TOMMY DIDN'T SLEEP much throughout the night, and it wasn't because he had Mason in the house or that he flinched every time he heard him change sleep position in the bed just down the hall. For some reason it brought an odd sort of comfort to know that he was there — he didn't trust him, but he knows that he wouldn't turn on him and that was enough for now. Instead, Tommy spent the night like he did most nights after an attack. Whether it be an attack from Jonathan himself, the people who worked for his brother, and or a complete stranger trying to rob him...
Tommy always spent the nights following it the same. Ever since his mother died, he had still been stuck with vivid flashbacks of the trauma he endured. There are days like this where Tommy's head just doesn't work, where focusing is as hard as running through water. His thoughts crisscross and become a jumbled and confusing mess. He's always thought that it's out of his control, that it's his mind doing anything to numb the pain, to wipe out the trauma. Then there are the times of clarity, sudden moments when he can see every detail and feel every feeling.
He hears every footstep, every word, every punch or kicks from the most recent event, but then he hears that single gunshot, can feel the choke of a sob in the back of his throat, can taste the blood that had splattered into his mouth. It all echoes through his mind, a constant reminder that he would never escape the pain, that no matter what anybody else can do to him, the worst of it will always be that day. The day where he became genuinely alone.
The truth is, Tommy hated it more than anything, the loneliness... And that was the worst truth of all. Everyone that he ended up letting in, even in the slightest, ended up dead or hurt. Or the people he trusted most ended up hurting or leaving him. It was a vicious cycle, one that would never end, one that would haunt him until he was found again.
Tommy had been pacing the length of the room for an hour now, teeth sinking deep into his bottom lip, blood lathing over his tongue and down his throat. He checks the windows, the doors, and checks again and again until he can be sure they are well and truly locked. He considers moving the couch to the other window that looks out to the backyard, but his body still aches in protest at just the pacing.
He's in no condition to run if someone comes for him, so he has to keep this place standing, locked, and secured until he's not as broken. Paranoia has always been apart of his life since Jonathan's abuse escalated, Tommy had always needed to keep the upper hand if it meant his survival. It was always worse when he was injured because Jonathan would always win that way and god how he loathed that.
He paced down the hall and peeked through the door for the fifth time to see that Mason was still asleep, curled up under the blankets. How could he possibly sleep so peacefully? Tommy tugged at Mason's sweatshirt that he was still wearing nervously as he moved back to the living room, running his fingertips through the curtains to take a look outside at the still-empty street. His head was spinning with alcohol; he had continued to drink after Mason had gone to sleep. Usually, it was enough to subdue his anxiousness, but sometimes it just made it worse, like tonight.
Panic rose in his throat, and he gripped the neck of the whiskey bottle as his life depended on it, like it was the only thing that anchored him to the ground beneath his feet.
An invisible hand clasps over his mouth; adrenaline pierces through his heart, unloading in an instant. His ribs are heaving as if they are bound by ropes, straining to inflate his lungs. His mind is a constant, never-ending loop of fears spinning out of control, each one pushing his mind into blackness. And he can't stop it, no matter how hard he tries - he knows it's too late, that he let his mind and fear get the upper hand again and he wants to run; but all he hears is the gunshot. All he feels is the blood as his body is slashed.
"Stop!" He cries out, throwing the bottle as hard as he can against the nearest wall.
He doesn't even hear the sound of the glass shattering as he slaps his hands over his ears, trying to block out the gunshot, the sound of his mother's body falling, her final gasping breaths, you are so strong, such a smart boy. "Please stop!" He cries out again, searching around the room for her, but he knows she's not there, of course, she is not there. You are no longer my brother. Tommy whips his head around at the voice, "Where is he?" but it sounds as though they are coming from all around him.
He could feel the hard, painful lump in the back of his throat as the tears began to form. Slowly his breathing continued to hallow itself, and a small but intense pain struck the top nerve in his head. Before he knew it there was shouting, it was them, no, it was his voice, yet it sounded so distant. Hot tears streaked his face as time speed up and slowed down all at once. Suddenly the living room lights were blinding him, burning reality into his mind, and all he could hear was his own voice repeating, "I can't take it anymore."
