fic: intentions (reprieve, imagining the world outside) (1/2)
And here is new fic, as promised! Two posts for length reasons. Next part momentarily...
Title: Intentions (Reprieve, Imagining The World Outside) (1/2)
Rating: PG-13 for thematic elements, occasional uses of the f-word
Warnings: recovery after trauma (actual event now several stories in the past), PTSD, flashbacks, cuddling, James and baked goods
Word Count: 7,732 total; 2,563 for this part
Disclaimers: boys’re not mine, only doing this out of affection; title from Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “Good Intentions”: I'm not afraid things won't get better/ but it feels like this has gone on forever/ you have to cry with your own blue tears/ have to laugh with your own good cheer
Notes/Summary: Michael tries to make dinner; James has some horrific flashbacks; nightmares, panic, hurt/comfort, reassurance via Beatles songs and peanut-butter chocolate-chip cookies. Fits in between “ Wounds” and “ Doubt” in the Universe Of Epic Hurt/Comfort And Porn.
(eight weeks less one day)
It wasn’t even a proper nightmare. Bizarrely, that was all he could think, waking up. Only blurred images, unclearly lingering sensations, elliptical dread and terror and ill-defined menace. Shouldn’t be this unsettling. Shouldn’t leave him weak and off-balance and breathless as if he’d been running, fruitlessly, in his dreams.
The night was cool, not rainy yet but clouds gathering steadily beyond the window, muffling the world in dull colorless fog. The scents of water and city night and sea-spray in the air. California, in the rain.
James thought about sitting up, for a while. Wasn’t sure he could. When he shifted position, on the sofa, the tendrils of nightmare clung to his thoughts, as sticky and black as oil, and more cold. Dragging him down.
After a few seconds he figured out that at least part of that feeling was a result of the blanket’s cloying attention to his legs. It’d become snarled around him, mummifying, while he’d fought with sleep. He sighed, not out loud because he didn’t want all the fuzzy purple wool to feel guilty, and carefully disentangled the two of them.
Other scents, other sounds, filtered gradually into the world. The heat of the oven, turned on, out in the kitchen. Chicken and spices and the clatter of pans. Michael’s voice, very low but instantly recognizable, that intimate Celtic lilt. Mostly singing, humming when he evidently didn’t recall the words; not a song James knew, but one he found himself wanting to learn nonetheless. Unfamiliar. Familiar anyway. Grounding. Home.
He’d been trying to sleep, in the amber glow of lamplight and living-room refuge, not in a too-large bed in the dark with his dreams. He’d offered to assist with dinner preparations, earlier, but Michael’d caught him unsuccessfully hiding a yawn, and bodily walked him over to the helpful furniture and tucked the blanket around his legs.
“Can you sleep out here? For a while? I know you were awake most of the night and…”
“Maybe yes. Are you sure you don’t need help, though? You know I don’t mind if you want-”
“James, I like cooking for you.” Michael’d touched the corner of the blanket, lightly; then, looking at James’s face, tilted his head, raised an eyebrow: can I?
“Of course you can,” James’d said, and reached out even as Michael lifted the hand, and caught those longing fingers with his, and twined them all together. Saw the answering smile.
“I love you. How do you feel about chicken? And I could do something with the tomatoes? We should use those…before…um. James?”
“Yes?”
“Did you just…kiss my fingers?”
“Maybe yes to that too. Kind of, anyway. Do you mind?” He’d been holding Michael’s hand, as Michael perched on the sturdy couch-arm beside him; their linked hands had been close to his face, when he’d tipped his head back, and he’d thought about protective arms around him in the post-nightmare cold of that morning, and it’d been easy to lean his cheek against those hands, and breathe, lips and exhalations bare millimeters from Michael’s skin.
“Not at all,” Michael’d whispered, “no, I don’t mind, please, James, do it again-if you want to, I mean, if you feel-”
“Right now I might feel good about you and the chicken,” James told him, answering the earlier question instead, and watched sunrise break across the wild Irish heather, those eyes all excited, recognizing the teasing, now.
