Page 20 of Running Feral

It’s dark in the apartment. Only the TV screen is lighting the space, because it’s dark outside as well and I doubled down by drawing all the curtains, and on the TV it’s also night. Michael Myers is dragging some wayward teenager by the hair across her front lawn with his stabby-stabber in his hand, ready to go, undeterred by her feeble kicking and screaming.

I know how she feels. Well, not really, because I keep my hair as short as Eamon will let me—he still likes to be able to grab a handful—but still. Vibes are the same. I can empathize, fictional screaming girl.

“Are you okay?” Gunnar’s voice cuts through my mental meandering.

I shrug. It’s quickly becoming my default answer.

“Yeah. My ankle hurts, but everything else is fine. How was work?”

“Y’know, the same. Drunk people. I taught Sav how to make a margarita, though. You should have seen it. He was pretending not to be excited about it. It was real cute.”

He’s answering me, but I can tell by the dim tone of his voice, as well as the crease between his eyebrows that I can just about make out in the dark, that his focus isn’t on his words.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he says slowly, moving closer to the couch.

“Yes? Why?”

His eyes flick to take in the TV. “Can I turn on some light?”

I shrug again, but when he turns on a lamp, the brightness hits me hard and I have to squint.

“That’s better. Are you sure you want to be watching this?”

He’s looking between me and the screen again, but I’m too fucking tired and dozy to figure out what he’s talking about.

“I love these movies. Except the ones in the middle. Why?”

Gunnar doesn’t answer me. Instead, his frown continues to deepen, almost comically exacerbated by the deep shadows the lamp is casting across the room. He looks me over from head to toe, now that he has the light on, and for a second, I think he’s going to reach out and touch me.

He doesn’t, though. I’m catching on to a pattern. Gunnar only touches me when I’m on the cusp of vibrating into little fragments and his hands seem like the only thing that can stop it. Or, if he thinks I’m going to fall over like some clumsy toddler and break my neck in his apartment.

“Tobias, your ankle! Have you been like this the whole time?”

“Wha—” I start, but his brisk movements are already cutting me off.

Gunnar is fired up, moving around me. He touches me now, but only to carefully lift my foot off the floor, where it was resting, and rearrange it up on a pile of pillows. The whole process makes me gasp, but when I look at it, I realize it does look even worse. I guess I’d been too lulled to notice all the blood pooling around the joint.

He grabs more ice packs from his apparently endless supply in the freezer, wraps them in unnecessarily fluffy little hand towels, and then arranges them carefully as well. When he’s done, he stands back to regard his work. I swear, a full minute passes before he seems satisfied.

As an afterthought, he brings me two more ice packs for the biggest bruises on my face, then he finally sits down, parking his ass on the little ottoman next to the coffee table.

I immediately notice that it’s different from before, when he seemed happy to share the couch and rest my foot in his lap. I also notice the sudden tension he’s carrying and the way he’s avoiding looking me in the eye. He’s looking at me, sure. But it’s always my body, and always in a clinical way. Like I’m a problem he’s trying to resolve. Not like he did this morning.

“Tobias, I think we should talk about something.”

Yep. There it is. I’d get up to pack my bags if I had any.

Although it’s kind of a dick move to get me all cozy and shit right before he kicks me out.

“You want me to go.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

“What?” His gaze snaps to mine, but after a few seconds, he looks away again, running his hands over his face. “No. Not at all, Tobias. You can stay here as long as you need to. I want you to stay here where you’re safe. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Well, now I have no idea what he is talking about, but whatever it is still can’t be good, based on his expression. I keep my mouth shut and wait for him to continue.

“Last night. And this morning. And… All of it, really. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” He’s tripping over his words more than I’ve ever heard from him. Normally, he has this whole suave, secret agent vibe going on. But right now, it’s closer to‘high schooler reading his oral presentation to the class’. It’d be endearing if it weren’t so patronizing.

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