Thomas and Niko in the City of Trees

Chapter 8 - Part 2

He closes the door and fucking asks me how my night's going. The music sounds blurry, just pounding through the wall.

I don't tell him how my night's going. I say, "Why didn't you tell me?"

He doesn't even ask what I'm talking about. He might be drunk, but he knows what he's guilty of. "I don't have to tell you everything that happens to me," he says.

"That's a big deal, though."

"I know." He's not looking at me anymore. "I was going to."

"Well, you should've known I would hear it from Lexie if you didn't tell me right away."

"So what's the big deal?"

"I wanted to hear it from you," I say.

"Why?"

I think about it for a second. "I don't know, I just did. I don't have to fucking explain all of my feelings to you, Thomas."

"Fuck you, neither do I."

I pause again. For a quick second I sort of forget what we're arguing about. I'm just looking at him. I don't take my eyes off of him. I make him look at me. "Come on, Thomas, why the fuck didn't you tell me?" I just can't let it go. "We went and got ice cream. You had plenty of time."

"I didn't want to talk about it," he says. He's looking at me like he's kind of lost. "I'm sorry. I should've told you."

I'm just standing there. Despite being kind of drunk, I'm feeling a little vulnerable here in the middle of the room with nothing to lean up against.

Before I know it he's pulling me into a hug. "I don't fucking know what I'm doing," he says. "This situation's kind of fucked up."

I feel his voice more than hear it. "I know," I say. His hands start exploring my back. They move down, and then he pulls us both together at the waist. He exhales against my neck. His body feels so good up against mine that I start to ache. Jesus Christ, I want him so bad. "Thomas," I say, careful to keep my emotions under control. "Why'd you do it with her now? Why now?"

He starts softly crying into my shoulder. I feel his body shuddering against mine. "Everything's just so fucked up."

We part. He's looking at me expectantly, as if I can give him some kind of assurance right now, which I cannot. He's looking exasperated, to be honest, and he's still got tears in his eyes. "I don't want to be this way," he says.

"Well good luck changing it," I say. I'm praying no one opens that goddamn door.

"What about you?"

That's one big, scary question he's asking me. Maybe it's better that I'm drunk. Who knows what I might say? "I wish I wasn't," I tell him. "But I am."

"Fucking say the word then."

"Fuck you," I say. "Why don't you say it?"

For a second I think he's about to. That would be the surprise of the century, right there, let me tell you. But then he sort of starts to break down again. "I can't." He's drunker than me, I can tell. "How long did you know you were like this?" he asks.

I tell him forever.

"Me too," he says.

Good, I'm thinking to myself. We've had our moment. We've established that through some freak coincidence, we're both saddled with the same affliction. Would you fucking look at that.

"I'm not ready to deal with this," he says all of a sudden.

"Neither am I."

"They're both out there. Right through that door." He's pointing at it like I don't know what a fucking door is. Sometimes, for Thomas, it's all about the drama.