[This is the sequel to 'some of us die young'.]
[AN]If you don't like needles, half the chapter is about tattoos. Just saying. Also, have a bit lighter stuff and some more interactions. :)
"Diana," Shade says, gripping her hand in good-natured mock. "If something goes wrong, you should know-"
"Dude, get down and shut up. Seriously. I haven't even started." Thomas sits on his prepared chair, checking everything for the millionth time. When he's satisfied he shifts his weight and waits. With all the plastic foil and the paper towels, the couch looks like he's preparing a murder. But the first thing he's learned is that it's better to be safe than to be sorry. You got to have a clean work environment. "Not like I kill you."
Farley looks back at Shade in her usual mixture. Like he's something very special and weird at the very same time, but she's used to it by now. In a good way. Like Thomas watches corgi puppy videos. They are so freaking chill together, it's like they are married for fifty years. It's a little unnerving for him. He loves them but sometimes seeing people happy is hurting him. But it's his own fault. Not like he didn't know what would happen if he went away.
There's a bright ray of sunshine falling through the closed blinds. At least inside the apartment, it's not so hot. Fan's working high to keep it cool and low.
He glances over to Farley one last time, but she's just watching. Slipping on the gloves and cleaning everything up he gets to work.
The needle springs alive with a buzzing sound, awakened by the pedal Thomas rests his foot on.
Working on the skin is different than paper for many reasons. First of all, there's the feeling, the way he needs to work with a pencil has nothing in common with the way he works with the needle. A pencil is all messy raw force. A needle is graceful precision.
He can't afford to lose concentration. Every line needs his attention. He appreciates that. With the needle marking skin, there's no second chance.
By now Thomas has worked on several other people and knows how it's done. None of them was, of course, as young and pissy as Cameron, who discovered the stuff and sketches and wouldn't leave it alone. The beginning wasn't so perfect. There's a wonky bat-symbol on his lower leg proving it. He keeps it for shit and giggles, not trying to improve it.
He's started testing on himself, and it gradually became better. His arm is his best work on himself yet, bionic patterns and lines, half senseless like the lines of a sharpie, half machine part. They hug the inner side of his arm, whirl around his wrist and last up to his elbow. Metal under the skin, the image says, strength under weakness. Only took him several days alone all with himself and a need to stop thinking.
He had it covered and protected the last weeks, now it's almost healed. He wonders, for a second, what Maven thinks. He doesn't flash the tattoos around. People would need to see A LOT of him to see most of them. But that kind of people doesn't exist. And if they do, they leave after a day.
So if Thomas isn't showing him, he won't ever see them. And since they don't even text anymore, there is no use in asking anyway.
The needle now grazes Shades skin and after a strained second, he relaxes. "That's not too bad."
"Thanks." Thomas gloved hand grips the machine when he snorts. "But wait until we're going through color. You want a lotta red."
He's not so eager for that. Colour is new. He's not as practiced in it. Still, he doesn't refuse and he watched tons of stuff to make it right.
The equipment ate a lot of money and it isn't even flashy. But it's worth it. It's almost like he's made it, is worth something, of people, trust him enough to lie still and in pain until there's ink forming images on their skin.
His sister tries too. It was her idea, after all. She brought the stuff back after they moved in and urged him to try. He offers to be her canvas from time to time. She's not really an artist but she's patient and Thomas never really liked his body anyway. So what's another failed line or pain? In the end, she does alright and leaves some weird sort of spider on his shoulder that looks like straight out of her retro games.
He's very focused on doing it right. On leaving something perfect. Something his head has invented and his hands carry out. Creating things.
They work in silence. Silence is good. It's healing.
Since the movie incident, hurling hurt and insults at each other, Maven hasn't written a word. Thomas occasionally drops a message or a sketch. He never gets an answer. He thought it would work. But maybe it is not supposed to be.
Silence is good, he tells himself.
He doesn't believe it.
After one or two hours Thomas has done the best he can, for now, outlining and mapping the future of the picture.
He earns a pat and some money he doesn't even want but needs because he couldn't afford all the stuff otherwise.
