Thomas's pov

21 days remaining

The paper of Reggie's journal felt withered beneath my fingers as I ruffled through the pages. Some corners crinkled, folded, ripped even, giving the journal an age that did not at all match its actual construction. Secrets buried quietly within the worn pages seem to age the book, brief whispers fluttering through the pages like the forgotten memories of forgotten people from forgotten worlds.

I paused to study my messy handwriting scrawled over page after page after page--thousands of words that seemed to leap out of me and write themselves along each line. In the dim lighting of the room, I made out brief clips of sentences that chronicled my week with Dylan thus far. He kissed me by the waterfall, I wrote for Thursday morning, which melted into, I shoved him into the lake when he wasn't expecting it. I smiled at that, because just the thought of his flippant cursing and pertinent scowl, barely hiding his smile, was enough to bring me warmth. I flipped to Friday, where we spent the day hiking and laughing and kissing and I read line after line of me going on about Dylan's smile when he made a poor joke and how cute it was when afterwards he always glanced at me first to gauge my reaction.

There were so many words and so many phrases that it all seemed to melt together in my mind, numbing me. I kept reading happy and fun and I wondered if I had used any other adjectives at all, because surely I couldn't sum up an entire week with Dylan under such ordinary words. Happy and fun and carefree were really the only way to describe my time with him, though; it was like everything else faded away and I was no longer Thomas Brodie-Sangster: wannabe bad-boy from Hollywood. Dylan made me into just Thomas, a boy from London who seeked adventure and laughter and happy, carefree, fun. I didn't even know that that was exactly what I had been looking for all this time until Dylan literally gave me no choice but to forget about the rest of the world.

I shut the book with a sigh and placed it lightly on Dylan's desk. I turned in the chair, my movements slow and reluctant, as if I had a weight pulling on my shoulders. In fact, maybe I did.

Dylan was asleep on his bed, pushed to one side and waiting for me to join him. His fingers clenched at the empty bed sheets beside him as if searching for the warmth of my body. I almost didn't notice the soft smile that rested on my lips as I watched his chest carefully rise and fall. Almost.

Glancing over my shoulder at the journal laying on the desk, my smile instantly faded. Dylan lay unconscious in front of me, and the journal sat strewn beside me. Both looked harmless on the outside, but on the inside, both had the power to destroy me.

Dylan stirred slightly and I tensed, but he relaxed back into the pillows after a few moments. I was really playing with fate here, keeping the journal so open with Dylan just feet away. Maybe there was a part of me that wanted Dylan to wake up though. Maybe, just maybe, I hoped he would open his eyes and find me here, empty, and understand that I didn't want to do this anymore. None of this.

I turned back to the journal and resisted the overwhelming urge to rip it in half. To destroy all the evidence. To ruin it so thoroughly that it might be broken a fraction as much as it was bound to wreck me. Instead, I picked it up and fluttered through the pages again. Reading through each glowing page that practically screamed how much I cared for Dylan.

I picked up the pen I had been clutching for hours and turned to a fresh page. I felt tears blink up behind my eyelids as swell after swell of emotion seemed to suddenly rise within me, as my heart ached and longed and broke all in a matter of moments. And then I was writing, hard and fast and messy--broken sentences that carried my anguish through the worn out pages, that contrasted sharply to every other glowing word I had used to describe my relationship with Dylan. I was a hurricane, raining down pain and regret and guilt in a few flashy sentences, knowing deep down, I was the only one who could truly understand the weight of their meaning.

Do you realize what this all feels like, Reggie? You've placed a gun to my forehead with one of your dead, lifeless fingers pressed firmly to the trigger, and then you looked me in the eye with nothing but pure malice dripping from your expression. You opened your mouth and ignored my pleas for help to whisper, go ahead, choose, Thomas. It's your choice--almost as if it actually was my decision in the first place. But I could feel the cold metal pressed firmly to my skull even as I opened my mouth to reply, so instinctively, I chose myself. You made me choose to save myself.

So you turned the gun around and shoved it into my waiting hands. And despite the fact that my fingers trembled and my heart screamed for a different solution, I raised the gun and pointed it. Directly at Dylan's heart.

You want me to pull the trigger, Reggie. You need me to pierce Dylan's heart so thoroughly and intentionally that I break him so much he can't glue himself back together again.

But it seems your plan has backfired, Reggie--or maybe this is how you meant it to end in the first place. Because when I finally pull that trigger, when I let the bullet sing through the air, I'm afraid that the gun is going to explode and strike me too.
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*the next day*

I was regretting coming to the party the moment Dylan, Tyler and I stepped out of the car. Sure, it had been my idea to come in the first place, but now that we were here, I had an awful feeling in the pit of my gut.

It was dark out by the time we arrived in New York, and the clear night allowed for the pulsing music to carry uninterrupted through the air. The haze of New York City lights lay off in the distance, an orange glow saturating the midnight sky. Parked cars stretched the limits of the suburban streets in both directions--fancy, wealthy cars, belonging to fancy, rich people.

