First Love, Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Had the mangling, crushing compression near Luke’s heart been measured with the proper instruments, it could have considerably clarified the debate on the consequences of colliding neutron stars. For there was no doubt - the superheated sea of degenerate matter swirling within Luke’s ribcage meant that he was currently losing the battle with gravity.
A black hole was forming in his chest.
He could feel it feeding off the rest of his body, absorbing the dawn light filling the hotel room, reflecting nothing in return. He sat on the bed, against the headboard, tangled in soiled sheets smelling of him. Nakedly aching, in a state of sweeping gravitational collapse, Luke waited for the void to grow large enough to end him.
You can see the Statue of Liberty from our room.
His mind fixed on the distant figure, on the somewhat curious fact that he hadn’t before noticed. He carefully avoided the connotation of “our room,” of its being all they would ever share. Part of him knew he was being unnecessarily maudlin; Reid wasn’t forever gone, wasn’t dead. He was in Boston. Luke could easily find him.
But Reid had left. After everything. After Luke had given everything.
After I took what he wasn’t ready to give.
The oblivion crept, swallowed. Luke welcomed it.
Just before his eyes closed, he saw it. The curve of a black strap on the floor next to the bed, beneath the lumpy bedspread pooling on the carpet. He watched it for a while, waiting for it to make sense, waiting for his muddled, sluggish thought process to sort through the incoming signals, to tune out the foreground feedback wailing in his skull. It wasn’t his strap. His bags were over there (undisturbed, no paper note left on top to break their blackness). A note - suddenly, Luke was standing, lurching over to the chair, to the dresser, looking under the desk, stumbling into the bathroom, turning on the light.
Not even a note.
He leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, facing out. Facing the mirrored closet door, faced with the pale figure of a man covered in Reid’s marks, in his semen. A hollowed man Reid had left behind. Despite knowing that they were each other’s best chance, only chance, at happiness, at living in a properly lit and colored world. Luke tried to look into his own eyes, to find signatures of what they had shared, evidence of merger, echoes of oscillating energies; he closed his eyes, trying to feel magnetic lines of reconnection.
Reid.
All he could feel was the singularity of despair.
Without looking into the mirror again, he turned back toward the bed, eyes again gravitating to the horizon of New York harbor. As he shuffled slowly forward, he began to feel a different pull, familiar in its frequency but startling in its strength. Out of the depths of the emptiness in his chest crawled a compelling need. A command. The trajectory of his feet bowed before his mind caught up; suddenly, he found his body angled in an unexpected direction.
He was facing the minibar.
His eyes fixed on the smooth chrome framing orderly forms behind glass, rows of round metal and liquid amber. Luke could taste it. Any of it, all - it could fuel the void, end the struggle. It would silence the low hum that had always been present, at times swelling, especially in recent years, but never to this magnitude.
Luke could no longer think of a reason not to give in.
He dragged a foot forward, a foot closer. It bumped the fallen bedspread, catching in the forgotten strap. Momentarily distracted from his final purpose, he lowered to the edge of the bed and reached down, uncovering a small black travel bag. He lifted it to his lap, fit his palms over the zipper, pressed his fingers against the leather, wondered how long ago Reid had bought it, how many places it had traveled with him, if he had noticed yet that he’d forgotten it. Wondered what small parts of Reid’s life it contained. He began to unzip.
There was a faint outline of petals, as if etched, on the precisely folded tissue. Luke fingered the dark circle of dampness at the center before carefully peeling back the top layer, his mind still far behind his actions. Within, he saw the colors, vivid against the pale tissue and the dark interior and the muted grays and browns of the toiletry bottles beneath. He saw the sharply folded green stem angled upward across the flower face, bisecting the brown and radiating yellow, the slender petals creased and slightly crumpled but otherwise intact. As if they’d been pressed between the folds of the tissue, as if in a pocket. Luke looked down into the bag for a good moment, almost seeing, the high-pitched feedback that had been ringing in his ears gradually fading. Finally, mental pathways began to clear, his reeling mind to realign. Siren calls subsided. His solar mass stiffened; degeneration reversed as the curved rim of the void began to close, unfreezing space and time.
