Fandom: Person of Interest
Author: godsdaisiechain
Title: Not Like Him
Characters/Pairing: Carl Elias/Anthony Marconi (pre-slash), Bruce Moran
Length: long (3500-ish words)
Rating: M

Summary: As an adult, Carl remembers the first time he kissed Anthony. The main story is pre-canon and set when they were teenagers just going out on their own. It's a fluffy, hurt-comfort-y sort of male bonding story from the time before they became gangsters but after they'd become strong shoulders for each other to lean on in hard times.




Carl still remembered their first kiss…not the one on the lips the evening they knew they couldn’t kid themselves about their feelings any longer, the night they accepted the type of men they were, but the first one, before they knew it had even been a real kiss.

They’d known each other for more than two years, mostly in the group home. Then Anthony was sent to share an apartment with his grandfather, and Carl turned sixteen and became emancipated, staying with Gloria until he found a tiny studio apartment. Bruce went to live with one of a seemingly endless series of uncles, who had just got out of jail. When Anthony’s grandfather died, Carl took to sleeping on the couch, to keep Anthony company and help him clean up before social services kicked him out of the place.

Anthony came back from his job at a gym one afternoon, hours early, looking white and grey, except for a purpling black eye.

“You’re early,” Carl called.  “Is everything ok?”

“I don’t feel too good,” Anthony said, and dropped to his knees in the space where his grandfather’s hospital bed had stood.  His lunch, uneaten in its bag, fell to the floor.

Carl, who had been unpacking groceries—mostly six-packs of soda and packs of candy bars they bought with food stamps, broke up and sold for a profit—was at his side in an instant. “My god, Anthony, you’re burning up.” Carl helped Anthony up and brought him into the bathroom, an arm firmly around his friend’s waist, flipped down the lid on the toilet. “Sit?” Anthony sat, half slumped against the sink and the wall, head bumping a towel bar, teeth chattering. Carl, remembering the last time he had a fever, started to fill the bathtub. “You need help?” Anthony fumbled the zipper on his jacket.

“Yeah,” said Anthony. Carl gently undressed his friend, leaving on his underwear, and helped him into the bathtub, avoiding touching the bruised spots on his side and arms. Anthony gulped back sobs of relief as he put a foot into the warmish water. “That’s better,” he said. Carl made sure Anthony could sit up, rested his head on a folded-up towel, then went back ot the front room.  He put Anthony’s lunch in the refrigerator and called Gloria, his foster mother.

“What do I do?” Carl asked. “It’s Anthony. He’s real sick. He didn’t even eat his lunch.”

“It sounds like flu,” Gloria said after Carl answered her questions. “What medicine do you have in the house? Do you have Tylenol? Something to help him sleep?”

“Yeah,” said Carl, not knowing, but thinking of the bottles of pills left behind by old Mr. Marconi. “We got a lot of stuff.”

“Good,” said Gloria. “Give him pain pills—Tylenol if you have it—and keep him comfortable and hydrated. Stay with him. Don’t leave him alone. Don’t give him aspirin. Do you have food?” Anthony called for Carl.

“Yeah,” said Carl. “I just went to the store.” Anthony called again. “Sorry. I gotta go. Thanks. I love you. Thanks.”

“Call me if you need help.”

Anthony smiled gently when he saw Carl. “I got scared you was gone,” Anthony said, sheepishly, which sent a chill through Carl. “Sorry.”

“I was just talking to Gloria,” said Carl, squatting down by the tub, pressing Anthony’s shoulder. “You ready to get into bed?” Anthony nodded. They left his sodden underwear on the cracked tile floor while Carl helped him, wrapped in a tattered bath towel, to the bedroom and sat him on the bed. “You want pajamas on?”

“Yeah,” said Anthony, resting his head against Carl’s chest. “You won’t leave? You’ll stay?” Carl had never felt as protective of anyone or anything as he did in that moment. He cupped the back of Anthony’s head in a hand.

