If the person you love is responsible for your weird resistance fighting friends to get imprisoned, killed, for streets to burn. And if he's clearly in a shitty situation making all your lives practically worse than ever, there are some options, ranking from ridiculous over stupid down to self-destructive. Some are obvious but maybe helpless.
Thomas counts them down when he lies awake.
You walk away. You run and live in the woods with a goat. You become a grizzled lumberjack and chop your phone in half.
How tempting. Thomas is sure he'd look terrific with a man bun and in flannel. He doesn't know shit about goats and is easy to chop like a twig himself.
You stay and hope he reaches out when he sees he's not ok. The beginning is made, right? He called and admitted a mistake. But then again, he tends to backpedal. He's the master of turning words. If Maven was manoeuvring a ship he'd never sink. He'd just sail all the cliffs and the land until people around him were starving. Because friends and enemies all look the same to him most times. Thomas took months the first time and now he took weeks again, slowly worming his way into his life. And he never got too close to the truth. Despite the late nights, the tired eyes and the talks, despite the urging for sleep and help.
Oh, and yes, the last time he stood on his doorstep because he couldn't take care of himself anymore, they didn't talk much. Not that it didn't have its perks, but it did NOT help. Any of them. There's still that warm feeling in his belly when he thinks about it, but he will be damned if he just continues. Not after what has just happened. After everything.
Something in him gets frustrated and violent angry when he thinks of the lies, and he can't stop the sour taste in his mouth.
And then he thinks of the hunched back. And he sees there's always something in the back of maven's head that makes him lie because he thinks he will regret it if he doesn't.
Because people make each other weak, right? Can't you rely on anyone?
Thanks, Mother of the Year. Great job.
He remembers how easy she frightened him when she was waiting for him on the bench. He thinks of his own mother, and he should get her the biggest box of chocolate ever.
There is another alternative.
You get involved so much you are bound to get in trouble. And you do it willingly.
That's the Thomas way. He's done it his whole life. He will probably do it again and again until it kills him. Maybe he should learn this time.
He could finally go and see Farley. Talk to her about it all. Tell her he kind of understands now. Maybe even tag along.
But there are his father's words about a wasted life and his rabbit heart reminds him of the cuffs, of boots pressing onto him and arms pulling him up.
He's terrible afraid to face her again. He can't bring himself to look at her face after the incident. It changes everything. It's not even her fault. He always knew what she was and what she would do one day.
He knew the moment she patched him up he was admiring her, because she didn't wander around. She had her goals and ambition sorted out. He made fun of it. In truth he just couldn't hold still and make decisions.
He's stuck. He can't figure it out alone.
But he doesn't want to involve anyone.
He knows what Cameron would say. But the girl is fifteen and angry. Despite her good qualities, he should not make her his moral compass. She has to figure out her own shit. He should be the one helping her, not leaning on her back.
In the end, there is only one person to figure at least part of this out.
Thomas calls again and again. Until he's sure it looks unhealthy.
"By now," he says more to the phone than on it."You could really just drop by. Because you were the one calling me. And I really need to see you. Not just to yell at you or call you names, promise. That was just angry me. Not that you don't deserve a kick in the ass. But it's not that. Like...y'know, you said you needed me."
Then he remembers what Cameron said when she took the picture and feels stupid for not trying that again.
Social media is in a flurry since the burning streets and he sees so many banners, images and wallpapers, he can't count.
Your graphics, he thinks, are shit. Get someone who knows what a pencil looks like. Is that an egg or a sun?
Some absurd sense of humour has settled in him.
If she thought he was like a fifty year old man because there was no profile picture she'd scowl gleefully at the most harmless and inconspicuous thing ever. With parents like that it probably makes sense there's nothing really on there. Also it's perfectly fitting the social activity Thomas would expect from an enormous dork like that.
Maybe you lost your phone. He writes. All his friends would hit him in the head. Sweet Thomas, he didn't loose his phone and you know it. Dude. Just say anything. You moved. Are you ignoring me or what?
