(Real quick: James Thorne is a fictitious character I made up for this imagine. Also, this is not my typical fluff, it's kind of heavier/sad. I wanted to try something a little different--but don't worry, I'll return to fluff. XD Thank you and enjoy!)
______
"Hey, Thomas," you said smiling, stepping up to the small group of boys.
Thomas Brodie-Sangster glanced up at you, then averted his gaze. It was quickly after that when you noticed the other boys—Ki Hong Lee, Chris Sheffield, and Dexter Darden—were all staring somberly at the ground, leaning against the nearest object, arms folded, kicking at nothing.
Unease began to stir within you, and you found yourself quickly looking around for your boyfriend's comforting, familiar form. His absence was growing increasingly--and alarmingly-- noticeable.
"Where's Will?" The words were out of your mouth before you realized they were coming. "Where is he? Is he hurt?"
"No." Thomas' accented voice was reassuringly firm, and the anxiety began to fall.
But then Ki Hong added, "Well... yeah. I mean, kind of."
"What do you mean, kind of?" you snapped the question abruptly, harsher than you had meant it, the knot tightening in your stomach again. "Where is he?"
"You haven't heard." You looked at Chris. His comment was more of a statement than a question, as if he was just realizing it himself.
"Heard what?" you demanded, glancing from boy to boy. "What's going on? Where is Will?"
"Will isn't the problem, Y/N," Thomas said, redirecting your attention. "It's James."
"James?" you asked confused, but overwhelmed with the relief that Will was alright. "James Thorne?"
"He was in a car accident," Thomas' voice came low, his accent softly delivering each word. "They tried, but it was too late."
You frowned, still confused.
"He's dead."
It took a moment for Thomas' words to register in your mind. You heard them, but the weight of what they meant wouldn't sink in. He's dead. He meaning James, dead meaning no longer alive. You knew that. But your brain wouldn't accept it. James? He couldn't be dead. You had seen him yourself only a couple weeks ago when he came by the house to pick up Will for their guy's camping trip. Will had come back with hilarious stories about how James had packed the tent but forgot the rods to set them up, so they had to drape the limp canvas over tree branches and bushes, and they had both gotten soaked from an unexpected downpour. Or how they had started to build a fire, but they used fresh branches with green leaves and ended up smoking the place out, including their eyes—tears running down their faces. Or how James had caught his line on a log instead of a fish, and then burned the one Will caught so they ended up having to split the only can of refried beans between the two of them.
Will had told you these stories through laughter and fondness only a few days ago. And now James was...
Dead?
If you were finding it difficult to accept, you couldn't imagine what Will...
"Where's Will?"
The boys exchanged glances but said nothing.
"Where is Will?" you demanded.
"In the breakroom," Thomas gave a brief nod in the direction.
You touched his shoulder in appreciation, thanking him with your eyes as you passed. He returned your gaze with a somber and knowing drop of his head.
As you made your way to the partially-open door, your mind was on only one thing: Will. How was he taking this news? You were about to find out.
You reached the door and pushed it open, slipping inside before shutting it softly behind you. As you turned, you were only briefly aware of the table with various snacks in one corner, a water cooler and kitchenette in the other, and scattered about the room were chairs—in one, a familiar figure sat, slightly hunched over, staring at the wall. At the sound of the door, Will turned, his eyes snagging on you a minute before returning to the wall. His gaze was unnervingly void of emotion, but his inward-drawn posture told you that he was anything but.
You hesitated a moment, wanting to run to him but knowing that every person grieved in their own way, and you didn't want to intrude or step in too soon. You wanted to give him space to deal with the loss. But you also wanted him to know that you were there for him. Whenever he might need you.
"Do you want to be alone?" you asked softly, caressing him with your gaze, holding him tenderly in your heart.
He blinked, still staring at the wall, and you almost turned to leave him be, but then he turned toward you, movements slow, almost in a trance-like state, seeming to be only half aware of the world around him, but still conscious enough to respond to your presence. He didn't look at you as he stood, lost in his own numbness and shock, shaking his head in response to your question, making his way, as if stunned, toward you.
His silent "no" was enough to cut you to the heart with loving empathy, and you were at his side in a moment, stricken by the confusion, denial, and incomprehension in his wandering, pain-filled eyes. You briefly touched his cheek, then his shoulder, stepping in and gently drawing him to you and placing your arms around him. He was so physically big and strong that your heart went out to him as he dropped his head in the cradle of your neck and shoulder, like a little boy, taking shelter in the comfort of your arms.
You held him close, breathing his familiar, musky smell. You closed your eyes, softly pressing the side of your cheek reassuringly against his head, hearing nothing but the soft hum of the refrigerator and your own breathing mixed with Will's.
He was quiet for a long time, and though his breathing was shallow, but regular, you could tell from his tense posture that he was far from alright. Then, his shoulders shook briefly, and a muffled cry broke from his lips. You held him tighter, and he did it again, but cut it off just as quickly, his body quivering from holding in the sobs and emotion that was storming inside of him, fighting to be released.
You knew that he was trying to be strong. Trying to live up to the impossible expectation of being an impassive man, dealing with his emotions by locking them away and thereby portraying strength. But you knew that this sudden and startling news of the death of his close friend had devastated Will, and, though you loved him all the more for trying to be strong, it broke your heart to see him feel obligated to do so. He was a man, he was expected to be the strong one by society. And, most of the time, that was tolerably okay. But sometimes, he needed to know that it was okay to feel emotions and show vulnerability. He didn't have to be strong all of the time, and this was definitely one of those times. He had always been your strength. So, this time, you would be his. Gratefully. Unapologetically.
"Will," you tilted your head down to whispered in his ear, "Will..."
He shook again, letting out a short, strangled cry, still doing everything in his power to maintain some control over the overwhelming pain and anguish that was tearing him up inside. You held him tighter, pressing your fingertips gently and reassuringly into his back.
"It's okay..." you whispered, "...not to be okay."
As your words melted into him, you felt his body soften in your arms, and he shook, sobs escaping more freely. You continued to speak gently to him, caressing him lovingly, feeling him convulsing in your arms as you held him, the core of his body shuddering his entire frame, shoulders shaking; sharp, quick inhales, followed by pained sobs, repeating over and over and over.
You held him tightly, willing his suffering into to yourself so that you could take on and help ease even the smallest portion of the pain he was forced to endure. And as he continued to cry, moaning and shaking, his grip tightened around you until you began to find it difficult to breathe. But that only made you hold him back all the more tightly, silently reassuring him that you were there, that you understood—at least in part, that you loved him more than anything, and that you weren't going anywhere.