The time. What time is it?
He re-zipped Reid’s bag, scanning the room for his jeans and then rushing over to dig out his phone from a pocket. As the phone on the other end rang, he reached for one of his bags, carefully placing Reid’s inside. He then dressed quickly, balancing and hopping as he went, oblivious to pained muscles and encrusted skin and flattened hair. Finally, his call was answered.
“Thank God you picked up. OK, please, just listen to me.” He temporarily gave up trying to put on his shoe. “Are you in front of your computer? Great, OK, I need you to book me on whatever flight leaves JFK at 7 am for Boston. One way. Yeah, I know it’s tight.” The phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, he finished stuffing his shoes onto his feet and the remainder of his scattered belongings into his bags. He began to roll toward the door. “What? Seriously? OK…fine, book both of them. Yes, both. Fine, first class…whatever’s left. No, from my personal account - this isn’t for the Foundation. No, no return flight to Oakdale. I know, just tell her…tell her I’ll explain everything later, OK? Thanks, bye.”
The singularity in his chest had transmuted into a singular sense of purpose. Luke held the tote bag close to his body, briefly considering leaving the other two bags behind to be shipped to Boston before deciding that the request would take more time than it would save. He raced through the lobby, a bag slung on each shoulder, the third being briskly wheeled behind. He checked his phone.
There’s time. Hop in a cab, no traffic on a Saturday morning, there’s just enough time. I can make it. I can catch him.
And then he saw the line. Or rather the loose but large assemblage of bleary-eyed coffee drinkers and their luggage positioned between Luke and the curb, where a doorman whistled for taxis on a mostly empty street.
A fist of nothingness punctured Luke’s chest. The void was back. Its promise of oblivion was dangerously seductive.
Unsure what the next move should be (checkmate), Luke sank into a temporary paralysis. He dimly heard the piecing whistles, their high-pitched frequencies swallowed by the growing vacuum within him. He almost saw the yellow cab pull up to the front of the line, the doorman leaning in to speak to the driver before opening the backseat door for a man turning to grab the last of his bags, on the verge of stooping into the cab.
“Luke!”
The voice halted Luke’s descent into his internal abyss. He lifted his attention to the man with one hand on the door of the cab. The other arm was waving.
“Hey…” Alex stopped when he saw Luke’s face. That must have been it - Luke could later think of no other reason for what Alex did next. Luke’s expression must have told of tragedy.
Putting a hand on the doorman’s shoulder, Alex spoke into his ear; the two men then motioned for Luke to approach. Still dragging his awareness fully up from the depths, Luke rolled forward, gradually picking up speed, not quite yet present enough to notice the varying degrees of pique exhibited on passed faces.
Alex briefly looked around as Luke moved closer. “Reid?” asked Alex softly.
Luke shook his head, his eyes large and dull.
“Don't suppose you're heading to Newark?”
The slight hope that had been incrementally building seeped out with a nearly audible reedy whine. Again, Luke shook his head, dropping it.
Sighing, Alex stepped back, rolling his suitcase to the side. With one hand still on the car door, he flourished an arm toward the interior of the cab. “See you in Boston, then.”
Luke looked up, struggling to make sense of the exotic expression on Alex’s face: a sincere smile. Which twisted only slightly when Luke hugged him before throwing his luggage and then himself into the backseat of the cab.
Luke found his voice. “JFK, please. As fast as humanly possible. Faster. I have to make this flight.” He turned from the driver in time to see Alex salute him as the cab pulled into the street. Luke held up a hand in return.
“Which airline?”
