//TW: swearing, self-harm, mentions of abuse, PTSD\\

So was anybody going to tell me Daveed is in the upcoming Pixar movie or was I just supposed to find that out on an article about Harry Styles as Prince Eric in the Little Mermaid myself?

Alexander

"How's Thomas settling in?" John asked as we trekked up the staircase to my apartment, taking a swig from the cup of hot chocolate he held with a firm grasp. At this point, Thomas was the only thing anybody could seem to talk about, and I wasn't quite sure how that was supposed to make me feel. There was always a hesitance to my response when it came to questions about him, as though I was afraid I'd answer incorrectly. I didn't want to speak for him, or anything, especially not after he had his voice taken from him for so long. "Is he doing alright, and everything?"

I sighed, running my hand through my hair as I always did when words weren't enough to express my frustration. It didn't seem right, to reduce everything Thomas had been through to a simple, one-worded answer. There were so many things I couldn't explain, so many things that just didn't make sense if I couldn't go on for hours about the simplest little things. But I answered as honestly as I could, because that's one of the few luxuries I had around John that I couldn't find with anybody else.

"He's very jumpy, you know? He's constantly trying to make me happy. And he always asks my permission before doing things, and I have to make sure I'm never speaking to him at a voice above my normal tone, or he thinks he's screwed something up. And he isn't eating very much. And, on top of that, he's so fucking insistent on paying rent, even when I've told him not to worry about it."

We passed a window, revealing the endlessly gray sky ripe with the looming threat of rain. The clouds seemed to be taunting us, always planning but never acting on what they conceived. Thomas seemed to love the rain, however, in a way I couldn't understand, let alone describe. But the way I found him when I came home from my internship yesterday? All curled up on the couch reading a book worn by use and time? It was honestly one of the only times he had looked safe. Comfortable. Like there was nothing else in the world that could even touch him, as long as his eyes could depend on the unwavering shape of the letters thick against the page.

Reading and sketching. Those seemed to be the only escapes he had. The only time he could really lose himself to another reality. The only time he could actually let go of the crushing weight of the real world.

And when I had found him, curled under a heavy layer of blankets, all I could do was grab a notebook, join him, and write.

I let out a long breath, forcing my shoulders to relax as John nudged me gently to pull me back to the present, out of the comforting memory. When I glanced over at him, the little quirk in his eyebrows said a lot more than his voice could have.

I rolled my eyes at his suggestion, feeling an unrelenting wave of shame flow to my face. "I know, okay? I'm being patient with him, I promise. I just...I don't know, I'm really worried about him."

"Are you making him eat?" he asked, to which I had to shake my head. "Well, maybe you should start with that, and the rest'll just work itself out, you know?"

"Maybe." I sighed, but I was quick to find a change of subject. "Oh, did I tell you what Maria said to me this morning?"

"No, what?"

"Well, apparently, Eliza straight up told her that she'd go on a date with her if she asked. And she actually asked me what she meant by that."

John rolled his eyes, grinning. "God, she's the textbook definition of a useless lesbian."

"Do you think she's actually gay, though?" I asked, unsure as to why the thought of it stuck with me so much.

John shrugged. "Sounds like it, don't you think?"

I laughed a little, and it felt good just to be able to do so. I unlocked the door to my apartment and led John through as quietly as I could, just so I didn't disturb Thomas. If he was reading, lost in another world, the last thing I wanted to do was pull him out of it. Let him have his reprieve. Let him have what little comfort he can find.

But the instant I stepped inside, the sweetest smell permeated through the air, thick and wonderful in every sense of the word. The smell of childhood, of innocence, of happiness and complete bliss. It was disarming how quickly the tension fell away from my shoulders as I recognized it. Something simple and nostalgic, but enough to make me smile at the thoughts the sweet smell brought back to life.

Chocolate chip cookies.

