It used to be a secret between them.
A string of hidden words, whispers and thoughts shared.
Looks that can't be deciphered in some careful attempt to find out what exactly is happening. Something from inside, some silly joke, some meaningful glare hidden half away and still too clear from the other side.
One clumsy first kiss. Another following. Because practice makes perfect, right?
It is still a secret. But unspoken not because of a hidden joke or a secret meaning.
It is another moment of weakness whenever he catches himself thinking about it, another stumbling step in a direction most people wouldn't follow anyhow.
It used to be some comfort. The memories are still there, but they seem pale now. Restricted to one secret corner of indulging in them, of one little moment of allowance, in the dead of night when there is only grey and black, thoughts and breath.
It's a secret because no one that is still alive would be willing to tell.
It's not a secret for two. And perhaps that is for the best. You can keep a secret better for yourself.
He flinched when he saw him. Because he knew, he was not supposed to be there.
The fire left marks.
Where skin cracked and blistered, smoldering hot engulfing it. Burning hair and skin popping up, melting.
They were on Thomas' hands.
Those hands seemed terribly small.
They were barely recognizable as the hands holding his, one warm palm reassuring. And Maven remembers the flames licking, eating away. On the scorched remains of his hair clinging to his head.
The strangest about is that he always remembers the smell the most, and the charcoal and sulfur. Not a pleasant smell at all, burning flesh, never was.
Something crumbles that day, another note in the crescendo of misery, violence, and pride that wells up all around him.
Something breaks. Something reforms and reorders itself hardens and twists. Something lonely and unsatiable howls dissatisfied for being left behind again.
And then, somehow, the world moves on. There is no grand burial or time of mourning to behold. For one more dead red boy in the pitch of death.
It moves and turns and spins and he moves along. The world moves on and the cracks and crumbling holes in his being are still there.
And there is just another splinter left in his side. It reminds him from time to time. He won't ever get rid of it. But it is only the shadow of a dead boy, and even though it is not what it was supposed to be, it is still a memory and it reminds him that he wasn't lonely for some time. Of a boy with a smile, and hands that seemed smaller in death. Just another hollow thread of what he calls love, weaving together with sorrow and hatred.