Broken- And Fixed Again- (A Jamilton Fanfic)

Chapter 11: Words We Can't Take Back

//TW: swearing, mentions of alcohol, mentions of past abuse\\

Alexander

An earsplitting pain throbbing in the back of my head followed me with every movement I dared to make on that awful, bright morning of misery and despair. Sunlight attacked my vision, hardly warded off by the thin curtains, as though it only existed to make my life even more miserable. And it wasn't snowing anymore, so there was no lasting impression to cushion the blow of the business of the outside world.

Life is pain.

Stifling a groan, I forced myself to sit up. "Shit. Fuck this. Fuck everything," I muttered out in half-coherent sentences as I stumbled over to the kitchen and started a fresh batch of coffee, perhaps the only thing strong enough to keep me from committing mass murder this early in the morning. The night before was nothing more than a mess of sharp flashes just barely strung together, but even if I had no idea what happened, I was pretty confident in my assumption that this was all John's fault.

Yeah, I'm gonna blame him completely.

Entire lifetimes could have gone by in the time it took for my coffee to fucking finish brewing, but the warmth of it sliding down the back of my throat, soothing and bitter, provided a small semblance of relief. Small. Pitiful. But better than nothing.

It'd have to do.

I took a sip and found a seat at the table, my phone carefully placed in plain sight. I smiled, knowing exactly who had left it there for me to see, scooped it up, and poured through whatever demanded my immediate attention. With a frown, I noted the time. It was much later in the morning than I would have liked, but I suppose I had no right to complain after acting like a total dumbass the night before.

If you wanna be stupid, you've gotta be tough.

I glanced up at Thomas's door, but it was closed, revealing nothing. I frowned, setting my phone flat against the table. He was usually awake by now, softly humming as he painted or read or did all the normal things he liked to do in the morning, still wet from the shower he took every morning.

"Thomas?" I called, my head pounding with protest as my voice lent some life to the otherwise silent room. And I got no reply at all, which was great. Take that with a heavy dose of sarcasm. "Thomas!"

I don't know what happened last night at all, but I do remember Thomas. He was faint and hazy and like something from a very distant dream, but I could pick out a few specific things that stuck out like a sore thumb. Painfully loud like something you couldn't take back. It was more what I remember hearing rather than seeing. The sadness in his tone, the longing hidden behind his words, even if the exact syllables and meanings had been carried away by the wind.

I picked up my phone, trying to return to a blissful ignorance that was easy to take refuge in. It didn't work. Worry clawed at me and had no intention of ever leaving me alone.

"Shit," I growled out loud, horrified to acknowledge the thought slowly creeping up out of the darkness, the parts of me I tried my best to push aside and ignore. But I still had to ask myself the question anyway.

Did I do something?

Oh god did I do something to drive him away? Fuck fuck fuck what if he's hurt or crying and I'm not there for him and he's not okay?