TW: Slight homophobic slur
**Heavily unedited because I'm trash**

Thomas' pov

A blinding flash went off in my face. I blinked heavily, pushing forward as more cameras went off in my direction.

"Thomas! Rumor has it you'll be starring as Newt in the Maze Runner Movie!"

"Hey, give me a smile, Thomas!"

So many voices, so many cameras. They all want something from me, like I'm some monkey in a circus.

"Oh my god, he's so CUTE!"

"Thomas, raise my babies!"

Ugh. Stupid Americans.

I pushed through, more than slightly agitated at this point. Could they get out of my way so I could just get my damn coffee?

I heard a dozen reporters shouting my name, trying to pull a reaction. I kept my head down, shoving people out of my way, careless to whether I was being rude or not.

I avoided the cracks on the sidewalk (don't wanna hurt my momma's back) as I walked, trying to focus on anything but what the reporters and journalists shouted. I knew they intentionally said stuff to try and upset me, but I refused to give them that satifaction.

"Yo, Sangster, don't you think you're a little too thin to play a muscular character such as Newt?"

"Is it true you're a fag?"

I grit my teeth, and any remains of peaceful serenity found on my face instantly vanish. I become hard, my distinctive scowl etching itself into my jaw. I allow no emotion to show as I stride towards the small cafe, now within eyesight.

Finally, FINALLY, I stepped inside my destination, the smell of warm cakes and fresh coffee filling my nose. It's a beautiful cafe, small booths outling the perimeter and decorative plants adding to the classic decor. The manager notices the commotion outside, her eyes widening a tiny fraction. Slowly, she comes towards me, where I am trying to push the door closed to keep the crowd out.

"Out! Get out! Let the poor boy alone! Get out before I call the police!" she threatens, and slowly the crowd dwindles, until only the bravest (stupidest) reporters remain.

I stand in front of the door for a moment, trying to compose myself. When I finally turn on my heel, the managers still stands there, like she expects a thank-you.

Instead, I grumble, "Can't I just get some freaking coffee without being followed around?" Then I strode to the front of the rather long line for food, leaving the manager gaping at the back of my head.

"You're welcome!" I dimly hear her shout.

The complaints of the customers behind me disrupted the peaceful atmosphere. At first, I paid them no heed, simply trying to read the menu instead. As time stretched out, I was aware I was making the line restless and angry, a terrible combination.

Turning around, I took off my sunglasses as though revealing my identity, hoping to apease the crowd. Some people gasped, though you'd think my entrance would have been enough of a clue to realize I was famous to some degree. I gestured to myself, simply saying, "I'm Thomas Brodie-Sangster. I do what I fucking want."

Someone mumbled sarcastically, "And I'm pissed off, nice to meet you Thomas Sangster."

No one seemed satisfied, so I smiled a lopsided grin, and like a ripple effect, the crowd was more accepting to my actions. I watched until the tension in their shoulders had eased and the fire in their eyes had died out before turning back to the counter. God damn, I am good.

I turned back to the counter, where an attractive man stood staring at me with wide eyes. He had shaggy blonde hair, cascading into his deep blue orbs. His mouth was slightly open, revealing pearly white teeth.

"Hey," I greeted slyly. He blinked twice before responding.

"H-hi. Welcome to Starbucks, what can I get you?"

I let my eyes roam his body, before quietly reciting my order. He avoided my gaze, typing it into the cash register. "And what would you like me to call you?"

"Your boyfriend?" I winked, and his head snapped up, a dusty pink blush coating his cheeks.

"Um-I don't--I, uh--" he stuttered.

"Dude, chill, I was joking," I rolled my eyes.

He gulped, swallowing hard. Then he rustled off to prepare my coffee.

I stand there a moment, and I can feel the other customers watching me. I'm used to it at this point, but seriously, one time, just one time, I'd like to be able to go out without being gaped at like I have three heads.

The man returns, and he hands the coffee to me. I intentionally let my fingers brush his, and his cheeks tint all over again.

"That-that'll be, uh, $6.37," he stumbles so quietly, I have to lean in to hear. I grin, pulling out a ten dollar bill and sliding it across the counter.

There's a tension between us, me slightly sexual and him slightly uncomfortable, before he has to go and break the atmosphere I had worked oh-so hard to create.

"So, uh, not to be rude, but are you here alone? No manager or publicist or something?"

And just like that, my face is stony again, charred from a sudden flare ((reference)) of anger. My hand tightens around the coffee at his naive, stupid question. I snarl, my vouce low and threatening and the worker looks stunned by my reaction.

"I didn't--I'm sorry if--"

I cut him off coldly. "I'll have you know I am a twenty-four year old man, not some dog on a leash. I can take care of myself."

"I didn't mean--I just saw that you were overwhelmed by press and thought you needed someo--" he apologized.

