[ it feels like the scorch, after the storm took half of them out. all of them exhausted, couldn't move another inch from where they'd all fallen against the wall in the husk of a building they took shelter in, and just the cold, empty silence between them. the knowledge of how many they just lost, friends they'll never see again.
one second, they were walking beside them; talking, complaining, maybe joking, and not even ten minutes later, they'll never see them again. not even a body left. they're just gone.
that's how thomas feels now. it's all just gone. done, and there's no undoing it or fixing it. but hey, he survived, right? isn't that what everyone keeps going on about? how he'd pulled through it? like that somehow makes it better, or makes him better, or counts for anything at all aside from being one of the last ones standing.
"Sometimes I wonder", he'd told Newt, in what could barely be considered a murmur, while the others sat or laid motionless around them. "If being alive matters. If being dead might be a lot easier."
newt hadn't believed he'd really thought that, then, and thomas swallows, throat feeling raw. maybe he doesn't. maybe he just wants to, maybe that'd be an easier response to process. he doesn't know. he doesn't know anything anymore. grey's hand touches thomas's shoulder, and he doesn't move, not into it, not away from it, not even a twitch if recognition of the contact. but his eyes do, gradually, blink closed, and weariness starts to seep into his bones, sleep edging on his consciousness.
what's under him is a comfortable mattress with plush blankets and pillows, nothing like the hard earth and irritating sand from the scorch, or the biting cold after the sun fell, but somehow it feels the same to him, once his eyes shut. like he never left. like he never will. ]
grey ur such a good bro and tommy is such a shit
one second, they were walking beside them; talking, complaining, maybe joking, and not even ten minutes later, they'll never see them again. not even a body left. they're just gone.
that's how thomas feels now. it's all just gone. done, and there's no undoing it or fixing it. but hey, he survived, right? isn't that what everyone keeps going on about? how he'd pulled through it? like that somehow makes it better, or makes him better, or counts for anything at all aside from being one of the last ones standing.
"Sometimes I wonder", he'd told Newt, in what could barely be considered a murmur, while the others sat or laid motionless around them. "If being alive matters. If being dead might be a lot easier."
newt hadn't believed he'd really thought that, then, and thomas swallows, throat feeling raw. maybe he doesn't. maybe he just wants to, maybe that'd be an easier response to process. he doesn't know. he doesn't know anything anymore. grey's hand touches thomas's shoulder, and he doesn't move, not into it, not away from it, not even a twitch if recognition of the contact. but his eyes do, gradually, blink closed, and weariness starts to seep into his bones, sleep edging on his consciousness.
what's under him is a comfortable mattress with plush blankets and pillows, nothing like the hard earth and irritating sand from the scorch, or the biting cold after the sun fell, but somehow it feels the same to him, once his eyes shut. like he never left. like he never will. ]