"They don't pay us what we deserve," the man on the podium says. "They don't treat us like human beings. They lock us in like dogs. They say the agreement will make our lives better but can you be sure? Can you be sure people up there go through with it? There's banks and corps and they hold the money and the power and they as might as well be our government. We're trash, always have been low class for them. I say this is enough." There's a murmur going through the room, very low but agreeing.
Thomas licks his lip, tasting the air like a snake. This isn't good at all. People here are drunk and they are pissed.
That guy's not making things better. It's adding wood to the pyre.
He regrets coming here.
The room is crowded and the ground is dirty, littered with glass and cigarettes. There's dim white light shining from the ceiling, illuminating a door and the old makeshift podium.
Fancy words, a younger version of Thomas would have told everyone willing to listen, just to cloak his uneasiness. Meaning shit.
Present Thomas knows better than to even say one thing. He tries his best not to listen. Thomas was always a coward.
At least he's either stupid or desperate enough to hang around this place
Yeah well. He didn't come for speeches. Hoped he'd see a few friends. Anyone remotely friendly, even.
Despite the warning, he can't let it go.
He's done with being coddled and held into darkness, just because of some secret bullshit.
And what even worse, he misses them so much it makes the last stitches holding his heart save in place come undone. He thinks of all the times he's just sat on the couch and stole their food or cracked a joke so bad anyone else would have moaned in pain. They never pressured street rat Thomas into anything, like he was a wild animal, gaining his trust by just staying and holding the hand in an offer. He pushed and bit often enough, but they were steady and smart and better people.
"They shot a boy last week. A BOY." The voice swells. "Because he had a cellphone in his pockets and was too close to the fence." There's some nervous shift, like a wave. Media tries to play it down mostly, but the internet makes it easy to follow events like that. Self-defense? No, people scream in caps lock. MURDER. Thomas thinks of the face. Ugly and freaking sad thing. It leaves a bitter taste to think about it. He got no gun. He was just there. People are always just there and get hurt.
"He was just waiting for someone. But they found his loitering suspicious! You think he was the first? They tase and shoot and lock us up all the time. How long until they lock up the Stilts? How long until they shoot YOUR brother? Your father? Your husband?"
Funny thing, he thinks, oppression makes one adapt the enemies propaganda. Fear is universal. Doesn't matter what color your blood has.
Not that little people deserve what is coming for them. He's not stupid or evil enough to think anything in this world is fair.
But Thomas is a little biased, probably has to do with the fact he used to kiss one of the enemies. Oh, if they knew they'd lynch him.
Suddenly he's very happy he was always a secret and never an official. Who knows how they would have twisted him to fit their narratives. The thought makes him chuckle darkly.
Thomas feels sick in the sticky air. He can't breathe. He feels sweaty and nervous. This place is no good. He always hated the small discussions at Farley's. And he never liked crowded places very much. Not like Maven, who'd internally freak out, but still, not his favorite. People are not themselves in crowds. They are like a flock of birds, not able to see through the haze, fluttering around and getting panicked. Crowded places mean fewer spaces to squeeze through and less space to run. Sure thing, he wouldn't want to run away right now. It's so disgustingly stuffed in here he's sure there'd be panic and trampling fear if something happened.
"Politics won't solve this! You know it!"
He still shifts through the crowd.
There is no one. Sure, once or twice he stumbles over a vaguely familiar face and there's that one guy he's associating with the worst hangover ever. But that's not what he looks for. He's not looking for friendly banter and small talk (he's still awful at that). He's not here for any other cause than his loneliness. He can't and won't participate in this shitshow.
He wishes himself back in his bed for a moment. Because this is useless.
After an hour of wandering, he decides to take his leave. No one will show up. The next morning there's a video, shared on social media.
There are fire and gunshots ringing through darkness and people being dragged over the street. The small cone of the camera shakes. There are voices and motion in the dark, only faintly illuminated by headlights from a car. The asphalt is splattered with red blood.
Thomas stares at the image and can't believe he lucked out. Blood is freezing in his veins, making him shiver.
The danger is kissing his skin, and his old pal trouble leaves the coppery taste of blood in his mouth when he gnaws on his cheek.
Now he's glad no one he knows was there.
But that wasn't even the real deal. He thinks of the pictures someone made, with people getting sprayed and beaten and he's freaking scared for a moment.