“Then I should get started,” Michael’d agreed, not quite laughing out loud, joy too intense for that; so James’d held onto his hand a second longer, as he’d gotten up. Had mentally straightened shoulders, and moved that last millimeter after all.
Michael’s skin felt warm, and startled, against his lips; the eyes were warm and startled too, when James glanced up.
“You…that…James…”
“Yes,” James said, “I did that, and I love you, now go make me dinner, you promised me tomatoes, and they’re going to be sad if they don’t get eaten, they need to fulfill their purpose in life,” and Michael had begun laughing, at last, and squeezed his hand, hopping to exuberant feet. Had run off to the kitchen. To make James, and the tomatoes, happy.
He did sit up, finally. Peeked over the back of the couch. The blanket plopped onto his legs, cozily. From this vantage point, he couldn’t see Michael’s face, only the back of his head, that ginger hair, a little too long because Michael’d been letting it grow out; but it’d been short to begin with, and was only now beginning to curl cheerfully around the nape of his neck.
Michael was singing again, now, absentmindedly, comfortably, opening the refrigerator-the head disappeared from James’s view, for a minute, then returned-and setting items on the countertop, pausing mid-verse to admonish, “No, you stay there,” at some sort of escape-artist foodstuff making a jump for freedom.
James, listening, felt the smile spread across his face, and only belatedly realized the expression for what it was. It couldn’t quite banish all the monsters in the dreams, but it tried. Blunted the claws, a fraction, when they scratched restlessly under his skin.
Michael’d gone back to singing. Classic Beatles, this time, and very softly, half under his breath, as if fearful of waking James, disturbing too-infrequent rest. James propped elbows on the back of the sofa, let it support him, and just watched all the happy domesticity unfold.
Michael went back to the fridge, pulled out half an onion, looked at it thoughtfully for a second, observed, “He’d probably appreciate more…” then went back. For more. James wanted to cry, or to hug him, or to thank him, all at once. For everything.
He wasn’t sure he could talk, between all the emotions and the just-woken-up raggedness of his voice. He could tell without trying that he’d need to cough, to clear his throat, and that’d hurt.
So he maneuvered his legs out of the clutches of the blanket, and padded soundlessly over to the kitchen, unnoticed because Michael seemed to be focused on the task at hand and wasn’t glancing around. The floor was smooth beneath his toes, aglow with culinary cheer and the echo of that beloved voice weaving melodies into the air.
Michael finished with the onion. Moved on to a tomato. Shifted position, a hairsbreadth, not because he knew that James was there. Went back to chopping. Slicing. With a knife.
With a knife. James, leaning against the nearest wall, found himself watching the blade.
It shone, darting through the air. Caught and swallowed up all the once-adequate light. Gleamed. Wetly.
And it was ridiculous, he knew it was, a voice in the back of his head shouting that it wasn’t the same, not the same shape, not the same size, not the same hands, for god’s sake, those were Michael’s hands, here in their kitchen, and he knew he was safe, should feel protected, here.
But the tomato juice leaked across the cutting board and the blade swam red for just a second, red like blood, and that was a knife, being wielded with such ruthlessly expert precision. By Michael’s hands.
He couldn’t look away and he couldn’t speak and he couldn’t move, and if he couldn’t move he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t save himself, and the blackness came up like phantom hands on his skin and he thought maybe he took a step backwards, trying to cling to the wall for aid, but the wall wasn’t where he thought it should be and the impact, when he hit the floor, shook everything loose inside, all the pieces that’d been so precarious before.
He couldn’t see anything. Possibly he’d shut his eyes. Or they’d closed themselves.
He didn’t hear Michael running, but he felt the force of the landing, Michael flinging himself to the floor at his side.
“James? James!”
Not singing now. Melody all gone, crushed out of existence by fear. Sorry, he wanted to say, you were happy and I’ve made you scared and I’m sorry and I love you. But those words stayed locked inside his head. The memories of viciousness, of cruel metal, of unending agony, did not.