“I’ll be right here,” said Carl, rubbing Anthony’s bare neck. “As long as you need me.”  He helped Anthony into ratty, mismatched pajamas, gave him Tylenol, and tucked him into the bed. “You hungry?” Anthony shook his head no and closed his eyes.

It was a long couple of days. Carl later remembered swallowing down panic at every noise of distress from his friend, and there were many such noises. Anthony slept fitfully most of the time, waking to swallow Tylenol and water or sweetened tea. The first time Carl came near the bed, Anthony cried out and flinched back, wide-eyed, as if he was a little child expecting to be beaten. So Carl spoke in low tones, calling Anthony by name, telling him that he was fine and gently wiping the sweat from his face or holding his hand. He knew Anthony wouldn’t want Bruce to see him like this, so he didn’t call. But Carl grew more and more anxious when Anthony refused any food, even soda or candy or orange juice. The only words he said were, “Carl” and “sorry.”

On the third morning, Anthony’s fever broke.  Carl looked through the cupboard, finding the same cans of beans and tuna left by the meals on wheels in case of winter storms—he’d eaten Anthony’s sandwiches himself—and then in the refrigerator at the stacks of candy bars and sodas and cheese that Anthony wouldn’t eat, a half-empty carton of orange juice, box of sugar cubes, half a loaf of bread, and a sleeve of saltine crackers. The vegetable drawer held half a bag of rice and five onions. He called Bruce. “I don’t want to leave him on his own. I ran out of tea and we don't got no soup.” Bruce went very quiet. Anthony could take on three opponents in a street fight.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks,” said Carl. “I appreciate it.”

Bruce arrived dragging a wire cart.  He handed Carl a bag smelling of Chinese food and set another on the counter.

Carl unloaded a gallon of wonton soups and quarts of lo mein. Bottles of juice. Tea bags and honey. Bullion cubes and crackers. Oranges and grapes and lemons. Jars of peanut butter and grape jelly. Carl had only mentioned soup. “How much do we owe you?”

Bruce frowned. “Don’t worry about it. I asked my uncle’s new girlfriend what to get and she ran out to the store while I was in the shower. I hope this one sticks around. She was real nice about it… ordered everything from the Chinese for me and packed up the cart. I guess grapes and oranges is good for sick people. The lo mein is for you, Carlie. You look like complete crap.”

“I look better than Anthony,” said Carl. “His fever went away this morning but I, uh, I still can’t get him to eat.” Bruce’s face went blank.  “It has me worried.”

“You can’t get him to eat?” Carl shook his head. "Not even peanut butter crackers? Them's his favorite."  Carl shook his head again, fighting down panic.  What if Anthony died? “I ain’t never seen him turn up his nose at nothing,” said Bruce, seriously.  He’d known Anthony in juvie, years before they met Carl. “Not never. Even with his face all cut up. This ain’t like him.” Carl waited for the inevitable explosion. “Dammit, Carl, why didn't you call me?”

“He’s been real sick,” said Carl, mildly setting everything in the refrigerator out of habit, even though there hadn’t been roaches since they put down the borax. “I didn’t know what to do. He won't even drink a Coke,” Carl added, face in the refrigerator, stacking up cans to hold up the loose shelf while Bruce silently processed this information. Anthony loved sugary drinks. They had been a rare treat during his deprived childhood, something he associated with his grandparents, who had always been kind to him.

As always, when faced with a problem, Bruce came up with a quick and practical solution. “Hang on,” Bruce said, running out, and coming back in a few minutes with ice cream and popsicles. Carl was in the bedroom, brushing the hair back from Anthony’s forehead.   