How much more? He thinks. Sleeping outside must be freaking terrible at the moment. He knows it was scary enough without patrols and riots and violence.
He's thinking of Cameron and her brother, sleeping somewhere outside. He hasn't seen Morrey for a while and Cameron doesn't talk about him. He hopes there's nothing wrong and she's just her bullshit self.
She won't budge and just brushes him off in her usual brusque way when he offers her to crash at his place for a while.
"Bad enough I babysit you every day, asshat," she huffs out a stream of defeated air. The heat and the violence are drawing on her strength as much as everyone else's.
His head hurts when he attempts to sort anything out. At first, he's still trying to be casual and do whatever regular people need to do on daily basis. But he can't pretend for long. He's irrationally angry and worried.
It sits on his chest like a little goblin, kicking and cackling.
It's like people forget he isn't made of stone. Thomas is nice. Thomas is patient. Thomas has his shit together now.
Well, guess again. Thomas is losing that shit.
Control is seeping through his fingers slowly like sand.
And who cares really?
There's nothing for him here.
And no one.
Since the night they sat in the kitchen he gets the most ambiguous and shady message about being busy.
Lie again, Mave, Thomas thinks. You do it so well.
He wouldn't even mind being discarded and thrown away. But he cares too much. He's worried. He remembers the feverish energy and the hurt look and that voice. I don't want to be alone. There's something inherently not alright with that boy. He knows it. It's probably been there for a long time, and Thomas knows his share about demons inside your head. Enough to see the way it worms itself through his pretty head. He saw some of it when they met, saw the frown and the fear and the panic, the way he couldn't stand some things, but it's gotten worse over time. By now he's something else, and Thomas said the truth when he told him he was scared.
He needs help. Not from Thomas, because Thomas can barely help himself. Hell, every morning Thomas looks in a mirror he has to tell himself he's a human, and not some snail, that he's not that bad of a person and can be okay. But if he comes around, what's there to do but give it a shot? Friends do that, right?
Not that he does come around again. Strange. The mattress feels too big without him, and being alone hurts.
He gets insufferable until he snaps at every person even glancing his way. He remembers what he said to Maven once.
I'm the best at pissing people off.
The weirdest thing is that he doesn't even flinch. He wants it to go wrong. Something in him is so out of balance it wants a fight only to feel something else than boiling hot pain burning his soul.
"You're an idiot." Cameron scoffs. "Least were a nice idiot til now."
"Yeah, nice doesn't mean shit in this world, Cookie." He mutters.
Thomas falls into the bad habit of staying out at night again. He's dirty and smelling of smoke and alcohol when he returns. Someday, he knows, his luck will run out. Maybe he will be the next picture in the news, shot for being somewhere he's not supposed to.
A shame, so young. That's what people will say.
There will be a week of mourning and then everyone moves on. One more face in a long row, another injustice, another name on a list. That's how it always is.
Shade is gone and doesn't answer his phone. Farley sends him home and said goodbye for good. Cameron hauled his ass out of the fire and he yelled at her. The boy he loves ignores him.
If even those people are done with him now, what's it matter?
His sister sits in the kitchen, staring at her phone when he staggers in.
"Despite the protests, the annual celebration WILL be held at Royal Corp-" a voice chirps out of her phone. " We will not give in to terror, Elara Merandus says. " The name reminds him of thinly veiled threats on a bench, and he snorts.
"Press says It will be THE event of the year. According to several human rights groups, the protest COULD continue until an agreement for better life standards is conducted-"
"Tommy?" his sister asks when he staggers past. "Tommy your work called. They say you weren't there yesterday."
"Yeah, who cares." He mutters, balancing dangerously and kicking his dirty boots off.
"If anything," a deep voice says through the speaker of his sister's phone" The latest riots have proven one thing. There's no longer a ground to negotiate. Until the other side does not show leniency, willingness for peace-"
He wants to vomit. Instead, he smiles.
His sister glances at him and pauses whatever she just watches. Her eyes are as concerned as her voice.
"Tommy if you don't go there they'll fire you. Your boss likes you, and that's the only reason he hasn't already."
Thomas chuckles and slips out of the dirty shirt. There's sand or ash or whatever in his hair and it sticks.
"You look out of the window? City burns. Who freaking cares if I go to work."
"I know, it's bad." She turns her phone in her hands. "They camp in front of the skyscrapers and won't go. Police are going to remove them before that fancy party, but still. Please at least promise me not going out at night until this is over."