“Huh? Oh…” Luke struggled to snap his mind back to working order. Right. He checked the time on his phone. Crap. Time for only one try. Shit. Please, God…
“Jet Blue.” Please please please. “And it leaves at seven.” Luke could see the cabbie’s eyebrows rise. “And I’m known for my generosity.” The cab accelerated.
Luke checked his phone again before forcing it deep into his pocket. The timing was out of his control now. What he would say, how he would get through, how he could recapture lost ground, that should be his focus. But he could feel the nonexistent ticking through his pants pocket, could feel it with each clicking pass of tires over breaks in the road, at each sadistically long red light. He had to get to Reid now, before Boston, before the rhythms of Reid’s recent life reclaimed him, before old patterns were remembered and reinforced. Before he could rebuild - even at a distance, Luke could feel the meadow being disturbed, quarried, the earth turned to lay fresh foundation for a new fortress. Every minute meant further progress toward devolution.
This time it’ll be different.
This time I’m coming after you.
As the cab bisected the bottom of Manhattan, Luke tried to think, tried to plan. What should he say? That he loved him? That they were meant to be? That he would never let Reid go? He'd already said it - and to what effect? It hadn’t worked. Not true - it did, we did. Reid just panicked. Decided on emergency surgery to cut out the parasite (mutualist) before it - before I - could get any farther in. Because he couldn’t handle what he was feeling. That had to have been it - I mean, come on, not even a note? No way he’d ever be so heartless. Not with me. He just wasn’t thinking straight. And at least there was no note telling me not to follow. He had to have known I would follow….
But Luke couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Reid had been counting on the fact that Luke wouldn’t follow. That he would be too weak or indecisive. Or devastated - surely, Reid would have known what his leaving would do to Luke. How it would destroy him (like Reid had been destroyed).
No. He could never intentionally be that cruel. It was just a moment of panic. (so why didn’t he turn around and come back?) It shows how deeply he loves me, so deeply it terrified him. (then why didn’t he ever say the words?)
At first Luke didn’t notice when the canyons of Manhattan abruptly gave way to water views. The cab was halfway over the East River before he realized he was once again crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, only in the opposite direction, and in daylight.
And alone.
The emptiness of the cab suddenly served as a moving focal point for the entire weight of the bridge - trusses and towers were now merely conduits funneling all forces directly into the backseat. Onto Luke’s chest. Reid’s absence from the seat beside him was a tangible shadow entity; Luke lay the back of his hand on top of the tote bag in the middle of the seat, closing his eyes, willing the weight of Reid’s hand to materialize against Luke’s palm. His fingers involuntarily curled.
His pocket vibrated. He nearly twisted a finger pulling his phone out.
“Hello? Oh, right - yeah, I still need both tickets. Just send me the confirmation numbers…great, thanks. I seriously owe you, Sabrina. What? No, no rain here - why, is there supposed to be? Nope, not a cloud, blue skies. I’m actually crossing over water now…it’s really beautiful - yeah, I’d better go. Thanks again.”
As the cab continued over the bridge, Luke craned his neck to watch the play of sunlight on metal and stone. Why isn’t it raining? It should be raining. The day has no right to be this perfect. The script should call for rain during the race to the airport.
Luke looked down at his phone. At least I have an excuse for not just calling him. I don’t have his number. The thought was anything but consoling. He returned the phone to his pocket, closing his mind to a doleful thought: I should have taken the photo.
The rest of the ride was spent oscillating between constructive planning and destructive doubt. Through it all, Luke kept an internal eye on the cosmic state of his chest, occasionally resorting to pressing a hand over his heart to keep dark forces at bay. At least the traffic gods were on his side - Brooklyn soon turned into Queens, and airport signs began flashing by.
There’s time. This will work.
“Terminal five, right? There, you see it?” Luke was on the edge of the seat, sharp eyes darting among all windows. As the cabbie took the last turn, Luke sorted his bags and pressed against the door, digging for cash in his wallet, grateful that he still had a few large bills. “Great job, thanks.” He handed a couple to the driver, pushing out of the taxi as soon as it slowed to a roll.
