//TW: thoughts of physical abuse, gaslighting and victim-blaming, swearing, self-harm||

James

I've never been so cold.

I've never been so lost.

My world had never been this silent before, as Thomas had always been apart of it. Him and his violin and his music, his constant need to fill the empty space that silence left with something beautiful. He spun straw into gold with the music he created, leaving the world a brighter, better place. It annoyed me in all the same ways it lifted me up high into the air; it gave me something to hold onto. Because as long as I had had him, happy and humming and mine, there was nothing the world could throw at us that we couldn't overcome.

It had always been Thomas and James. Never separate. Never apart. Thomas and James and not a single other person to carve a hole into the sanctuary we created for each other, the safe haven he brought every time his warm, gentle touch brushed against me.

But now he was gone. And now, my mornings and my evenings and every moment in between were cold.

It feels like it's all I've ever known, this chill seeping into my skin, biting and crucifying. This unending dread that fills my stomach, making it next to impossible to keep anything down for very long. This complete and utter heartbreak ripping through my chest like daggers every second I spend unoccupied. Without him and his constant warmth always a few moments away, what am I but a lost, confused castaway stranded in a desolate, black ocean?

This loneliness is a disease to which he was the cure, and he has so unfairly yanked that out of my reach.

He was my everything and now he's gone. He was my world and he left me for nothing. I had given him all I could and he left me simply because it wasn't enough for him.

I can't even bear to think of him anymore. I can hardly hear his name without wanting to hurt somebody, anybody, just to feel that delicious swell of control once more accompanied by the stinging of skin against skin, flesh against flesh. I needed that rush of adrenaline, that comforting high that only inflicting pain could bring.

I want somebody to bleed. I want somebody to hurt. I don't care if it's me. But I want Thomas to feel every second of pain he's caused me in the past few days without him by my side, exactly where he should be. I want that whore to suffer in all the exact same ways he made me suffer the second he abandoned me for nothing but a series of grand delusions as temporary as rain in the hot glare of the afternoon sun.

I hate him but I'd give anything in the world if it meant I got to touch him again, if I got to see him and hold him and never let him go.

I'm losing sleep, now; the darkness creeping in on me as I lay awake in bed whispers of all the things I offered him and all the things I did for him and all the ways he spat in my face and left without so much as a word. He's in every single dream I have, his gorgeous brown gaze following me, ridiculing me, constantly asking why I just wasn't good enough for him. Every time I close my eyes and try to focus on the relief that the nothingness brings, I can only hear his voice, his laughter, and though it feels like he still belongs to me, in reality, he's gone.

He left and I fucking let him go. Did he ever once consider me or how I felt? Or did he just leave the entire world behind, chasing ideals he'd never be able to actually cling to? He left and I watched him as he stepped out of our apartment, and I haven't talked to him since. I haven't heard the sweet, soft music of his beautiful voice. Thomas left me and never once looked back at me, who had shattered in his absence.

And what about now?

Now I have nothing but sharp, painful memories of a time that was much better, a time I'd have to work to bring back. He's left me adrift and it's all his damn fault.

He's the only good thing I've ever had in my life. The only person who's ever listened to me, to make me feel like I'm at least a little bit deserving of my place on this fast-paced world intent on leaving everyone behind. Thomas is the only thing I've ever wanted and I'm going to make him mine again, no matter the consequences.

So mark my fucking words, I'm going to get my Tommy back even if it means I have to kill somebody. Even if it means lighting the entire world on fire and watching as the wild flames lick up the buildings, turning the city into a mess of smoke and still-smoldering embers. The only thing that would survive would be our love, because no matter how hard they tried, they could never take my Tommy away from me.

I stared straight ahead as I walked through the crowded streets, the buzz of hastily drunken beer drumming through my bloodstream the only sense of comfort and warmth I managed to derive from a cold, loveless night. Alcohol seemed to be the one thing that managed to keep those terrible memories of all the shit Thomas has done to me at bay. As temporary as it was, it brought a relief I had never thought I'd ever see again, so it was good enough for now.

New York City is unforgiving. It's crowded and full of people I could care less about, people whose only goal is to keep me away from Thomas. I've always hated the cold, but suddenly, I've grown to absolutely detest it, knowing that it's my burden to bear completely alone without a fragment of sympathy. I walked through the streets by myself, navigating through thrums of people who never once noticed my existence, who never once saw me for who I really was. There was only one person who had ever done that and he was gone.

Relax, James, I reminded myself, smoothing my hands flat against my body and trying to walk with a sense of purpose, as misguided as it felt. I fought against the breeze whipping at my face and continued on, tracing an old familiar route back to a dormroom that had never felt so empty, never felt so dull. Everything had lost its meaning the second he left. Every taste had gone to mush, every color dulled and grayed. Every memory we shared fled in the wind like a flock of wild birds, disappearing across the horizon silently and unnoticed.

