Thomas's pov

And then there was a tear, a single tear that traced its way down my face, the only tangible thing I was able to focus on outside of my thoughts. I was gasping, choking on my own words, my own memories, but that single tear fill steadily--an escape from a warzone. I could still see him, feel him, imagine his heartbeat thumping just out of sync with mine.

I didn't know I was shaking until Dylan's hands clamped firmly around my own. He moved closer, chest pressed against my back, nose nestled in the crook of my neck, arms wrapped protectively around me as if he could shield me from myself. I relaxed but only just--because Dylan was wrapped around me, pure and beautiful and absolutely fucking lovely, and I was dirty--disgusting--falling apart---

"He raped you," Dylan's voice was not as steady as his arms around me. It cracked painfully--broken and sad and hurt and hateful--an angry resentment I couldn't recognize fluttering within the few short words. He whispered the sentence but it still felt too loud, like he was shouting it at the top of his lungs. The sentence felt dirty--like it shouldn't be uttered, like I shouldn't even acknowledge it.

"No--" I managed to shake my head. "He--I asked for it, Dylan, he--" but I couldn't continue because I was sobbing again and I suddenly felt like I needed to get away. I struggled in his hold, but instead of letting me go he pulled me closer, turning me slightly so that my head rested on his chest.

"He--I'll kill him, Thomas, I swear, I'll--" his voice broke at the end, promising things that shouldn't be promised and breaking with emotion he shouldn't be feeling. I could almost imagine his heart beating wildly in his chest, thumping with an earnest that shouldn't be directed for me.

I closed my eyes as tight as I could. Dimly, way off in another world, I could hear the bass from the party downstairs. Beating, thrumming, drumming in sync with my stuttering heart.

Dylan's hands were making soothing motions down my back, but I knew he was trembling too. When words failed him, he pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, then to the corner of my eye, then to the tear at the base of my cheek. He was fighting back tears. I could tell without even opening my eyes, because his voice was thick when he spoke and his breaths were short. I didn't want him to cry--not over me--but I felt as if I had let everything I had ever trusted go and now I was scrambling to pick up the pieces of my scattered mind. Dylan was the only static force I had left to rely on so my fingers tightened around the hem of his shirt, curling into him, him morphing around me, right there on the cold bathroom floor. I was disgusting and I hated myself and I didn't want to be touching Dylan but I was also scared and breaking and Dylan's touch was the only solace I craved.

"Can I ask--" Dylan's voice felt abrasive still, no matter how quiet he tried to be. "Did you ever tell Elijah? Not Mr. Burton, I mean--your friend?"

If possible I curled into myself even more. "No," I whispered after a brief pause.

Dylan's hands tightened around me, as if he could tell I wanted to say more but couldn't force the words out. Two seconds passed in the space of my labored breathing and then I pulled back, away from his touch. Without his comfort, I was able to continue.

"She's dead."

My voice was quietly empty. It made sense, because I was empty too.

I ignored Dylan's sharp intake of breath to say, "I left London--to shoot my first movie," it was harder to choke out the explanation now that I could feel Dylan's gaze on my face, but my voice still came out detached. "I left just a week--no, two weeks? After--after I let him--"

I swallowed roughly and wiped at the fresh tears in my eyes. "I avoided her. Completely. I didn't say goodbye. I just left. I avoided her calls. I didn't write her. I just--fucking--left."

My words were punctuated by the clenching of my fists. I didn't look up, and Dylan didn't answer.

Now that I had started, I couldn't stop. "I left her alone with that bastard. I knew he abused her--neglected her--hit her--" a deep breath. "I knew and I was too cowardly to own up to what I did, that I left her alone in a place she was completely unsafe, probably scared and confused and wondering what she did wrong to have me just abandon--"

I let Dylan pull me closer again as my words started slurring together with the pace of me pouring out my heart.

"And now," I finished, "she's dead."

Dylan was silent for a long time. A very long time. I expected him to tell me to fuck off, leave him alone, tell me how awful and horrible and how fucked up I am. I waited for him to roughly shove me off of him, call me disgusting, unfaithful, disappointing--all the cruel words I deserved--

Instead, after a few minutes of silence, he asked, "Mr. Burton--was he the one that--did he--?"

"No," I interrupted. Then, "Yes."

Dylan's breathing was unsteady as he ventured shakily, "Did he--?"

"He didn't beat her to death. He was a smoker. Elijah died of lung cancer."

Dylan shook his head. I glanced up just briefly to scan his face, my dried up heart still clenching at the sight of his sad expression.

"I killed her too," I continued. "I lied to her. I killed her because I couldn't tell her the truth."
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I don't know how long Dylan and I sat on the bathroom floor. Perhaps it was ten more minutes--perhaps it was ten more years. Time passed as if didn't exist at all; like we were floating along without any tangible connections to reality, enclosed in our own little world.