With stress hormones sharpening his senses, he flew through the gate, stopping briefly at a self-service kiosk and blessedly short security line. His spirits lifted as his speed increased - he was soon running and rolling at top speed over the polished floor, past shops just lifting their gates. He was attuned to announcements; he heard the first boarding call for his flight as he made the final approach toward the gate.
I’m here, Reid.
The passengers were lining up as Luke arrived. He skidded to a halt, still not quite sure what the plan should be when he found Reid. Better to see him before he sees me. Luke hung back, sweeping his attention over the extent of the queuing crowd, tempted just to close his eyes and feel for the pull. After the initial scan he walked closer, his pace picking up as he wove through the passengers, his search becoming more overt. More frantic. Finally, he wheeled up to the check-in counter and asked if any passengers had already boarded. The answer caused him to lift a hand to his chest. He stood searching for stragglers, watching the door of the men’s room, looking in the direction of the food court. But the fight was leaving him. The evidence was fast-approaching irrefutable: he’d picked the wrong flight.
It’s over.
By now the signs were familiar - the crushing lethargy, the yawning emptiness. The overwhelming desire to fold into complete collapse. This time, there would be no external savior or serendipitous sign to halt the implosion. This time, there was only the internal - lessons learned, strength accrued. Connections forged in heat and pain and blinding light. Trust. But was it enough? In a moment of clarity, Luke realized Reid hadn’t been the only one with fear-based defenses. Luke had thought he couldn’t have given more, couldn’t have been more open to Reid. And in the moment, in Reid’s presence, that had been true. Luke had held nothing back. His love and trust had performed miracles in less than a day and a half. But alone, without Reid there to see and touch, to grasp and tether, when the clouds obscured the moon and the gnarled hand of self-doubt burst up from the grave - that’s when Luke’s lack of faith was revealed. He did finally (almost) believe that he was worthy of Reid’s love, that he could give as much as he received. But deep down, in the dank inner chambers, did he believe that what they had could survive the elements? That their relationship could outlast squalls and zombies - especially if Luke let his guard down, his attention slip? Because if he relaxed his grip, wouldn’t their connection vanish? Hadn’t it already? If I hadn’t fallen asleep…. And not a burnished connection consisting of nostalgia and gilded grief, but a working connection, a durable partnership - did Luke believe it was even possible without constant vigilance and diminishing returns? He had always been able to fight for relationships, but he wondered if he could truly trust in them. If he could trust in resilience, in the idea of a relationship as a mature, evolving thing that he could live in and not always have to cling to. But there was also the fear that he wouldn’t be able to open himself completely now that Reid really had vanished. Now that Luke had felt this pain. Pain that - as Reid had pointed out - would no doubt be exponentially worse next time.
It was then Luke realized that both of them had let security and trust be casualties of fear. Luke had let not only self-doubt, but also fatalism sabotage his relationships. He had chosen to believe in the inevitability of failure over love. He had let others - past and present relationships, family - set the tone, the pace, the rules. He could change that now. He could open by letting go.
Luke closed his eyes. His attention centered, landing again on the threatening chasm. This time, he felt beyond the fear. He listened. He heard Reid, felt him. Realized he would always be with him, no matter what the ending.
So you have a choice, Mr. Snyder. You can stand there leaking, or you can get back to the business of securing our life together. There’s a plane boarding right behind you. Get on it and find me in Boston.
His eyes still closed, Luke let the sounds of the airport fade as he turned further inward, descending to neglected depths. He followed the stellar signature to his polestar, his constant self, in whose orbit he listened for truth, felt for the path. Let himself trust. Desperation evaporated as a wave of celestial certitude radiated, obliterating the remaining darkness; Luke knew he could find Reid in Boston, knew he could make him believe again. He also knew - could feel - that Reid was in pain.
Luke opened his eyes. And began to run.
