Some days nothing goes the right way.
Some times seriously are bad. There's blow after blow.
You are ok.
He looks at his face in the mirror and repeats it at times like that. The white light makes it almost a little grayish. Like the ash in the air and the hearts on the streets. He stares silent at his reflection. At the circles around his dark eyes.
You are ok.
Yes, he is. Dreams and words cannot break him.
There's good.
Think of the good things. Gotta push past.
He tries to pull up the positive energy inside him.
He thinks about the jabs and the laughter,of the brimming inside him.
It doesn't work.
His hands grip the sink. Holding him uptight.
Thomas looks at his hands, at the ink curling under the skin, forming patterns of flames and steel.
He thinks of all the hours of planning, of drawing. He thinks of the sirring needle and the pain. Pain that was worth it.
That works. Pain can be worth it, healing will come. He holds onto that. It works for the tiniest of moments, before his heart breaks and reassembles again for the millionst time.
It's fine though. It's the way things go. Not like he didn't know it would be that way. Memories can be like shards cutting his skin, but sometimes they are warming him just the same. Life is learning, isn't it?
Thomas holds onto the hope that things cannot turn that worse. At least he sees faces he likes.
He's trying to be somehow positive. They all know it's half wishful thinking and pretending. But it's better than senseless moping. He has done enough of that, hasn't he?
Some days are good.
The weather isn't half bad and the friendly faces stick.
Getting your crush to carry your grocery bag is good. Having some fun because it's the bag that has written 'Emotional Baggage' on it is good. "Seems it's your turn, " Thomas says, pointing at the sad face. "Don't worry. I'll take it back. Eventually."
Green eyes are better than blue ones for Thomas.
Making a bad joke about bananas and getting a comeback is worth the rejection.
It's not hurting any more than usual. It's safe.. It's fine.
Someone compliments his tattoos.
He can give a smug look and a smile.
He's not made out of glass. Things will get good. If he sticks to it. No more late night calls. No more messages.
You win, he wrote as goodbye. That loss hits all the wrong points in his soul. You win, he wrote, and he means it.
You win. I give up. I am still in too deep. But we both know that that's meaningless. You choose your turn and I will stop bothering. You don't love me. It'll be okay some day. Sure I still dream of you. Sure I'd like to see you. But it won't be. So lemme move. Doesn't matter where.
Things take a new turn one evening. He sits in the, eh, let's call it, rustically furniture, he decides, new hideout of his favorite kickass friend. Though Lightning and Cameron fight Farley for the position, she's got a head start since all the days he spent on her couch.
"How was your job interview?"
Thomas makes a wet farting sound. "The guy was a snob. Seriously. "
He stares at Farley through his shaggy mop of hair. Seems as he lets it sprout she cuts it down even more. It's so short it looks shaved off. Suits her though. When he met her she had so long hair it fell down her back.
"He was asking questions about me dropping out of school, and why I thought I'd ever had a chance. And then he gave the job to a dude with shiny shoes."
He knows she glances at his rundown boots. They were ruined the last summer. Now the sole has finally decided it can't take anymore and is basically no existent anymore. He lets it go by uncommented. He can live without her making any kind of remark that hits the core. Or kicking his ass.
Because they both know he really tries . But he could do better. He had his life in perfect control for the shortest of while. He had a nice job, a haircut and progress. And then all of this happened. And he burned his hands in the attempt to be enough.
He isn't shabby like homeless days. He showers, at least. He still wears pants with holes on his knees and boots that fall apart. No wonder job interviews don't take a good turn.
"And he took the whole day for telling you that?"
"Nah." Thomas eyes a paper bag on the table that looks suspiciously like food. " I sat in a park for three hours and wondered why I even try. Not like having a job matters when everything goes down the gutter, right?"
"Your life. You decide." She just answers and he gets a big guilt flowing through his belly.
He takes a peek into the bag and sniffs. He regrets it when he sees it is some sort of asian food. It smells fishy. His shellfish alarm rings and he retreats.
"Yeah, well. True. That's a lot of disgusting food. Where's everyone?"
"On their way, as far as I know."
„Cool."
„And I meant to tell you," She doesn't sit down, just leans on the edge of the table, arms crossed. „Good news. That mugshot of yours is gone. And the video is deleted too."
„Your work or what?" Thomas takes a deep breath."Appreciated."
„I had nothing to do with it." She answers to his surprise. „It was just removed."
Why? He wonders. The damage is done. He wasn't able to work against it. Why remove it?
Doesn't make much sense. Maybe it was just a tad too personal in the end. A tad too close to something that was good for the shortest of while.
He's got no delusion it could mean anything than another turn in the strategy.
People got ugly after his face was staring back from the screen. Some was the usual harassment when someone's sexual orientation is in question. Not like Thomas was in a closet. He just never introduced himself with it. Some was aimed just at his raggedy looks. Straight up mean shit. At least most people left his hobbies alone. That hurts the most.
Oh, look, he thought, reading the insults and messages. It's like I am in school again.
Now it cooled down. There's still some. But sure enough, when he searches for the stuff, even though he doesn't want to see Maven's face, it's gone.
Next one popping up is Shade. Thomas doesn't get up to greet him, just looking up from his phone for a second to wave.
„Look who's still alive," he just mutters and turns away, just in time to see him lean down and give Farley the tiniest of kisses.
He's not spiteful, but something in him mourns a little. For things he'll not ever have. For missed opportunities. The veteran heart salutes to the pain again for the blink of an eye before he smiles it away and leans back on his chair, crossing his legs.
„I'm hungry." He says when he's sure not to disturb any moment.„Don't tell me I get nothing. You know my kryptonite."
„Yours is marked." She just says and he buries into the bag, until he finds some plastic with an X on it.
