thomas-hamilton:

complaininginthedark:

(Here. Because I am incapable of existing in a world where Thomas Hamilton is dead and decided to make something where he wasn’t. Warning for mental illness)

–

Thomas had good days and bad days. On a good day he would venture into the garden or down the dusty road to look out at the sea. He would talk to Miranda and kiss her and do the same to James when he was home. Sometimes he even tried to cook; slicing vegetables and meat, stirring simple sauces and filling their home with the smell of food. In the evenings he would sit with Miranda curled up on his right and James pressed to his left, they would read together, and watch the fire turn to embers before retiring to bed.

Some nights they made love, fast and frantic or slow and tender depending on their collective mood. Thomas would grasp at his lovers’ skin and kiss their lips and gasp at how good it felt to be home again. To be loved. To be touched.

Thomas liked his good days. He didn’t like the bad days.

Of course there were a spectrum of bad days. Some were bearable in their slow monotony and quiet whispers of this is a dream and you’re not welcome here. He could ignore those whispers on the slow days.

But some nights, more than he would like, Thomas woke up sweating and cold with a scream stuck in his throat. He would jerk himself awake, waking his partners simultaneously, and sob until there was nothing left inside him. Fear clawed at his skin and made him paranoid. What if James or Miranda left him? What if someone found him and threw him back in Bethlam?

He knew, on some level, that it wouldn’t happen. No one knew who he was in Nassau, on New Providence Island. But he would cling to James until his fingers hurt, bite his lip until it bled and whine when he was alone. Thomas was never alone for long, but a few minutes were enough. It had only taken minutes for his father’s men to drag him out of his home and away from the world.

Thomas was quite mad. He sometimes saw and heard things that weren’t there. He sometimes slipped back into the past and beg for his shackles to be taken off, for some kind of end to the horror. He hated that Miranda saw it, hated that James saw it, hated that the two loves of his life were forced to put up with his madness and his angry flashes of delusion…

But even after he had lashed out at James, clawing at him to get away, get away-

James had simply held his shaking form until he could stand or talk again. He had kissed Thomas’ red knuckles and wiped the blood from under his nails. Then, with infinite tenderness and care, he had helped Thomas into clothes that weren’t damp with sweat. Miranda had come from town to the sight of James with cuts on his face and cradling Thomas’ head in his lap. She wordlessly cleaned the cuts and made hot tea.

After the first rocky months of being together, they found an equilibrium together once again. Thomas found his episodes lessening in severity thanks to the new found stability he had. He was able to help more with general upkeep of the little house, able to go into Nassau when he felt stronger. He managed to help his love’s with their past grief. It helped.