Had the mangling, crushing compression near Luke’s heart been measured with the proper instruments, it could have considerably clarified the debate on the consequences of colliding neutron stars. For there was no doubt - the superheated sea of degenerate matter swirling within Luke’s ribcage meant that he was currently losing the battle with gravity.
A black hole was forming in his chest.
He could feel it feeding off the rest of his body, absorbing the dawn light filling the hotel room, reflecting nothing in return. He sat on the bed, against the headboard, tangled in soiled sheets smelling of him. Nakedly aching, in a state of sweeping gravitational collapse, Luke waited for the void to grow large enough to end him.
You can see the Statue of Liberty from our room.
His mind fixed on the distant figure, on the somewhat curious fact that he hadn’t before noticed. He carefully avoided the connotation of “our room,” of its being all they would ever share. Part of him knew he was being unnecessarily maudlin; Reid wasn’t forever gone, wasn’t dead. He was in Boston. Luke could easily find him.
But Reid had left. After everything. After Luke had given everything.
After I took what he wasn’t ready to give.
The oblivion crept, swallowed. Luke welcomed it.
Just before his eyes closed, he saw it. The curve of a black strap on the floor next to the bed, beneath the lumpy bedspread pooling on the carpet. He watched it for a while, waiting for it to make sense, waiting for his muddled, sluggish thought process to sort through the incoming signals, to tune out the foreground feedback wailing in his skull. It wasn’t his strap. His bags were over there (undisturbed, no paper note left on top to break their blackness). A note - suddenly, Luke was standing, lurching over to the chair, to the dresser, looking under the desk, stumbling into the bathroom, turning on the light.
Not even a note.
He leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, facing out. Facing the mirrored closet door, faced with the pale figure of a man covered in Reid’s marks, in his semen. A hollowed man Reid had left behind. Despite knowing that they were each other’s best chance, only chance, at happiness, at living in a properly lit and colored world. Luke tried to look into his own eyes, to find signatures of what they had shared, evidence of merger, echoes of oscillating energies; he closed his eyes, trying to feel magnetic lines of reconnection.
Reid.
All he could feel was the singularity of despair.
Without looking into the mirror again, he turned back toward the bed, eyes again gravitating to the horizon of New York harbor. As he shuffled slowly forward, he began to feel a different pull, familiar in its frequency but startling in its strength. Out of the depths of the emptiness in his chest crawled a compelling need. A command. The trajectory of his feet bowed before his mind caught up; suddenly, he found his body angled in an unexpected direction.
He was facing the minibar.
His eyes fixed on the smooth chrome framing orderly forms behind glass, rows of round metal and liquid amber. Luke could taste it. Any of it, all - it could fuel the void, end the struggle. It would silence the low hum that had always been present, at times swelling, especially in recent years, but never to this magnitude.
Luke could no longer think of a reason not to give in.
He dragged a foot forward, a foot closer. It bumped the fallen bedspread, catching in the forgotten strap. Momentarily distracted from his final purpose, he lowered to the edge of the bed and reached down, uncovering a small black travel bag. He lifted it to his lap, fit his palms over the zipper, pressed his fingers against the leather, wondered how long ago Reid had bought it, how many places it had traveled with him, if he had noticed yet that he’d forgotten it. Wondered what small parts of Reid’s life it contained. He began to unzip.
There was a faint outline of petals, as if etched, on the precisely folded tissue. Luke fingered the dark circle of dampness at the center before carefully peeling back the top layer, his mind still far behind his actions. Within, he saw the colors, vivid against the pale tissue and the dark interior and the muted grays and browns of the toiletry bottles beneath. He saw the sharply folded green stem angled upward across the flower face, bisecting the brown and radiating yellow, the slender petals creased and slightly crumpled but otherwise intact. As if they’d been pressed between the folds of the tissue, as if in a pocket. Luke looked down into the bag for a good moment, almost seeing, the high-pitched feedback that had been ringing in his ears gradually fading. Finally, mental pathways began to clear, his reeling mind to realign. Siren calls subsided. His solar mass stiffened; degeneration reversed as the curved rim of the void began to close, unfreezing space and time.