Eventually we couldn't ignore the world outside any longer, and Dylan coaxed me to my feet. He must have sensed how fragile I felt because he moved carefully, softly, each movement graceful and kind and forgiving. He pulled me into a strong hug once more, clutching at my sides and pulling me back together if only for that single moment. I wish I knew what was going on in his head, wish I could read the thoughts so obviously clouding his brain. He released me slowly, and then we moved out of the room without a word, hands intertwined.

Before I really knew what was happening, we were in the car heading home. It all passed in a blur--the soft nudges of Dylan's hand, the slow shifting of his fingers against mine, dropping a drunk Tyler off at his own house. Nothing really processed. Nothing really affected me. I was scared to feel so numb. So fucking numb.

It was only when we made it back to Dylan's home that I found myself feeling anything at all. As he flipped on the light switch of his room, I suddenly felt horribly exposed. My skin crawled angrily and I fidgeted. Dylan glanced over at me as he placed his jacket on the chair, concerned.

Before he could ask, I choked out in a voice just barely above a whisper, "Can I--shower?"

Dylan's eyes leveled me with a penetrating stare. Reading me, most likely. He nodded, so I left before he could say anything.

I padded softly down the hall, despite remembering that there was no one else home to wake. Dylan's family had left earlier this morning to go to his grandparents', leaving Dylan and I alone.

I closed the bathroom door behind me and immediately began to undress. My clothing slipped quietly to the ground and as I turned, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I allowed myself to stare distastefully at my reflection for only a moment before I couldn't bear the sight any longer, so I turned my head away.

The water scorched down painfully on my back not a moment later. I had no doubt my skin would be painted a delightful red by the time I finished. For a moment, I simply stood there, stuck between the past and the present.

Five years ago I stood at home, scrubbing myself raw as if that could erase the marks of Mr. Burton's hands. Five years ago I was sobbing on the bathroom floor, alone. Five years ago I looked just as pathetic as I do right now.

I grabbed the bar of soap sitting on the side of the tub and began to scrub. Scrubbing as hard as I physically could, ignoring the sting on my skin, watching the usual pale white morph to a heartbreaking red. I began with my arms, where it was most convenient, but I soon moved to my legs, my abdomen, my chest, rubbing myself raw. And when the soap began to wear down and my fingers began scraping my skin, I continue to rub. I wanted to wash away every last filthy part of myself.

The water turned cold and eventually I found myself on my knees, still scrubbing, aching. I stared numbly down at my hands, watching as if from a television screen, feeling helpless and small. The water hurt. The scrubbing hurt. My heart hurt.

The soap slipped from my hand and fell to the ground with a thud. I was so cold.

A sob struck me out of nowhere. It wasn't tearful--not a single tear escaped me; it was more a sad sound of anguish. It erupted out of my throat before I even knew it was coming, and another followed suit, and then another after that. My hand came up to muffle my sobs but the painful sound still echoed along the tiles. Vaguely, I recognized the sound of the bathroom door opening, but I was too far gone to really care. My eyes closed and I shook--from the cold, from my disgust, from the combustion of my heart inside of me.

The water turned off and a towel was draped over my shoulders. Dylan pulled me up, off the shower floor and into his arms, leading me back out into the bathroom. I was too busy trying to control my breaths to even feel vaguely modest about my nudity. He too seemed too worried to really give it any thought. Warmth rolled off of him in waves, and now tears rose in my eyes, as if they only wanted to escape now that Dylan was here to protect me. I blinked them away, unwilling to look any more pathetic.

He handed me some pajamas--his, I noted--and silently urged me to get dressed. He didn't say anything as my sobs faded and I began to dress. He just watched me with that same, sad look.

My lips were pressed into a thin line as I began to put on the soft cotton button-up Dylan had brought me. I focused solely on my movements, but my fingers weren't moving willingly and I was still shaking from the cold. The buttons just--wouldn't--fit--together and my fingers were fumbling more and more and I don't even know why but suddenly I was crying again and my feet were cold against the tiled floor and my head was starting to pound and I couldn't see through my tears and I missed Elijah and the stupid fucking buttons just wouldn't fucking work--

Dylan's hands covered mine and suddenly I was sobbing into his chest again. It was the thousandth time in just one night but it was like my heart had finally split open and the detachment I had been feeling for years was suddenly overcoming me. I was overwhelmed and tired, so tired.

Dylan, to my surprise, didn't button my shirt for me. He undid the few I had managed, then slowly slid my shirt off my shoulders. The movement was slow and sensual and his eyes stayed glued to my face. His fingers lingered on my arms for a few seconds after the shirt pooled at our feet, then slid down to grasp at my hands. With a chaste kiss to my forehead and a reassuring squeeze, he led me down the hall and back to his room.