I threw my bag on the ground carelessly and glanced around the room, not quite sure what I was searching for. But I found him standing by the kitchenette, the smallest of smiles touching his face as he set a tray of freshly baked cookies down on the countertop. I softened, watching him as he worked without a clue that we were there, already starting a second batch. He moved the first set of cookies onto a glass platter and carefully picked it up. There was something so distant about him when he was lost in his work, almost as though he was a being from another world that I didn't deserve to look at, let alone keep trapped in this tiny apartment.

John set his bag down next to mine and crossed the room, despite the sudden tightening in my chest. If he disturbed Thomas, the moment would be lost forever, and then where would we be? I wouldn't have minded if things stayed like this. But of course, the universe had to snatch it away from me.

"Hey, Thomas," John said, and the haven the room had been seconds prior went up in flames. Thomas was pulled straight back to our reality, his soft smile disappearing in a puff of smoke and embers. A sour, rancid coat of fear replaced the bliss that had fled.

Thomas dropped the glass plate at the suddenness of our appearances, and heralded only by the crushing sound of the platter shattering against wood, the fragments of cookies and broken glass scattered across the wooden floor. But it was the silence that followed that was even more terrible, the silence accompanied by that slow, blood-chilling realization.

"Oh, God!" he exclaimed, horrified, the words a defense all on their own. The complete look of dread and horror only worsened when his eyes found mine. He staggered backwards, leaning against the counter, and for a brief, terrible moment, I was so sure he had cut himself somehow on the glass.

The breath in my lungs turned to ice with the way he stared at me, the dawning realization creeping over him so slowly, so that I could see every second of utter and complete fear that couldn't be broken with a few nice, empty sentiments. A thick silence choked the voice from my mouth, and when I couldn't find the words to express exactly how I thought without completely destroying everything I had worked so hard to build in the past week, Thomas and his horrible, inhumane assumptions of what I was going to do to him filled the void.

"Alexander," he breathed, gripping the countertop as if he would fall without it. His voice was laced by that heavy coat of terror, persistent and heart-wrenching in the worst ways imaginable. Ways I couldn't even describe without seeing the whole scene unravel before my eyes once again. "Alexander, I'm so sorry."

For a long moment, all I could do was stare at him and wonder how many times he had been through this before.

I let out a breath and started forwards, hoping that I could get to him before he did something that would wind up with him getting hurt. "Hey, it's—it's alright. It was an accident."

"Oh, God, Alexander. I'm such an idiot! I didn't—I—I'll clean it up, okay?" Thomas spoke rapidly, as though that was the only chance he had to redeem himself. He dropped to his knees, disappearing behind the island in mere seconds. There one moment, gone the next.

"Thomas, wait!" John protested, starting forwards, much quicker to understand the situation than I was.

"I'm s-sorry." He stammered the words over and over from behind the counter until they began to sound funny. No, not funny. Wrong. Never had I hated those words as much as I did in the moment, the only mantra for a boy so afraid he was going to be hurt and beaten for the smallest things. "I-I can clean—clean it up, okay?" I had no idea how he managed to get the words out so clearly, especially when I felt like a burning knife had been shoved through my stomach and was slowly being twisted around and around.

John swiveled to face me, and only when I saw the desperate look in his eyes did my body finally push itself forwards, my feet having a better grasp on the situation than my mind did.

"Thomas," I tried as I stepped into the kitchen and dropped down next to him, careful to avoid the broken glass fragments twinkling with the shine of the lights above our heads. They glimmered like petals coated with dew in the early morning sun, petals torn from their roses and sharper than their thorns. "Thomas, stop. You're going to hurt yourself."

"I can fix it, okay?" he somehow managed out as his very being became nothing more than a vessel for panic and a creature meant to be afraid. "D-don't worry about it."

"Thomas, just let me take care of it," I insisted, trying to grab his hands and pull him away from the abandoned glass lying in wait, a serpent posed to strike.

"It's my fault, okay? It's my mess!" He desperately tried to sweep the fragments of glass together, his hands moving so quickly so I couldn't track them and the blood already staining his warm skin like tainted paint against a canvas. He did everything he could to clean up the glass as I begged him not to, but more and more fragments seemingly materialized out of nothingness, little malignant creatures bent on ripping him apart slowly, so he could feel every ounce of pain.