The time. What time is it?
He re-zipped Reid’s bag, scanning the room for his jeans and then rushing over to dig out his phone from a pocket. As the phone on the other end rang, he reached for one of his bags, carefully placing Reid’s inside. He then dressed quickly, balancing and hopping as he went, oblivious to pained muscles and encrusted skin and flattened hair. Finally, his call was answered.
“Thank God you picked up. OK, please, just listen to me.” He temporarily gave up trying to put on his shoe. “Are you in front of your computer? Great, OK, I need you to book me on whatever flight leaves JFK at 7 am for Boston. One way. Yeah, I know it’s tight.” The phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, he finished stuffing his shoes onto his feet and the remainder of his scattered belongings into his bags. He began to roll toward the door. “What? Seriously? OK…fine, book both of them. Yes, both. Fine, first class…whatever’s left. No, from my personal account - this isn’t for the Foundation. No, no return flight to Oakdale. I know, just tell her…tell her I’ll explain everything later, OK? Thanks, bye.”
The singularity in his chest had transmuted into a singular sense of purpose. Luke held the tote bag close to his body, briefly considering leaving the other two bags behind to be shipped to Boston before deciding that the request would take more time than it would save. He raced through the lobby, a bag slung on each shoulder, the third being briskly wheeled behind. He checked his phone.
There’s time. Hop in a cab, no traffic on a Saturday morning, there’s just enough time. I can make it. I can catch him.
And then he saw the line. Or rather the loose but large assemblage of bleary-eyed coffee drinkers and their luggage positioned between Luke and the curb, where a doorman whistled for taxis on a mostly empty street.
A fist of nothingness punctured Luke’s chest. The void was back. Its promise of oblivion was dangerously seductive.
Unsure what the next move should be (checkmate), Luke sank into a temporary paralysis. He dimly heard the piecing whistles, their high-pitched frequencies swallowed by the growing vacuum within him. He almost saw the yellow cab pull up to the front of the line, the doorman leaning in to speak to the driver before opening the backseat door for a man turning to grab the last of his bags, on the verge of stooping into the cab.
“Luke!”
The voice halted Luke’s descent into his internal abyss. He lifted his attention to the man with one hand on the door of the cab. The other arm was waving.
“Hey…” Alex stopped when he saw Luke’s face. That must have been it - Luke could later think of no other reason for what Alex did next. Luke’s expression must have told of tragedy.
Putting a hand on the doorman’s shoulder, Alex spoke into his ear; the two men then motioned for Luke to approach. Still dragging his awareness fully up from the depths, Luke rolled forward, gradually picking up speed, not quite yet present enough to notice the varying degrees of pique exhibited on passed faces.
Alex briefly looked around as Luke moved closer. “Reid?” asked Alex softly.
Luke shook his head, his eyes large and dull.
“Don't suppose you're heading to Newark?”
The slight hope that had been incrementally building seeped out with a nearly audible reedy whine. Again, Luke shook his head, dropping it.
Sighing, Alex stepped back, rolling his suitcase to the side. With one hand still on the car door, he flourished an arm toward the interior of the cab. “See you in Boston, then.”
Luke looked up, struggling to make sense of the exotic expression on Alex’s face: a sincere smile. Which twisted only slightly when Luke hugged him before throwing his luggage and then himself into the backseat of the cab.
Luke found his voice. “JFK, please. As fast as humanly possible. Faster. I have to make this flight.” He turned from the driver in time to see Alex salute him as the cab pulled into the street. Luke held up a hand in return.
“Which airline?”
