A/N: Mads is about 24.
Summary: Mads helps Tommy through his diagnosis.
"Talk to me, okay? I need to know what's going on."
She sat at the end of Tommy's bed, her whispered words loud in the silence of the dark room. Moonlight poured in through the open windows, highlighting the pensive look on Tommy's face as he stared at the ceiling. His hands were laced on his lap, legs stretched out across the covers, as he deliberated. Over what, Mads wasn't sure. He'd been in an odd mood—odd for Tommy, at least—for days now, unwilling to listen to anything Mads had to say about it, but her concern for him had only grown, so she'd gone to him after the kids had been put to bed and Lizzie had snuck into Ruby's empty room to sleep.
For a moment, she didn't think he'd reply, too deep in his thoughts to even comprehend her words...but he spoke after thirty seconds, his voice low, quiet, a hint of pain woven between each letter.
"It's got me, Mads," he spoke into the stillness. "It's finally fucking got me."
Though she knew the meaning behind it, it still made Mads's heart clench to hear him admit it so openly. So vulnerably. It solidified what she'd hoped for several days was a lie. It made each tear she'd shed alone that morning, and the day before, and the day before that, real.
Licking her lips, she shifted uncomfortably on the bed, feeling her cheeks heat with pessimistic emotion. She nodded slowly. "I know," she said quietly, which he seemed to hear perfectly as he lifted his head to look at her. "Arthur let it slip," she told him, then shook her head. "Why didn't you tell me, Tommy?"
Tommy lay back once more, pain washing over his features for just a moment, and Mads wondered if he physically hurt, or if it was just the inside that he was referring to. She vaguely rewound to what Arthur had told her. Well...told was a vast understatement. He'd let her know about Tommy's illness during a drunk tirade she'd unintentionally caught herself in the middle of. At first, she'd thought she'd misheard, or Arthur had misheard, or, at the least, his words were the result of an intoxicated mind, a mess of jumbled words and that was all. But everything had started to piece together after that...the reasoning behind Tommy's recoiling and his sudden rush to get his affairs in order...the early nights and the headaches and the seizures she knew he'd been having...just him. He was a complicated man, but if anyone knew him best, it was Mads. He hadn't been her Tommy in a while.
"It's nothing you need to concern yourself with," Tommy said. "Sweetheart," he added, an attempt, perhaps, at familiarity, though it valiantly failed.
Mads's frown deepened. "Nothing I need to concern myself with? Tommy! You've got fucking terminal tuberculoma," she hissed, leaning forward as though amplifying the need to get her point across. He didn't reply, blinking at the ceiling, his fingers tightening around each other. Mads moved towards him, her hand on his chest, searching for the thump of his heart simply as a necessary reassurance he was still alive. "Tommy, this is serious," she whispered, already feeling the tears well in her eyes. "You're sick, and you're keeping it to yourself. Who else have you told? Did you even tell Arthur purposefully? Does Lizzie know? This is something you have to talk about. It's—it's not fair to keep it bottled up. For you or for us." She stopped for a breath of air, the tears rushing down her cheeks. "This is serious, Tommy."
Her voice broke, and Tommy swallowed at the sound of it. He pressed his lips together and, without looking at her, reached up to grasp her forearm and pull her to lie beside him. "I know," he muttered as her head found his chest. He put a hand in her hair, still staring at the ceiling, still fighting the knot in his throat and the tears in his eyes. "I know it's serious."
And God, did he. God. He was dying. He reminded himself of that every night. He was going. Fading. He wouldn't be here much longer. And every night, after he'd said the words, jarring whispers in the stifled room, he felt nothing. No stab in the gut or ache in the heart. Nothing.
That was until he was with someone, and he reminded himself something different.
You're dying, and you're never gonna see them again.
And that was what sensitised him again. That was what caused the turmoil inside, and that was what broke the walls and let the emotion flood.
He drew his sister closer to him with a trembling hand and tried to ignore the feeling of her sobs against him. He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath, moving his free arm across to hold her hand.
"I'm dying," he muttered.
The silence replied.