"Oh Mom, you're so good to me."
He stares at all the faces, the glossing over their deaths, their injuries, their disappearance.
Some of the faces are old. Some are very young.
That's the worst part. Knowing this goes on. That it's bad and that all that feeling shit Thomas has, coping on the loss of someone he couldn't hold, is nothing in comparison.
He's reminded of all the big words and the talk when he used to crash on Farley's couch as a homeless.
Of his bitterness, thinking life is bad, boho, thinking they should just get over it.
Thomas, idiot and asshole par excellence. None of them deserve what's coming.
The curfew is still intact and now that they raid everything hideouts are frequently pushed.
No one has raided his flat yet. After all his pictures and propaganda, he's a little surprised. But then again, there's kind of a blind spot on his block most days . It's not the fancy part of town but still not the worst. It's there, just as Thomas.
Sometimes he sees a police car rolling down the street. But that's it.
He's not reckless. He knows some people get arrested for hacking stuff. Or other accusations. He stays on his window most nights, watching circling lights and thinking of dark guns pointed at heads.
He stays away, careful, up until the day in the crowd brings it all back. Until he feels motion sick again.
"Ugh" Thomas stares at the architectural masterpiece of white stone and black glass. The place gives him the creeps. The crowd doesn't help. Between metal barriers and too close. Too much yelling. Too much angry energy. It reminds him painful of the tower bomb. He takes in the signs and the flags, the whirring of arms. The air is so cold it makes his breath rise in little white clouds as he speaks. „See? No coming through. What do you even want here?"
His sister's phone aims high, filming something. „What, Tommy, show some enthusiasm. It's a big day."
Thomas rolls his eyes, looking for a way to get out. This makes him uncomfortable. „For the other side, Hanni. They are debating on how to purge us. No one's speaking on behalf of lowlife folks."
„Just because they know they'd loose." She turns the phone around. He sees she films the crowd. „Look how many people came."
Yeah, he sees it. He sees the bodies, the maelstrom. Swallowing every bit of rational conscience and turns it into foul anger.
As if signs can change whatever will go on in there.
He fears something else too.
Not only an escalation outside. But one inside himself.
Don't be silly, he tells himself. Elara is inside that building. She was probably the first person inside there. And if she even brought him is another question.
But of course, he'd be with her.
On a day like this in public? Sure as hell.
He's like on of those little dogs some women bring along in her bag. He'll stand in the background, waiting for a sign to jump in and impress her.
Or just saying whatever she told him to.
There's pain cramping his chest. Familiar.
Thomas takes a deep breath.
There's no reason to worry.
He's one in a million, below average, just as Elara told him. No one would be able to make him out. Even if they were looking. And why would he even look? He made it very clear what he thought of Thomas.
He stands still and tries not to look like he will panic.
Someone blows a whistle next to his ear. The ringing high screeching sound makes Thomas flinch. And his head still rings after the whistle goes silent again.
He feels cold despite his jacket and scarf. Despite the crowd around him holding off the cutting wind.
„Can we go? Please."
His sister looks over. There's worry in her eyes. „Five minutes."
Thomas stares, craning his neck, and he's positive he's going to be sick.
He notices the cameras and news crews. He wishes one of his other friends was here. But they are too recognizable. There's still an open case because of the towers, and Farley needs to keep low profile. Same as Warren. Shade is just never anywhere where you expect him. Even if he was hanging around, Thomas is positive he's so well hidden and on the move Thomas wouldn't see him.
And if Lightning was to show her face, in front of an institution, he's sure the crowd would go mayhem.
At least he's in close proximity to his sister.
The car pulls up as close as possible, and there's some commotion on both sides of the barrier. Angry shifting, someone blocking his side. Thomas gets a glimpse of a dark blue coat and ashen hair, and the way people move he knows hoping was in vain.
For a second, someone moves and he cranes his neck again. Just to see he's right. Behind all that bodies and security measures, there's the boy he once loved.
„I guess the Queen can be late just to prove a point." His sister huffs. When she looks over, she puts the phone down. „Tommy?"
Thomas isn't answering. Instead he just stares at the hunched shoulders in the dark coat, that look that doesn't see anything below him. As if he's above it all. As if there's no person worth to be looked at.
But the shoulders expose the truth. Just for Thomas. Just for him. A secret they share.
His face is thin, skin pulled tightly over sharp edges. He looks sick as hell. Like he hasn't slept in weeks.
No way he's alright.
It makes Thomas almost feel sorry. But just almost. He's too caught up in pretending.
Pretending he doesn't care anymore. Pretending he isn't still hurt about that stab in his back and the lies.
He remembers the way he lost it when he put a piece of paper away that reminded him of a different version of himself. Crying and hugging himself because it was too much for a while. Even too much to say goodbye.
It's fine. This is fine. You don't care. You know the hurt. He doesn't care. He doesn't even see you.
Thomas bites his lip.
Where is that anger that made him throw stones? Is it gone if he can't lean on Barrow?
Profusely living through other people was always his thing. Cause he's a stinky little coward who chose to run away from responsibility. What's better than to look up to someone stronger than him and let them handle it?
Where is the solitude when he pretends to crush on another boy, one that doesn't even like him this way? One that's not ever going to hurt him because he doesn't CARE that way? Because he doesn't know where to poke and where to touch to make him lose his mind and all his reasons?
It falls down. It's in shambles.
He's back again, not able to get over it.
And that's the reason he didn't even want to look at Maven in a video.
"Tommy?" his sister repeats. "Do you wanna leave?"
Instead of answering he moves back, through the crowd, clawing and showing not paying attention, just back and out before he finally finds a gap and pushes through.
Then he leans forward, hands on his thighs and tries to breathe.