Pigeon - Newtmas

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/ Circling around the kitchen, why has nothing changed? /

Thomas was pacing slowly around the makeshift kitchen in the haven. His thoughts were still plagued with the death of his best friend. The murder was 5 months ago. Gally had moved on, Brenda, Frypan, even Minho had started making his old sarcastic jokes. Thomas doesn't understand how they can just move on. Everyone is back to normal. But to Thomas, nothing feels right. His insides still knot when he hears Newt's name. He still has to hide the tears threatening to fall whenever he gains a random memory of before the glade, they come in waves. Pushing the thoughts to a far corner of his mind, he makes a sandwich he knows he won't finish. Thomas doesn't think he's finished one meal since he got here. He didn't push the thoughts far enough though, they came back worse than before. He has to sit down when his vision gets blurry and his feet go numb. Nothing is in the right spot. Nothing fits without the glue.

/ Feed cucumber sandwich to a pigeon. Chipping nail varnish on guitar strings. /

As predicted, the sandwich was barely touched. It's not that Thomas wasn't hungry, he was, it just didn't feel right that he got to eat and Newt didn't. What did he have that Newt didn't? It just wasn't fair. Walking on a small trail that leads out of the haven he saw a small bird. The coloring made it look like a pigeon. Thomas threw the rest of his cucumber and mayonnaise sandwich to the bird, watching it hesitantly walk over and start pecking at one of the pieces of bread.

Since Thomas had come to the safe haven he started playing guitar. He wasn't very good but he liked to think the notes were starting to blend together more seamlessly and his hands weren't so stiff moving up and down the neck. When he got back to the small common house nobody was there, probably because it was 3 am and everyone was sleeping in their hammocks hanging outside. Thomas picked up the old guitar and started plucking away at the six thin strings. He didn't think he was really playing any specific song, just a random melody he thought sounded nice. He found himself lost in thoughts and chords, playing for almost an hour without stopping. When the dull ache in his fingers finally made him stop, he looked down at his nails. The dark polish Brenda insisted would look nice was fading and cracking. Mostly from the guitar but it could also be from his excessive nail-biting when the urge to cry over his best friend overwhelmed him a little bit too much. Sighing and shaking his head, trying not to let the emotions find their way back to the front of his brain, he puts the guitar down.

/ Got a pillowcase made out of money /

Thomas walked to his hammock and lay down. The stars were very prominent tonight. He studied them trying to think of anything but Newt. It was hard when the pillowcase behind his head felt like paper trying to give him a million papercuts on the back of his neck. Still, he didn't move. Just looked directly up and out to the vast universe. Maybe there was a different world where Newt never died. He was still here, sleeping beside him in a hammock. Maybe on nights when it was cold they would sleep side by side trying to hold as much warmth between their bodies as they can. Thomas tried not to let his mind dwell on the thought for too long, he knows where it will end up. He lets his eyes close and feels himself slowly drift to sleep. He really doesn't want to do this again tomorrow.

/ Feeling pretty fake when I wake up. /

The sun beats through his eyelids. Groaning he slowly sits up. Looking around he sees his friends talking and laughing. He wishes he could go back to normal. This doesn't feel real. None of it. The day had just begun and it was already exhausting. Thomas threw his body back down.

/ Tissue paper castle paper caddy. Scaly little friend's got my back, oh/

Thomas should be used to crying by now, used to the feeling of sticky eyes and uneven breathing. Used to running far away from camp just to scream and sob and finally let his emotions out. But somehow he isn't. This time at least he had a small thing of tissues in his backpack when he left the group. The large pile of snot and tear-filled paper sits next to him. He was about to stand up and leave when he sees a small lizard. The still slightly crying boy holds his hand out and the lizard slowly climbs into his hand and closes its eyes. The way the lizard's head cocked slightly to the side when Thomas spoke reminded him so much of Newt he had to put the lizard down to cry again.