Chapter Text
Think, Thomas, think, Thomas chastises himself as he stares blankly ahead, past his opponent, a girl his age or he believes so. He'd had it memorized! Why is he blanking so much now? His breathing begins to grow shallow, heartbeat rapidly thumping against his chest like a freight train.
“--mas–are you alright? You look ill,” his teacher says.
Thomas blinks a few times. “M’fine, I'm fine…” he rasps, stumbling forward as cotton fills his throat, his vision swims and the world begins to swim. He leans against the podium in an attempt to steady himself and his vision gives way to black.
“Teresa! It's for you, it's important!” A woman a few years older than Teresa stands with a phone and a terse expression on her face.
Teresa looks over towards the senior neurologist who nods at her and she walks off away from the dark-haired woman and towards the woman holding the phone. “Hello?” She presses the phone to her ear.
“Hello, this is a call from Glade highschool, is this Ms. Macedo?”
An unsettled feeling worms its way into Teresa’s gut, she answers nonetheless. “This is her.”
“Your brother…” There's a pause and some shuffling of papers, “he passed out mid-debate in his debate club this afternoon, he's in the nurse's office and we'd like you to come retrieve him.”
“Of course,” there's a rock in Teresa’s windpipe, “I'm on my way.” She hands the phone back to the other assistant, who's training just as she is and excuses herself. Something was up and it was just starting to materialize physically now but she'd had her suspicions for sometime now.
Shoving her keys into the ignition, Teresa waits for the ignition to switch on and she drives as fast as she can without going over the limit.
It's a blur to Teresa when she arrives, a flurry of questions and speaking and she finally is able to head into the Nurse's office, her eyes flicker towards the cot in the corner, Thomas' eyes flicker open once more, seemingly he has trouble and it takes a lot of strength to keep them from shutting again, he sits up. “They're being ridiculous, Tea.”
“Unreasonable?” Teresa asks incredulously, her eyes locked on Thomas as his hand comes up, massaging his temple, his eyes screw shut. “You passed out, Tom! That's not normal.”
“Once,” Thomas shoots back, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. “It's a one-time thing, Teresa. No biggie.”
“C’mon, Tom,” Teresa implores, she sits down beside him, concern written all over her face. “You don't just pass you, you know that, I know that. Use that brain of yours.”
“It's just a fluke, I guess, I can't skip dinner to study anymore.” Thomas laughs, his throat tightens when he notices that Teresa doesn't seem to find it funny. “I was on the field earlier too, I think it's the heat.”
“You were inside, maybe if you were on the field when you passed out I'd give you the benefit of the doubt, but you were inside!” Teresa insists.
“Teresa, I'm fine, it won't happen again, I swear.” Thomas says, he forces a smile upon his face. He reaches out, taking Teresa’s hand and squeezing it, her eyes linger on their joined hands for a few moments too long, directly at the scrape marks all along his knuckles, scabbed and some bruises.
“Since it's ‘no biggie’, you won't have a problem with me calling Momma, will you?” Teresa's free hand reaches into her coat pocket for her cellphone and Thomas' other hand instinctively grabs her wrist.
“No!” Thomas hisses, voice tight. “She's working, you don't need to bother her. It's nothing!”
“If this isn't because of recurring behavior you should probably see a doctor,” Teresa says, slowly, surely, pulling her wrist away from Thomas' trembling hand. “Since you don't know what it is, we’ll find out. Plus, you're her son, Momma would wanna know.”
“Tea,” Thomas pleads, eyes watering as he struggles to form his words. “Please, don't…”
“I'm sorry, “ Teresa murmurs, retracting her other hand from Thomas'. “This isn't healthy. I'll be back, I'm calling her.” The door shuts behind her as she leaves and he hears the sound of a ringing phone.
Nausea wedges its way into his tightening gut and up Thomas' throat.
The mattress tilts slightly beneath his father's weight, Thomas' mouth wants to open but it's too dry, too tight and words die on his lips. A hand slings across his shoulders and he relents, sinking against his father, it's nice. A hand strokes his shoulder.
Finally, a few words. “You're worrying, your mother and I. Whatever this is, I don't want you to think you can't say anything.” Comforting words, soft words.