"For a beginner, you not bad, practice and you can get really good,' someone said when they looked at his work. Maybe one day he's got the time and experience to chase after that.
For now, it remains a hobby. But one that's saving his sanity AND aditionally is fun.
The summer is giving its best to melt them. Scorching them like ants under a magnifying glass. Despite his discontent about his body sometimes, he's deciding to just go with the flow. He's sleeveless, wearing a too big tank top from street rat days. It has some holes and the comic logo on it is almost faded. He can't remember where he got it from. Maybe stolen. Maybe he took it from Maven. Or it was a gift. It doesn't matter anymore. He found it in the plastic bag together with the sketchbook. At least it's not THAT shirt. The shorter the clothes, the better in this heat.
The spider peeks through the strap of his bag, lazy slung over his shoulder. It's one of those simple white cotton things. It's more yellow and brown than white anymore. Someone suggested he should just be creative and draw something on it.
After long pondering, Thomas has decided to show his best work and silence the demands.
The bag has a sad face. Two points and a curve to indicate the mouth. EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE stands over it in his big childish writing.
Thomas has a very strange relationship with the sun that's roasting him right now.
He used to love it as a child. There will always be some parts of him reminded of his childhood and days on the river. But it's a little difficult now that everything in his life is somehow linked to memories of a summer that started with a boy in a blue hoodie.
I hope you enjoy the weather.
It's the shortest of messages. He sends it before he can decide to chicken out.
Of course, there's no reply. He didn't think there would be. After that fight he didn't even want to write anything at all too. But then the guilt and the yearning took over. Even if he's not answering. Maybe someday he will. And then he'll see Thomas never forgot. He'll not wait for a call that does never come.
He picks Cameron off in her usual pissy state. Even with the weather this good she manages to look like it's raining in her shoes. She's wearing faded shorts, showing off her dark skin, and Thomas thinks that she could be pretty if she wasn't so grumpy.
"How's Morrey?" he asks.
She sniffs. "Got shit to do. What's it matter to you?"
She's always rude. He is rather fond of it. At least there's no small talk and no false words, no dancing around. If Cameron Cole hates you, she'll tell you in the blink of an eye.
"Did anyone ever tell you your'e the evil twin, Cookie? "He answers, smiling.
"Fuck you."
That works for other people. Thomas can't count how many people told him to go fuck himself over the years. For a moment he's silent, licking his lips. They taste like the sugary ice cone he just devoured on the way, mixed with the salt from his sweat. Weird.
"Get in the queue. Might take a while."
She hits his shoulder hard with her fist, looking like she wants to rip him apart.
"Ouch," he rubs the spot. And they use 'you hit like a girl' as an insult.
When they sit down on a bench he's reminded of another bench altogether. He checks his phone again. No message. Of course. He can't stop himself from being disappointed again.
"Ugh." Cameron makes a disgusted noise. "Can you stop being such a downer?"
Without hesitation, she leans over and takes his phone.
"Not cool." Thomas tries to get it back. She just leans away.
"I hope you enjoy the weather." She reads out loud. Her eyes take in all the messages as her finger scrolls along the screen. "How are you? Remember when we- Ugh." Another disgusted sound." Dude, that's like fifty messages. I think that silver asshole is not talking to you. Like ever. Stop being so mushy."
Thomas gives up trying to take the phone back. He just sits there and stares at her long crooked fingers sliding through the well of his pathetic desperation. "I can't."
She's creasing her forehead. "You think he sits somewhere and cries?"
"I'm not crying, you lousy pest." He protests weakly.
By the looks of it, she's had enough of his messages and is switching to his social media. "Dog videos, sketches, how old are you? Fifty? Not even a picture of you."
"I don't know why that matters."
She looks at him like he's a potato. "If the douchebag cares a little, he's looking at your stuff, count on it."
"So what?"
She's losing her patience. He can see it. "Listen, asshat. I'll do you a favor and you stop moping. No fun hanging with you."