Dylan tugged at my hand as he led me to the large Victorian house up the street. I grimaced as we walked, ignoring Tyler's excited form beside us. He didn't know. Neither did Dylan. They were both too new to the Hollywood scene to understand exactly what waited behind those party doors.

I was never really a fan of celebrity parties; they were often too flashy, too loud, and too crazy for my taste. This morning though, while curled up in bed with Dylan by my side, I received a call. And when Spiderman himself calls you to invite you to a party, it's hard to say no to him.

As we neared the patio steps, the front door came bursting open, revealing recognizable faces behind the threshold of the doorway. Out stepped a woman I didn't quite recognize, but her wide drunken smile greeted us as if we had been friends forever. At this point, I took it as my turn to lead, so with Tyler, Dylan, and an ominous feeling tugging at my shoulders, I led the way inside.

"Thomas!" I heard a crisp female voice call immediately after we entered. I turned and grinned politely when I saw an old friend, Emma Rock, come barreling towards us.

She crashed into my side and sent me stumbling into Dylan, but I couldn't even be mad when her drunken giggles met my ears. She was smashed, and by the looks of it, she wasn't the only one. Like all parties, it was too loud, there were too many people, and everybody was drunk.

"I haven't see you in forever, baby!" Emma said. She smiled in a daze and I gave her a peck on the cheek. "Have you been avoiding me?"

"Emma, you've been in Germany for the past six months, it's been a bit hard to contact you," I replied, steadying her as she stumbled.

She laughed as if that was the funniest thing in the world, then looked over my shoulder at Dylan. "Who are you?"

I glanced back and almost laughed at the look on Dylan's face as he watched Emma get all over me. Tyler had already vanished, probably off to go make friends and get wasted. Which just meant I would be carting his drunk ass home later tonight.

"This is my boyfriend, Dylan," I introduced. Emma's eyes brightened at my words, and she immediately jumped off me to attack Dylan in a hug instead.

"Hey Dylan," she said sloppily, "Want to get drunk with me?"

Dylan raised an eyebrow and glanced at me. Say no, please say no, please Dyl--

"I'm not really in the mood for alcohol right now," Dylan said as his eyes shifted off of me. "But thanks anyway."

Emma shrugged then moved away from us, evidently already forgetting we were even there. I relaxed when she left and Dylan stepped closer, placing a sensual kiss on my cheek. I smiled softly, thankful that he understood without really understanding at all.

"Do you want to dance?" he asked, nodding to a mass of bodies compiled in the middle of the room. It was hard to hear him over the loud bass of the music but I nodded, grabbing his hand and leading him away.

The close proximity of all the bodies around us made me quickly notice the faint stench of liquor. It ran up my nose and stirred at faint memories and again I felt myself tensing; I wasn't sure what it was about this night that was making me so sensitive, because usually I had no problem being around some booze.

Dylan must have noticed my apprehension because his hands rested in a comforting hold on my hips, playfully pulling me closer. I immediately relaxed as my chest collided with his--and then we were dancing, and we were laughing, and I wasn't caring, really thinking, about anything to do with beer. We made out (because fuck yes) and jokingly grinded against each other, and then we made out some more and not-so-jokingly grinded against each other. Trapped in the bubble that was Dylan, my mind forgot about the rest of the party, and my nerves, and my past.

There was a tap on my shoulder after what felt like minutes, but what was in reality hours later. I broke away from Dylan's hot and heavy kiss and spun in daze, still grinning when I met the face of another person I recognized from Hollywood. He towered over me and had rich green eyes, and I blinked, my smile fading. After a few seconds, I recalled that his name was Jonas, and we had worked together a few years back.

"Hey, man," I greeted. Dylan stepped up next to me, nodding towards Jonas in acknowledgement.

Jonas was pissed of his ass, leaning over and swaying in front of us in a light complacency. I almost rolled my eyes, certain that Dylan and I were the only sober people left at this party. I pressed closer to Dylan out of instinct, still not completely sure why I was feeling so afraid, but tensing once again all the same.

"Hey Tommo!" Jonas greeted, his words almost foreign with how much they slurred together. I felt the urge to step back, to cringe away, but I politely smiled and stayed rooted to the spot.

"Ya seems a small bit sober still," Jonas said. "like, a teensy weensy little humongous bit sober. Here."

He extended a red solo cup to me, the beer inside nearly sloshing over the edge. I stared at it for a moment, then sucked in a breath, forcing a warm grin.

"I don't drink," I replied. Even I heard the waver in my voice.

"Why the fuck not?" Jonas asked. He didn't seem like he wanted to be aggressive, but his larger body stepped closer and I was starting to feel small.

"I make bad decisions when I'm drunk," I replied, glancing away. It was meant to be an offhand comment, but my body automatically stepped back in fear. I cleared my throat and wiped my suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans.