The house was abandoned the day he ran up the hills. Security measures, he's sure, after what happened at the party.
He remembers the anger fueling his body, and the way his face pressed against the glass. Empty hallways. Freshly abandoned, but clearly, because the garden is a little unkempt and there is dust on the windows.
That blighted party.
There's flames and faces in Thomas dreams and they won't ever leave.
Ok. He writes. Last chance. Meet me at that bench. Tomorrow.
Not at home. Not where this escalated the last time.
Because if Cameron sees you, she'll tear you to shreds, and I am not sure I will stop her, depending on the way this ends.
He sits down and stares, not really thinking anything. He's almost too calm for all that has happened.
Thomas waits for three hours. There's a curfew now. He doesn't want to cross it if not necessary. No one is going to pull his sorry ass out of a cell this time.
He thought the bench would remind him of Elara and the way she threatened him. It's a pleasant surprise there's another memory of a kiss instead, soft like a butterfly.
You're cute, he said that day. Because he couldn't believe anyone would care for his filthy little heart. He sincerely hopes at least part of Maven cares enough to take the offer now. I need you. He thinks of the flaring in his body when they kissed and he realizes the marks have faded already. That's how long he hasn't seen him. That's how long the night in jail and the fire and the explosions are back. That's the last reminder gone.
It seems even farther away than street days and he feels terrible old and wounded. Like he came to this place to die. A cat curling up under a porch.
Nothing much has changed about the place. Why would it? It's just a simple wooden bench. There's some bird shit and more scratches on it but that's it.
He waits until he's sure no one will ever show up. Somewhere along the waiting he gets bored and starts going through the contents of his pockets and the bag. He finds a sharpie.
Well that's irony. He feels the need to top it.
And so he draws a chicken dragon on the wood. OUCH! It exclaims with bright innocence.
Just to make sure the intention is clear he pierces an arrow through its head.
At least it makes some decisions easier. One is finally knocking on that door being let in. Both figuratively and literally.
Farley's door opens after the pounding of his fists, hitting the wood with force. Course she's not alone. He doesn't really care.
He hasn't been here since he was sent away. There's faces he doesn't recognize and some he does. No prominent one like Barrow though. Boy is he glad. He'd make it awkward and say shit he would regret he's sure.
"I want in." Thomas says.
Her eyes wander down his thin frame and his hands, nails digging deep in his palms. "You were never convinced by anything you heard."
He snorts . "Well I am convinced now. Fuck it, we are friends, and I hate loosing you, I want in. You just tell me what to do."
For a moment she seems to consider it, weighing it on her tongue. "I know you, Thomas. There's no more running if you want in." It leaves no room for discussing. It's an order and a last warning.
"Sure thing, Captain." He answer, relaxing his hands and taking a breath he wasn't aware he's holding. "Just don't make me punch people... I'm a wimp."
Seems they agree on that. "You can start helping Hannah."
"Hanni Hannah?" he can't believe the words. " Like my freaking sister? The woman that tugs me in and makes me late night snacks? The bread girl?"
"Not your younger one, that's for sure."
At the thought of that Thomas laughs in absurdity. "Imagine Ida knocking cops with her freaking fairy stick."
For a moment there is something between them, like ash on the tip of their tongues and unbreakable silence. Nothing, Thomas knows, will ever be as it was. Not after that night. Not after the flames.
He extends his hand. Farley grabs it.
It's a firm handshake. "Welcome to the Scarlet Guard, Thomas. Don't make me regret it."
"I know where I stand." He promises and thinks of blue eyes staring right through him.
Later that evening he watches his sister as if he has never met her before. She just sits on her bed and does nothing but look at her phone. But there are suddenly questions popping in. Is she texting someone from the Guard? How long is she in? What exactly was she thinking?
"You could have... you should have said you were into this." He finally decides to break the silence. His sister stares at him with dark eyes that remind him so much of his mother it's uncanny.