“Huh? Oh…” Luke struggled to snap his mind back to working order. Right. He checked the time on his phone. Crap. Time for only one try. Shit. Please, God…
“Jet Blue.” Please please please. “And it leaves at seven.” Luke could see the cabbie’s eyebrows rise. “And I’m known for my generosity.” The cab accelerated.
Luke checked his phone again before forcing it deep into his pocket. The timing was out of his control now. What he would say, how he would get through, how he could recapture lost ground, that should be his focus. But he could feel the nonexistent ticking through his pants pocket, could feel it with each clicking pass of tires over breaks in the road, at each sadistically long red light. He had to get to Reid now, before Boston, before the rhythms of Reid’s recent life reclaimed him, before old patterns were remembered and reinforced. Before he could rebuild - even at a distance, Luke could feel the meadow being disturbed, quarried, the earth turned to lay fresh foundation for a new fortress. Every minute meant further progress toward devolution.
This time it’ll be different.
This time I’m coming after you.
As the cab bisected the bottom of Manhattan, Luke tried to think, tried to plan. What should he say? That he loved him? That they were meant to be? That he would never let Reid go? He'd already said it - and to what effect? It hadn’t worked. Not true - it did, we did. Reid just panicked. Decided on emergency surgery to cut out the parasite (mutualist) before it - before I - could get any farther in. Because he couldn’t handle what he was feeling. That had to have been it - I mean, come on, not even a note? No way he’d ever be so heartless. Not with me. He just wasn’t thinking straight. And at least there was no note telling me not to follow. He had to have known I would follow….
But Luke couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Reid had been counting on the fact that Luke wouldn’t follow. That he would be too weak or indecisive. Or devastated - surely, Reid would have known what his leaving would do to Luke. How it would destroy him (like Reid had been destroyed).
No. He could never intentionally be that cruel. It was just a moment of panic. (so why didn’t he turn around and come back?) It shows how deeply he loves me, so deeply it terrified him. (then why didn’t he ever say the words?)
At first Luke didn’t notice when the canyons of Manhattan abruptly gave way to water views. The cab was halfway over the East River before he realized he was once again crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, only in the opposite direction, and in daylight.
And alone.
The emptiness of the cab suddenly served as a moving focal point for the entire weight of the bridge - trusses and towers were now merely conduits funneling all forces directly into the backseat. Onto Luke’s chest. Reid’s absence from the seat beside him was a tangible shadow entity; Luke lay the back of his hand on top of the tote bag in the middle of the seat, closing his eyes, willing the weight of Reid’s hand to materialize against Luke’s palm. His fingers involuntarily curled.
His pocket vibrated. He nearly twisted a finger pulling his phone out.
“Hello? Oh, right - yeah, I still need both tickets. Just send me the confirmation numbers…great, thanks. I seriously owe you, Sabrina. What? No, no rain here - why, is there supposed to be? Nope, not a cloud, blue skies. I’m actually crossing over water now…it’s really beautiful - yeah, I’d better go. Thanks again.”
As the cab continued over the bridge, Luke craned his neck to watch the play of sunlight on metal and stone. Why isn’t it raining? It should be raining. The day has no right to be this perfect. The script should call for rain during the race to the airport.
Luke looked down at his phone. At least I have an excuse for not just calling him. I don’t have his number. The thought was anything but consoling. He returned the phone to his pocket, closing his mind to a doleful thought: I should have taken the photo.
The rest of the ride was spent oscillating between constructive planning and destructive doubt. Through it all, Luke kept an internal eye on the cosmic state of his chest, occasionally resorting to pressing a hand over his heart to keep dark forces at bay. At least the traffic gods were on his side - Brooklyn soon turned into Queens, and airport signs began flashing by.
There’s time. This will work.
“Terminal five, right? There, you see it?” Luke was on the edge of the seat, sharp eyes darting among all windows. As the cabbie took the last turn, Luke sorted his bags and pressed against the door, digging for cash in his wallet, grateful that he still had a few large bills. “Great job, thanks.” He handed a couple to the driver, pushing out of the taxi as soon as it slowed to a roll.
