Disclaimer: All references to the characters Jareth, Sarah, Hoggle, Sir Didymus, and the film Labyrinth belong to Jim Henson Studios and other pertinent parties. I do not claim ownership to the characters and / or the original source material.

Life's Little Lessons: Chapter 3

Immediately Thomas's mood soured upon stepping foot into his Aunt and Uncle's house with Charlie. A shopping bag with his clothes sat unceremoniously on the rug in the foyer. He stared at the contents of the plain white bag – a rumpled pair of jeans, a couple of shirts thrown over a single pair of underwear, no toothbrush, no pajamas, no note for him. At least Mom left him a note with her cell phone number on it. Granted, he could never reach her when he called, but that fact Dad seemed to have no regard for him… Anger and hurt swelled inside him. No one cared about him. So, he shouldn't care about them.

He stubbornly refused to do his homework when his Uncle asked him to do it. He refused to help set the table or wash his hands before sitting down to eat. He pushed his peas around on his plate as his Aunt scolded him for not eating them. She ordered him to stay at the table until he cleared his plate. Thomas sank deeper into the wooden chair with a glower in her direction. Charlie tried to give him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as she left the table, but he shied away from her touch. He listened to the television click on and dishes clatter in the dishwasher. He glared at the offending green orbs on his plate. He wasn't hungry. They couldn't make him eat. He pushed the plate aside and rested his head on his arms on the table. Listening to the house, the happy sounds of a home, he bitterly remembered happier moments when his family had been a family. His eyes closed and sleep caught him before he knew it. At some point, soft conversation caught his ears. He didn't move as he listened to his Aunt and Uncle talk about him.

"If he keeps this up, he'll be skin and bones by the end of the month," his uncle muttered quietly. "Doesn't your brother feed him?"

"He tries, but…" his aunt paused. "It's a rebellious phase. I went through the same thing once." She sighed. "We'll just have to let him choose what he wants to eat and not force the issue like this again."

"I'll take him up. You made up the day bed in the office, right?"

"Yeah. I laid out one of my old t-shirts for him, too. We'll see about something better for him tomorrow."

"You don't need-"

"Yes, I do. He's family. If I could… I'd do more."

"I know you would. It's why I married you."

There was the sound of a soft kiss. "Thanks again, honey."

"Anything for family," came the reply before heavy, rough hands lifted Thomas from the chair. The boy continued to feign sleep, but a lump had caught in his throat. So, he didn't eat a lot. He wasn't hungry. He didn't care about food anyway. And what if he wasn't as big or tall as the other boys his age? That wasn't his fault either. Why were they so concerned about him? Why did they care? He was just a nephew; it's not like he was their son. He wasn't part of their family… was he? At his train of thoughts, he wanted to outright sob on his Uncle's shoulder. He didn't want the strong presence to go away. He felt his Uncle climb the stairs to the second floor and carry him to the office. He felt the bigger man settle him carefully, like a fragile doll, onto the daybed opposite the desk and bookcase his Aunt used for her work. Thomas clenched his eyes shut even more.

"You're a good kid, Thomas," his Uncle said rubbing his back. He heard a soft, masculine chuckle, and he could almost see his Uncle Brian's smile underneath his beard. "If you need anything, Charlie's next door and we're down the hall. Don't hesitate to ask. There's an extra toothbrush for you in the bathroom, too. I'll let you dress yourself and crawl into bed. You're a big boy."

His Uncle Brian sounded so confident in calling him that nickname. Thomas hated nicknames, those little endearments. His Mom called him Tom Thumb when he was younger; his Dad still called him Little Goblin. He hated it. His Aunt called him love, but she called everyone that. Everyone else tried to call him Tom or Tommy, but only his Uncle didn't give him a nickname. He liked his Uncle for that, but Thomas rolled over onto his side, away from the burly man. He opened his eyes slightly to stare at the back of the daybed. Anger, hunger, and humiliation roiled painfully in his empty stomach.

"Why can't you be my Dad?" he whispered into the stillness of the makeshift bedroom. It was a question he had started to ask every weekend he stayed with them.

"Because you already have one," his Uncle replied. The same answer every time he asked. It galled the young boy. He never asked this next question.

"If I did, why isn't he here with me?"

The question sent his Uncle into silence. There was a heavy sigh from the brown haired man with hazel eyes. Thomas fisted the coverlet over the bed. Of course, his Uncle wouldn't have an answer for him.

"He picked up an extra shift to help pay for a few things, Thomas," his Uncle finally stated flatly. A lie, Thomas decided. Did all adults lie when pushed with questions they didn't want to answer? "He'll be here on Sunday."

Thomas bit back the bitter reply on the tip of his tongue. He doubted his father would show up on Sunday. He knew it would be like last weekend and the weekend before that – either his Mom would arrive to whisk him away and proceed to curse his father's name for the rest of the week, his grandmother would take him home and spend the night with him, or his Dad would show up at the last possible minute. Maybe no one would show up on Sunday. Thomas almost wished for it.

"He'll be here before you know it," his Uncle reiterated adamantly. Thomas shifted slightly to look up at his Uncle, almost expectantly. The older man smiled down at his nephew. The bed shifted and Thomas felt his uncle's hand behind his head and a slight pressure on his hair at his temple from a kiss good night. The daybed shifted again and his Uncle was walking towards the door.

"Things will be better in the morning. You'll see. Sweet dreams, Thomas."

Then he was gone. The dim light in the office cast the shadow of his body against the daybed's back. He listened to the sounds of the house that wasn't his home. He listened to Charlie getting ready for bed and play music softly in her room. He heard the click of her reading light turn off. Then he heard her parents climb the stairs and begin their nightly routine. Then he listened to the house grow still as the night plodded along. Thomas reached up and grabbed the pillow above his head. He hugged it fiercely as he began to silently sob.

Yet sleep still did not come to him. He extracted himself from the daybed and stumbled over to the bookshelf. He frowned. Everything sounded boring. Most were too high a level for him to read comfortably and were obviously books his Aunt used for teaching. He pulled a book out, flipped it once, and then went to put it back. He stopped seeing something in the dark depths of the back of the bookcase. Thomas removed a book to either side of the gap to investigate. There, resting out of sight, sat a little red book. Faded gold letters embossed on the cover failed to reflect the dim light in the room. Curiosity piqued, he extracted the book and examined it. It looked easy enough to read as he flipped through it. He let it rest in his lap as he put the other books back on the shelf. He grinned to himself. His Aunt would never know he had found it since she obviously wanted to keep it hidden. He would be equally careful and not let her know he had found it. He felt proud of his trickery. Then he carried his prize over and flopped onto his temporary bed. Before opening it to read, he read the cover aloud in an almost reverent whisper, "The Labyrinth."