Notes: Drabble based on a one word prompt, Home.
This was supposed to be a one hundred word drabble (kind of blew past that, huh?), but I couldn't stand to cut anymore. I have problems with word limits.
Thomas sits, alone in his apartment, on his ridiculously fashionable and expensive couch, which he really does hate. It's tacky and much too firm and makes him long for comfortable, hideous plaid.
Twisting the top off his beer — chilled to perfection, Mac's delicate sensibilities be damned — he wishes, not for the first time, that he was home. Stupidly small and depressingly decorated or not, he misses the old, drafty basement. His new place, while quite spacious and luxurious, lacks a certain something.
Thomas is having a difficult time pinpointing what that something is — he thrives on denial just as much as he does oxygen, apparently.
Frustrated, he flicks the bottle cap through the air, his eyes tracking its journey towards the wall with disinterest. The cap smacks into the plaster with a soft clink, then clatters to the ground.
Maybe he's just a tiny bit lonely with no one else around, Thomas muses. Maybe it has nothing to do with brooding wizards who consider almost blowing up the apartment building when a potion goes wrong a minor mishap and nag him to death when he forgets to walk the dog; or sofas with cushions fashioned from clouds instead of bricks; or hordes of reanimated corpses — Empty night, he thinks. Only his special needs brother could wind up with fucking zombies laying siege to his door — to liven up the evening.
Thomas snorts and takes a long pull from his beer. That last one he could definitely do without experiencing ever again, but as for the rest, well... He thinks he can summarise his morose mood in a single reason.
He misses home because that's where Harry is.