//TW: swearing, mentions of abuse, emotional manipulation, and panic attacks\\

And then here's a rlly calming classical composition that is 10/10 would rate again

Thomas

I couldn't breathe.

Despite every little word in the back of my mind telling me just to focus on my breathing, everything seemed to be spiraling out of control faster than I could reach out and hold them together.

I tried so hard, especially with Alexander walking by my side, his eyes dead-set ahead of him, but I just couldn't breathe. The air was being squeezed out of my lungs by cold, clammy hands, and I couldn't breathe, haunted by the only truth I knew.

When James found out, he would kill me. He would hurt me, he would beat me, and he would kill me long before he ever let me run off with somebody else. He had told me as much a countless number of times, that he'd rather see me dead than with somebody that wasn't him. But even worse, he'd hurt Alexander, and it would have been all my fault. And he would make me sit there and watch, wouldn't he? Because James thrives on control.

My fingers twitched as I tried to recenter my thoughts on the two words playing through my mind every couple of seconds.

In.

It was surprisingly difficult, to remember to breathe. It took so much forgetting, so much putting the rest of the world aside actively. And in the end, what exactly did just breathing accomplish? It didn't solve anything. It didn't make my problems magically go away. It didn't do anything at all, so why was it so important when I could be coming up with a thousand different excuses?

Out.

Because at the moment, it was all I could do.

I forced my hands flat, risking a glance over at Alexander. He must have noticed me and my "concealed" anxiety out of the corner of his eye, for the determined anger faded from his face as he cast me a small, reassuring smile that was tight, but genuine. The waves of calm that radiated off of him were almost enough to still my heart beating against my chest.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I mean, umm, thank you for coming to do this with me." I gripped at my sweater sleeves, breathing in as much of the still air as I could. "Especially when you didn't have to."

Alex softened, his hand brushing against mine. It must have been an accident. "Look, there's nothing else in the world I'd rather be doing right now." And then, his expression turned sour. "I hope Madison isn't in there," he muttered darkly underneath his breath.

In.

We reached the door. The daunting, massive door I had spent too many hours sobbing behind the other side of. A twinge of panic stirred just as the sight of the bronze plaque reading those three numbers, numbers I had grown to dread. It was just a room, no different from any other, and yet, it was tainted with so many horrible memories and impure acts. I glanced down at my arms, the stinging becoming more pronounced the more I thought of the scars tracing down my skin. I couldn't go in there. I couldn't face him. I couldn't, I couldn't, I couldn't.

Out.

I dug the key out of the front pocket of my bag and handed it to Alexander. He smiled at me again and tested the handle, but the door was already unlocked.

"You don't have to go through with this," I said quickly, his hand already enclosed around the knob. If he turned it, there would be no going back. Opening this door would be like opening a new world, and I wasn't so sure I was ready to face its blindingly bright sunlight. I didn't deserve it, not after all the things I had done and all the things I was about to do.

"I actually do," he affirmed, and once more, softened a second later. "And plus, I've been so lonely. I'm not gonna mind the company."

"Well, umm, for what it's worth, thank you. I really...I really appreciate this, Alexander."

Alexander touched my hand again. So light a touch, so brief, but it was far more powerful than anything James could have ever done to me. He took a deep breath and turned the doorknob.

In.

There was silence, for a blessed moment, as Alexander and I stepped inside. I could barely look around at the kitchenette, only nodding towards where my bedroom was. And then, clear and sharp, James's voice rang through the room, and the flames of panic sparked in the pit of my stomach.

Out.

"Finally, Tommy. You're back."

My breath caught in my throat.

Alexander stiffened next to me as the familiar figure appeared through the opposite doorway. His hand wrapped around mine even before James managed to get the last of the words out, and he held on tight. And for once, I didn't think it was tight enough.

James stopped in his tracks the second his eyes landed on the boy standing next to me. "Tommy," he said, his voice sweet but his eyes dark as he pinned me under that impossible gaze. "What is he doing here?"