"No, Tommy, you were in trouble. I couldn't bring myself to get you involved. Not when you were in love with-"
"Wait," he draws his brows together. "I never told you that."
"He talked to me when you were homeless, remember?" There's something stirring at him with memories at that mentioning. " And that late night visit?" She asks undisturbed. Which makes him even more nervous. " I saw you two sleeping when I left and checked on you. People need to be blind to see there isn't something going on. You were up all night talking on the phone."
I have a ninja sister. Freaky.
At least she wasn't there the other time, he thinks.
He knew she was better than him all of this secret stuff makes her almost other wordly. Not the girl he did burn some hair and eyebrows off when he accidentally kind of stupid had his fire phase.
Instead of other questions he sits on her bed.
"Show me your secret lab," he nudges her shoulder gently. " come on."
His sister lets out a good natured sigh. Then she grabs her bag und pulls out a laptop. He's never seen it before. It looks expensive. She even has a freaking pad for drawing. The screen lits up bright red and she types something.
He stares at her stuff, all the posts and banners.
"No wonder the sun looks like an egg," he teases her. "You never were an artist. I have a spider to prove it."
"You do it now." She just says. " I'm still your superior. Ah, doesn't it feel good. Telling my brother what to do."
"Bossy." He snorts but doesn't mind. Not really. It's just show.
In truth, maybe this is just as good coping with it than anything else.
He draws what he remembers. A hooded face lit red by fireworks. Smoke. Blood on stones.
He doesn't really has experience with the digital side, but his sister is just the same as she was with the tattoo machine. She explains and is patient.
He learns fast, and maybe it's just because he really doesn't do anything else. He got no job, because the bistro got smashed, and he would have been fired soon anyway.
Cameron sits on the carpet when he works sometimes, watching TV or just peeking up from time to time. She still crashes from time to time, with her freshly stitched up brother in tow, and he leaves them his room gladly.
"Dude," she says and stares at the face on the screen, black and white , behind red bars. "Not bad."
When his sister sees it she has some kind of his amusement most people have adapted on calling his sister simply 'the bread girl'. She even has that name on social media. "That would be a great stencil."
He just shrugs.
"I'm not into spraying or shit."
"I know someone who is." She says, gnawing her lip. "That and some of your monsters. Like the phoenix or that dragon. Way better than just the sun. I mean, the sun is iconic. It will always stay in in top. But we need some diversity."
"No." Thomas says helpless. "No monsters. Not the phoenix. Anything but that."
"Are you sure-"
"NO." He repeats and curls up in his seat. "Please, just stop."
She doesn't ask anymore. When he dares to leave the house the next time someone left him a present. Opposite his block someone has put the face behind the bars on the whole wall, plus some red suns sprinkled along. There's yellow tape fluttering and he just stares silently at something he made out of nightmares.
It's the strangest feeling ever. He feels like puking. It's not so different from people proudly wearing ink but it's so much bigger and much less personal. Everyone watches. This has some meaning for a lot more people. This is part of the city's heartbeat now.
He's not so sure for a moment if joining was the right choice.
Sure, he has his friends back. But it's not like they chatter friendly like they used to. All he gets are updates. Sometimes one of them asks how he is doing. They mean it. Thomas answer is always a lie.
He's not a very important part of any operation, and he knows it's a benefit from his friendship. And his uselessness too. He's rarely invited to bigger meetings or anything resembling that warehouse . It's all pretty secretive and undercover.
And sometimes there is a message telling him where not to go.
Instead of trying to reach out anymore he leaves it at glances. At some pictures, observing news , or just listening or reading what the Guard drags in on information. Not too much and nothing personal enough.
His rebel parents notice the interest but they don't ask, to his surprise. They just watch in the distance. He lets them.
