The news about Winston's memorial is shared at lunch, and there are a lot of mixed reactions. But, the overall consensus is that everyone is going.
"It's shucked up to throw a memorial for someone when you're the reason they're gone in the first place," Chuck says solemnly, looking down at the table.
"I swear, I hate them. Winston would hate this, too," Minho says. "But I have to go for him. Maybe I can show them that we won't stand for what they did."
"If they can treat us like people for ten minutes," Jeff says quietly, his eyes darting to the nurses posted around the room.
"I killed him," Zart blurts out. Nobody pays attention but me.
"His family approved, I think it's up to them now," Frypan says. Ever the peacemaker.
"His family wasn't here, they don't know," Minho says. "Thomas, you've been surprisingly quiet."
Thomas is seated at the other side of the table from me and about two people to the right. He looks up from his food now, switching his gaze to Minho.
"I'm going," he says. "And if they've got anything to do with this, the toxicology reports will tell us."
"What happened to the screaming and yelling?" Minho asks, his tone an odd mixture of anger and sarcasm.
"You know what that got me," Thomas says. "We'll win in the end."
Minho rolls his eyes, but I don't miss the worry that flashes behind them.
After the events of group and lunch, I walk back to my room alone. Thomas has most likely forgotten about our plan, due to all of the commotion, so I don't bother waiting for him.
But once I'm almost to the door, I hear a voice.
"Newt, you took off." I turn to see Thomas walking up to me. His voice almost makes me jump, but I hold it together. "I tried to run after you, but the nurses did not like that."
Six. I smile. "Don't get in trouble on my account, Tommy."
He grins. "No promises."
We make our way into my room while I try to turn my brain off, but unluckily for me, that's entirely impossible. As long as I've got my tens and my anxiety, my brain will never catch a break.
I make it to my bed on four, but walk in place for a moment to make it to eight before I sit down, tapping my feet twice and snapping my fingers. Thomas opts for Chuck's bed, hopping onto it and facing me, probably waiting for me to finish my ten.
"Well, get on with it, then," I say, attempting to sound confident. "What'd you wanna talk about?"
"Pushy, are we?" Thomas asks, before getting to my question. "You, actually."
"Me?" I ask. "What about me?"
"Why you're here, and you in general. I'm intrigued," Thomas says.
I open my mouth, then close it. Can I keep up the confidence? "Well, I'm intrigued about you, too."
My heart leaps into my throat as he smirks. "Are you?"
"I barely know you, yet I keep telling you things. I've earned the right to ask questions," I say. Untrue? No. Embarrassing to say out loud? Yes.
"Alright, fair enough. We'll trade answers," Thomas says. My eyes widen.
"Really?" I ask, knowing how lame it sounds.
"Really," Thomas says. "Can I go first?"
I want to ask whether he meant go first asking or go first answering, but I decide not to. I'll probably find out now, anyway. "Sure."
"Okay, what you said about your father not understanding you, what did you mean?" Thomas asks.
"That's an odd question," I say. "You sound like Rat Man."
Thomas laughs. "You agreed, answers for answers."
"Fine. He doesn't make an effort to understand me. We used to get along nicely, but since I started with all this, he's disconnected from me," I say.
"It started with your tens? Are you sure? What was your relationship like before it?" Thomas asks, leaning forward.
"I don't recall agreeing to follow up questions," I say. Thomas looks at me with pleading eyes, so I sigh and cave. "We used to do normal father and son things. Like going to games and stuff like that."
"Did you stop wanting to go to them? Or did he not want you to?" Thomas asks.
"A little bit of both, I s'pose," I say. "I lost interest in sports, but it wasn't just that, we stopped doing anything."
"Interesting," Thomas says. "Okay, ask me something."
I've had nothing but questions about this boy, but now that I have the opportunity to ask, I can barely think. Finally, something comes to me.
"Do you have a family?" I ask.
"I do," Thomas says simply.
"I think the elaboration was implied," I say.