"Umm, I..." I began, but what in the world could I possibly say to justify or explain any of this? I looked down at the ground, only vaguely aware of Alexander's eyes on me. His hand was still clinging onto mine.

"Goddammit, Thomas, answer me," he snapped. I started backwards in shock; James never snapped in front of other people, especially not people like Alexander. I could really only guess at the sudden panic and desperation rolling up through him, and the guilt began to manifest inside my chest as a slow, sinking feeling.

In.

I opened my mouth, trying to force my tongue to move, but Alexander spoke before I had the chance. "Why don't you go pack?" he asked me, and his voice was nothing but warmth. "I'll talk to James."

Out.

"Umm, yeah. That sounds good."

"Pack? Thomas, what the fuck is he talking about?"

"Go ahead," Alexander said, smiling. He was so gentle with me. And slow. And patient. How long would that last, how long before he discovered that I didn't deserve his kindness? I couldn't afford to lose myself to what could only exist temporarily, and yet, I couldn't pull myself away from the genuine, soft smile and the light lilt in his voice. It was a lot like broken glass, pretty, but soon, it would start to hurt as it cut deep into my skin, especially as he slowly forgot all the promises he was now making.

"Umm, thank you, Alexander," I said. I retreated to my room before James could say anything, but I could feel his stare etching cuts into the back of my neck as I left them. I closed the door softly behind me and glanced around the room once before beginning to pack.

In.

It was hard. Harder than it had any right to be. It wasn't that there was a lot to put away; besides a few books and trinkets and all of my clothes, I had nothing. It just felt like placing my stuff into the suitcases erased everything I had been through in this room. Regardless, I worked quickly and quietly, as the yelling in the other room only got louder.

Out.

I could do this.

I had to do this.

When the room was just a little bit more barren and empty than it was twelve hours ago, I stepped back and glanced around. There had been no posters on the walls, no thousands of plants like I wished I could have had. No violin, hardly any books, nothing that brought life to the room and color back into me. All I had was a single suitcase full of clothes and a bag full of books, folders, sketchbooks, and the odd, pretty nothings I had picked up along the way.

My eyes darted to the knife still sitting on the bedside table, its metal crusted with dried blood.

In.

I blinked, sliding it into my palm and relishing in its weight in my hand. As horrid as it was, the knife was familiar. It knew my blood better than anything else in the world. It stood for pain, and pain made me who I was. What right did I have to leave that behind? What right did I have to try and forget all the suffering in this accursed room?

Out.

I set the knife back down on the table and turned away from it, unable to look at the taunting blade. Wherever I went, I never wanted to see something like that again. But the flash of its cold gleam in the harsh yellow lights of the bathroom would never be something I'd be able to erase from my mind.

Instead, I slid the mattress aside just slightly, revealing the last bits of money I had to myself. I counted through it, frustration popping like a bubble in my throat, and slid it into my bag. It was hardly enough, but it's all I had to pay for rent as long as I lived with Alexander. It'd have to do until I could get a job.

I took one more look around the room, but there was nothing left for me besides the memories of things I'd rather forget. So, when I stepped out of the room and closed the door behind me for what I hoped was the last time, a weight lifted from my shoulders, and the fear wrapped around my chest disappeared, if only for a moment.

In.

I was going to leave. I was going to put this all behind me. I was going to get a second chance.

Out.

Alexander looked up as I closed the door, his shoulders softening as he eyed me and my suitcase and bags. He held out his hand, and although it took me a second to understand what he meant, I handed him the messenger bag that I carried around with me everywhere.

James, however, was a completely different story.

"So, you're really leaving? After all I've done for you?"

"James—"

In.

"You can't leave me!" he cried, the words sending shockwaves rocketing through me. "Tommy, you're mine. I need you, okay? This isn't fair."

Out.

"It's just for a little while," I responded, glancing away.