Tommy's remaining thread of strength frayed before breaking completely, sending him plummeting over the edge. Hysterical sobs shook his thin frame, threatening to tear him apart from the inside, out. He fought to reclaim control over his own body, too shocked by the sounds escaping from deep within his chest, but every effort was wasted. He was too exhausted, it was all too painful, and it finally felt as though it was all crashing down around him as he could no longer deal with it anymore.
Tommy tried so desperately to sift through his thoughts, but he couldn't find one logical one - his mind-warping his surroundings. He began clawing at his throat for air, but none went through to his lungs. He was in the living room, in Ben's summer home, in Winchester, the lights were suddenly turned on, but there was a flicker of a warm red glow somewhere. The fireplace? Where am I? He spun around, looking, looking for the fireplace, his brother, where was he? He pulled up the sleeves of his hoodie to see the scars where was the blood?
The thoughts were accelerating inside his head. He wanted them to slow so he could just breathe, but they kept fighting his every attempt. His breaths came in hard, choked gasps, and he thought he might pass out soon if he didn't figure out how to use his lungs again. His heart was a tyrant of force, hammering inside his chest as if it belonged at the end of a power drill.
The room was spinning at an uncontrollable speed, and Tommy tried to crouch on the floor, tried to make everything slow to something his brain and body could cope with. He felt so sick. He wanted to get to Christian, but he was too far away, he wouldn't even know that Tommy was in trouble, that he was dying. Maybe call an ambulance, where was his phone? He needed help. The hospital, he hated the hospital. He'd die in there. Jonathan could get to him in there. But didn't he do this every time? This wasn't real, this wasn't real.
He wasn't safe. Breathe. He wasn't okay. Can't breathe. He was going to die. Will never breathe again. "Help..." Tommy coughed out.
"Tommy?" A voice to his left said, it was soft, and he could hear where it was coming from, it wasn't something in his head but something real, something he as able to locate. He followed the sound and found Mason standing in the doorway, his hand still on the light switch.
"I can't... I... I don't want to fight it any-anymore," Tommy hardly manages to get the words through his trembling lips, the air choked out of him like hands clasped around his throat. Admitting it felt as though he was signing his death sentence, that he was handing his life back over to Jonathan to do as he pleased with it.
"He's going to find me," Tommy whispered, eyes widened, breaths ragged and harsh.
His hands trembled at his sides, and he jammed his fist into his mouth to stifle the sob. Tommy knew that he wasn't going to make it out of this alive, yet he so desperately wanted to live, he wanted to know what it felt like to live. His legs were frozen into place, he couldn't bring himself to move, gasping and choking in place. He was all too aware of what this must look like to someone like Mason, how crazy he must look, like a deer caught in headlights. Yet, here was Mason, standing completely still in the doorway, observing him with that look in his eyes, that same one from a few days ago when he first walked through Tommy's door.
Unable to let Mason keep looking at him like that, he swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed forward. "I'm sorry for waking you, I have to check the locks then I'll clean up the glass, just go back to sleep. I can manage," Tommy tried so desperately to build himself back up, admitting loss was not something that he wanted to feel comfortable with, he didn't want it to become inevitable.
He pried his eyes away from Mason who still stood in the doorway staring back at him with an unreadable expression, his hair dishevelled and dark bags under his eyes, an indication of restless sleep. Tommy could feel his eyes following him as he did another lap of the living room, checking the locks and windows, his fingers numb and shaking as they touched every entry point.
"Tommy, enough, I'll clean it up in the morning," Mason said as soon as he attempted it pick up the shards of glass from the carpet.
"It's okay, I can do it," Tommy replied, tears continued to stream down his cheeks as the glass sliced open his fingertips.
Arms locked around his waist from behind and pulled him back, the glass he had managed to pick up - scattered across the floor. Tommy stumbled, his back pressed hard against Mason's chest and he tries to break free, he wanted to escape, but Mason wouldn't give him up that easily, instead, he deliberately falls back to the ground with Tommy still in his arms, hugging him tighter.