“Oh, no-” Michael’s fingers, when they found his skin, were real. Solid. That helped, in one way; in another, not at all.
“Can you open your eyes? Please? For me?”
He thought not, actually.
“Come on, you’re all right, you are, you’re here and I’m here and you’re safe-you know you’re safe, please know you’re safe, with me-James? Can you hear me?”
The world had gone all airless. Indistinct and dark. Poor world. He wanted to reassure it, to tell it to breathe, but he couldn’t talk, or open his eyes.
Someone else was talking, though. To him.
“-say something, James, please, please look at me, you can look at me, you-oh, god, you’re not-you have to breathe, James, come on!” Hands. Shaking him. He tried to protest. Couldn’t make a sound.
Michael, he remembered. Michael’s voice. Michael’s hands, on him. Touching his face, his cheek, lifting his head. Little starbursts, brightly dying colors, swam through the greyness, when Michael shook him again. Lack of oxygen, he thought dimly. There was a word for that. Hypoxia. Kind of a pretty word, in fact. Mellifluous.
Michael was swearing, frantically, desperately, in several languages. “James, no-no, you can’t, you can’t, don’t you dare, you can’t give up, you can’t leave me now-I love you, James, I need you to breathe, I need you to open your eyes and fucking breathe, James, come on, please!”
Mostly to get Michael to stop shouting at him, he tried.
“Okay-okay, that’s good, that’s better, do it again-and again, James, come on, deeper breaths, okay? In, and out? You’re here, you’re all right-” Michael’s voice cut off, for a second; when it came back, the words sounded slightly waterlogged, as if momentarily caught in a cloudburst. “Thank you. Thank you, James. Thank god. I-I think maybe I should call someone, the hospital, someone who can-”
He shook his head. A tiny movement, but enough; Michael noticed. “You don’t want me to call anyone? Can you look at me?”
Maybe. He breathed in, one more time. Tested the scrape of eyelids over raw flesh. They moved reluctantly, as if held down by weights of sand.
They did open, though. He blinked. Focused. Blinked again, because Michael’s face was right in front of his, both of them on the floor, Michael’s hands clinging to his shoulders, fear making that grip too tight. There’d be bruises, later. But that was all right. That meant they were both still here.
Michael breathed in, too. Made a sound. “James-oh, god, what happened? What did I-was it me in the kitchen? With the-oh, no, oh no, it was. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Can you talk? Can you say something? Please?”
No. He couldn’t do that, either. He did try, again-he’d already tried-but his throat refused to open. Wouldn’t let any words get out.
He looked down, away, because he couldn’t look into those overflowing eyes. Moved a hand that didn’t feel like his, and touched his throat. Shook his head.
“You-you can’t talk? Because it hurts?”
It did, but no. Not why. Why was another reason. Why was because, when he swallowed, he felt hands around his neck, relentless hardness shoved down his throat, pressure crushing him from the inside out. Heard that voice: it’s much more fun if we know you can’t do what I’m asking, so go on, pretend you can talk. Try.
He couldn’t make himself look up, when he shook his head again.
“You…no to which part? It doesn’t hurt?”
He wanted to laugh-how on earth he could manage to reply to that question, he had no idea-but he couldn’t do that, either. He could feel himself breathing, so he shut his eyes again and concentrated on that. That was something he could do.
“James,” Michael whispered, voice more uneven than James’s own had ever been. “Don’t-please don’t-do you need to hide, from me? Do I-do I scare you?”
That was just ridiculous. He had to look, if only to make certain Michael was paying attention to the headshake: of course not.
“But I…” Michael glanced down. At his own hands, gripping James’s shoulders. “You’re not-it was something I did. I did scare you. And you can’t…” Michael swallowed. Lifted one hand, started to mirror James’s gesture. Seemed to think better of it; shook his head.
