There's an eerie silence amongst the group of long time friends, which is something uncommon and definitely unfitting considering how loud and rambunctious they usually are when put together in one room. But they're letting the news sink in, giving it time to process within their slightly younger friend. After all, it's a lot for one to soak in. Especially someone that's known to be as fragile minded as Thomas Teller is. The man in question stands in the middle of the living room. Everything about his body language is tense and rigid, coiled tight and waiting for any opportunity to spring. Hazel eyes focused downwards, trembling hands held tightly by his sides, and soft lips pursed into a thin line. No one in the room knows it, but he's the spitting image of his mother. “Do we know who did it?” he asks tersely, finally breaking the silence after what seemed like eons. His voice seems to be the needle to the rooms balloon of tension - as soon as he speaks, action resumes again. Royd stands, begins to gather up all the liquor and clear the room of any drugs that aren't weed. He knew Thomas’ battle with addiction - beyond the sex, the part that he didn't tell anyone about - and knew that his best friend couldn't afford to relapse. “We already–” “No, like… who did it… exactly?” His hands are shaking now, and his eyes are watering. He's on the brink of a breakdown and it's only getting worse. Alicia, an addition to the group that had come after he left, gently guides Thomas to a chair opposing the coffee table. She eyes him warily as she does, careful that he doesn't lash out. She'd heard the stories. Read the article. She didn't know the man, and she didn't know what he was or wasn't capable of. “No. No DNA or anything was retrieved, so they can't make any positive ID’s. Witnesses only saw the kuttes. We don't know anything else,” Chloe whispers sadly. Her hands wrap tightly around her mug of tea, and she shakes her head - almost as if she can't believe it herself. “Tom, I know how much you loved them… I'm so sorry…” He says nothing, for a few moments. All he can do is sit there and tremble. The newspaper from the day after the incident is on the coffee table in front of him, and his eyes keep finding the headline. It's like he wants to torture himself by reading it. Motorcycle Gang. Hate Crime. Two Dead. Sergio and Alexis had found solace within each other after Thomas left Los Angeles, and it had only deepened when they found out he had fallen in love. They both had missed and had loved him to the point where they needed someone to comfort them on the fact that he was never coming back. So they'd turned that love for him into some sort of sexual tryst between themselves. But that bloomed. It bloomed into something more foundational. It bloomed into late night phone calls and romantic walks on the beach and movie dates and after only two months, proposal. (Proposal that had been, surprisingly enough, guided by Thomas during a late night phone call with Sergio sometime after his leaving) They were going to move to Tacoma, where Sergio was finishing up his last year of med school. They were going to get a house and be a couple – Sergio was gonna be a doctor for Christ's sake, something he'd been studying for when he was with Thomas. They were going to be happy and Jesus, they were already considering having Chloe surrogate for them. And they were killed. Beaten to death by the Tacoma charter of the Sons of Anarchy. Because Alexis just happened to be in drag and just happened to be with her boyfriend and just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Two beautiful lives were gone. “When's the funeral?” he asks shakily, his eyes fluttering closed. He couldn't stand to see them reduced to nothing but a ‘Hate Crime’ anymore. “Tom… that's the thing…” “What? They're not having a funeral for them?” he asks, suddenly infuriated. He's already angry, but even the smallest idea that they won't be celebrating the beautiful lives of his best friends only makes him livid. It didn't make sense - Sergio's family was very accepting of their sons sexuality, and while Alexis’ family wasn't exactly ‘pro-homo’ - as the blonde enigma liked to call it - they didn't hate her enough to refuse her a proper burial. “No, they are,” Chloe rushes to recover, before pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. She's floundering, it's obvious. Reaching for the words she can't find. “It's just…” “Their families don't want you there,” Royd deadpans, emerging from the kitchen. His expression is completely unreadable, but the tone of voice suggests that he doesn't have any inhibitions with the families’ decision. “and we, too, think it's best if you just… don't go.” Thomas’ stomach drops to the pit of his stomach as he struggles to process this on top of everything else. He can hear Royd saying something important, the deep gravelly baritone from the other man rumbles in his ears, but it's muffled. Drowned out, as if he's been submerged beneath water. Didn't want him there… families don't want you there… think it's best if you don't go… the words replay like some fucked up broken mantra in his head. He was being asked not to attend… no, he was being told not to attend the funerals of two of the people he loved the most. Because… because… “Why…?” he asks numbly, managing to speak around the the lump around his throat. “I think you know why. They… they've heard stories. About your family. About what they do in situations like these. They just want you and the Sons of Anarchy to back off,” Royd says coldly. “and I don't blame them.” “Roy–” Chloe starts, but the man puts a hand up. “His family killed them, Chloe!” he roars, and there are tears burning tracks into his face. “They murdered them in cold blood! I don't care if he wasn't there or if he didn't do it himself. He's just as accountable as they are!” “I didn't know. I didn't know that was gonna happen. I didn't know any of this shit was gonna happen,” Thomas whispers hoarsely, because he doesn't have the energy in him to shout back. His first love and his best friend had just been murdered by people that he'd grown up calling ‘Uncle’. People that had probably played trucks with him before or taken him to the park. People that knew his brother. His mother. His father. And his best friends blamed him. So no, he didn't have the energy to fight anymore. “But it did,” says Royd, after he collapses back into the couch. He looks just as drained as Thomas feels, but then again, he can't be. He wasn't the one being banned from his best friends wedding. “and there's nothing you can do about it. Those men are going to be pat on the back by your brother. Your mother. Your step-father. Rewarded.” “Don't you dare bring my moth–” “Stop protecting them!” The apartment falls silent again. That eerie silence that should be filled with Sergio’s thick Mexican accent or Lexi's soft, girlish giggle. The sound of their playful bickering, or the group-wide political debates that Sergio always seemed to win. The sound of Lexi’s croaking singing voice belting out the lyrics to Fergalicious on karaoke night. That eerie silence that will never be filled with those two beautiful sounds again. “I think you should go, Thomas,” Royd finally croaks, and it's obvious that he'd been sobbing while the Teller had been caught up in his thoughts. “and I don't think you should come back.” Red-rimmed hazel eyes find that of his best friend. The man that had helped him through his addictions. That had smoothed down his sweaty hair and held the trash can close while he vomited up the acidic contents of his stomach. That had saved his life over and over and over again. And he was casting him away. “Yeah. I think so too. But Roy?” “Yeah?” “I loved them, too. Just remember that.”
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