Thomas' skin prickles, his throat tightening and he swears his eyes itch with the hot sensation of tears threatening to leak out. A kiss is pressed to the crown of his head, against his hair. And God, Thomas wishes to be little again where none of this bothered him and he was just a happy little boy.
“We've noticed, Filho, and you're not getting any better. Your sister brought an option to us and I'm not exactly fond of it but your mother seems set on it and I'm not going to argue with her. It might help and I think it's worth a try. And if it doesn't, we can get you.”
Thomas is lost, his head swimming. “What?” he rasps, voice, just a hiss, mouth and throat dry, as if he'd eaten cotton.
“Hospital,” his father clarifies and Thomas' eyes snap open.
“Hospital?” Thomas chokes out, words stuck in his throat. “I don't need to go to a hospital, Papai. You're just automatically gonna listen to Teresa? Both of you?” Hurt flickers across his face, voice cracking.
“We'll get you if it doesn't work out, I promise, Filho. If we check you in, we can get you out. If you get hospitalized later, we have no control over the duration of your stay.” A hand swipes down Thomas' back soothingly.
“It's ridiculous,” Thomas says, it's less of a statement and more of a whimper than anything else, he can't say he hadn't known his behavior had finally been picked up on. He was told if he managed to pull himself out on his own they'd only talk about it, put him in therapy and if he didn't, well, they were going to have to figure out how to sort the mess out.
And it seems Teresa had given them their solution. She just couldn't seem to keep her mouth shut. “I don't wanna go…” Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, that only seems to aid the progression of the tears forming in his eyes, leaking down his cheeks.
“What's your name?” The woman stares at him, firmly, but not unkindly, she has square-framed glasses and long black hair.
Thomas cranes his neck, looks at his mother and swallows hard.
He looks at his father as if seeking his approval, something, anything. There's an encouraging nod and suddenly there is a rock in Thomas' windpipe as he meets the woman's forceful gaze. “...Thomas,” he croaks.
“Last name?” Clicking sounds as her fingers tap away at the computer.
“Macedo.”
The woman nods, her eyes flickering towards his parents and Thomas backs away, opting to stay out of the line of sight. “Why are you signing your son in?”
“Suspected eating disorder.” The words ring in Thomas' ears. Eating disorder? Because he skips a few meals and every now and then makes it come up when he eats a little too much? He's eating, he eats too much and he doesn't puke nearly enough to fit any of the criteria.
Thomas’ knuckles turn white as he grips his bag in one hand. They will surely, surely, realize once he’s here, he doesn’t belong here. It’s a blur between check in, bag-check, asking brief questions, and now, weigh-in, which didn’t even happen until ‘evaluations’, whatever the hell that is. What is the point of all those questions if he isn’t even evaluated yet?
The air is suffocating. And freezing. It's definitely freezing. Thomas crosses his arms, his hands rubbing up and down in an attempt to generate heat to no avail.
Suddenly, a voice breaks the silence. There's a bench to Thomas' left and a blond boy around his age sitting there, a brown hoodie that hangs limply over his frame, he's swimming in it. I don't belong here, thinks Thomas. These people are sick.
“Are you new here?” The boy asks, lifting his head from his knees that are beneath his chin, tucked neatly against his chest.
“How'd you guess?” A bitter laugh escapes Thomas as the teen taps the empty spot beside him and reluctantly, Thomas sits.
“The crying,” he says simply, striking brown eyes meeting Thomas', tired and brown like that of autumn leaves or honey being poured into coffee. “It's okay, we all cried the first time.”
“What's your name?” Thomas blurts out, he feels almost at ease. He didn't mean to ask so fast, but the blond only smiles when he senses the anxiety creeping up on Thomas.
“Newt.” He answers, tapping his fingers against his thigh in a pattern. One, two, one, two….
“Thomas.” Thomas says, tightening his jacket around himself, sinking slightly against the bench, the only thing keeping him from slipping is his feet.
The boy–Newt, hums in response. “Thomas,” he echoes as if testing the foreign name on his lips. “It suits you, Mate.”
“Why are you here?” He doesn't mean to be insensitive but he's curious and he sees Newt's shoulders go slack and he sighs.