"Just take the fucking beer," Jonas said, shoving it forward. His words slurred painfully together and I winced even before the alcohol sloshed over the edge, spilling down the front of my jumper.

I reacted as if somebody had slapped me; I stumbled backwards and immediately my throat closed. My hands grabbed at the material and struggled to pull it away from my skin. Desperate, embarrassingly desperate. I moved with a panicked urgency that had Dylan stepping forward in concern.

"Oh, fuck dude--I'm sorry," Jonas slurred. He actually did look apologetic, but I still turned on my heel and stumbled away--suddenly overwhelmed.

I heard Dylan call my name. Everything was all happening so fast and I pushed through the crowd, unable to even consider stopping to explain why I was suddenly acting like a fucking baby. My ears started to ring; I gasped for air, still stumbling and pushing away; my heart was racing, and I couldn't even offer an explanation other than the fact that Jonas was just pushing too close to home. Just enough to make everything come flooding back.

I burst into the bathroom, thankfully empty, and hurried towards the toilet. I was vomiting before I knew it and my head was still pounding. When Dylan's hands suddenly came down to offer comfort on my back, I jumped away and banged my head against the wall like a scared animal.

"I'm sorry," I said, voice cracking and breaking painfully, "I'm sorry, I'm being pathetic--"

"Are you okay?" Dylan asked, eyes wide in concern.

I melted back into the wall, pressed against it as though I could disappear altogether. "It--it's nothing, Dylan--I'm--just--I'm being a baby, I--"

"Thomas!" Dylan said, stepping closer. He pulled me into his arms and my skin was crawling and physical contact was the last thing I wanted right now, even if Dylan was the one person I needed right now, but how could he know, how could he ever know--

"Shh--it's--just take a deep breath, Thomas, you're fine, it's okay. I'm here, it's just us," Dylan reassured in my ear. I trembled and I felt as if I was going to be sick again but I didn't move until Dylan stepped back.

"Let's just take your jumper off, it's so wet--" Dylan muttered, almost to himself, and his fingers moved to pull at the hem of my sweater.

That was when I reacted again, his movements so painfully familiar that suddenly I felt like I was looking into the past, looking at his face as if I was still freshly eighteen and stupid and drunk--

"No!" I pushed Dylan away and I felt awful looking at his confused and startled face, but his expression quickly changed once more as I backed away again and slammed against the bathroom counter. I fell to my knees and pulled my arms around myself, hating how disgusting and cold and empty I felt--

Dylan came closer again, his hands raised as if in surrender. "I'm here Thomas," he said, "and you don't have to tell me what the fuck is going on, but I need you tell me what you want me to do for you."

It was like I didn't hear him though, or maybe all I was hearing was his voice, whispering you want me, kid, or maybe I was going out of mind. I hadn't thought about Eli in so long, hadn't thought about him or my best friend or how disgusting I was--

When Dylan pulled me into his arms again, I didn't struggle away. I just cried. I fucking started to cry.

His hands rubbed circles across my back and I had never been so thankful for another person, never realized how much I didn't deserve someone like him, and the thought made me want to curl up in a ball and yell at him to leave, to find someone who wasn't so fucked up in the head, who wouldn't hurt him. I just cried, though, cried until I heard him ask, "Did Jonas do this?"

And there was a slight tinge of anger in his voice, as if he truly believed that Jonas's drunken attitude would be what would leave me sobbing on a bathroom floor. The truth was that Jonas hadn't done anything but push me over the edge I had been teetering on for weeks, ever since Reggie had come into my life.

I was falling apart and my facade was breaking, but still I managed to shake my head. I could see the question in Dylan's eyes, begging to know who then, though he didn't ask me himself.

Instead of answering that though, I pulled back from his arms. "I'm just--" I choked and wiped at my tears, "I'm disgusting."

"What? Babe, no. We can wash the shirt, it's not that--"

"No, I'm disgusting, Dylan! I--Jonas just reminded me of--of my best friend Elijah, and her fucking dad--fuck--"

Dylan looked horribly confused but he must have been able to tell that I couldn't be touched at the moment.

"I don't understand..." he said.

And that was when my tears fell quietly and my fists clenched at my sides and the silence split the room. I swallowed and before I even knew what I was saying, I looked up into Dylan's sad brown eyes and said clearly and with more strength than I thought I had:

"I fucking drunkenly consented to have sex with me best friend's abusive father, Dylan. That's why I'm disgusting."

//

A/N

short short short short short update

late late late late late update

Im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry. there's no excuse but i appreciate all the kind comments checking in on me and this story, i love y'all

so im back to school (fuck im old) and soon my life is going to be hectic bUT in a dramatic turn of events there's only like 10 chapters left of this and the next one is written already. I promise it will explain everything cause im sure you're pretty confused right now. I'll probably put it up tomorrow night

bye im sorry yes im still alive i hope you are too

until next time,

//sam\\