And now, when I think of him, it hurts. Like he's stabbed me straight through the abdomen and let me bleed out onto the sand, only for the unending tides to come and wash the blood away. And though the blood may seep into the water, the pain still lasts; the knowledge that he took my happiness away from me lasts forever. 

The things I'd done to him were undoubtedly not as bad as he claimed. I was doing it for him. To protect him. To keep him safe from the rest of the world, who would chew him up and spit him back out. It was all I wanted, to keep my Tommy safe. He's painted me as some monster to be feared, to be avoided at all cost, when in reality, I'm the good guy. Whatever he's said about me cannot be true. He's a liar. He's a manipulative bitch who finds joy in getting people to pity him. That's always been apart of Thomas, and it wouldn't go away now.

God, I want to fucking hit him.

I unlocked the door and threw it open, forgetting for a split second that my Thomas was not there to greet me. I called out his name but an empty silence devoid of his music filled the gap, a crushing blow sending shock waves rippling down my spine. So I stepped inside the room, feeling like an idiot wishing for the one sense of familiarity in a world of unknowns. I threw my bag onto the ground and continued forward until I found the table and practically fell into it, trying to keep myself together, trying to keep myself from the inevitable breakdown tugging at me.

I just wanted my Tommy again. I just wanted the perfect life we shared when it was just the two of us, together against the world. Was that so much to ask for?

It isn't fair. It isn't fucking fair. I just want him back.

And to make matters worse, I had seen him while I was walking through the city alone and largely ignored. It had been a split second, a ghost in the corner of my eye that had already disappeared when I turned to look, but I know I had seen him because I had heard him laughing in all the ways he used to laugh for me and me alone. He was walking with the people who had abandoned us the second he became an inconvenience. Their crimes were forgiven and forgotten but I was still the horrible demon they could only whisper of. How Thomas can be so stupid is beyond me. Does he really think they won't do it again?

Humans don't change. Humans hurt and enjoy doing so, because hurting others means they don't have to be afraid of being hurt themselves. I am no exception. Thomas is no exception. And neither are his friends. They would hurt him all over again given the slightest opportunity, and the sooner he sees that, the sooner he'll come back to me, and the happier everybody will find themselves. It's really only a matter of time.

Thomas hadn't seen me as he passed by, but Alexander had. It was small and hardly noticeable, but the moment I had passed on the other side of the street, he had reached for Thomas's arm and clutched tightly as if something was trying to pry him away. It boiled my blood the same moment it froze it, the two extremes of anger and fear battling for dominance. Alexander said nothing, just instead continued to make my Thomas laugh, and cast me a passing glare. As if to enforce that Thomas belonged to him.

My hands tightened into fists at the mere thought of Thomas smiling for somebody that wasn't me, and I wished I could just reach into the awful memory and pluck him out of it. He didn't belong there, anyway, not with that bastard. His place was with me, in my home, in my arms. Not with the people who hated him a little over a week ago.

Knowing it was futile, I dug my phone out of my pocket and called him. I hungered for his voice as though I was a dog, starved and freezing and on the cusp of a very unglorified death. I hungered to hear him, to anchor myself to him, to know that he was somewhere in the real world and not just a divine figure of my imagination. I called him and I waited, but as usual, he didn't respond. The dial tone filled the air for a horrible long minute, and then the automated voice dashed all my hopes against a rough, concrete pavement.

I hissed out a set of words that don't bear repeating and let my gaze drift over the empty, messy room that had seemed so much lighter when Thomas was apart of it. And my eyes fell on the slip of paper sitting neatly on the ground by the door, folded up in a manner that could have only been Thomas's doing. I must have walked right past it.

My heart dropped just as much as it soared with the sight of that stupid piece of paper. Pressing down the mounting dread, I scooped it off the floor and ran my fingers across the smooth paper marred by little ink etchings neatly arranged. It even smelled like him a little, like the sweet, rosy perfume he always opted for instead of cologne without a second thought, always happy to ignore the strange looks he got for the less-than-masculine decision. I took in a deep whiff of the smell, and for a moment, if I closed my eyes and tried really hard, I could picture Thomas right next to me, standing at my side where he belonged.

But I reached my hand out and met only empty space, reminding me just how alone I truly was now that that whore had left me.

I clung to the paper tightly as if it would dissolve or melt between my fingers if I let it go. The very last thing I wanted to do was read it but curiosity managed to get the better of me and my eyes skimmed the paper briefly.

That's all it had taken.