“You said this wasn’t because it hurt…” And he could see the exact instant Michael reached the right conclusion, anguish exploding behind those mist-green eyes. “Oh, James…”
He struggled with the tears. Wanted to reach out. Couldn’t quite make himself move, before Michael started speaking again, slowly, one hand lifting James’s chin, making sure their eyes met before he offered the words.
“It’s all right. It’ll be all right. If you can’t-if you need to not talk for a while-I can talk for both of us. For however long-I love you. I’ll always love you. No matter what. Understand?”
He gulped in air. Felt the tears fall at last, plunging downward out of his eyes, over his cheeks, leaving burning trails in their wake. But he nodded, because he did know. He believed that. He had to.
Michael muttered one more profanity, at that. And then bit his lip. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that too. You don’t need to hear-god. Okay. Can we get you up off the floor? Or can I at least bring you a blanket? You’re shivering…”
He nodded. Let Michael take some of his weight, on the way up. With desperate effort, kept himself from flinching, at the hideous flare of memory: other arms around him, pulling him down windowless stairs, onto a mute and sickening bed. Michael would never know how hard it was, not to pull away, at that second. Should never have to know.
His feet were a little clumsy, surprised to be asked to function, but they managed to rise to the occasion. Michael looked at him, held him upright, started to speak, stopped, tried again. “Bedroom? Away from-not here? I’ll come back and clean up, later, but…” And James managed to nod again.
They made it, somehow, through the fear and inadvertent winces, James trying to figure out how to walk and accidentally stepping on a foot that wasn’t his, Michael’s arm tightening too much and meeting fresh bruises, down the hall and into the bedroom and into the bed, Michael’s other arm shoving once-neat covers recklessly out of the way. James would’ve said something, would’ve laughed, at that uncharacteristic disregard for tidy sheets, but he couldn’t say anything, couldn’t laugh. Not now.
Michael set him down gingerly amid all the pillows, as if he thought that James might shatter into pieces at the first unguarded touch. Might not be an unjustified concern.
His hip, and his right hand because he’d flung it out to try to break his fall, hurt. A very physical hurt; that helped, in a way. He could feel something, here and now. Something that wasn’t the throb of the past, in the murky grey.
Title: Intentions (Reprieve, Imagining The World Outside) (1/2)
Rating: PG-13 for thematic elements, occasional uses of the f-word
Warnings: recovery after trauma (actual event now several stories in the past), PTSD, flashbacks, cuddling, James and baked goods
Word Count: 7,732 total; 2,563 for this part
Disclaimers: boys’re not mine, only doing this out of affection; title from Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “Good Intentions”: I'm not afraid things won't get better/ but it feels like this has gone on forever/ you have to cry with your own blue tears/ have to laugh with your own good cheer
Notes/Summary: Michael tries to make dinner; James has some horrific flashbacks; nightmares, panic, hurt/comfort, reassurance via Beatles songs and peanut-butter chocolate-chip cookies. Fits in between “ Wounds” and “ Doubt” in the Universe Of Epic Hurt/Comfort And Porn.
(eight weeks less one day)
It wasn’t even a proper nightmare. Bizarrely, that was all he could think, waking up. Only blurred images, unclearly lingering sensations, elliptical dread and terror and ill-defined menace. Shouldn’t be this unsettling. Shouldn’t leave him weak and off-balance and breathless as if he’d been running, fruitlessly, in his dreams.
The night was cool, not rainy yet but clouds gathering steadily beyond the window, muffling the world in dull colorless fog. The scents of water and city night and sea-spray in the air. California, in the rain.
James thought about sitting up, for a while. Wasn’t sure he could. When he shifted position, on the sofa, the tendrils of nightmare clung to his thoughts, as sticky and black as oil, and more cold. Dragging him down.
After a few seconds he figured out that at least part of that feeling was a result of the blanket’s cloying attention to his legs. It’d become snarled around him, mummifying, while he’d fought with sleep. He sighed, not out loud because he didn’t want all the fuzzy purple wool to feel guilty, and carefully disentangled the two of them.