"Tommy!" he begged. He actually begged. "You can't do this to me! What about all the things I've given you? You're really going to throw that away? For what?" I swear, he was on the verge of tears. And even if it made me an awful person, I ducked my head so I didn't have to seem him crying. Because if I did, I knew I would have never left. "I'll change, okay? I know I've hurt you, but I promise I'll stop. Tommy, please, baby. I love you."

"Fuck off, James," spat Alexander, and I couldn't help the tiny smile that rose to my face.

James froze, waiting for me to speak, but as cowardly as I was, I couldn't. We sat there forever, waiting for nothing, and finally, he cracked. "You're so selfish, Tommy," he hissed. "But fine. Leave, if you really think anybody else in the world can love you the same way I can." He turned on his heel and disappeared back into his own room.

"He's a fucking prick," Alexander grumbled as the door slammed shut. But it wasn't the words that displayed his unconfined rage as much as it was the way they rolled out of his mouth—low and uncontrolled, like a growl from deep within. "Will you be pressing charges?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Never mind. Maybe that's not the most appropriate thing to talk about right now. I'll show you our apartment." He smiled up at me then, switching the bag I had given him to his other arm and offering his free hand to me. It felt wrong to take it, especially with the way James had just left, but I couldn't stop myself.

"I'm really proud of you, Thomas. And I promise, I'm never going to let anybody treat you like that again, okay?"

I nodded, my breathing suddenly something I could indulge in. "Okay."

~•~

It was raining by the time we arrived at Alexander's apartment. Somehow, both of us were only slightly soaked, but even if we had been drenched, I don't think I would have minded. The rain was just a gentle pattering streaking across the windows we had passed overlooking the city below. Something so fleeting but something so peaceful. I don't know much about anything any more, but I knew that I loved rain.

I set the bags down on the bare bed and risked a glance around the room, my throat bobbing as I took in the sight. It was, as Alexander had said, small and pretty much empty except for the bed, the desk, and the empty shelf meant to house books. The walls were painted a soft, welcoming cream color, but the paint was old enough to the point it was beginning to crack in places. I let out an unsteady breath, taking it all in at once.

"Uh, I'm sorry," Alexander said, flattening his palms against the sides of his legs. He stared at the ground, as if ashamed of the room he had presented me. "I know it's not much. I'm sorry, I don't—"

"It's perfect," I breathed, turning to him. "Thank you."

He grinned at my interruption, a sight truly too astounding for such a drab, undeserving world. It lit up the room, bringing a whole new sense of peace and renewal to a place that had already began to carve a new beginning.

"Hey, no problem!" Alexander responded brightly. "Make yourself comfortable. If you need me, I'll be in my own room." He lingered for a moment longer than was perhaps necessary, so many things hovering in the air between us. But he eventually turned to leave, closing the door softly behind him.

In.

I began to unpack, both my suitcase and bags and the plethora of inexplicable feelings and rushing thoughts.

Out.

Everything swirled around me at once, broken fragments of images still thundering through my mind. The last look James had given me before disappearing. The smile Alexander had presented me with. The sight of the empty room I had left. The knife balancing precariously on the table. So many things never satisfied with the breath they stole away from me. Always begging and ripping at my mind. Always demanding that I surrender more and more until I had nothing left to give.

In.

And my eyes fell open once again, fully taking in the room and all of its simplistic glory.

Out.

I opened the window, finding a relief washing through me at simply being able to do so. The calming rain purified the room as the breeze blew against my skin, the markings of another world I hadn't seen in so long. My hands stilled as I took a deep draw of the fresh, cool air, savoring in its sweet, unfamiliar flavor.

All I could do was breathe.

Alexander

I waited for him on the couch, despite what I had said. The thought of putting too much space between us was a daunting one, so I stayed as close to him as I could get without intruding on the moments he would need to sort himself together. I scrolled through my phone absentmindedly, listening to see if I could hear him as he unpacked and settled in. But one single thought paraded through my mind.