With stress hormones sharpening his senses, he flew through the gate, stopping briefly at a self-service kiosk and blessedly short security line. His spirits lifted as his speed increased - he was soon running and rolling at top speed over the polished floor, past shops just lifting their gates. He was attuned to announcements; he heard the first boarding call for his flight as he made the final approach toward the gate.
I’m here, Reid.
The passengers were lining up as Luke arrived. He skidded to a halt, still not quite sure what the plan should be when he found Reid. Better to see him before he sees me. Luke hung back, sweeping his attention over the extent of the queuing crowd, tempted just to close his eyes and feel for the pull. After the initial scan he walked closer, his pace picking up as he wove through the passengers, his search becoming more overt. More frantic. Finally, he wheeled up to the check-in counter and asked if any passengers had already boarded. The answer caused him to lift a hand to his chest. He stood searching for stragglers, watching the door of the men’s room, looking in the direction of the food court. But the fight was leaving him. The evidence was fast-approaching irrefutable: he’d picked the wrong flight.
It’s over.
By now the signs were familiar - the crushing lethargy, the yawning emptiness. The overwhelming desire to fold into complete collapse. This time, there would be no external savior or serendipitous sign to halt the implosion. This time, there was only the internal - lessons learned, strength accrued. Connections forged in heat and pain and blinding light. Trust. But was it enough? In a moment of clarity, Luke realized Reid hadn’t been the only one with fear-based defenses. Luke had thought he couldn’t have given more, couldn’t have been more open to Reid. And in the moment, in Reid’s presence, that had been true. Luke had held nothing back. His love and trust had performed miracles in less than a day and a half. But alone, without Reid there to see and touch, to grasp and tether, when the clouds obscured the moon and the gnarled hand of self-doubt burst up from the grave - that’s when Luke’s lack of faith was revealed. He did finally (almost) believe that he was worthy of Reid’s love, that he could give as much as he received. But deep down, in the dank inner chambers, did he believe that what they had could survive the elements? That their relationship could outlast squalls and zombies - especially if Luke let his guard down, his attention slip? Because if he relaxed his grip, wouldn’t their connection vanish? Hadn’t it already? If I hadn’t fallen asleep…. And not a burnished connection consisting of nostalgia and gilded grief, but a working connection, a durable partnership - did Luke believe it was even possible without constant vigilance and diminishing returns? He had always been able to fight for relationships, but he wondered if he could truly trust in them. If he could trust in resilience, in the idea of a relationship as a mature, evolving thing that he could live in and not always have to cling to. But there was also the fear that he wouldn’t be able to open himself completely now that Reid really had vanished. Now that Luke had felt this pain. Pain that - as Reid had pointed out - would no doubt be exponentially worse next time.
It was then Luke realized that both of them had let security and trust be casualties of fear. Luke had let not only self-doubt, but also fatalism sabotage his relationships. He had chosen to believe in the inevitability of failure over love. He had let others - past and present relationships, family - set the tone, the pace, the rules. He could change that now. He could open by letting go.
Luke closed his eyes. His attention centered, landing again on the threatening chasm. This time, he felt beyond the fear. He listened. He heard Reid, felt him. Realized he would always be with him, no matter what the ending.
So you have a choice, Mr. Snyder. You can stand there leaking, or you can get back to the business of securing our life together. There’s a plane boarding right behind you. Get on it and find me in Boston.
His eyes still closed, Luke let the sounds of the airport fade as he turned further inward, descending to neglected depths. He followed the stellar signature to his polestar, his constant self, in whose orbit he listened for truth, felt for the path. Let himself trust. Desperation evaporated as a wave of celestial certitude radiated, obliterating the remaining darkness; Luke knew he could find Reid in Boston, knew he could make him believe again. He also knew - could feel - that Reid was in pain.
Luke opened his eyes. And began to run.