“I passed out,” Newt states, his eyes staring out the window that's to his left, it's not a normal window. Do they think they're gonna break it or something? “Coach called my mum, well, partly because my best friend was concerned and told him… because it wasn't the first time.”
“And they just sent you?” Thomas coaxes, his hands balling into a fist at his sides. He'd have been fine if it wasn't for stupid Teresa volunteering that she thought inpatient would be best and mom agreeing because ‘Teresa means well.’ Teresa means well his ass!
“I've been before,” Newt admits, his hands coming together, wringing against each other. Slender fingers, jagged nails, they look broken and thin. “I'm on a first name basis with the staff at this point.”
“What about you? This being your first time and all?” Newt smiles despite the tension filling the air and it's refreshing, his smile is easy on the eyes. His eyes crinkle, his lips curve upwards and it's gone as soon as it appears.
“I passed out during a debate competition. I'm in a debate club,” Thomas says, his head knocks against the bench. “Called my mother and my older sister insisted she send me, and here I am. She needs to stop sticking her nose where it doesn't belong!”
“Debate club, huh?” Newt questions. “An intelligent man? I like that.” It's cheesy and he's aware of that and laughs. A light, airy, sweet laugh. Thomas laughs too, cheesy or not, it was funny and maybe a little flattering.
“Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't,” Newt murmurs, he reaches out and his hand hovers. “May I?”
“Huh?”
“Touch your arm, silly.” Newt states as if it's the most obvious thing and Thomas nods. He places his hand comfortingly on Thomas'.
“I checked myself in at a ward before because I knew I'd gotten bad.” Newt traces shapes into Thomas' arm absentmindedly.
“Why would you do that?” Thomas questions.
“I didn't want it to get worse,” Newt croaks, and clears his throat. “My little sister and mum mean the bloody world to me, you know? Had to for them if it wasn't for me. I'm sick. Have they diagnosed you yet?”
“No, but that's because I'm not sick,” Thomas says, curling in on himself.
“They're still gonna evaluate you. That's what we all said the first time.” Newt's voice is soft, comforting even, as if he's walking him through the motions.
“Are you diagnosed? Do you think you have whatever they claim you have?” It's a stupid question, but Newt's smile doesn't falter.
“Anorexia.” Newt's voice is hushed, as if it's poison just admitting it. “And I suppose if the shoe bloody fits.”
I eat, Thomas justifies in his head. He couldn't possibly be Anorexic. He's not sick enough. He eats a little too much.
“Did you just accept it when they told you?”
“No, I was in denial and didn't accept it for the longest time,” Newt says, he picks at his bitten-down nails.
“So, how do these ‘evaluations’ happen?” Thomas averts his gaze away from Newt, his stomach churning.
“Well, they assign you a doctor and take you into a room and they ask you a bunch of questions.” Newt brings up his thumb to his mouth, biting on the nail that's nearly just the finger bed. “The questions are about your eating habits, mindset, how you feel and about what you'd expect.”
Thomas nods.
Pausing Newt, pulls his thumb from his mouth. “I'd recommend you be honest because if they diagnose you wrong because you lie or give too little it's hard to get a good diagnosis if and when you finally want to start to recover.”
“Were you honest?”
“Pretty straightforward,” admits Newt, his voice trailing off. “I didn't think I had a problem and genuinely thought it was normal.” He stops suddenly, lowering his head into his hands, grimacing.
“Newt?”
“M’fine, just a headache. I get them a lot.”
Thomas frowns. “I do too.” You could slice the tension in the room with a knife so he decides to make an attempt to lighten the mood. “And here I thought my questions were annoying you.”
A few beats of silence and Newt giggles in response.
“You need to hush,” Newt says, though there's no real malice behind the words. “Making my head worse.”
“I just happen to be funny.” Thomas' lips quirk into a smile.
“You are, keep that,” Newt says softly, a wistful smile on his face. “If you go too far it starts affecting you up there in more than just how you think. It's terrifying how far you will go knowing how bad it is.”
“I know what I'm doing,” Thomas blurts out, his gaze whipping towards his feet, immediately regretting having Spoken. “I'm in control, it's just an experiment.”
“Is it really controlled? When it's controlling you?” Newt smiles sadly, pulling his jacket tighter around him as shiver wracks his body. “I'm not really in control even if I convince myself I am, and I hate it.”