Other scents, other sounds, filtered gradually into the world. The heat of the oven, turned on, out in the kitchen. Chicken and spices and the clatter of pans. Michael’s voice, very low but instantly recognizable, that intimate Celtic lilt. Mostly singing, humming when he evidently didn’t recall the words; not a song James knew, but one he found himself wanting to learn nonetheless. Unfamiliar. Familiar anyway. Grounding. Home.
He’d been trying to sleep, in the amber glow of lamplight and living-room refuge, not in a too-large bed in the dark with his dreams. He’d offered to assist with dinner preparations, earlier, but Michael’d caught him unsuccessfully hiding a yawn, and bodily walked him over to the helpful furniture and tucked the blanket around his legs.
“Can you sleep out here? For a while? I know you were awake most of the night and…”
“Maybe yes. Are you sure you don’t need help, though? You know I don’t mind if you want-”
“James, I like cooking for you.” Michael’d touched the corner of the blanket, lightly; then, looking at James’s face, tilted his head, raised an eyebrow: can I?
“Of course you can,” James’d said, and reached out even as Michael lifted the hand, and caught those longing fingers with his, and twined them all together. Saw the answering smile.
“I love you. How do you feel about chicken? And I could do something with the tomatoes? We should use those…before…um. James?”
“Yes?”
“Did you just…kiss my fingers?”
“Maybe yes to that too. Kind of, anyway. Do you mind?” He’d been holding Michael’s hand, as Michael perched on the sturdy couch-arm beside him; their linked hands had been close to his face, when he’d tipped his head back, and he’d thought about protective arms around him in the post-nightmare cold of that morning, and it’d been easy to lean his cheek against those hands, and breathe, lips and exhalations bare millimeters from Michael’s skin.
“Not at all,” Michael’d whispered, “no, I don’t mind, please, James, do it again-if you want to, I mean, if you feel-”
“Right now I might feel good about you and the chicken,” James told him, answering the earlier question instead, and watched sunrise break across the wild Irish heather, those eyes all excited, recognizing the teasing, now.
“Then I should get started,” Michael’d agreed, not quite laughing out loud, joy too intense for that; so James’d held onto his hand a second longer, as he’d gotten up. Had mentally straightened shoulders, and moved that last millimeter after all.
Michael’s skin felt warm, and startled, against his lips; the eyes were warm and startled too, when James glanced up.
“You…that…James…”
“Yes,” James said, “I did that, and I love you, now go make me dinner, you promised me tomatoes, and they’re going to be sad if they don’t get eaten, they need to fulfill their purpose in life,” and Michael had begun laughing, at last, and squeezed his hand, hopping to exuberant feet. Had run off to the kitchen. To make James, and the tomatoes, happy.
He did sit up, finally. Peeked over the back of the couch. The blanket plopped onto his legs, cozily. From this vantage point, he couldn’t see Michael’s face, only the back of his head, that ginger hair, a little too long because Michael’d been letting it grow out; but it’d been short to begin with, and was only now beginning to curl cheerfully around the nape of his neck.
Michael was singing again, now, absentmindedly, comfortably, opening the refrigerator-the head disappeared from James’s view, for a minute, then returned-and setting items on the countertop, pausing mid-verse to admonish, “No, you stay there,” at some sort of escape-artist foodstuff making a jump for freedom.
James, listening, felt the smile spread across his face, and only belatedly realized the expression for what it was. It couldn’t quite banish all the monsters in the dreams, but it tried. Blunted the claws, a fraction, when they scratched restlessly under his skin.
Michael’d gone back to singing. Classic Beatles, this time, and very softly, half under his breath, as if fearful of waking James, disturbing too-infrequent rest. James propped elbows on the back of the sofa, let it support him, and just watched all the happy domesticity unfold.
Michael went back to the fridge, pulled out half an onion, looked at it thoughtfully for a second, observed, “He’d probably appreciate more…” then went back. For more. James wanted to cry, or to hug him, or to thank him, all at once. For everything.