“It woke him up,” Carl said in answer to Bruce’s unspoken question. As Bruce moved closer, his foot dragged on the floor, Anthony’s eyes flew open and he grabbed Carl’s hand. Bruce stepped back, but Carl spoke, and Anthony looked up into Carl’s face. “You’re doing good, Anthony,” Carl said. “It’s okay. Bruce came to see you.” Anthony smiled as his eyes closed again. “He’s doing a lot better,” Carl said blandly, while he put the ice cream and popsicles in the freezer. “He ain't smiled in days. The first day was pretty rough.” Bruce swore under his breath.

“You clean up and rest,” said Bruce. “I’ll sit with him.” Carl objected. “You ain’t slept in three days,” Bruce insisted. Carl took a quick shower and curled up on the battered couch, falling asleep before he could turn on the television.  Anthony’s voice roused him hours later.  When Carl sat up, a ratty blanket fell to the floor.  Bruce had tucked him in as he slept.

“Sorry,” Anthony said, his mouth a frightening grey. Then Carl took in the red and blue stained popsicle sticks adhering to an empty cardboard box he had set up as a table. Carl picked them up and wiped the box before the sugar attracted pests. Bruce had fallen asleep in a wooden chair missing one arm, half sitting and half lying on the foot of Anthony’s bed, the way Carl had for three nights. Anthony was too weak to move against the weight on the blankets.

“You need to get up?” Anthony nodded. Carl helped Anthony up without waking Bruce and half supported, half-carried him to the bathroom.  They paused halfway and Anthony rested his head on Carl’s shoulder.  “Just a little further,” Carl said.

At the sound of the toilet flushing, Bruce staggered out of the bedroom.  He lifted Anthony easily, carrying him to the front room, setting him onto the sofa and covering him with the blanket. “He needs clean sheets,” Bruce said, low, to Carl, as Anthony’s eyes fluttered and then closed. “My uncle’s girlfriend said the dirty sheets could make him sick again.”

“OK,” said Carl. While Bruce produced a can of Lysol and started spraying things, Carl looked in the closets and found some sheets and couple of ratty pillowcases tucked in an old suitcase on top of a bunch of dresses.  In the bedroom, Bruce had opened the window.  Carl changed the sheets, taping together a few holes with a roll of masking tape, and fluffed the pillows. He closed the window and went out to find Anthony wearing one of his grandfather’s old shirts with his pajama bottoms.  Carl brought the blanket, and Bruce carried Anthony to the bed and set him down.

Bruce propped Anthony up with the pillows, wrapped up the dirty sheets and blankets and tied them with kitchen string that old Mr. Marconi had hoarded in a drawer while Carl rooted around the house, finally coming up with a stained afghan made to look like flowers, but with a burn hole in it.  “I’ll get these washed.” Bruce stayed, talking to Anthony, while Carl heated up some broth from the wonton soup and brought it back in a chipped mug. “Go eat something, Carl. You look totally done in.”  Carl went back into the kitchen and had a couple of wontons and a can of soda while Bruce fed Anthony.

“You wanna try a little soup?” Carl heard Bruce’s voice, calm and unfussed, as if he took care of a sick friend every day. “It’s from the Chinese. If you don’t like it, I got other stuff, too.”  Carl heard Anthony’s embarrassed grunt. “That okay? How about a little more?” Bruce asked. Carl wandered in as Anthony accepted more Tylenol. He sipped grape juice obediently from a paper cup when Bruce held it up for him, a careful hand on his shoulder. “There’s just a swallow left,” Bruce said and Anthony drained the cup. “I’d stay all night, but I got a job in the morning,” Bruce said.

“No,” said Carl, arranging the covers and then finding socks for Anthony’s bare feet. “You’ve been here for hours. I got a real good rest in. Maybe you can come back in a couple of days and keep him company while I see if we still got jobs. I called in, but you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” said Anthony. “Thanks for the popsicles and everything, Bruce.” It was the first full sentence he’d uttered in days, and Carl nearly collapsed with relief. "They was good."

Bruce smiled. “Sure thing.”

Carl walked Bruce to the door. “You done real good, Carl,” said Bruce, gripping his shoulder. “I’m… I love him like a brother, but I don’t know if I could….  all the things you done for him. I’m real grateful, Carlie.”