"Someone what exactly? To guard me?" I scoffed. "Keep your fucking change."

I whirled around, angry for all the wrong reasons. The customers of the cafe were quiet, listening to our exchange. They all watched me stomp out, and there was disapproval evident on quite a few faces, like the colors I was showing now clashed with the image they had in their head.

All I saw was red, though the cafe was colorless, and the faces of the customers were yellow with dissapointment. Behind me, the cashier's face was blue with dejection. Everything began to blur together, creating a mess of colors that didn't go together, and I was holding the crayons, ruining the picture for everyone and myself. I focused on the exit of the cafe, trying to leave before I got myself any more worked up.

Of course, nothing ever goes as I want it to.

Before I even registered what happened, my body was colliding with something hard. Then came the scalding burn of coffee soaking through my white t-shirt, and finally the anger pumping like morphine in my veins.

I looked up. Standing in front of me was a teenage girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen. She looked mortified, staring at the stain on my t-shirt. Finally, she met my eyes, and her lip quivered, apology lacing through her face.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," she rushed out, clearly meaning her words.

"I'm sure you are," I seethed, trying to rein in any control I had left.

"Do you want me to--"

"Leave? Yes, now get out of my fucking way, you twat!" I spat, my voice gradually raising to a shout.

Tears moistened the girl's eyes, but she did as I asked, stepping out of my way. The cafe was so quiet, the drone of traffic was audible through the walls, as everyone watched our exchange.

My eyes slid around the room, and the severity of my actions came crashing down on me. Suddenly feeling like the biggest asshole ever, I turned to the girl to apologize. She was gone though, leaving only a pen and a napkin on the floor in her place. I felt even shittier, realizing she was probably a fan coming to get my autograph.

I couldn't stand to be in the cafe a second longer, so I quickly rushed out, shoving aside the remaining reporters.

In a flash, I was at my motorcycle. And as the engine revved, there was only one thought echoing in my mind.

I never got my bloody coffee.

***((A/N: Future reference, *** means timeskip))

"Thomas, you're better than this!" Jack, my manager, lectured. "You can't go around biting people's heads off like that! You have an image to keep!"

We stood backstage, Jack repeating the same mantra he had been ever since my little hissy-fit had been released to the public. Apparently, someone in the cafe had recorded my conversation with the teenage girl, and now all of America hated me or something. Not that I really cared, but Jack was right, to some degree. Now I had to publicly apologize and blah blah blah, which to me, seemed like a bit of an overreaction for a couple harsh words.

"It wasn't that big of a deal...," I defended.

"It's on the front page of every local magazine in California," Jack reasoned.

"Chill, cracker-Jack. I'll go out on stage, explain what happened, and I'll be America's favorite person again. Easy," I smiled.

Jack wasn't pleased. "That's not the point, Thomas. The Maze Runner starts in two weeks; what are people going to think of an actor for a young adult movie that's awful to children?"

I sighed. "Look, I already agreed to publicly apologize. Can we just let this go?"

Jack opened his bearded mouth, before a stage manager rushed over to us, whispering, "Thomas, you're on in two minutes!" Then she grabbed my arm and pulled me away.

Secretly, I was thankful to be saved from Jack. He was a great business partner, but he didn't really understand me. All he cared about was what the public saw, so needless to say, anything that I did that didn't fit my image of "perfect, heartfelt Hollywood bad boy" was instantly frowned upon.

Jack was in his late fifties, basically ancient, with balding red hair and a disgustingly scraggly beard. He'd been the man who got me to where I was in my career, and though he is a pain in the but sometimes, he really was my only "friend" (sad, I know). My acting career took me all over the world, and I rarely stayed in one place long enough to form any bonds with anyone.

I'd had a few girlfriends before, before realizing I wasn't really digging the whole 'boob' situation. I came out as gay to Jack, and luckily, I was able to convince him to let me come out to the public as well.

I was happy, for the most part, with my life; I was the biggest young actor in Hollywood, the world loved me, and I didn't have to hide who I was. But some days were strenuous, like last week at the coffee shop. My problem was that on my bad days I still had to face the public eye, and sometimes even my acting skills failed to hide what I was really thinking.

Which, in any case, lead me to where I was now, stepping out into the blinding lights while my name was announced to dozens of reporters.

//

A/N

Hola, mi amigas (amigos?). Lol I don't even take Spanish so I could be cursing for all I know.

Okay, so this is chapter one (obvi) and will be the average length for chapters in WTTM.

Also, PSA, sorry Thomas was such a dick here, but ya know, plot and stuff.

Also, sorry the ending was abrupt but I like living life on the edge DONT COME FOR ME.

Also, I don't have an updating schedule, yikes

Also, this chapter is yikes.

Also, I am yikes.

Ummmmm there was something else I had to mention but I forget YIKES

Adios

// sam \\