We still hadn't spoken, but I certainly wasn't going to be the one to break the silence. He began to make the bed, moving pillows and shifting blankets, before he gestured over his shoulder to me. I approached carefully, as if scared, though really I ached to be in his arms again.

He sat down, so I followed his lead and sat down next to him. He was studying me again, like he hadn't been doing it this whole fucking evening, and then proceeded to pull me with him as he lay down on the blankets. I followed as if I was ragdoll because I had no energy to fight back, and I could tell Dylan's worry was only increasing by the second. Of course, this only worsened my guilt, but I couldn't help it. I felt like I was being eaten alive by the darkness inside of me.

His hands slid onto my naked torso. I watched, mostly because I was afraid to meet his gaze.

"Why are you crying?" He asked carefully after another few moments of silence.

I licked my lips, realizing that I was in fact still crying. I hadn't even noticed. I wiped at the tears still falling. I shrugged.

His hands trailed up and down my torso. Goosebumps rose on my skin, and I might have moaned had it not been for the sad look on Dylan's face.

"I can't help you if you don't tell me," he said, "and I think I've proved that nothing you say is going to make me leave."

I looked down. Watched his hands move again.

Finally, I had the courage to say, "I'm disgusting, Dylan."

His hands stilled for a brief second, then snaked around my back. They tightened and then reeled me in until our faces were just inches away. Breathing hitched, I couldn't meet his gaze. I felt too dirty to even breathe the same air. I went to pull away, but his hands kept me still.

"You're hurt, Thomas," Dylan whispered. "You're not disgusting. You're hurt, and you've been hurting for so long you don't even realize you're hurt anymore. Elijah Burton raped you--"

"He didn't--"

"--And," he continued, ignoring me, "whether you admit it or not, that has left its bruises. You are not disgusting, Thomas Brodie-Sangster, because I would never love someone who disgusts me."

And then I was crying again, but for all different reasons, but I was also kissing him. Softly at first, but then more fiercely, more desperately. He kissed me back just as hard and his fingers were still roaming all over my body and I couldn't remember the last time a single kiss had left me feeling so alive. My tears mingled with our kiss and I could taste the saltiness on our lips.

For that moment, I felt okay again. Like Dylan really was kissing away my past. He wasn't Mr. Burton. I wasn't drunk. My heart beat in sync with his instead of out of sync with a man I didn't know. This was what sex was supposed to feel like. Without the fear--just lips and gasps for air and an overwhelming sense of peace. His lips devoured mine and I wanted to give him all of me, I wanted to offer up my heart and my soul and my everything in the hopes of plainly thanking him for everything he was doing for me by simply be being here.

Dylan pulled away first, but I was the one left gasping for air. He sat up, looked down at me.

"I don't want to take advantage of you," he said, as if it truly labored him to say it. "You're vulnerable right now."

I sat up too. My lips felt swollen, and my hands were shaking, and I was still hurting. But--

"Dylan," I began in a croaked voice. "The only time I've felt right all night is in your arms. The only time I can breathe without it hurting is when you're kissing me. You're not taking advantage of me because I want this too."

"You aren't seeing things clearly right now, Tommy--"

"So kiss me blind," I said. "Kiss me 'til I don't see anything at all."

Dylan hesitated. I could see that he just didn't want to hurt me, and my heart swelled. He was so fucking perfect. My chest burst with a new emotion and I pulled his face towards mine again. My thoughts faded-- I didn't know why he had this affect. I didn't really care, either. My only thoughts were, Dylan Dylan Dylan. I wanted to make him feel half as good as he was making me feel.

He broke from our kiss to begin trailing kissing down my chest. It was hot, of course, but it also seemed as if Dylan was purely worshiping my body in the best way he knew how. No part of me was left neglected as he showered me in kisses. My entire body thrummed, and I grabbed at his soft brown hair.

I fell back on the bed again, and Dylan landed on top of me. His brown eyes looked up at me mischievously, and then his soft pink lips descended on my nipples. I moaned, my back arching, as he nibbled on the pert bud. Immediately I felt myself hardening, and I was a whimpering mess by the time he moved to my other nipple. My fingers ran up and down his back, gripping and pulling him closer.

I tugged at his shirt and he sat up only long enough to toss it to the side. Now he was moving down, licking slow, sensual movement down my chest as I watched. He stopped at the hem of my pants then glanced up, silently asking for permission.

I nodded--of course I fucking did--and within the next few seconds I found myself laying completely exposed beneath him. His eyes drank me in hungrily and just as I was about to begin to feel self-conscious, he said softly, "Fuck, you're perfect."

Gulping, I pulled him down for another heated kiss. I felt, more than saw, him fumbling with the drawer to his nightstand before I heard the click of a cap opening. He pulled away just enough to mutter against my lips, "Mind if I top?"