If Newt's not in control, how unrestrained is Thomas? How terrible at this is Thomas? Is that why it's taken this long for anyone to notice? Is it why his mother didn't wanna deal with it–him–herself?
“When did your parents start to notice something was wrong? What about your sister?” Thomas’ leg curls up across his lap, bouncing in incessantly.
“A while, I guess it kinda hurt...” Newt shrugs, picking at a string in his jacket. “My sister picked up a bit faster, but she didn't understand. She's a kid. She's just always with me. My mum's a nurse so she's really busy so I don't blame her, she picked up fairly fast eventually, though. My dad just didn't wanna pry or anything, I suppose.”
“But you wanted him to pry?” Thomas asks, leg still bouncing.
“Some part of me did, maybe…” It's a simple enough response. “I have a good family so I felt–feel almost guilty about it, ya know? Is that what you wanted too?”
“This is freaky….” Thomas' voice trails off.
“I hit the nail on the head, didn't I?” Newt leans closer, locking his gaze with Thomas'. “I like freaking people out like that, it's entertaining.”
“Right, that sounds about right.”
“Are you telling me I'm obvious?” A stern gaze before a flicker of amusement flashes across Newt's face.
“If the shoe fits…”
“You're funny, I like you.” Newt states. “Too bad we met here. I think we might’ve been friends outside of here.”
“Maybe,” Thomas agrees.
The air in the room is stiff, the door is shut. An air freshener is installed into the corner nearing the desk. A middle-aged woman smiles, stiffly, adjusting her glasses and she flips a page, clearing her throat. “Hello, Thomas, is it?”
Thomas gives a weak nod in response.
“And you are sixteen-years-old, correct?” asks the woman.
“Yes, ma’am.” Thomas nervously taps his fingers against his thigh.
“I’m Dr. Hughes,” says the woman, “do you know why you’re here?”
“I’m getting evaluated,” Thomas states.
“Good,” Dr. Hughes says, her pen moving against the paper. “I’ll be asking you a few questions and I need you to answer them as honestly as possible. Can you do that for me, Thomas?”
He can try.
“Does eating occupy most of your day? Are you worrying about how much you eat and what you eat?”
“Yeah, but who doesn't? Everyone diets. I do lacrosse and that's exhausting so I've got to stay in shape for it.” Thomas’ gaze lowers, he weaves his fingers together nervously.
“Do you worry you have lost control over how much you eat?” Dr. Hughes writes down Thomas' response and she observes him as he hesitates, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.
“I can't seem to keep in check no matter what…” Thomas swallows hard. Clearly they want to hear that! He's eating! Too much. Too much. Compared to everyone here, compared to Newt? He's not sick, he's far from it. He doesn't deserve to be here.
“Do you over exercise, self-induce vomiting, fast, or use laxatives after you eat in general or after you eat large amounts?”
Thomas runs his palm over his knuckles, gently. “I puke, sometimes.”
“Alright, thank you for your time, Thomas,” Dr. Hughes says, writing a few things down. “I'll walk you back to the common area.”
“When will you get back to me?” Thomas questions as they round the corner.
“As soon as possible,” Dr. Hughes assures, she smiles. “Now, Thomas, I think everyone is just doing their own thing so you can go about your business for now. You'll eat lunch in an hour or so and you will have your phone calls after dinner.”
Thomas nods as he walks back into the room and there's some chatter dispersed. Some people sit alone and read, others are chatting in little groups or are playing games or drawing and such.
“Have a nice day, Thomas.”
“You too.”
Thomas casts a glance across the room and takes notice of Newt, in a chair tucked into a corner with a notebook and a marker.
“Hey,” Thomas says, sliding into the seat beside him.
Newt's head rises, tilting to the side as he regards Thomas. “Hi.”
“What are you doing?” Thomas rubs his fingers over the fabric of his jacket, smoothing it between his thumb and forefinger to soothe himself.
“Drawing,” Newt huffs, chewing his bottom lip. “Well, at least I'm trying to…if my hands would bloody stop shaking.”
“Do you like drawing?” Thomas questions.
“Sometimes,” Newt answers, capping the market and tossing it into his lap. “Keep messing up. I like it better when it works properly.”
