giftedthom | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Thom lies sprawled on the floor of his room, one arm flung carelessly over his face. His other hand is wrapped around a bottle of something rather stronger than wine.

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Several minutes later, he says, softly, tonelessly, "I'm the only person who makes her cry anymore."

[softly,]

She's the only one who can make you feel this bad about it.

Thom half-shrugs; the movement jostles her slightly. He turns his head and looks her frankly in the eyes.

"Think I should feel worse?"

[her mouth works for a moment, soundlessly]

I would give anything for my brother to be here. Even if he hurt me, and made me cry. No, I don't think you should feel worse.

He nods and slides his fingers absently into her hair, but doesn't pull or tug. Just leaves them there. Faint. Oddly gentle.

"Think I should stop?"

[it feels nice, gentle and comforting, and her eyes fall closed again. Can't sleep, mustn't sleep, the nightmares will come and this time he can't rescue her from them]

No. It's who you are, how your relationship is. Can't stop without changing it. Want to change it, that's a different thing, but you need two people for that.

Thom is silent for a while; his breath comes slow and even.

"I don't want to be one big damn happy family."

[a soft, sleepy and husky laugh (a few years ago, men would have dueled Thom for hearing that laugh)]

Then don't. Remain yourself, play your own tune.

Wouldn't they still?

Would anyone object to her making Thom laugh? he does: dark and bright at the same time, as is his fashion; dark humor, white teeth, sweet and girlish voice.

"Don't be stupid."

He lies there as she falls asleep, not moving, not wanting to talk anymore. His eyes are on the ceiling. His thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

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