My heart shattered against the unyielding, wooden floor as I stared at the words he had written in his own hand, the world around me starting to blur as fresh tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

I took a deep breath but it didn't seem to matter how hard I tried to grasp onto something concrete. I was fading fast, spinning out of control, the breath drawn from my lungs without any hint of returning soon, and the world around me kept taking and taking because that's all it can do.

No, no, no. Please, no. Please don't let this be real.

Of course, my wishes went unheard, as this was painful reality.

"Oh, God," I whispered aloud, because it was all I managed to say. It was a miracle the beer I had managed down didn't come hurtling back up, as sickening as the letter was.

How could he do this to me?

I forced myself to breathe once more, wiping away the tears and slapping myself for the vulnerability I couldn't even show myself. Letting my shoulders relax, I somehow managed to read through the letter, as if to synthesize everything he had said. As if to confirm that this was real.

James,

I don't even know what to say anymore.
I must've written this a thousand different times and it still doesn't sound good enough, but I need to say it. Part of me hopes you never read this just as much as another part of me needs you to. But I have somethings to say and I'm going to say them, regardless of how it hurts.
I'm sorry.
For everything I've done. For the way I left things. For completely ignoring you and every attempt you've made to talk to me. But I just can't do it anymore. I can't pretend that I'm not hurting. I can't face every day knowing that it was only a matter of time before you snapped again and hurt me. I can't keep wondering if each sunset will be the last I ever see.
I'm tired of being afraid.
So I can't do this. I'm not going to pretend anymore. I'm not going to hide.
I never want to see you again.
You haunt my nightmares. Your words constantly echo through my mind whenever I'm alone. You're everywhere and you're nowhere and I just can't take it anymore.
So, please, for once in your life, stop.
Stop following me. Stop talking to me. Stop harassing me.
I don't want anything more to do with you.
I think the best thing now is to just put these awful memories behind us, to forget about the monsters we both created and live new lives, separated and happier for it. I know you suffered just as much as I did. Take this opportunity to be happy, to be free from me. We'll move on and we'll finally learn what it truly means to love, and isn't that the only thing worth anything anymore?
I wish you all the best, all the happiness in the world. I truly hope, from the bottom of my heart, that you find somebody you really do love, somebody you can spend your time with knowing you don't have to hurt and control them to find peace.
Goodbye, James.
Maybe this could have worked out in another life, but I suppose we'll never know.

From,
Thomas

It had originally said Yours but the Yours was crossed out and replaced with the awful, unfeeling, apathetic From. As if that could erase our history, our intertwined paths, the worlds we've created and destroyed together.

From,
Thomas

As if that erased the future written out for us the moment we first met, our destinies forever joined together as one. But it never could. Nothing will.

Yet still, the world spun around me, colors and shapes nothing more than a mere reminder of what they had once been. Everything lost its meaning, and my mouth tasted like I had forced down a lump of clay.

It felt like a dream. Like the worst of nightmares. If the paper wasn't so heavy between my fingers I would have attributed this all to the alcohol working its magic and screwing the borderline between fantasy and reality. Fuck, I would have given anything for this to not have been real.

I reread the letter once more, forcing myself to acclimate to the words, to their brief, direct, terrible message echoing through my mind like the toll of a gong over a silent valley. I read the letter until I knew it by heart, the paper staining with droplets of water. I tried to make sense of it but there was no sense to be found, nothing more than a series of screams hissing through my mind, sharp and unrelenting and so fucking loud.

I fell to my knees, reading the letter over again and again, looking for mistakes, looking for discrepancies, something that would confirm that Thomas hadn't written this and it was all some terrible, horrible joke concocted by the people trying to keep us apart. But the signature at the bottom was his, and the curved, neat handwriting was his, and the letter was his. There was no doubt about it.

"Oh, Thomas," I murmured, hating but grasping onto the way his name so effortlessly rolled of my tongue, as if it was the one thing I had any right to. "Oh, God, Thomas. What have you done?"

Something had been ripped right out of me the moment I read that damned letter, something vital. And without it, I was spiraling, falling thousands of feet in a matter of milliseconds.

And over and over again, a single thought whispered through my mind like a broken record intent on making me feel every last second of pain it could squeeze out of me.

It's too late. He's moved on.

The pain corrupted and it took control, and before I even knew what I was doing, I tore the letter into two separate parts, straight down the middle. The satisfaction that welled up with the destruction of the things that had taken him away from me did little to appease my anger. It was fast and fleeing, leaving me just as empty as I had been when I woke up, cold and lost and utterly, terribly alone.

I fell to the ground and sobbed.

But there was one light in the oppressive darkness. One solid thing to hold amongst a series of abstract shapes that brushed past me in their unending tirade. There was one thought and one thought only strong enough to push back the swell of tears and the desire to hurt.

I'm going to get my Thomas back.