He wasn’t sure he could talk, between all the emotions and the just-woken-up raggedness of his voice. He could tell without trying that he’d need to cough, to clear his throat, and that’d hurt.
So he maneuvered his legs out of the clutches of the blanket, and padded soundlessly over to the kitchen, unnoticed because Michael seemed to be focused on the task at hand and wasn’t glancing around. The floor was smooth beneath his toes, aglow with culinary cheer and the echo of that beloved voice weaving melodies into the air.
Michael finished with the onion. Moved on to a tomato. Shifted position, a hairsbreadth, not because he knew that James was there. Went back to chopping. Slicing. With a knife.
With a knife. James, leaning against the nearest wall, found himself watching the blade.
It shone, darting through the air. Caught and swallowed up all the once-adequate light. Gleamed. Wetly.
And it was ridiculous, he knew it was, a voice in the back of his head shouting that it wasn’t the same, not the same shape, not the same size, not the same hands, for god’s sake, those were Michael’s hands, here in their kitchen, and he knew he was safe, should feel protected, here.
But the tomato juice leaked across the cutting board and the blade swam red for just a second, red like blood, and that was a knife, being wielded with such ruthlessly expert precision. By Michael’s hands.
He couldn’t look away and he couldn’t speak and he couldn’t move, and if he couldn’t move he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t save himself, and the blackness came up like phantom hands on his skin and he thought maybe he took a step backwards, trying to cling to the wall for aid, but the wall wasn’t where he thought it should be and the impact, when he hit the floor, shook everything loose inside, all the pieces that’d been so precarious before.
He couldn’t see anything. Possibly he’d shut his eyes. Or they’d closed themselves.
He didn’t hear Michael running, but he felt the force of the landing, Michael flinging himself to the floor at his side.
“James? James!”
Not singing now. Melody all gone, crushed out of existence by fear. Sorry, he wanted to say, you were happy and I’ve made you scared and I’m sorry and I love you. But those words stayed locked inside his head. The memories of viciousness, of cruel metal, of unending agony, did not.
“Oh, no-” Michael’s fingers, when they found his skin, were real. Solid. That helped, in one way; in another, not at all.
“Can you open your eyes? Please? For me?”
He thought not, actually.
“Come on, you’re all right, you are, you’re here and I’m here and you’re safe-you know you’re safe, please know you’re safe, with me-James? Can you hear me?”
The world had gone all airless. Indistinct and dark. Poor world. He wanted to reassure it, to tell it to breathe, but he couldn’t talk, or open his eyes.
Someone else was talking, though. To him.
“-say something, James, please, please look at me, you can look at me, you-oh, god, you’re not-you have to breathe, James, come on!” Hands. Shaking him. He tried to protest. Couldn’t make a sound.
Michael, he remembered. Michael’s voice. Michael’s hands, on him. Touching his face, his cheek, lifting his head. Little starbursts, brightly dying colors, swam through the greyness, when Michael shook him again. Lack of oxygen, he thought dimly. There was a word for that. Hypoxia. Kind of a pretty word, in fact. Mellifluous.
Michael was swearing, frantically, desperately, in several languages. “James, no-no, you can’t, you can’t, don’t you dare, you can’t give up, you can’t leave me now-I love you, James, I need you to breathe, I need you to open your eyes and fucking breathe, James, come on, please!”
Mostly to get Michael to stop shouting at him, he tried.
“Okay-okay, that’s good, that’s better, do it again-and again, James, come on, deeper breaths, okay? In, and out? You’re here, you’re all right-” Michael’s voice cut off, for a second; when it came back, the words sounded slightly waterlogged, as if momentarily caught in a cloudburst. “Thank you. Thank you, James. Thank god. I-I think maybe I should call someone, the hospital, someone who can-”
He shook his head. A tiny movement, but enough; Michael noticed. “You don’t want me to call anyone? Can you look at me?”
Maybe. He breathed in, one more time. Tested the scrape of eyelids over raw flesh. They moved reluctantly, as if held down by weights of sand.