"Thomas..." John began, joining the two of us, but he never finished what he was going to say.

"Please don't worry about it," Thomas insisted in a shaky voice hardly above a whisper. At a loss for what else I was supposed to do, I gently placed my hand on his arm. And the second he stilled with my touch, glossy eyes staring at the floor in front of us, I took him by the wrists and lifted them up to the light so I could see the damage he had wrought.

His hands slowly trembled open, revealing deep gashes newly embedded into his palm. It was such an overwhelming sight, the blood bubbling up to the surface, that for a complete moment, I was frozen. Every last part of me suddenly wished this was nothing more than a bad dream, something I could wake up from with the knowledge that Thomas was safe and unharmed. But Thomas's wrists trembled in my grasp, the touch so impossibly real that there could have never been any mistaking this for another reality. It snapped me back to the present with a desperation I wasn't expecting, shoving my movements into high gear.

"Shit," I cursed under my breath, picking the shards out of his hand. Their crystalline petals were already stained with the red that made them look like roses, and the effect was irreversible. "Come on," I whispered, pulling him to his feet and leading him over to the couch as he protested and begged me to let him clean up the glass and hurt himself even more.

"I can clean this up," John offered quickly, running off to the closet where I kept the mostly unused broom and dustpan before I even got the chance to thank him.

"It's my mess," Thomas said miserably, his entire body trembling as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. God, I hated it when he cried. It made me feel useless, like the promise I had made was flimsy and transparent when  held up to the light. "I should be the one to clean it up."

"Hey, you don't have to worry, okay?" I sputtered, checking both hands. I slid back his sleeves so I could get a better hold on him, and I swore I could feel the entire world just stop moving under me with the lines that greeted my eyes, just another thing I would never be able to unsee.

"Oh," I gasped, taking the sight of them in. Everything about this situation was already terrible, and somehow, it had gotten even worse. "Oh, God, Thomas."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, shifting. He didn't once try to worm his way out of my grasp, and I don't know if that made me feel better or even worse.

Some of the newer cuts along his wrist and arm had begun to bleed, most likely reopened by the glass shards. It was almost like red paint depicting a fiery sunset, with the pure amount of blood cloaking his hands and arms.

"Okay," I said, setting my hands on his shoulders. "Just stay here, alright?" I had to keep my voice as neutral as possible, because if I didn't, I'd have been begging him. "Stay here and try not to move while I get something to clean the blood, okay?"

He blinked a few times, as though he couldn't comprehend what I was saying to him. When was the last time he had somebody just looking over him, because that's what decent human beings should do for one another? When was the last time he was treated with the tiniest ounce of respect and care and tenderness? In the end, all humans crave the touch of another, the love of a parent, a partner, a pet, a friend, someone. And all of that had been taken from his hands and thrown against a concrete floor, so he could watch as it shattered like the glass platter.

"Thomas? Promise me you won't move?" God, I absolutely despised how my voice cracked with the weight of the words.

He nodded, ducking his head, and as much as I wanted to ferret a verbal response out of him, I rushed to the bathroom to find whatever I could to stop the bleeding before it got even worse. I dug through the cabinets, pulling out anything that could be of any use whatsoever, and returned to Thomas as quickly as possible. I was satisfied to see he hadn't moved, but the fear I felt for him triumphed any other emotion overwhelming my brain.

"Okay," I said under my breath, taking his hand in mine. "I'm not like...good at this or whatever, but I'm going to try."

"Alexander," he said softly, tugging his hand away from me. "I'm fine. I promise. I can take care of it myself."

"You're not fine. Please, let me help you!"

Thomas stared at me for a long moment, an endless moment, before dropping his head and letting himself loosen. I took his hand once more and began to wipe away the blood as carefully as I could, because I don't think I could bear to see him flinch or recoil in pain one more time.

John finished up a few moments later and joined us, sitting down on the other side of Thomas. "Is everything okay?" he asked softly.