"I've got a mother and a sister," Thomas says. I'm not sure how I notice, but I can swear I see the light in his eyes flicker. The strain in his voice helps my observation, and it makes me decide to drop it.
"Okay," I say. "Your turn."
"Ever date anyone?" Thomas asks.
I can feel my face start burning in an instant, avoiding Thomas' gaze now. The intense embarrassment causes my eyes to water, my heart going at hummingbird speed. It's not a weird question, it's not a bad question, so why am I so tripped up?
I suddenly realize that I've yet to answer. "No, no I haven't."
"Why is that?" Thomas asks.
'Isn't this personal?', I want to ask. 'Why is that your business?'
"I dunno, I was never that interested in anyone, I guess," I say.
"Nobody ever caught your eye? I feel like they'd be all over you," Thomas says.
"Excuse me?" The words come out before I can stop them.
"You. The accent, the looks, everything. I figured you'd have been popular," Thomas says.
My eyes are still tearing and my face is still red as I reach up and run a hand through my hair to distract myself. "Not really—shouldn't I be asking you something?"
"Go ahead." I finally look up to see Thomas with his eyes trained directly on me, like nothing will ever take them away.
"Are you asking questions to be friendly, or to figure out what's wrong with me?" I ask, not holding back so that hopefully he gets as shaken as I am.
"Both," Thomas answers. "I like you. You're different. So, yes, I am being friendly. But you've also got something special going on up here," he says, tapping his forehead, "and I'd like to help figure it out."
The honesty of his answer stuns me. For everything he may or may not be, one thing's for sure; he's not predictable.
"I think you're barking up the wrong tree, mate," I say.
Thomas furrows his eyebrows, tilting his head. "In what way?"
"I told you, there's nothing to figure out. I'm playing along in therapy, but I still don't believe that there's anything there. I want to get better, but I don't think talking about my feelings is the way," I say.
Thomas' eyes widen, the smile reappearing. "Oh. That. Well, I'm not so sure."
Oh? What'd he think I meant? "Well, I'm sure."
"My turn to ask. Do you have any friends back at home?" Thomas says, changing the subject.
"Used to. Not so much anymore," I say.
"What were they like?" Thomas asks.
"Well, there were a few. Jack, Jorge, Clint... A-Alby," I say, hating myself for stuttering Alby's name. "Oh, and Teresa. Sorta."
"Sorta?" Thomas asks.
"I've known her since we were born, basically. We used to be friends, but we go to different high schools now and kinda grew apart," I say. "The whole thing was set up by my mother, anyway."
"Your mom made you guys hang out?" Thomas asks.
"I guess. Our parents are friends, so I think they wanted us to get married or something," I say.
"But you never liked her that way," Thomas says, as more of a statement than a question.
"No, I didn't," I say. Something in Thomas' expression shifts, making me feel more nervous than I had before. "What?"
"I didn't say anything," Thomas says, his tone completely unreadable.
"Fine... What about you, then?" I ask.
"What about me?" Thomas asks.
I didn't want to actually say the words. "Did you date anyone?"
Thomas smiles widely. "I did."
For some reason, the reply throws me off again. I didn't think this far. "Alright."
"Want elaboration?" Thomas asks.
"Up to you," I say, hoping it comes off as nonchalant as I tried to make it.
"I had two girlfriends," Thomas says, his gaze on his hands while he speaks. He then switches it back to me. "And one boyfriend."
I haven't the faintest idea why my heart stops. Maybe it's the way he said it, his voice dripping with something I don't understand. Or maybe it's his piercing eye contact. It could be anything. Nevertheless, it does. If I had to guess how long it takes me to respond, I'd say anywhere from ten seconds to ten years.
"Before or after your symptoms?" I ask, my voice cracking. The only possible response to that was a question.
"Both," Thomas says. "Depends on the symptoms."
"What are your symptoms?" I ask.
Thomas has been wearing a smirk since he revealed the information about his boyfriend that doesn't waver now. "It's my turn to ask, if I'm not mistaken."