“I feel the same about what you did today,” said Carl. “You got him to eat. It’s been days.”

Bruce laughed. “He’s always been a good eater, far as I know.”

“He hasn't talked this much in days neither,” Carl said. “Thank you, Bruce.” Carl held out his hand, and Bruce hugged him.

“Sorry,” said Anthony a few minutes later, while Carl helped him wash the blue and red and purple stains from his face.

“I’m just glad you finally ate something,” said Carl.

“Carlie?” Anthony mumbled when Carl had finished.

“You okay?”

Anthony shook his head, looked down at the sheets. “I feel real bad. Achy.”

Carl smoothed Anthony’s dirty hair, grateful that his friend was well enough to talk again. “Where does it hurt, Anthony?”

“All over,” said Anthony in a small, quavery voice. Carl gave found the mentholated ointment leftover from Anthony’s grandfather and an old t-shirt, like his mother had done for him when he was little. But Anthony recoiled at the smell when Carl opened the little blue jar. “Sorry,” Anthony said in a little boy voice Carl didn’t recognize.

“What do you want?” Carl asked, half to himself, and Anthony bowed his head and whispered ‘Gramma.’  Then Anthony’s shoulders shook. Carl felt his own eyes fill with tears while Anthony choked and sobbed. Clearly, it had been a very long time since Anthony had let himself cry. “It’s okay. You’re doing real good, Anthony,” Carl said, easing onto the bed. Carefully, he put his arms around Anthony, half afraid he’d pull away. But Anthony rested against Carl while he wept, making a soft keening noise. Carl rubbed Anthony’s back, tears running down his own face. “You’re doing real good. I got you. Don’t you worry. It’s okay now, Anthony.”

“Sorry,” Anthony sniffled, trying to sit back up. Carl helped him.

“Don’t be,” said Carl, keeping a hand on Anthony’s arm.  He watched Anthony wipe his chapped nose with a Kleenex, then went to the bathroom run warm water on a washcloth and found a pile of clean, unfamiliar towels. Bruce. Carl went back and wiped Anthony’s face. “How about I…” Anthony looked up, and Carl paused. “When I was sick…” Anthony tilted his head. “My mother—my real one—would hold me and rub my back until I fell asleep.”

Anthony looked back down shyly, but he didn’t say no. “I don’t want to make you sick.”

“It’s too late to worry about that,” said Carl. He kicked off his shoes and shed his jeans, then crawled into the bed and pulled Anthony’s head against his shoulder.  He was about to ask how Anthony felt but they were both already asleep.

They slept through the night and the next day and into the evening. Anthony stirred first, at dusk, tried to sit up and slumped back against Carl. “Anthony?” Carl’s eyes snapped open. “How you feeling?”

“It was worse yesterday,” said Anthony.

“Okay,” said Carl, rubbing Anthony’s back. “You need to get up?”

“In a minute,” said Anthony, pressing against Carl.

“All right,” said Carl, gently kneading Anthony’s sore muscles, marveling at the almost animal responsiveness of that beautiful body under his touch. Anthony was too weak to walk or sit up on his own, but Carl ran him a bath when he asked, and helped him wash his hair. “You hungry?” Carl said, while he helped Anthony dry off and put on clean pajama pants, a t-shirt, socks and an old sweater of his grandfather’s. The clothes hung off him, and Carl felt his heart twist at his friend’s vulnerability.  And his own.  This illness had shown him how little they had, not like Gloria’s house which seemed to burst with hidden troves of canned soup and tattered sheets and pillows and towels and old pajamas.

“Nah,” said Anthony.

“I think you should try to eat something,” said Carl, and Anthony shrugged for the first time in four days. Carl cleared his throat to keep from bursting into tears of relief.  “Maybe sit on the couch with me and have some ice cream. Or maybe a little more soup? I can air out the room again.”

