I swear to god I will kill you." Neil hisses fiercely, before dropping his arm to his side.

Tom crumples to the ground, heaving and gasping. And then all he can think about is why Neil, Neil, would do something like this, and -

Oh. Oh.

"I would never tell anyone." He coughs out, once he's able to take a few rattling breaths. "I would - never. I would never want you to get hurt."

Neil looks at him with something akin to understanding and sorrow in his eyes as he grips Tom's hand and helps him to his feet. "I'm sorry." He mutters, ducking his head to his chest.

"Don't be." Tom replies, and he means it. "I would do the same thing." Something about the words I would reverberate around his head for an extra second. He blames it on the lack of oxygen.

When they get back, Tom lets Neil explain to Aurora their lack of groceries and the blossoming purple bruise around his neck, while he ducks into the broom closet in the back of the flat. (It's a fairly large broom closet, and it's become the place everyone goes when they need some space.)

He can't get the words you, me, that spot behind the barracks out of his head for whatever reason. That, combined with the look on Neil's face - fear, and something else - is enough to make him never want to leave the broom closet ever again.

What if something's wrong with him? What if he - what if Neil -

He lets out a deep breath, and buries his head in his hands.