Fuck James Madison.

I waited as patiently as I could, trying to plan out the next thing I would say to him, but it seemed like words weren't enough. For a moment, I considered writing it all down. It helps, writing things out, especially because it isn't permanent. It can be erased. It can be changed. It can be crumpled up into a ball and thrown in the trash so nobody ever has to look at it. Speaking was different, because the instant the words hit the air, there was no taking them back.

So that's why I liked to write. Because it gave me a chance to sort things out.

But as I ripped a piece of paper out of my notebook, a ping! ripped me out of my thoughts. It pulled me back to the present just as I had planned to fall to a different reality. I blinked, turning to my phone, a single text filling the screen.

With shaky hands, I picked up the phone and scrolled through my messages almost as quickly as they arrived.

John: well?

John: hows it going?

Angie: *how's

John: you deserve pain

Alex: Thomas is settling in. We just got everything sorted but I'm not sure how he's feeling or anything

Maria: Youre not?? gonna?? talk to him??

Aaron: Seriously- how is he holding up?

Angie: you should use an em dash not a hyphen for that

John: omg shut up

Angie: sorry I hate myself too

Aaron: HOW IS THOMAS??

Alex: He's fine, okay? He's unpacking

Herc: Don't fuck it up, Alex

Alex: you know, you're not as cute as you think you are

Aaron: can you talk to Thomas PLEASE? I'm worried about him

I set my phone back down, silencing it. I forced my hands flat against the couch as I tried to clear my mind, especially of what Aaron had said. He didn't get to scream and insult Thomas and suddenly start caring about him just because it was convenient. I glanced back up at the door. Maybe he had a point though.

If I listened, I could hear a faint... melody, almost. I smiled, closing my eyes to better take it in. It was a nice, calming song barely audible through the walls, but just enough to where I could hear the faint tune mourning a place that no longer existed. It must have been Thomas, or a song he was playing just because he finally could.  The thought made me sad. What kind of monster won't even let his boyfriend relish in the beauty music had to offer?

I stood up and walked over to his new room, where the music got louder and louder the closer I got. I was able to hear it more clearly; it was definitely familiar. Classical, perhaps? My knuckles wrapped softly on the wooden door, and the music stopped almost immediately. I waited for a second, but there was no answer.

"Thomas?" I called, wishing I could see him. "It's me. Can I...?"

"Yeah, uh, sorry. Come on in."

At his invitation, I opened the door and slid inside, all focus centered on the boy standing across from me. "Hey. You doing alright? Can I get you anything?"

His gaze fell to his hands as he sat down on the bed, now adorned with a simple white blanket embellished with a pattern of different colored birds. "Uh, I'm good. But thank you! I—I really appreciate this, Alexander."

"I'm glad I can help," I said with a nod. I risked a glance around the room, my heart skipping a beat as I took it in. There was a simplicity to it, but it was comforting. "Are you going to get some plants or something?" I asked, nodding to the empty space on top of the bookshelf, though it surprised me how many books he had managed to cram into it. I longed to sweep my fingers across the spines, wondering what worlds each of them held, what story each of them told. And what separate fragments they contained that could help me piece Thomas together.

"P-plants?" he stammered, eyes widening with surprise.

"Yeah. You were always talking about them back in high school, weren't you? You had a favorite flower, right? Shit. What was it?" I paused, trying desperately to remember. "It wasn't a sunflower, was it?"

"Roses," he said, smiling. "Yeah. I'm, uh, I'm surprised you remember."

"Roses, really?" I teased lightly. "Those are basic. You're basic."

"Well, what are your favorite flowers?"

I paused, shrugging sheepishly. "Oh, I don't know a lot about flowers. Not enough to have an opinion, anyway. But I guess roses are really pretty."

I returned his smile, pulling out the chair stationed at the desk and settling down in it. I could sit here for hours, if he would let me.