“Could I see?” Thomas offers a reassuring smile and to his surprise, Newt shrugs, handing it to Thomas. It's an oak tree of some sort with nice detail.
“We have one outside my house, I swear I'm forgetting details but I don't know if that's the childhood whimsy wearing off or that I can't form many coherent thoughts anymore.” Newt sighs.
“It's beautiful,” Thomas says, eyes lingering on the line work. “Must've taken a lot of practice.”
“Something like that.” Newt smooths his hoodie down. “We pretty much have a lot of bloody time to ourselves. We have card games. Do you wanna play Uno? Gotta pass the time somehow.”
“I'll play Uno.” Thomas gets up to follow Newt, he sits the drawing back into where Newt was sitting and follows the blonde to a cubby-like area. Newt retrieves the stack of Uno and brings them back to the table and he and Thomas sit together. Newt shuffles the cards several times before dealing them out.
“Are you any good at Uno?” Newt questions, organizing his cards. “Do you play stack or no stack?”
Thomas nods in response.
“I'm not bad,” Thomas comments, stacking a couple of ones on top of the first card. “My dad is really good.”
Newt snorts, eyeing the cards, he places down a blue seven changing the color. “My old man can't play anything other than go fish.”
Thomas sits down two fives. “Are you close with your dad?”
“We're pretty close-knit,” Newt concedes as he places a draw two.
Thomas places down another draw two. “My parents work a lot. My momma’s a lawyer.”
Newt hums in response as he places another draw two, he sorts through his cards, hoping Thomas runs out before him. “My mum's a nurse.”
“Local?” Thomas questions placing down his last draw two. “Do you look like her?”
“Yeah, the one a few blocks down from the school,” Newt says, he blinks a few times as he places down his other draw two. “I do look like her, why?”
“I've seen her around,” Thomas states as he mutters underneath his breath. “You got me. Shit! how many is that?”
Newt laughs and it's light, airy, smooth like fresh honey. Thomas thinks he could listen to it for ages. He thinks he enjoys Newt's company. “I'm not good at math.”
“That's a shame.” Thomas laughs along with Newt as he collects several cards.
“Newt, time for lunch. And… Thomas, is it? It's good to see you two are interacting. Newt doesn't interact much.” A staff member with curly brown hair smiles at them.
Newt huffs, sitting his stack of cards down. “It's already lunch? I feel like it's getting earlier and earlier.”
“Same time as always, Kiddo.” she says, staring at her watch. “Let's get going.”
“You can sit with me.” Newt stands up, slowly at first, he takes a moment before he begins walking and though hesitant, Thomas follows.
Thomas is led into a fairly large room with several tables, they go through the line and Newt walks him to the table in the corner where he usually sits. “Nice view,” he comments, fidgeting with the plastic covering of the also plastic fork and spoon.
“I know,” Newt grins, biting the plastic open. “I like to watch people.” He laughs quietly to himself as he eyes the mound of rice, beans on the side, a square of bread and some mixture of broccoli and carrots. He pokes around at the rice, pushing away the edges that touched the beans.
“Do we get in trouble if we don't eat everything?” Thomas whispers.
“If you eat most of it, they keep their mouths shut mostly. Depends.” Newt says getting a spoonful of rice, he chews, and chews, and chews. It must be absolute mush by the time he's done with it and he can't understand how that texture isn't hell. Newt repeats the same thing until half of the rice is gone. “You should eat,” he encourages as he pokes the fork–after several failed attempts–through a piece of broccoli and sticks it in his mouth and chews on it, slowly.
Thomas sighs, he mixes the rice and beans together. He supposes as long as he eats most of it, he should be fine. It's not like he doesn't eat anyways. When doesn't he eat? A few spoonfuls in and he's wondering just how many calories are in it. A lot, his mind supplies. This is an eating disorder ward. Just what you need.
Newt pokes another broccoli in the first attempt this time and takes a bite, but he doesn't finish it. He places the fork down. He swallows hard.
Thomas manages halfway through the mixture of rice and beans and manages more broccoli and carrots. He doesn't touch the bread or finish the rice and beans.