The question might have been awkward under different circumstances, but right now all it did was ignite my lust further. I nodded again, almost begged really, and he grinned this happy, elated grin that made my heart tumble in my chest. I probably looked a mess, my eyes still swollen and red, but with the way he was looking at me, I suddenly felt just a little bit less gross.

His calloused hands suddenly gripped my member and I actually choked on a moan, unable to stop my hips from grinding forward. He moved slowly and my head flew back, trying to contain my groans. I felt his other hand begin to probe at my entrance and any coherent thoughts fled my head.

A finger slipped in. It hurt, just a little bit, but mostly I was only thinking about Dylan. He was watching transfixed on my entrance, where one digit slowly began to work at my muscle. It was just one finger, but it was also Dylan and that made it so much better.

His next finger slipped in, and I groaned. Still, the pain was only minimal, but now a much larger sense of fullness consumed me. He kissed me and fingered me and satisfied my hard cock and it was just about everything I had never realized I needed. When the third finger entered me he began to scissor his fingers, brushing all the right spots inside of me.

And then he was stipping naked too and I was staring and he was blushing, but only slightly. He moved closer like it was the only thing he needed, wanted, and I moaned when his cock rubbed against mine. I lay beneath him and completely submitted myself to him, feeling both turned on and at the mercy of his hand. It was a scary feeling, but I trusted Dylan to take care of me.

"No one has ever loved you the right way, Thomas," Dylan said, his eyes warm and telling. It was like he had read right into my heart and still managed to love me anyway. "Can I be the one to do it right?"

I nodded, trying to pull him closer. I wanted nothing more than him, all the fucking time. Desperation was rolling off of me in waves.

"I need to show you what proper love is," Dylan continued in a whisper. My heart stuttered in my chest and tears suddenly sprang to my eyes again. Pausing in my whimpering, I pulled him closer into a hug, gripped the back of his neck and nuzzled into the crook beneath his ear. I kissed his neck. I felt right. I felt safe.

I could feel him press at the crease of my entrance, and then slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed in. A breath of air escaped my lips in a pained huff, my grip on the hair at the nape of his neck tightening. He pulled back to kiss me as one hand continued to play with my member and the other held his weight above me. He moved slowly the entire time, only speeding up when we began to approach our orgasm. I didn't want it any other way though--this wasn't about fucking. This was something different, and I wanted to prolong it for as long as physically possible. I wanted to feel him deep inside of me, wanted every inch of him to press against me. I wanted his skin on mine, to feel the sweat and nakedness and truthfulness of all that was Dylan to remain in my arms forever. It was slow and sensual and perfect.

When we finished, he stayed inside of me for a moment, just breathing hard. Finally he collapsed on top of me, saying in a breathless whisper, "Fuck, I'm so in love with you, Tommy."

I smiled and kissed him again. He pulled out, tied the condom and tossed it into the trash, wiped off my chest and then laid down next to me. He turned off the light, pulled me into his chest, and let out an exhausted sigh.

I could tell he was tired, but he still managed a weak, "Are you okay?"

Moving into his body, I allowed him to spoon me. I usually didn't like to be the small spoon, but with him it was okay.

"I'm okay," I said. "No. Actually, I'm great."

"Me too," he breathed out.

I thought that that would be the end of the conversation, and I waited for him to fall asleep. His breathing evened out, but after a few moments of silence, he added a quiet, "I'm happy, Thomas."

I blinked into the darkness, pressed my face into the pillow. "Me too," I said, but what I really wanted to say was, "I'm happy, but I'm also hurt in ways you can't heal and I'm scared and I'm confused and I want to stay in your arms forever because it's the only place I feel safe."

And he said, "Good, I'm glad," with a soft kiss to the nape of my neck.

He was quiet again after that, for much longer this time. I listened to his breathing, appreciating every careful exhale. When I was sure he had fallen asleep, I rolled onto my other side.

Dylan's face was relaxed. My hand came up to lightly trace his cheekbone, to memorize every crevice of his face. He was so fucking beautiful. Him, his body, his heart. And he loved me. He loved me. His eyelashes fluttered softly and I stilled, but he didn't wake. I studied him in the darkness of the room, never wanting to forget a single part of him. I didn't understand it--how one single person could turn my life upside down, could teach me things about myself, could break me down only to build me up stronger. I didn't understand how one person could mean so much to me under such a short stretch of time.

I leaned back and sighed. The room was quiet and Dylan was definitely asleep.

I moved without thinking. Suddenly and with the urgency of someone rushing to tell a secret, I abruptly leaned into his naked chest, pressed my naked body firmly against his, and let my lips settle at the base of his shoulder. I hesitated, my heart beating rapidly--afraid even in the safety of the silence around us. I wasn't even quite cognitive of what I was doing when my lips started moving, moulding silent words into his skin.

I love you too.

//

A/N

i will finish this stupid story if it fucking kills me

until next time,

//sam\\