At least don't wander around town like you used to.
"Can't." He whispers, pushing his hair out of his face. He ignores the concerned voice following him.
The next night he gets into a fight again, and this time no one comes to save his hide. He does expect it. He just pokes the grizzly with a stick until it wakes up and rips him apart. People are vicious. He's used to it. He knows where to put his finger to make it hurt, to provoke them.
The first blow knocks him back, leaving a burning sensation on his cheek.
He doesn't even attempt to move away. It's the first time he actually ever fought back just to FIGHT. It would have been unfair if it was a one on one because he's not very strong. Now it's three on one and Thomas deals with as many blows as he can handle, kicking and throwing fists into the air until someone grips him and a fist crushes his nose.
It ends how it's probably always was going to end. He didn't fight to win, after all.
They knock him out. Doesn't take much. They leave a bloody nose and bruises, not half as bad as the night he lay in the snow, feet kicking him in the ribs, leaving him without air.
He's felt suffocating and helpless before. Nothing much changes. It didn't have the effect he hoped for.
He's blacking out, but not for very long.
And when he's back into the world he doesn't move, holding his face, blood soaking into his shirt.
The air is stale and hot. Thomas forces himself on his feet, barely at himself, half laughing, half crying, because he just can't stop himself. As if anything makes any sense. And as if anyone even cares.
He walks along, a road paved with dirty bricks and bad intentions.
And that's when he notices it. The quiet.
Sure, there's not always cacophony and chaos on the city streets. But there is always some noise, some silver lining for the lost to follow.
The city has a heart and this heart beats.
It's the noise of trains and cars, of people and humming electricity.
It's the rushing water of the river and the crying of seagulls.
Now there's nothing. Only the blood rushing through his head.
He stops, forcing himself to look around. He's the only person on the road. The people that mauled him are long gone. No one wanders under the luminescent lanterns. Only moths accompanying him under the light.
A traffic light blinks green. Not a single car is driving down the road.
It is as if the city is suddenly devoid of any life. As if everything has vanished.
Ghost town, Thomas thinks, and suddenly his head is crystal clear and there's fear running in alarming waves down his spine.
The next thing that pierces through his conscience is sound. It's loud and it's making him jump.
It rings through the air like a million gunshots, rippling through the intestines of the city, erupting like the force of a volcano. He can feel it through the asphalt.
He's not able to move, just helplessly looking around. Nothing in sight has moved. Nothing weird has happened. As if the sound was just in his head.
It's silent again. Deadly silence. Like a long held breath to brace oneself.
Despite the hot air, Thomas feels cold.
Then there's a siren.
Another joins in.
Until the air is filled with the sound of sirens howling like a pack of wolfs.
On his way home there's a weird smell in the air. Almost...burned. It smells of destruction, Thomas would say if asked.
He moves as fast as he can, wonky feet, staggering steps.
He attempts to stop and maybe get into the corner where he knows Cameron sleeps sometimes.
Police is blocking the way. No moving through.
The air is still filled with the sound of sirens and now it seems the ghost town has awakened from the slumber. There are red and blue lights everywhere. There are ambulances and police rushing through and even a helicopter in the air.
Nothing of that is good.
His sister doesn't pick up. Voicemail is the only thing he reaches.
"Call me." Is all he says. Sorry, I did not listen, he thinks, moving as fast as he can.
The next thing he knows he's pushed another button and the screen is lit with Maven's name. It rings excruciatingly long.
There's no answer either.
His heart is cramped together in the weirdest mixture of feelings.
His sister is nowhere to be found in their flat. There's fear shooting straight into his veins. He hopes she's not outside because of his idiotic selfish death wish.
There's no news yet, only confusion and fear.
Of course, people are speculating. Was it a bomb? A leak? Something about the protests?
There's tinfoil everywhere. Thomas sits at the kitchen table, holding a wet towel to his nose and waits.
Minutes creep by very slowly.
Thomas jumps at the sound of the doorbell. Without another thought he leaps over, ripping the door open.
It's not his sister.
Instead, he stares at a pair of blue eyes in a very pale face.
"Your face," is the first thing one of them says, and it's not Thomas. Because Thomas still stares silently. He forces himself to say something, anything really.
"You're not hurt, "Thomas whispers. "You ok?"