“All right, Carlie. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Anthony.” In the end, Anthony swallowed some soup with the wontons cut up small and a few spoonfuls of ice cream before wanting to lie down. Carl took another shower and put on some of the grandfather’s pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt. He rinsed out a few things with the dish soap and hung them up before going into the bedroom.

Anthony opened his eyes and patted the blanket. Without thinking overly much about it, Carl climbed onto the bed and rubbed Anthony’s back.

They lay for a moment, lost in their thoughts. “I’m going to peel an orange. Maybe you want a few grapes?” Carl said finally. Anthony grunted, but he smiled when Carl came back into the room with his hands full of orange segments and grapes wrapped in damp napkins printed with Chinese dragons.  Anthony opened his mouth when Carl offered him a grape, then another.

“You feeling better?” said Carl.

“I wish I could stand up,” said Anthony. “It don’t feel right.”

“You wanna turn off the light?” Carl asked. Anthony shrugged.

“Where you gonna be?” Anthony asked. “You won’t leave?” Carl took Anthony’s hand.  

“I’ll stay here if it’s okay with you,” said Carl.  Anthony nodded. Carl crawled under the covers. “Good night, Anthony.”

“Good night, Carlie.”

Carl woke when Anthony made a small noise of discomfort. “You okay?”  Anthony went still.

“Sorry,” he said, shifting his hips away from Carl. “I’m sorry.”

Carl shook himself slightly, and reached to feel Anthony’s hands and forehead. “Hey. What’s wrong?” Carl shifted to sit up and bumped against Anthony’s swollen erection. “Oh,” he said. Anthony suppressed a whimper of embarrassment and discomfort. “You want some privacy?”  Anthony’s shaking fingers flexed weakly on Carl’s hand.

“I, uh, I can’t hold it,” Anthony said. I would be months before they understood what this night would mean for them, but at the time, it seemed like just another problem of illness.

“You need some help,” Carl said.  Anthony nodded. “Okay, Anthony,” Carl said.  “It’s okay.” At first, Carl thought only of easing his friend’s pain as he unbuttoned Anthony’s pajama bottoms. He tucked his other hand behind Anthony’s head at the sharp intake of breath. “Okay?” Anthony nodded.

“Yeah,” said Anthony. Carl pressed Anthony against him more firmly.

“You’re doing good, Anthony,” Carl murmured. He felt himself harden and throb as he explored Anthony’s body, and pulled his friend even closer when Anthony whimpered before coming into Carl’s hand. Anthony caught his breath, face pressed against Carl’s neck.  When he raised his head, Carl kissed his forehead, then used the still-damp dragon napkins to clean up. “You okay?” Anthony nodded. “Thirsty?”

“Yeah,” said Anthony. Carl came back with two paper cups of cola because roaches wouldn't come after the leftovers. Anthony’s hands still shook, so Carl held the cup for him. Then they rested in silence. “Carlie?” Anthony said finally.

“Yeah?”

“You been… all what you done for me… no one never treated me as good since my gramma died.”

“You’re my friend,” said Carl, simply, kneading Anthony’s neck. “You saved me those times, too.”

Anthony stayed quiet a minute. “I never seen you look scared before.” Carl’s fingers stopped moving.

“I was terrified,” Carl said. “Anthony, you wouldn't eat. That’s not like you.”

“Sorry,” Anthony said again. “It hurt real bad.”

“No, Anthony. Don’t apologize. I was afraid that I would lose you. You’re….so important to me,” said Carl, considering that Anthony had just lost the last person in his family.  That Anthony had no one else now. Not even a foster mother. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

“You too,” said Anthony. “Thanks for taking care of me, Carlie.”

“You’re welcome,” said Carl.

Anthony nestled against his shoulder and fell asleep, but Carl lay awake for some time, watching his friend’s face in the moonlight. He brushed Anthony’s hair away from his face and kissed his forehead one last time before falling asleep himself.