"You're right." He glanced around the room, his fingers fiddling with the blanket almost absentmindedly. "It does need a touch of life."

A silence fell over the two of us, but it wasn't awkward or anything. I smiled as I watched him take in the work he had made of the room. Everything was neat, but it just needed more life to it. Besides the books practically spilling out, there was nothing to suggest this was the room of a unique, different person like Thomas. But perhaps that would come with time.

I asked him a question, so small and insignificant that I hardly remember it now. It might have been about the books on the shelves, or the music he had been listening to, but once the two of us started talking about the most random things, there was no stopping. And it felt wonderful, just to sit there and talk to somebody. And it was a sense of calm I hadn't known that I needed, a feeling that filled me with something solid to hold onto. And it was all mine.

Of course, until his phone went off.

Thomas blinked, whatever he was about to say dying in the air with the wind carried in by the open window. He scooped his phone off of the bedside table and glanced at it as its automatic ringer filled the air. And then, his eyes met mine.

"Um, I'm sorry. Can I take it?" he asked after a moment.

"Oh! Yeah, go ahead," I responded awkwardly.

His thumb hovered over the screen, eyes unfocusing as he read the caller ID. Something in his face seemed to click, the tranquility draining from the atmosphere all at once.

"Who is it? Because if it James, I swear to God, I'll—"

"It's my, uh, my mother," he murmured. "I haven't talked to her in a long time. Would you—" He inhaled a deep breath, closing his eyes. "Would you mind if I answered?"

"Why are you asking for my permission?"

He nodded and answered the call quickly, I guess so he didn't get the chance to talk himself out of it. "Hey, Mom," he said weakly.

I could hear the shouting on the other side of the phone from where I was sitting almost immediately. A long breath escaped his mouth as he curled in on himself. I watched for a moment longer before standing, but Thomas's eyes found mine, and the flash of desperation rooted me to the spot.

I flashed him what I hoped was a comforting smile and took his hand, returning to the seat.

"Oh, um. Nothing much. College has been busy. Lots of work. I just haven't had the chance to call you back yet." A pause. "Urm... yeah. I don't—I don't know, I-I'm sorry," he stammered. I had no idea what she was saying to him, but whatever it was, Thomas was losing himself. And quickly.

"Thomas, why don't you get something to drink?" I asked smoothly, hardly realizing what I was offering to do before the words left my mouth. "If you want, I can talk to your mother."

His eyes glazed over for a moment before he let out a soft exhale. It was easy, actually, to track the patterns of his breathing. Inhale for five seconds, hold, exhale for five more. A practiced, repetitive thing, because if you can remember and follow those simple steps, you can practically do anything.

"Yeah, um, a friend of mine wants to talk to you. I'll be right back," he said before shoving the phone into my hands and hurrying off.

"Hello," I said into the phone after a few seconds, now that I didn't have a choice. God, I'd have given anything for a script to read from right then. "Is this Mrs. Jefferson?"

The voice on the other line was silent for a moment, before she heaved a breathy sigh. "Yes. This is. And who are you?" She sounded tired, a woman constantly dragged down by whatever life had thrown at her, and yet, there was an air of unmistakable authority.

I swallowed. "Uh, I'm Alexander. I'm a friend of Thomas," I responded, about to say more when she cut me off.

"Listen. I'm sure that you're wonderful and everything, but I haven't talked to my son in four years."

"Oh, well, uh—" I frowned, sliding my hand through my hair. This was not going as well as I would like to have hoped. "I understand that, but Thomas is—"

"I want to talk to my son," she insisted, and then her voice broke. "Is he okay? Why has he been ignoring me? Did something happen? Has he been hurt?"

My throat went dry as she continued to plead for answers. I hardly trusted myself to speak, knowing that the second I tried, my voice would wobble and splinter any reassurances I could have made.

"Is Thomas okay?" she demanded again, the question gluing itself to me long after it had been plucked from the air.