For the slightest of moments there is hesitation. Like last time, Thomas makes room, Maven steps in, Thomas closes the door. Smooth and mechanical.
"I think I made a mistake." Maven's voice whispers. "I did something very terrible."
"Oh," is all Thomas' mouth makes. "Can I do-"
Mavens hands are too hot, and his grip is so tight, it's going to leave a mark. They tear him down with the same force as the mouth crushing his. It's additional pain hurting through his defeated body.
Thomas just slings his arms around him and almost collapses against the wall.
This isn't what he hoped it would be. There's no understanding or even remotely care. It's raw force and it eats him. He surrenders willingly, hands sliding over Maven's spine, down his back. There's something super wrong about all of this, but Thomas is too weak and pretty confused. He remembers the way they used to kiss, careful, waiting. This is the opposite. It's hungry and violent.
There's no air left in his lungs, and he breaks free, staring at the flushed face and the gripping arms.
"Not that I mind, but would you take it slow?"
"No.''Well, that's.. an answer.
"Look, "Thomas tries to say, resisting somehow to just go along. That's taking discipline with the way their bodies are pressed together and their breath mingling. "I'm gonna regret it, but just stop and tell me what's bothering you, ok? This isn't like you at all."
There is that feverish something again.
"No, it isn't. You're right."
Another kiss stops the words in his throat, and teeth drag over his lips. One more, Thomas is sure, and he doesn't care for whatever shit is going on. One more and he's in too deep.
"Dude, stop it and tell me what happened." Thomas tries a second time, and his hands wander along Maven's neck, gently, up to his face, cupping the cheeks and forcing eye contact. "Come on. Focus."
"I can't be alone." Maven whispers. "I need someone to stay."
Someone. Not Thomas. Just anyone really.
Thomas had his share of touches in the months he was alone because he couldn't stand to be alone. He never asked people to stay and never tried to know them. Because he was sure he'd walk out anyway. Or that they would see what kind of person he was behind the smiling. AA person that takes and takes and never has enough. A person that runs and walks out and destroys.
He never needed someone particular to touch him. It was the shortest kiss in a bathroom stall, or hands wandering down his back. A very few times it was more, a night, and that was always very clear from his side.
Only cause he was lonely. Anyone would have done, really.
His hands drop down and he pushes slowly until there is enough space to slip out of the cage that is Maven's arms.
"So kissing me was just about getting me to let you stay?"
There is no answer. Answer enough for Thomas.
"Alright." He says even though nothing is alright and he wants to curl together and die. " You can stay." The weird and calm outside Thomas says while every alarm is ringing on the inside. " But don't pull shit like this again if you don't mean it."
They sit on the kitchen chairs for a while. Eerily silent.
"I wanted to impress her." Is all Maven says.
Thomas' head snaps up. "Who? Barrow?" He asks. " Or your mother?"
There is no answer.
They lie in their usual stance, back to back, when it happens. A hand creeps under his shirt, resting too hot palm on his stomach.
"What, "Thomas whispers and pushes the hand away. "What did I tell you about pulling shit you don't mean?"
There's the softest of answers. It's a single defeated word without any home, and it creeps under Thomas skin to infect his veins.
"Please."
The decision is made even before he turns around and seals his fate.
This is something else and he knows it too well.
He doesn't take anything. It only leaves him with pain. He still falls again and again. And some sick part of him enjoys it.
At first, it's just kisses, mouth yielding to the need to fill the emptiness.
It gets more every time they touch. It's building heat in their blood and shivers down their spines. They don't talk much. Once it starts it leaves little room for the usual lies.
It's silent and there's only breathing. There are teeth grazing skin, hands running along ink.
There's skin and warmth under covers until they fall asleep, feeling brimming and not alone, at least until they wake up again.
This isn't real, he knows it. This is like the night before he left, but worse. This time they both are draining each other. It's like an outlandish dream in this exploding night.
If he's honest he's just as selfish as Maven about it.
It's not like Thomas couldn't just say no and turn away. He's not forced to kiss that mouth. By nothing but his galloping heartbeat.
Lover come over
Look what I Done
I been alone so long
I feel like I'm on the run
Lover Come over
kick up the dust
I got a secret
Starting to rust
She said I'm looking like a bad man
Smooth criminal
She said my spirit doesn't move like it did before
She said that I don't look like me no more no more
I said I'm just tired
Do I make you cringe?
[Matt Maeson-Cringe]