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It’s easy to tell Alan and Scratch apart, at least in Thomas Zane’s humble opinion.
Alan Wake is such a wide-eyed sweet thing, he lays pliant and obedient beneath Thomas on the bed - all rosy cheeked and demure. Staring up at him with his mouth parted and hands hesitant to roam any further than where he’s gripping onto Thomas’ bare thigh, like he’s some forty-six year old virgin bride every time Thomas rides him like this. It’s almost saccharine how sweet he is, tooth rotting.
Sometimes, when Alan has forgotten, he’ll say; “I’ve never done this before.”
And Tom has to remind him; “Yes we have.”
Other days, or rather nights, as this not-New York seems to be perpetually stuck in some vague state of darkness, Alan is higher up the spiral and already knows Thomas Zane. He’s gentle either way, even when he realizes he’s got permission to put hands wherever he likes or be as rough as he wants. Alan will be so soft, skirting his calloused fingers up the man’s thigh and past his cock to put a hand flat against his belly and feel the play of muscle as Thomas sits in his lap and takes his cock. He kisses like they’re in love and it drives Tom up the wall, because Alan should understand that if anyone isn’t deserving of that tenderness it’s Thomas Seine of all people. But he never looks at Tom like he’s the biggest fuck up in all of human history, doesn’t level accusation or anger his way - only puts a steadying hand on the curve of his hip when Tom fucks himself stupid on Alan again and again.
Scratch is nothing like Alan wake.
It never forgets, of course it doesn’t, and coos into Thomas’s ear as he pushes the man’s cheek into the mattress.
“You’re such a whore for it.” Scratch’s voice isn’t pretty and soft like Alan’s, doesn’t carry the same honey sweetness. It’s rough and grating, mocking laughter that rings out discordantly through the hotel room. “I’m going to keep you here forever, Zane. And you’ll love it, won’t you?”
“Yes.” He admits every time, fingers clawing at the sheets.
Scratch does not touch with tenderness, it grabs a fistful of Thomas’ shaggy hair and pulls until strands come loose between the creature’s fingers - but Tom never asks it to stop. Just tilts his hips backwards and takes the way this monstrous thing fucks him down like it wants to rip him apart. It never touches him in return, doesn’t try to get him off, but will sometimes let Thomas rut against the pillow between his legs if it’s feeling generous. They do not kiss, instead Scratch will bite and leave drops of blood on his skin when it takes a piece out of him just to prove it can. Mostly it just fucks him like this until it gets bored, until Thomas is whimpering and too sensitive and it has cum enough times to feel like the whole thing has been worth the trouble.
When it feels particularly cruel it will lean over his back, caging the man in as it ruts inside of him in sharp jerky thrusts that make the headboard crack into the wall, and speak with its mouth against his cheek. It might almost be a real kiss, if it weren’t coming from Scratch. “She’d be so disappointed to see you now.”
His vision shifts, colors swirling in a blur of watercolor as his ears ring and the world feels topsy-turvy.
“Tom?” Alan is beneath him again, looking up with those starry blue eyes and a furrow at his brow. Why does he look so upset? Aren’t they having fun? “Shh no, you’re okay. Don’t cry.”
He isn’t crying. He isn’t. But Alan still takes him around the waist and makes Thomas get off his lap, even when the man snarls and spits like a feral cat to remain.
“It’s fine, keep going.” He begs, because he doesn’t want to be alone anymore and if he can keep Alan there beneath him and fucking him that’s great and that's good and it’ll be enough.
“Stay here.” Alan ignores him and disappears into the bathroom where the squeak of the old brass taps echo out too loudly in the little hotel room.
The ceiling above his head is wavy and strange, the surface of a lake rippling in wide swirls. Oh, he really is crying. A moment later Alan returns from the bathroom with a little washcloth in one hand and kneels beside him on the bed as Thomas laughs so hard tears stream down his cheeks anew.
“I’m not your wife, Alan. You don’t have to be such a gentleman about it.” He says it to be cruel, to hurt, and maybe then he won't be the only one in the room feeling so vulnerable. It doesn’t work, because Alan sees right through him - just as he always does, and Thomas isn’t really making a fuss when Alan uses the washcloth to clean the cum off his skin. Part of him hates Alan for how intimate it feels, for how thoughtfully nice he is to him. Another part is greedy and wicked and wants to know if Alan would bathe the whole of his body if he begged. There’s a pause in Alan’s ministrations, that frown back on his face as he stares at the washcloth in his hand and Tom wishes he’d just pretend not to see the blood on it.
“You can’t keep hurting yourself like this.” Alan says in that low rumbling voice that goes right to his belly. They look the same, but don’t really sound anything alike. No matter how many years Thomas spent in the American Pacific-Northwest he couldn’t shed the thick accent that marked him as other, his voice a little too lilting and sharp to accommodate. Some people thought it made him cool and unique, like Cynthia - who used to practice rudimentary Finnish with Barbara over coffee at the diner, but couldn’t quite get her native English speaking tongue to roll the r’s quite right.
Maybe Alan could figure it out.
“Stay with me, Tom.” Alan takes his face between both palms and brings Thomas’ focus to him. “That’s it. You’re doing so well.”
Finally, he thinks, Something I’m not fucking up.
Alan moves the duvet up over them both, pulling Thomas in until they are tangled along the length of one another - legs intertwining. The last good memory he has of Barbara is laying together like this, warm naked skin and quiet breath and her dark hair between his fingers. Pretty smile and kind eyes and he ducks his head to gasp into the hollow of Alan’s throat before he drowns on the thought of her. If the dig of his nails into Alan’s skin is too much, he does not say to stop. If the way Thomas shivers and sobs is unseemly, he does not turn him away. One day, if they’re lucky, one or both might even get out of this place alive.
It’s easy to tell Alan and Scratch apart, at least in Thomas Zane’s humble opinion, but in the end what are they if not one miraculous creature? Something perfectly flawed, a wretched man’s dying breath. Maybe Tom is even part of them too - just another facet of what makes up Alan Wake, and when they finally come home none of them will have to face the lonely anger anymore.