"I'm fine," he whispered, his voice far too shaky for everything to be as he promised. "Thank you."

"Of course," John said, and you could tell by his voice that he truly and utterly meant it.

"Hey, you wanna hear a joke?" I asked out of nowhere, feeling the frustration and fear tighten hard in my throat. It was the only thing I could think of, the only thing that might end this horrible nightmare.

"Oh, God, no," John groaned.

I looked up at Thomas as I finished cleaning off the cuts and moved on to bandaging them, completely lost and unsure if I was even doing a good job. But he never once complained or winced, just sat there and listened to me blabber on with a straight, unwavering face.

"Umm, yeah. If you want to," he said, continuing to stare at the couch.

"What's the best part of living in Switzerland?"

"Affordable healthcare?" John asked, to which I shot him a sharp glare. But Thomas's impenetrable wall relaxed a little, allowing a small smile to break loose, and I turned back to him with a newfound sense of hope skipping through my heart.

"I don't know," he admitted, finally looking up for a split second.

"Well, the flag's a big plus."

"Jesus Christ," John hissed after a swift second, shaking his head, but as horrible as the joke was, at least I got to see Thomas smile, however brief and fleeting.

I continued to work, bandaging up the rest of his arm as best as I could. It wasn't a work of art, but at least the crushing sight of spilled blood became nothing more than a horrible memory I could never let go of soon enough. That much was enough for me. I kept talking the entire time, so eager to distract both him and myself. Too many questions sat in the back of my head, questions I never wanted answers to. But that kind of thing, the way he had broken down, was not new for him, and I could see it in every part of his face.

"Alexander," he said as I moved a few inches backwards, observing the work I had done. "I'm so sorry. That shouldn't have happened. I should have been more careful." His voice was now even when he spoke, but there was always that persistent tinge of anxiety hiding just underneath the surface, clear as day if you bothered to look.

"Don't worry about it, Thomas," I said, touching his arm gently. "It's an object. I can replace it. And it was, like, really cheap anyway. You're far more important than a plate, alright?"

He nodded, wiping away his tears with the sleeve of the sweater he wore all the time, now pulled back down to hide the bandages. But he couldn't hide the ones in his palm, as much as he tried. I watched his breathing for a long moment, unable to ignore the pattern I had found a few days prior.

"Hey, Thomas?" John asked when the silence became too uncomfortable, glancing around the room with a strange look of confusion. "You didn't clean this place up, did you?"

"What do you mean?" I asked John.

"Well, it's not the usual pigsty you leave it in, and I know you definitely aren't responsible enough to clean it yourself..."

"Bitch! I am responsible! And it isn't a pigsty, okay?"

"Yeah, well, not any more. Thomas," John said, turning to him with a look of amusement. "How long did it take you to clean? And be honest. Be brutally honest."

Thomas pulled at his sleeves, trying his best to suppress a smile. I really wished he wouldn't do that, for a smile like his was too wonderful to be trodden on and shoved away in the dark confines of a closet, where its brilliance could never shine. "Umm, I don't know. Most of the day? It's okay though. I didn't mind it."

"You cleaned?" I asked, startled by the admission. "Why? You didn't have to!"

"I know," Thomas said. "But I like cleaning, actually. And you won't let me pay rent, so I have to do something."

"Thomas, you owe me nothing. You understand that, right?" But I softened when I found the way he looked at me, so confused and so unsure. I don't know where I found the words from, for they felt natural but strange in my mouth all at the same time. "But thank you," I said, letting go of his arm after becoming painfully aware that I was still holding it. "I really do appreciate it. As long as it's something you want to do and not something you feel obligated to do."

"Maybe he just doesn't enjoy living in filth like you?" John suggested, grinning at me.

"One of these days, I'm going to kill you."

"Aww. You wouldn't kill me. You love me too much."

"Is that what you think?" I shot back, eager to relax into playful banter.

