[ Grey doesn't move. He doesn't reach for Thomas' mind, and doesn't touch Thomas, either. Something is badly wrong. Everything is wrong. Thomas had said he was fine, and he's the least fine Grey has ever seen him.
Grey has seen him overcome with grief. Trembling with fear and sickness. He has seen him cry, he has seen him scream.
And in all of that, Thomas has never shut him out. Not like this.
Nothing could be more frightening than that.
Then Thomas touches him, gently, and Grey's head turns just a fraction. He doesn't know if that's an invitation or just an acknowledgement, and none of it does anything to stem his worry. He will kill the person who did this to his friend. He will rend them apart.
Lightly, tentatively, he reaches to run his hand over Thomas' shoulder. What's wrong? Will you talk? What happened? ]
[ 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 watches him, unhappy and not sure what to think. After a moment, he takes his hand away, but his eyes are heavy on Thomas’ shape. They’re not going to talk, he thinks, and Thomas isn’t responding to his touch. He reminds Grey more of Curtis than ever, because Curtis had moods like this. Black moods. Moods when no one was allowed to touch, and when he just wanted to be alone, in a place where it was impossible to be alone.
It’s not impossible for Thomas, though. They share this room, but that doesn’t mean that Grey has to be here. Thomas is safe now. He’s not at the swear in, he’s not out in whatever happened there. He’s here.
So, knowing that, Grey can give him his space. He retreats to the window seat and texts Drew again, even though it’s late. He’d said it was okay, and now Grey is just hoping that’s true. His eyes flick from the screen to Thomas. He feels like his concentration is skittering, warring between the need to give Thomas what he wants, and the urge to keep him safe, to protect him, to not fail him, the way he’d failed Gilliam. But it’s already too late for that, isn’t it? Thomas has already been hurt, and Grey wasn’t there. This is the result.
No wonder he doesn’t want to talk.
Drew replies. It’s fairly instant, and Grey’s fingers tighten around his phone. He looks at Thomas again, that dark, silent shape. His heart constricts, and then he opens the window, and drops out of it. He will give him space to be alone. That’s the least that he can do. ]
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Grey has seen him overcome with grief. Trembling with fear and sickness. He has seen him cry, he has seen him scream.
And in all of that, Thomas has never shut him out. Not like this.
Nothing could be more frightening than that.
Then Thomas touches him, gently, and Grey's head turns just a fraction. He doesn't know if that's an invitation or just an acknowledgement, and none of it does anything to stem his worry. He will kill the person who did this to his friend. He will rend them apart.
Lightly, tentatively, he reaches to run his hand over Thomas' shoulder. What's wrong? Will you talk? What happened? ]
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. ]
no subject
It’s not impossible for Thomas, though. They share this room, but that doesn’t mean that Grey has to be here. Thomas is safe now. He’s not at the swear in, he’s not out in whatever happened there. He’s here.
So, knowing that, Grey can give him his space. He retreats to the window seat and texts Drew again, even though it’s late. He’d said it was okay, and now Grey is just hoping that’s true. His eyes flick from the screen to Thomas. He feels like his concentration is skittering, warring between the need to give Thomas what he wants, and the urge to keep him safe, to protect him, to not fail him, the way he’d failed Gilliam. But it’s already too late for that, isn’t it? Thomas has already been hurt, and Grey wasn’t there. This is the result.
No wonder he doesn’t want to talk.
Drew replies. It’s fairly instant, and Grey’s fingers tighten around his phone. He looks at Thomas again, that dark, silent shape. His heart constricts, and then he opens the window, and drops out of it. He will give him space to be alone. That’s the least that he can do. ]