Welcome To The Media (Dylmas AU)

17. Coffee Chats

Dylan's pov

"Thomas, what's this?"

There was a definite pause that lingered in the air as soon as the words spilled past my lips. It was as if the earth itself held its breath, a hesitancy so painstakingly loud that I couldn't help but tear my gaze away from the small, brown book in my hands. Thomas had frozen, his expression resembling one of a child caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar. He had paled considerably as well, a surprising contrast from his already sickly skin to an astounding ghost white.

Confused, I glanced back down to the point of interest in the room. Thomas stayed still, barely breathing, barely blinking as my hand ghosted over the soft leather spine, tracing the words Property of Reginald Mills that were engraved in elegant cursive across the front cover. I softly flipped the book over, eyes scanning the back cover, a single scratch mark etched along the edge.

In a flash, the journal was snatched from my outstretched fingers. My head flew up just as my mouth opened, ready to object. I stopped as Thomas stumbled back, his hands noticeably trembling.

"It's--it's--" Thomas fumbled. His voice was shaking nearly as bad as his hands were, and I worried he was about to throw up again.

"It's my diary!" he finally blurted, louder than necessary. His eyes widened even further, and suddenly he was nodding his head frantically. "Yeah, that's what it is!"

My eyebrows raised unconvinced. "Are you sure? Because it doesn't seem like you are."

"Yep! Totally my diary!" he gave an awkward half chuckle, teeth bared. He had never looked more guilty in his life.

"You have a diary," I stated again, my voice raising to make it sound like a question. Thomas gave another unconvincing smile in agreement. I nodded my head slowly, already accepting the fact that although Thomas was weird, he was never this weird; he was obviously hiding something, but if he didn't want to tell me, that was fine. I could respect his privacy. Thomas was busying himself by stuffing the journal back into his suitcase, shoulders tense.

Suddenly the room was quiet. Thomas was too tense for it to be comfortable, and I was too curious for it to be relaxed. I glanced around as the moments drew on without words, and finally I found my voice. "Um...well, I should go then. Have fun...writing in your...diary," I said, making sure to emphasize the disbelief in my words.

Thomas turned back to me with a toothy smile, too wide to be real. He fidgeted between his two feet, hands curling together in front of him. When he realized I was waiting for a reply, he said, "Oh, yeah."

I nodded again, very slowly. I watched him for a moment, clearly sending him a look that read, looks like all that tea finally made you go nuts, but Thomas didn't falter in his act. I couldn't help but notice how he kept himself between me and his suitcase, as if he could prevent my path from getting to the journal again. Not for the first time, I wondered what could possibly be written in there that made him feel so predatorial over it.

"Okay then," I finally relinquished. As I stepped closer to the door, I waited for Thomas to say something, anything, but he stayed silent. I was just beginning to accept that our encounter would end on a rather strange note when he called my name.

"Dylan!" he said suddenly, just as the door to his room was beginning to close behind me. I stuck my head back in the room, only to see Thomas edging closer. His cheeks were flushed again, though his relaxed features made it clear he wasn't about to talk to me about the journal. I waited for him to speak again.

"I just...," Thomas trailed. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly as he stopped in front of me. His hand came up to hold open the door for me, leaving it closed enough that I had to lean against the door frame to be able to see him. His head rested against the door and he nervously bit his lip.