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“I don't think this is working out.”
Silence.
“Okay.”
Because what else was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to scream and cry? No. No. He's not a toddler. He's not going to argue with Janus over this, for fuck's sake. But Janus hadn't even said anything else, hadn't even told him why. He had just turned and left his room, the one he had barged into without even knocking, shutting the door behind him. Honestly, he should've excepted this. Virgil got accepted and left within the month. Janus has his sappy moment and goes to dinner with the fuckers and—and this. It's not fair. No, no. He's not a toddler.
He grits his teeth, looking down to his hands. They're shaky, little red indents where his nails had pressed into his palm. He scoffs and wipes them on his pants. It isn't fair, though. Really. He's Remus fucking Sanders. He's great. He shouldn't be getting broken up with. He's the only one in this stupid fucking group who's get enough balls to talk shit out. He's done it before. Screaming matches always get something changed, even if nobody else likes to admit it. He's the one who gets shit done.
And it means nothing, does it? Nothing. He's—he's alone again. He's alone.
His face is hot and he can still feel warm tears slipping down his cheeks. God, he's such a fucking toddler.
Face-down on his bed again. He's been in his room for… for what, a week? Hard to tell. He doesn't have windows in here (Snake got rid of them after he broke them for the seventeenth time when he was eight, he never really bothered to make new ones), sure as fuck doesn't have a clock, but—sure. He grits his teeth. He could check his phone. He's somewhat sure he's going to be bombarded with texts, though. He's all but ducked out, honestly. He hasn't put any effort into fulfilling his role as Guy Who Gets Thomas to Do Shit as he usually does. Even if nobody really notices (Sure, emo, great job getting the guy to ask someone out. Now try getting him to tell his mom he's a faggot. And he didn't even get a thanks).
With a hesitancy he hates to even think of, because Remus fucking Sanders never hesitates, he grabs his phone from where he'd thrown it on the floor for God Knows Why, not even reacting at the cracked screen because he's more used to it being like that than being normal. He stares at it, stares, stares as it powers on.
Oh. It's been five days. Cool. Bit longer than he thought.
Nobody has said a word. And somehow, that feels much worse than if he had a million texts from everyone in the world.
He throws the phone again and sits down on his bed. His face is blank, and he's never felt so still. He wants to do Something. Do Anything. He stands again, even if it feels like pulling teeth, and very quickly, he does do Something.
His throat stings and his eyes water. It's not his first time vomiting, obviously. He's Remus Sanders.
It stinks. He stares at it. He's never been phased by bile. Honestly, if it's pulled off right, throwing up can be hot. This is wrong, though. This feels awful. He sits back down. And he cries.
He hasn't looked at his phone since. He's been curled up on his bed for God Knows how long, staring at nothing. Would anyone care if he did duck out? He can't, he knows that. He's the guy who makes Thomas upload every fucking video to his channel. Without Remus, he'd end up homeless. And then everyone would be bothering him, and he's sure that would feel worse, that everyone else only cares when it's starting to fuck them over.
A sigh. No, he's not going to lie to himself. It would still feel better than this. Than being Left like this. But he's not going to do it. Contrary to popular belief, he does care about Thomas. Even if it is one-sided (shut up, shut up, like everything. Shut up.). Can't have the literal Main Guy begging for scraps of food. He'd be too peeved off by the sight to even appreciate the eroticism. He sits up, grabbing the fabric of his pants. He blinks once, then twice as something warm runs over his lip, tickling the hairs above it. He wipes at it, hand coming away with blood smeared. Oh. Oh.
He tunes back into the part of his brain he’s used to tuning out, the guy who's constantly bothering him in a way nobody else can. Pushes past the stream of anger and rambling he hears, instead finding something he's not used to finding—force. Asshole's trying to get control.
He scoffs. Whatever. He's not letting that happen. He grabs his phone again, pressing his lips together when his finger gets cut on the cracked screen protector (Logan made him get that after the last time he made the nerd fix his phone). He powers it on. A week since he's been in here. Explains the hurt in his stomach. He's hungry. He's eaten through all the junk food in here. He kind of assumed it was—you know. Emotions. And all that. He stares at the blank screen for a while with an equally blank look on his face. Then the headache hits. This fucker isn't letting up. I'm sure as fuck not letting us die, pussy! DO something or let ME do something! He ignores him. Even if he's right. Kind of.
He is being a pussy. He wipes at his nose again, sniffling to try and get the blood to stop (it doesn't). He grabs a tissue and stuffs it up in there. With a shake in his hands he'd never admit, he goes to the door.
It's not even locked. He never has to lock it. Nobody comes in. He grabs the handle and opens it, phone in his other hand. God. Whatever. He's going to go get something to gorge himself on and then threaten the nerd into fixing his phone. He's Remus fucking Sanders. He gets over this shit. He always does.
And when it feels like he's leaving a part of himself behind in the room as he exits. Well. He doesn't even think about it.