The next time he stares at an image of Maven and thinks about a street on fire and warmth spreading through his bones the night before he just surrenders to another form of coping. It's the middle of the night when his sister stands in the doorway to the kitchen and watches the buzzing needle work along his hand, filling dark flames along the back of his hand. It's almost elegant, like a certain handwriting he kept looking at wondering what words meant he could read but not comprehend. Fits hauntingly well. He's satisfied with a physical reminder to stop burning his hands. And maybe still, it's as much promise and even some weird form to acknowledge who his heart still belongs to, even through the sadness and the anger.
He's not having his life in control. That time has passed. But maybe if he can put this restless energy into the cause to make life better for anyone, really anyone who deserves it, that can mean something one day. Any day, really. Because this city does deserve some peace. People are still on edge. There's curfew and police raids, shakedowns and little fights .
I found the Cockatrice.
An unknown number says. There's probably a lot of people knowing a chicken dragon. Only one held Thomas a lecture on how it's bred and has his phone number.
Look what the fuck you fairy left me as a gift this night, Thomas thinks. Cameron is rubbing off bad in her habits of cursing and scowling.
He takes his time to answer. Makes himself breakfast. Oh, look, his sister left a note on the fridge. Maybe he should shower.
You could have found me if you had showed up in time.
He's not willing to say or write it.
"Yes." He just says when he answer the phone.
He knows the excuses before they will sail in. He isn't in the mood.
Hearing a voice and remembering it, Thomas learned in the past, are two very different things.
" I was there."
"Seems I wasn't." He just says, shuffling bare feet through the bathroom, avoiding to look at himself in the mirror. 'Your call, pretty boy, you asked and disappeared. People are pissed off by what you did."
"Are you?"
"Pissed? Nah. You disappointed me. You burned me bad with this hot cold thing. Different. People don't know you like I do. And also," Thomas scratches his nose , surprised by the flatness of his tone. "Some are pretty dead."
"Yes. I know that. A lot, actually. Not just your friend."
Tristan never was his friend but Thomas is sure this isn't the right moment to discuss it.
Maven sounds matter of fact.
Thomas wants to smash his head against the wall until he doesn't have to think about it anymore. Instead he hugs his legs, pulling them hard into his chest.
"Thomas, what do you want me to say?" Maven asks. "I admitted I made a mistake. I can't turn back time. What's done is done."
"What's done-"Thomas repeats in disbelief, feeling the color drain from his face. "This isn't about spilled milk, Mave." It's just a voice from the other side of the town but he could as well be on the other side of the planet. "I still love you, but this is wrong, on so many levels."
There's the slightest crack, the tiniest hesitation. For a second Thomas feels like a shooting star raining down and being stared at in wonder. But it doesn't matter. No, he thinks in pain, it does. But too little. "You still love me?"
"Of course I love you." Thomas pushes his hair out of his face, fingertips resting on his scalp." I always loved you, you pretty, messed up thing. With all your fear nagging and your control freak attitude. I never ever stopped loving you. Why would I go through all this shit if I didn't? You're really the worst with feelings."
Thomas ponders if he should just take his leave. This talk isn't fixing anything. It's just making things worse. It's draining his body of strength and makes his head pound.
"This isn't helping, "he whispers. "I can't do anything. This is what I didn't want. This pushing and pulling and this MESS. Please get help. Cause I can't do it."
"For whatever it is worth." Maven says from his side of the phone call, and if his hand would have gripped Thomas he'd not root him in place more effectively. "You are important to me, Thomas."
"No no, I ain't going that road. " Thomas huffs. "Not on the phone. Sorry I said anything. Shouldn't."
"A lot of things have happened." Says the voice on the other side, and by the sound of it, barely keeping it together. Angry, desperate, who can tell with the master of masks. "One more chance, Thomas. To explain myself. To make you understand."
He should walk away now. Ironically, make it a clean cut, as Elara told him. But for himself this time.
"You'll tell me what's going on. " Thomas demands with his last ounce of patience. "You will say it to my face. And you will NOT try to lie or maneuver around or I swear I will never even spit your way."