Chapter Text
There were things in death that reminded Thomas of life in a good way. The sky, for example, especially at night. He could spend hours staring at the stars, trying to make sense of life and death. Or his fellow ghosts, the only thing he can actually interact with in any way. He wishes he could ask for hugs from them more often.
There were unfortunately many more things that reminded him of the worst parts of life. Winter, for one, was never his favourite season while alive. He’d always hated that the sun set so early, and even more than that, the incessant cold that wouldn’t go away no matter the amount of layers he was wearing.
The first issue feels a bit detached from him now, partly thanks to modern technology offering lighting at any time, partly because there’s no way he’s ever left alone for more than a day, which helps. The second one, however, is even more of an issue. He found out pretty quickly that he’s the only ghost in Button House who can still feel temperature.
Which is probably why nobody believes him when he tells them he’s cold every winter. It’s fine. Or it would be, if he couldn’t also feel pain. He wonders if it’s because of how unusual his relationship with pain was while alive. Their ghostly abilities seem to connect with how they died. But he doesn’t remember feeling pain while dying, not really. He’d had a couple drinks before the duel, and he was so focused on staying alive that he didn’t even notice the pain.
So, it really doesn’t make sense, unless this is god’s punishment for using pain as an escape from the world and opium as an escape from the pain while he was alive.
In short, winter is miserable. He’s cold and that makes everything hurt more. The wound in his abdomen feels fresh, like it would bleed if ghost rules didn’t prevent that. And it hurts. Not all the time, it mostly happens at the most inconvenient moments though. They think he’s being dramatic when he grimaces and his hand moves up to cover the wound.
If he could travel back in time to prevent himself from doing something, it wouldn’t be the duel. He knows himself well enough to know that no amount of warning could’ve convinced him to think for at least a second before challenging the man to a duel. He thinks he could’ve prevented himself from making a neat row of stupid, unhelpful cuts along his ankle, where he knew they’d be hidden by socks for the day.
It was a horrible habit of his, in life. To soothe nerves, to keep himself in line, whenever he did something wrong or whenever someone wronged him, when he just felt bad for no reason, he’d pick up his penknife.
It began around the time he met Byron. He never admitted to anyone the reason he dislikes him so.
He was young, barely an adult then. Byron was older, more experienced, and Thomas thought he loved him. How foolish was he. It was of course illegal, what they did. But then again, they were poets, and everyone seemed to turn a blind eye on them because of that, as well as because of Byron’s status.
He gave everything he could to Byron. And when he couldn’t give any more, he was thrown away. After offering his words, his body, his life, Thomas was left alone. It was all his fault anyway. So, he deserved to hurt.
A part of him wishes he could tell his past self that it wasn’t his fault. A part of him knows it wasn’t his fault. But mostly, he’s just angry. And sad. He’s angry and frustrated with the world and himself, but most of all, the man who made him feel cared for and then abandoned him.
He’s alone now, hurting. Because nobody knows. This little habit of his was never noticed by anybody. Which he would consider impressive, after all, it has been over 200 years now, and the cuts still look fresh, even after all that time.
The problem is, they sting. Not more so than the bullet wound, but unlike it, they hurt more often than not.
And sometimes, that makes him happy. Because he deserves the pain. Because he needs the pain. And that terrifies him. That even after centuries, he still needs this. He wants to go back and stop himself from ever doing this. He wants to tell someone. To ask for help.
They’d never understand.
He’s alone in his misery and they mock him for it. They call him dramatic, tell him it just isn’t possible. That doesn’t stop him feeling this way though, does it?
He runs a finger down his sock, over the place he knows hides years of scars and the last cuts he ever made. It’s fine. Everything is fine and he doesn’t feel cold and his chest isn’t tight and his wound doesn’t hurt. No one looks for him when he doesn’t turn up for Pat’s clubs. Why would they? It’s not like this is out of the ordinary for Thomas. In the past, there were winters when he’d sulk for weeks and weeks on end.
He’d found that some places in the house are warmer than others. The living quarters, of course, but also the attic, and some small storage spaces closer to Mike and Alison’s room. He’s chosen to hide in one of the storage spaces for now. He’s trying to keep his breaths even, although it probably doesn’t even matter. It’s not like he can pass out if he stops breathing.
He curls further in on himself and backs all the way into the corner. Maybe he could get some sleep if he keeps himself distracted enough from the pain…
He only wakes up when there’s a hand on his shoulder. Instinctively, he flinches away from it, before looking up at whoever found him. To Thomas’s surprise, it’s Kitty.
“Oh! Were we playing hide and seek? Did I find you? Oh this is so exciting!” She exclaims, and Thomas only recoils a little bit. It’s just Kitty, she wouldn’t laugh at him, would she?
“Yes,” he starts, carefully, “you found me, great job Kitty.” He wants to tell her to go, leave him alone to bathe in his own misery. He also wants her to stay, maybe give him a hug. So, he stays quiet, and waits for Kitty to do or say something.
She studies him for a few seconds. Then she moves forward and wraps her arms around him. That’s Thomas’s breaking point. He lets out one loud sob and clings to her for dear life.