"You're not," I say reluctantly.
"Good. Why'd you stutter over the name Alby? Not a good friend?" Thomas asks.
He just has to notice everything, doesn't he? "No, he was actually my best friend."
"What happened?" Thomas asks.
I haven't got a good answer. Part of it, I can barely remember. Some parts, I remember too well. "It's complicated."
"Try me," Thomas says.
"After the OCD started, I stopped being friends with them," I say.
"Did they want you to stop?" Thomas asks.
I consider this. "I don't—I mean, they never—"
"Is it the same story with Alby? Or was it more complicated than that?" Thomas asks.
"It's a long story," I say, Thomas apparently not hearing me and talking over my words.
"If you were best friends, why would OCD drive you apart?"
"Jesus, Thomas," I say exasperatedly. That gets his attention. "We were friends, now we're not, isn't that enough?"
Thomas looks stunned, his face dropping. I want to apologize for raising my voice, but I can't find the words. Besides, he did push it.
After a moment, he speaks. "I'm sorry... I went too far."
"It's fine," I say quietly, looking down at my hands in my lap.
"No, it's not," Thomas says. I look back to him to see that he looks way more distressed than just a moment ago, his hands shaky. "God, I hate myself. I'm sorry."
"Tommy, it's really okay," I say, leaning forward.
"I..." Thomas trails off, looking at my bed. His breaths become heavier, focusing on one spot on the headboard.
My instincts kick in, and I know what I have to do. He did the same for me, now it's my turn.
I get up, taking three steps before I'm sitting on Chuck's bed next to Thomas. He only seems vaguely aware of it as I absentmindedly tap my feet seven times on the ground.
"Hey, hey, it's alright," I say lightly, trying to engage Thomas. It's a little scary considering I still don't know him that well yet, he could snap at any moment. But I owe it to him, and something tells me that he won't.
I snap my fingers quickly and quietly, holding my hand against the bed to try to muffle the noise. That hand then lands on the knee of a still very distraught looking Thomas.
"Tommy? You're here with me, you're safe."
Finally, Thomas looks down at my hand—that I'm having second thoughts about the placement of—and then at me. His eyes search my face, and then like a switch, I see recognition wash over him.
"Newt," he breathes out quietly. "Thank you... I—"
"Don't you dare say you're sorry," I let out a nervous laugh, trying to ease the tension. Thomas shakes his head.
"You deserve a few answers," Thomas says, his voice still wavering a bit. "You asked what my symptoms are, right?"
"Only if you wanted to tell me," I say, as if it's not all I've wondered for over a week now.
"Here's one of them," Thomas says. "I'm sure you've figured it out by now, but I hallucinate."
"I've, uh, gathered that much," I say.
"Minho hallucinates too, like I told you, but it's different. His were caused by drugs and alcohol," Thomas says.
"What're yours caused by?" I ask.
Thomas puts his hand over mine on his knee, almost making me yank it away since I've forgotten it was even there. But I don't move.
He gives me a sad smile. "Wouldn't we all like to know?"
I frown. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I'm truly one of a kind," Thomas says. "We've got a few disorders and diseases in mind, but I don't actually have a formal diagnosis."
"How can that be possible?" I ask.
"Beats me," Thomas says. "I've been studying everything related to the brain for years trying to figure it out, since apparently these actual doctors can't do it themselves."
An abundance of things suddenly make sense. Thomas' anger towards the doctors here and saying they can't do their jobs, his knowledge of everyone else's problems, the way he thinks that he's a lost cause. All of it clicks.
"How many doctors have you been to?" I ask.
"Countless," he says. "For as long as I remember, it's been doctor after doctor. They all say the same thing."
"What?"
"They've never seen anything like it, I don't completely fit any description, and I most likely have a mix of things they can't figure out," Thomas says.
I'm stunned. "How could they just not know?"
"There's been a few ideas, a few times we've gotten close to something exact. But everyone thinks it's something different," Thomas says.
I cannot imagine not knowing what I even have. Having to go through all these doctors and treatments and medications, all shots in the dark.
