when he briefly feels thomas press a kiss against his lips before he’s shoving the boy backwards, with enough force that he stumbles into the table behind him and drops down hard, a pained groan escaping him — jorge is given his answer. “listen, hermano, thats really sweet you think i’m attractive and all, but i think you’re a little too young for me.”

thomas spits out a wad of blood. “i don’t think that at all.”

“…right. and you randomly kissed me why, exactly?” jorge helps thomas onto his feet, pushing away the random pieces of scrap metal to the side so the teen can sit down. a small compartment underneath opens up to showcase a loaded gun and a plethora of medical supplies, which jorge begins to tear apart to treat the open wounds on thomas’s face.

“well, i’m hoping to avoid death tonight, but i don’t think i will.” thomas hisses as antiseptic is wiped under the curve of his lips, but makes no effort to move away, completely drained.

jorge pauses. “death? from whom?”

“i don’t — “ thomas starts, but he pauses. remembers the ringing in his ears as the bullet went past him, and clams up. “nevermind. it’s nothing, i promise.”

“you let yourself get beat up for nothing?” jorge rolls his eyes. “if this is some sort of pleasure for you, i’m going to advise mary to become your personal therapist.”

“i said it’s nothing. it doesn’t matter what happens to me, i deserve it anyways.” thomas grumbles out, trying to push himself off the table.

“alright, alright! i overstepped, my bad.” he gently pushes thomas back onto the table, squeezing his shoulder. thomas stiffens, attempting to hide the pain show. why don’t you sit back down and i’ll go grab some gauze from the medical tents and i’ll send you off your way — to your demise, since you desire to meet your end this instant.”

thomas watches his back as jorge leaves his cabin, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. 20 minutes until midnight. he zones out, watching as the minutes tick by, tears streaming down his face as regret and anger surge within himself.

eight minutes before midnight, the door slams open, with an out of breath minho. newt barrels in behind him, sweat trickling down his face. teresa crashes right behind the two boys, numerous vials and liquid substances cradled in her arms. brenda pushes her way through with a rifle in her hand, covered from head-to-toe in misleanous weaponry. gally shoves them all inside, gripping the letter tightly in his fist.

“thomas!” they scream in unison. thomas doesn’t get a chance to blink, before they’re huddled around him, inspecting his face and pushing off his jacket and reeling him into a warm embrace.

The sound of bristles scratching against the semi-newly laid wood floor echoed throughout the confined home—one that was more of a hut, but it served as a home. Brenda's hair had since grown longer, levering down past her shoulders. Often, she finds it getting in her way more and more, though all she does about it is put it up. She hasn't found the time to cut it—and, besides, what was that saying? "Hair holds memories"?

Walking into the hut, Thomas' feet still behind Brenda's figure that swept the floor with a twig-broom. "Hi, Thomas," she greeted with a smile, though he couldn't see it.

His hand caressed her shoulder, thin shakes sputtering against her gray shirt before he managed to steady it. "You scared me, there," he began, a light, uncomfortable chuckle nearing to coat his words. "With that ponytail and all."

All other sounds—even the bristles she had just heard so loudly—dispersed into nothingness, and the only viable sound turned into the ocean water feet away. The soft crashing; the stretched and homely repetition; the calling out of the sea, only ever to be met with the same refrain as the wave is pulled back into itself.

Realisation sinking through her, Brenda swore she could feel her own back laying flat against the beach's sacred sand. Her bones thoughtlessly sifting through each broken grain, shards of shells scraping the open bone.

"I looked like Teresa?" she asked, turning agonisingly slow—like he wouldn't actually be there; wouldn't have actually said that.

"Maybe," he mumbled, and his face seemed to drown in regret, his eyes refusing to near hers. "I don't…" He stumbled, pausing and breathing. "I don't think you ever really are her…" he justified, although it should have fallen on deaf ears.

She nodded, turning back around with a thick swallow and continuing her sweeping. "No, I'm sure…" She sighed. "I just mean… I guess what I want to say is, do you wish I was her, Thomas?"

The only sound that could be compared to the gritted, confused stutter that Thomas let out would be the sound of a large mass of salt water desecrating the sand-castle that some little kid had spent so much time on. His breath had gotten caught in his throat; the deciding moment of if the hard work deserved to be ripped so maliciously. His desperate, deep inhale; the moment right before the bucket is flipped, the water tickling at the edge as if it was daring. The several broken exhales; the crystal clear water falling down in intervals, moving across the entire castle.

To finish, the crumbling of the multi-level castle of effort, strain, and time: "I wish I was her."

Somehow, that managed to satisfy Brenda in a way she hadn't imagined. "You're selfless, you know that?" she laughed freely, immediately dropping the broom to turn and embrace him in a hug, her arms wrapped around his wide shoulders. "Silly,"

"Yeah, silly," Sneaking a sly grin on his face, he embraced her right back. "Thank you…" he whispered.

"For what?" she whispered back, mirroring his grin. Her hands moved from behind his back to his face, holding it like she was framing him in the moment.

With his arms drifting down to her waist, he pulled her in tighter—careful not to squeeze. "Loving me, patience, your care—really, I could go on for hours."

Giggling, she rolled her hands from his prickle-sworn chin and smoothed his shirt on his chest. "Yeah, I'm sure you could." Keeping her from rolling her eyes with that signature grin, she pulled him by the collar into a heavy kiss, their lips painting one another like a damp canvas.

"This is why I said thank you," Thomas heaved as their lips disconnected for Brenda to breathe. Foreheads resting on each other's, Thomas whispered again, "I love you."

Her defiant demeanour seemed to have made a comeback. "I'm sure you do, pretty boy." she smirked, popping the tip of his nose with a little boop!

After straightening herself out, her joking stilled, "I love you, too.”

"I'm sure you do." he mocked, picking her up and gently swinging her in circles around the small kitchen-dining-area.

"Careful!" she reprimanded, quickly convincing him to set her down. "You'll break something!"