With one leap she's jumped over, leaning against him. Under normal circumstances that means either punching or invading privacy. She smells kind of flowery, despite the sweat on her neck. She holds his phone up, camera ready.
"Smile." Her eyes are sharp and they glare at him. Thomas forces his face into the most convincing smile he can offer. "Like you mean it."
He draws up every bit of energy he has to offer and smiles as brightly as he can. As if Cameron just told him the funniest thing in the world.
The phone makes a snapping sound.
"Will do." She confirms and fiddles again on his phone before she hands it back to him.
Thomas stares at the profile picture. He doesn't know how she did it, but he looks...not bad.
He's smiling and she caught him from an angle that makes both of them look good. The sunshine tints the picture in bright light. The hardest to process is that she isn't scowling in the picture. Her expression is neutral, and that's almost a smile for her standards. He's right, she looks pretty when she wants to.
"You know I'm not into girls, right? Specially not when they are little chicken like you." He asks, nudging her. "And he does too."
"Doesn't mean shit. You just wait." She lounges on the bench like a vagabond again, the neutral and careful exposure is gone.
"Okay." he laughs.
"If you send another message," she threatens him. "Another sobbing I miss you I wanna suck your face, I swear I'll kick you so hard in the balls-"
He can't stop laughing again. "I got it, I got it, pumpkin."
He doesn't send another message. He knows she'll make her promise true. No risk he wants to take.
When he lies on his bed that night, his phone rings. The heat makes it hard to sleep in his tiny room, and his sister has stolen the fan. He lies on his mattress, thinking about nothing in particular, chewing on the pencil in his hand.
She IS the evil twin, he thinks when he sees the name on the display.
Thomas takes a deep breath. Waits for a second longer. Stops himself from smiling.
And takes the call.
"Hey, Mave." He's surprised how easy his voice sounds. Because he doesn't feel at ease at all. He's excited, and nervous. And a little happy. That's irritating. "What's up?"
"Nothing much."
"Been busy ?" Thomas gnaws on the pencil again, crunching on it. If Maven hears it, he doesn't say anything.
"You could say that." There's the tiniest of sighs, but Thomas jumps to it like a dog guarding his house.
"You ok?"
"Yes." There's static noise, and a moment of silence. "I am sorry, I was not particularly forthcoming the last weeks."
"You were nothing much. A don't wanna talk would have been alright."
"I guess we have that in common now." There's something tired in the way he says it. There's a little guilt pooling in Thomas.
There are a million things he wants to say but can't.
Too fast, too soon, not again. He's supposed to learn from his mistakes, isn't he?
For a while, they both just breath and wait.
Like the other party will stab them at any given second.
Thomas breaks the silence, finally.
"I liked talking to you again." he dares to say. It's playing with fire, he knows it. "It wasn't like before but...y'know, I missed it. You are important to me."
None of them dares to strive any further into that topic. They are still recovering from the last fight.
And truth be told, now that he hears Mavens voice, he doesn't want to fight. But his wishes are far from possible.
All that he can hope for is some leniency. Another try.
He can't really process the words that come out of Maven's mouth next. They sound a little stiff and flustered."You are wearing one of my shirts."
Thomas looks down. He's still wearing it. Sure enough, thinking about it, it's undeniably one of Maven's shirts. It has a freaking comic motive. The wearing has bleached it a little. And that would have been alright if he hadn't been found by the owner.
"No, that's just the same. I bought it." he lies.
"It has the same hole under your right arm it used to have after you took it from me."He remembers a hole in a shirt?
"Eh." Thomas bristles. "I am poor, what can I say. It was with the stuff I left at a friends place. You can have it back if you want to."
As if anyone would want a shabby destroyed shirt. Well except for Thomas. He doesn't need to look to know the shirt he wore on the day that he slept at Maven's house lies on his drawer.
"Keep it." The voice on the other side of the call sounds like he's fighting with words. Like something stuck in the back of his throat. "It suits you better."
Thomas almost drops the pencil. "Thanks, pal."
It's not everlasting love or even forgiveness. But it's something. It means they are back on track.