"Umm, I'm not really sure," I answered.

"Did he get in trouble? Did he do something?"

"I—" I frowned, finding it increasingly hard to catch my breath. My eyes darted to the doorway where a concerned Thomas stood with a glass of water. He crossed over to me and took the phone back, relieving me of the insurmountable task I had just taken on.

"I'm back," he said, and then winced. More yelling, more questions with impossible answers. He drew in a deep breath, smoothing his hands along the blanket. In for five seconds. Hold. Out for five more. "Mom, I'm okay. I promise. I just—I know, okay?" He chewed on his lip, tucking his legs underneath him. "I-I can explain, okay? You just—I'm sorry."

"Thomas?" I asked, finding his hand and squeezing it for a moment, because that's really all I had to offer him. The first thing I noted was how warm his skin was. "Breathe, alright? It's alright. Everything's alright. Just breathe."

Thomas nodded and closed his eyes tightly, no doubt trying to blink away the tears rapidly rising to his eyes. I faltered, unsure of how to continue. All I could do was be there for him.

"Mom?" he asked, so quietly it was scary. "I love you, okay? And I'm sorry. I want to tell you everything. And I will, okay? I just need some time." A long pause, and then somehow, Thomas managed a soft little laugh. "No, Mom. I didn't go to jail or anything. You know I couldn't hurt anybody if I tried." He glanced over at me, smiled, and pressed a button on his screen. A sign of trust I hadn't yet earned.

Mrs. Jefferson's voice filled the room. "Well, I worry about you, you know. I figured your crippling addiction to books would only last you so long."

"What did I always say?" Thomas asked, chuckling softly as he wiped remnants of tears away from his eyes. "Be thankful it isn't cocaine?" Both of them laughed, and I softened. But I didn't dare leave, not with Thomas still holding onto my hand.

"Thomas," she asked after a moment. "How's your violin playing going?"

I blinked at the discovery, watching him for a reaction. I hadn't known that Thomas played an instrument. But I guess I should have expected it; he was always into music. I had seen it in so many ways, especially when he quietly hummed to himself in class when he thought the world couldn't hear him. I had never spoken about it, for it never felt right to try to take it away from him.

But instead of grinning like I thought he would at the memory, Thomas's shoulders fell in defeat. "No... umm, I broke m-mine, and I just... haven't had the time or the money to go get a new one," he answered after a moment, a sadness filling the air.

"Oh, my awkward giraffe, what am I ever going to do with you?" she cooed.

"Mom."

I covered my smile with my hand, trying everything I could not to laugh.

"Sorry, sorry."

They talked for a while more, about the most mundane things. I don't know if Mrs. Jefferson had been able to sense her son's distress, but she didn't once poke the topic of his disappearance again.

"Alright, Mom. I have to go now, okay? I have some things I have to take care of."

"Okay, I'll talk to you later. Please, call me again? You had us all worried."

"Of course," he responded. "Bye."

"Bye, Thomas."

Thomas looked over at me, face slightly trimmed with embarrassment. "Sorry. I guess I could have let you leave. I didn't think she would—"

"Hey, no! It's okay!" I promised, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go. "Hungry?"

"Not really," he responded.

"Are you sure?" I said with a frown. He hadn't eaten much for lunch today; most of the stuff I had offered him had gone untouched. "You really have to eat. It isn't healthy to just, well, you know."

He nodded, and I knew it would take some time to convince him to eat, just like everything else would. If my theory was correct on what he was doing to himself, time and reassurance was the only thing that could fix it. But I promised both of us, albeit silently, that I'd help him through every last second of it. It was the least I could do, after all.

"Okay, well, do you wanna watch something with me?" I asked.

His head shot up. Thomas's eyes glanced at the window for just a moment, before they found mine again. A small smile touched his face, but even though it was tiny, it still sent a bolt of electricity through my body. I liked seeing him smile, actually. "Yeah. That sounds nice."