But Thomas shifted away from me before rising to his feet, taking the rare softness of the moment with him as he escaped. He looked as though he was intruding on something more than it was, the way John and I talked to each other. "Well, I better finish up with the cookies," he said, awkwardly but trying to hide it. "There's still one good batch, at least."

"Do you want help?"

"You can't help me! They're for you."

"Me?" I asked over-dramatically, tilting my head.

"I...uh, I mean, you can help if you want."

"How long do you think it'll take? We're going to meet the others for dinner in about an hour." I paused, a possibility I hadn't even considered suddenly springing up out of nowhere. "You'll come with us, right?"

He didn't answer right away.

"I can if you want me too," he said at last, disappearing into the kitchen. God, he had to stop disappearing. He fled as though his mere existence was an inconvenience for the rest of us, when it had become perhaps the only worthwhile thing in my life in quite some time. "But if not, I understand."

I glanced at John, and he nodded, somehow understanding what I couldn't put into words. I shot to my feet and followed Thomas into the kitchen, watching as he started with the other batch of cookies, slipping them into the oven. I almost teased him on the wonder that was raw cookie dough, but it felt wrong to do given the vulnerable moment he had offered me.

"Thomas? Can I ask you a question?"

His body stiffened, fingers wrapped tightly around the tray. At least he wasn't trying to dig his nails into his own skin. I couldn't stand that. "If you want to."

"Those cuts. Along your arm. Was that...well, I guess...did James do that to you?" The last part came out as a whisper, but even as soft as it was, it still managed to slice through the air. All I knew was that I was really going to grow to hate that name. And Thomas so visibly flinched at the question, as if he was here, watching for the tiniest mistake. But James wasn't here, and Thomas was safe, and he must have realized that a moment later.

"Some of them" he said softly, closing the oven door and holding onto the handle a moment longer than necessary. My tongue fell in my mouth like a rock dropping thousands of feet, unable to voice the second question I had. Because somehow, the thought of that, the possibility of that, was even worse. But my knowledge of the answer didn't matter much at all, did it?

"You don't...hurt yourself, do you?"

He shrugged, letting go of the oven door and folding his arms protectively across his body. He shrugged as if it didn't matter. He shrugged as if it was the most natural thing in the world, something he should do because that's simply part of who he was. And it killed every bit of me, the way he thought of himself.

"Well, just promise me you won't hurt yourself now, okay? I don't like seeing people hurt." There was some sort of truth to the sentiment, but it was filled with feelings I couldn't even uncover in the moment, feelings I wouldn't be able to explain no matter how hard I tried.

A soft look cracked Thomas's solemn, stony face. It wasn't a smile—it was a very far cry from a smile. But it wasn't inherently bad or fearful either. Just sad.

And he shouldn't have to be sad anymore.

"I promise, Alexander." And he said it without hesitation, so firmly that I had to believe him. He didn't meet my eyes, but then again, he hardly ever did.

"Good," I said, surprised by how satisfied and pleased I sounded. "And, Thomas?"

"Hmm?"

"I want you to know that nobody here is ever going to hurt you, alright?" I phrased it wrong. I needed him to know it, like the earth needs the sun to stay adrift in the large emptiness of space. I needed him to know that as long as he was with me, he would never have to even worry about the slightest possibility of being hurt.

Thomas said nothing, but the way he carried himself became just a little bit lighter. He spoke more freely as we moved onto less morose topics, John joining us when he sensed the tender moment shared only between the two of us was over.

I stared at his hands as he continued to work once the cookies had been pulled from the oven, entirely enraptured by the devotion to which he treated the cookies. "So what's this all about? If you don't mind me asking."

Thomas glanced up at me slowly, the whispers of a wayward and absentminded smile drifting across his face. He forced a little laugh, shaking his head, as if completely embarrassed by the entire thing. "It's so stupid."

"It can't be stupid if you enjoy doing it!" I exclaimed, leaning forward on my hand.

"Alexander, seriously."

"Please? I wanna know!"

Thomas laughed, his shoulders finally caving in as his tongue ran over the words delicately, a secret only John and I were privy to. "Stress-baking."