"Do you think it might be something they haven't heard of?" I ask.
"I've thought about that. But they all say that I'm still under eighteen and my brain isn't done developing," Thomas says. "There's only two outcomes I can think of."
"What are they?" I ask.
"Either they do a bunch of tests on me and eventually find that it's something with no cure. Or they give up completely," he says, "and I die in here."
"Thomas," I say, searching for words. "That's-that's not going to happen."
"Isn't it? They won't let me out while I can't function in the real world, but they've got nothing helping me here," Thomas says.
"You said hallucinating is only one of your symptoms, yeah?" I ask. "Are they helping you with any of the others?"
"The ones they are helping with are the more standard ones, throw some medication at me and call it a day," Thomas says. "I could do that."
"Have you looked into maybe hav—" I cut myself off. The word that's been on my mind since I figured out he has hallucinations. But of course he's looked into it, how couldn't he? That's the first thing you do.
"I have," Thomas answers, surprising me. He must see my expression, because he continues. "Schizophrenia, right? That's what you were gonna ask?"
He doesn't say it with any sort of angry or upset tone, but I still flinch at the word. "Yeah, actually."
"I've looked into it, but I don't fit the description," Thomas says. "Not for proper schizophrenia, anyway."
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"There's something else that's one of the closest things I've found," Thomas says. "It's called schizoaffective disorder."
"Have you told the doctors?" I ask.
"I've tried, but they say my type of hallucination isn't the exact fit for it," Thomas says. "Besides, there's no point. There's no cure for that."
"You're not a lost cause, Tommy," I say, still extremely aware of my hand on him. "You'll get better. You'll get out."
"Thanks, Newt. Really. But I've long since given up on them letting me out. They won't even try to treat me until my brain is fully developed," Thomas says.
"They'll figure it out, okay?" I say. True or not, his hopelessness is making me anxious, my chest starting to hurt. "You'll figure it out."
Thomas nods, then takes his hand off of mine before laying on his back, making me take my hand away as well. It catches me off guard, how casually he does it. He gazes up at me, and in a moment of pure courage, I decide to push away my thoughts.
I carefully lay down next to him, my head landing an inch or so above his due to the slight height difference. Both of our legs are hanging over the side of the bed, but it's comfortable for some reason anyway. My hands rest on my stomach and because of the closeness of our faces, I stare at the ceiling.
"You will too," Thomas says softly. Apparently he doesn't mind closeness, because I feel him turn his head to look at me as he speaks, making me instinctually look at him.
Our shoulders are pressed together, so when we meet each other's gazes, our noses are almost touching. I take the opportunity to really look at him again. He looks sicker than before, that's been established, but there's something in his eyes now that I can't place.
Maybe I notice that because he smiles at me again, and even though it's small, it reaches his eyes this time. It's a good look on him.
I find myself smiling back at him before we simultaneously look back at the ceiling.
Somehow, we fell asleep like that. I didn't even realize until I woke up three hours later to Chuck telling Thomas they need to go to their class. I was immediately embarrassed, but Thomas didn't show any hint of feeling the same as he groaned about getting up and apologized to me for Chuck.
Dinner was normal, I didn't get much time to talk to Thomas, but he didn't seem out of sorts there either. Maybe I'm the only one who's thinking too much about it.
That's probably why I'm writing in my journal right now about our conversation while Chuck plays one of his games before it's time for lights out. I feel like a proper teenager writing in a diary, and as ridiculous as it sounds, it's kinda fun.
There's something about him. Something. I know now that it's different than the friendship I had with Alby. The one major difference being that Thomas... Thomas didn't flinch. He doesn't make me feel weird or bad. He never has.
None of the things I'm thinking make sense to me. Maybe they'd make sense to Dr. Janson. There's only one thing I can think of that'd explain my ongoing fascination; I haven't had a friend in so long that now that I've got one, he's all I focus on.
Is it possible, when you've got OCD, to sometimes be obsessed with a person?