Newt finishes the vegetables but that's all he's able to do. Thomas notices the note taking before they are allowed to throw the trays away and thankfully nothing is said to him yet. He might just be able to survive this. He doesn't belong here. He’ll be out of here in no time.
“Wanna finish our game?” Newt's voice cuts into Thomas' train of thought, a welcome change of pace. Newt's voice is soothing, soft.
Thomas nods, returning to his seat as he retrieves his cards. “Who’s turn was it?”
“I think yours,” says Newt.
A few more games of Uno and dinner was well on its way. It's a blur, then it's over, next, phone calls are supposed to be starting.
“Newt? Are you gonna make your phone call?”
Newt rises from his seat. “I'll see you in a bit, Thomas,” he states, walking towards where his name had been called.
Thomas sinks back into the chair he's sitting in, pushing his exposed hands into the sleeves, trapping all the warmth inside.
“Thomas? Are you going to make your phone call?”
Thomas walks in the direction of where his name has been called, flipping through the papers and settling on with his name on it. “Who’re you calling?” Momma and Papai are probably back at work… So if he wants to speak to Chuck for now he's gonna need to call home, so Teresa.
Thomas clears his throat, suddenly feeling as if he swallowed sandpaper. “My older sister: Teresa.”
A few beats of silence and it's dialed and the phone is handed to him, Thomas grips it tightly. It rings once, twice. And finally it clicks as the end is being transferred. “Thomas?” It's Teresa’s voice.
“Are our parents home?” Thomas questions.
“No, they aren't, but they'll be off tomorrow when you call. How are you? Are you okay–”
Thomas interrupts her, his throat tightening. “Where's Chuck?”
“I see you're still mad at me,” Teresa says.
“If you're just going to lecture me I'm going to hang up. I wanna talk to Chuck.” Thomas murmurs.
“Okay, that's fine, I love you, Tom. I'm putting Chuck on the phone.” There's the sound of keys shuffling, Teresa calling for Chuck, footsteps and what he thinks is sniffling.
“Thomas?” Chuck's voice rings out.
Thomas' fingers splayed across the phone. “Chuck! I'm so sorry, buddy. Who walked you home from school? Someone walked you home from school, right?”
“Rachel did,” Chuck says. “Are you okay?”
Thomas exhales, slowly, he smiles weakly. “Tell her I said thank you. I promise I'll be home as soon as possible. How is school?”
“It was good. Marcus was out of school so his friends didn't really bug me much today.” Chuck says. “I had a test, too. I made a 90.”
“You did? That's great. I'm proud of you.” Thomas says, he taps his fingers against the phone. “Well, I'm about to have to get off of here…so… I love you. Goodnight, Chuck.”
“Goodnight, Thomas.” Chuck replies.
Teresa’s back on the phone, “I know you don't have much longer but I just want you to know I want you to feel better, okay–”
“Goodbye, Teresa.” Thomas ends the call. As he returns back to his seat he notices Newt has also returned.
“How'd your call go?”
Newt blinks a few times, sniffling, throat tight. His palms are pressed against his eyes, rubbing at his damp eyes. “I talked to my mum and dad. My sister's not feeling well.”
“What's wrong?” questions Thomas. “If you don't mind me asking.”
“They miss me,” Newt murmurs. “My mum feels bad about me being here again and… I just hate hearing her cry…” stray tears leak from his eyes and he sniffles. “I hope your call went better than mine.”
“I wish I could've spoken to my dad, but I spoke to my little brother, so I'm satisfied,” Thomas says. “Do you want a hug?”
Newt pauses but he nods and allows Thomas to wrap his arms around himself. “I hope you can talk to your dad tomorrow then.” His voice is muffled against Thomas' jacket.
“Me too.”
It's not too long before everyone's ushered into their respective rooms. “Which way is yours?”
Newt smiles in response, nodding towards the left of the hallway. “Goodnight, Thomas. I'll see you tomorrow.” He smiles as he turns on his heels and towards his room.
“Goodnight, Newt.” Thomas echoes, stepping into his room and shutting the door. He kicks off his shoes and takes a minute to uncover what he has to get from the bed and slide into it, pulling it up over his shoulders and curling on his side. He watches the shadows each of his movements cast across the plain cream color of the wall and his stomach does a flip. He's really in here for good. They aren't just trying to scare him.