"No, no, no please," Tommy begged, trying to kick free of his restraints. His fingers digging into Mason's arms as if it could ground him when the whiskey bottle couldn't.
"Tommy, you have to calm down! You're having a panic attack," Mason said, his breath caressing over his ear and neck, it sent a shiver down his spine, it made him want to kick free even more. He'd felt someone's breath on him like that right before the knife sunk into his skin. But this was Mason, he was trying to help right? If so, then why couldn't he breathe still? What was happening to him?
"Let go, please, I need to go, I need to—" he tried to fight back, but Mason just tightened his grasp, his head pressed to the side of Tommy's.
"I can't do that Tommy," he replied, "you need to calm down, there is nobody else here, open your eyes and take a look for yourself, it's just us."
"I can't—I can't breathe," Tommy gasped out, pressing the back of his head against Mason's shoulder, his face pressed against the side of his as he attempted to slow down his choking sobs.
"Here, concentrate on my pulse, do nothing else but focus," Mason hardly penetrated the loud buzzing in Tommy's ears, and he must've realized this because he grabbed his jaw and forced his face to turn in his direction. Tommy finally opened his eyes and saw that Mason had his hand in his, holding Tommy's index and middle finger against his own throat. Mason didn't look away, his hazel eyes holding onto Tommy like hooks under his flesh.
"Tommy, you're with me," Mason's words were the gravity that Tommy had been searching for all this time. The steady beating under his fingertips replaced the echo of the gunshot, replaced the pain in his scars. All he could concentrate on, all he could think of was the pulse.
Tommy could finally feel how his body was in complete shock, how he shook violently, how his chest stuttered for breath, he could feel the tears warm his cheeks, and the blood... Why was there blood? He could taste it... he could taste it like he could when Jonathan hit him. With his other hand, pressing his shaking fingers to his bottom lip which was burning with the metallic taste of blood and he winced, not in pain but another wave of overriding fear.
"You were biting your lip, it's just us, okay I swear it's just us," Mason whispered, his hand sliding against his jaw, to the side of Tommy's neck, his own two fingers finding his pulse.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tommy recited, the words shaking and slick with tears.
Mason tightened his arms around him, nestling his head against the side of Tommy's face. It was the first time that Tommy had ever felt comfortable being held like this, being comforted in such a tangible way. He didn't want Mason to let him go as if the thought if it meant that he would lose himself again to the fear. He opened his eyes again, looking up at Mason who was looking straight ahead, but as if he could sense his gaze on him, looked down too.
"You have nothing to be sorry about," Mason answered. "Come on, you need to try and get some sleep," Mason added as he began to stand, still holding Tommy as he did.
Tommy took a reluctant step back, looking around the room as if expecting to see that he really was back in his brother's office. All he saw was the living room, the couch pulled oddly to the window, the broken whiskey bottle in the corner by the front door and Mason, his hand still locked around Tommy's bicep as if waiting to catch him the moment he fell. Mason tugged him towards the couch and practically forced him to sit, and he stayed and watched as he curled up under the blanket, unable to hide the trembling.
"I'll keep watch for you," Mason said as he sat down in front of the couch, leaning back against it with his arm resting up alongside Tommy who hummed in reply.
He no longer had the energy to reply, to do anything else but lie there, staring at the side of Mason's face. He watched him as he stared out the window at the street and beach as if determined to indeed keep watch over him as he slept. Tommy knew he just said it to put him at ease, but he didn't expect it to actually have the effect that it did. Tommy moved his eyes to Mason's hand, which rested just in front of his face. He had long and slender fingers, they were obviously calloused from all the work he did on the cars that came into the shop. His knuckles were scarred over, and he had scars in the webbings of his fingers which Tommy knew were obviously from various knife wounds.
Despite that, Tommy reached out from under the blanket and intertwined his own bony and scarred hands with Mason's, his fingers sliding in alongside his. Mason flinched slightly at the touch, looking only just over his shoulder as if to see if Tommy had really just taken his hand. His eyes flicked from their linked fingers and up to Tommy's face, but still, with that unreadable expression — he tightens the hold and turns his attention back to the window.
Tommy slept a little easier after that.
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