They did open, though. He blinked. Focused. Blinked again, because Michael’s face was right in front of his, both of them on the floor, Michael’s hands clinging to his shoulders, fear making that grip too tight. There’d be bruises, later. But that was all right. That meant they were both still here.
Michael breathed in, too. Made a sound. “James-oh, god, what happened? What did I-was it me in the kitchen? With the-oh, no, oh no, it was. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Can you talk? Can you say something? Please?”
No. He couldn’t do that, either. He did try, again-he’d already tried-but his throat refused to open. Wouldn’t let any words get out.
He looked down, away, because he couldn’t look into those overflowing eyes. Moved a hand that didn’t feel like his, and touched his throat. Shook his head.
“You-you can’t talk? Because it hurts?”
It did, but no. Not why. Why was another reason. Why was because, when he swallowed, he felt hands around his neck, relentless hardness shoved down his throat, pressure crushing him from the inside out. Heard that voice: it’s much more fun if we know you can’t do what I’m asking, so go on, pretend you can talk. Try.
He couldn’t make himself look up, when he shook his head again.
“You…no to which part? It doesn’t hurt?”
He wanted to laugh-how on earth he could manage to reply to that question, he had no idea-but he couldn’t do that, either. He could feel himself breathing, so he shut his eyes again and concentrated on that. That was something he could do.
“James,” Michael whispered, voice more uneven than James’s own had ever been. “Don’t-please don’t-do you need to hide, from me? Do I-do I scare you?”
That was just ridiculous. He had to look, if only to make certain Michael was paying attention to the headshake: of course not.
“But I…” Michael glanced down. At his own hands, gripping James’s shoulders. “You’re not-it was something I did. I did scare you. And you can’t…” Michael swallowed. Lifted one hand, started to mirror James’s gesture. Seemed to think better of it; shook his head.
“You said this wasn’t because it hurt…” And he could see the exact instant Michael reached the right conclusion, anguish exploding behind those mist-green eyes. “Oh, James…”
He struggled with the tears. Wanted to reach out. Couldn’t quite make himself move, before Michael started speaking again, slowly, one hand lifting James’s chin, making sure their eyes met before he offered the words.
“It’s all right. It’ll be all right. If you can’t-if you need to not talk for a while-I can talk for both of us. For however long-I love you. I’ll always love you. No matter what. Understand?”
He gulped in air. Felt the tears fall at last, plunging downward out of his eyes, over his cheeks, leaving burning trails in their wake. But he nodded, because he did know. He believed that. He had to.
Michael muttered one more profanity, at that. And then bit his lip. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that too. You don’t need to hear-god. Okay. Can we get you up off the floor? Or can I at least bring you a blanket? You’re shivering…”
He nodded. Let Michael take some of his weight, on the way up. With desperate effort, kept himself from flinching, at the hideous flare of memory: other arms around him, pulling him down windowless stairs, onto a mute and sickening bed. Michael would never know how hard it was, not to pull away, at that second. Should never have to know.
His feet were a little clumsy, surprised to be asked to function, but they managed to rise to the occasion. Michael looked at him, held him upright, started to speak, stopped, tried again. “Bedroom? Away from-not here? I’ll come back and clean up, later, but…” And James managed to nod again.
They made it, somehow, through the fear and inadvertent winces, James trying to figure out how to walk and accidentally stepping on a foot that wasn’t his, Michael’s arm tightening too much and meeting fresh bruises, down the hall and into the bedroom and into the bed, Michael’s other arm shoving once-neat covers recklessly out of the way. James would’ve said something, would’ve laughed, at that uncharacteristic disregard for tidy sheets, but he couldn’t say anything, couldn’t laugh. Not now.
Michael set him down gingerly amid all the pillows, as if he thought that James might shatter into pieces at the first unguarded touch. Might not be an unjustified concern.
His hip, and his right hand because he’d flung it out to try to break his fall, hurt. A very physical hurt; that helped, in a way. He could feel something, here and now. Something that wasn’t the throb of the past, in the murky grey.