Page 87 of On the Edge

He sighs and sits up a little bit. “I don’t trustanyone, but that’s my problem. I made it yours and treated you like shit, and I’m sorry for that.”

“Thank you,” I repeat. “No more of that, now. I don’t need to hear apologies for things that are forgiven.”

Movements confident, Atlas uses his fingers to create a hole in the center of his project and I watch, mesmerized, as it begins to hollow. He focuses on the clay for a few moments, and I allow him his silence.

“I miss you, too,” he says finally, and if the air hadn’t already been feeling thin in here, it surely is now.

Giving up entirely, I take my hands off the molded lump of clay and reach out to rest one on his forearm. His eyes flick upward toward mine, wary. Luke once said Atlas is a feral alley cat, and I see it now—the cautious stillness of his bodyand the suspicion in his eyes. Too late, I realize I’ve gotten clay all over his arm.

“Sorry,” I tell him. Slowly, as though giving me the opportunity to push him away, he reaches a hand out to slide his thumb across my jaw. I can feel the wet, cool texture of the clay, a direct opposition to the way my skin feels as though it’s on fire.

“Now we’re even,” he says, and then adds, a little more quietly, “You shaved.”

“Yes, I was very undecided. I was thinking shaving meant I put some effort in, but I am also thinking that you told me you like my scruffy chin.”

Atlas’ lips twitch as though he wants to smile. His fingers are still on my jaw, so gentle he’s barely touching me at all. He gives another swipe of his thumb before dropping his hand and spinning his wheel back into motion. I fear there is no helping my own, so I merely settle in to watch him.

“That sounds like quite the dilemma, but you needn’t have bothered worrying. I like you both ways.”

I smile at the side of his face, unable to decide what I want to watch more: his expressions or his hands.

“Nate told me I should pull my head out of my ass and talk to you.” He exhales harshly. “So, that’s what I’m doing. Because I miss the shit out of you, and things are kind of miserable when you’re not around. I’m going to mess up, though, Henri. I will. And I’m fucking terrified that you’re going to leave me, but me hurting you wasn’t the way to handle that. I know I don’t deserve a second chance, but I’d like to ask for one anyway.”

I wish he’d look at me, but I know why he isn’t. I can’t imagine these words are easy for him to say, if the raw, pained edge to his voice is any indication.

“But even if that’s not possible, maybe we could stay friends,” he adds, sounding resigned and hopelessly sad.

“Bärchen, I am really wishing you spoke German so I could say romantic things without sounding like a fool.” I succeed in teasing a smile out of him at that, and some of the tension melts out of his shoulders. “But I will have to do my best. You are always talking about me leaving, always worried about this. But you told me to go at the end of last semester, did you not? And if you will remember, I did not go far. I messaged you and called you and bothered you all summer, yes?”

A soft chuckle, and he sits up to look at me fully. I lean a little closer to him, scuffing my stool across the concrete floor. The clay on my face has dried, and is starting to harden on my hands as well. Neither one of us seems overly invested in pottery at the moment.

“I know it is hard to believe when people tell you things, so I will not do that. I will show you, yes? I won’t tell you that I won’t leave you. I will simply stay, and perhaps that will speak for itself. I am sorry for the people who have not treated you well, because they no longer get to know you and that is a terrible thing.”

“Fuck,” he says on an exhale, swiping his hand across his cheek and smearing clay. I hurry to continue, because I’m not quite finished yet.

“I am not this person who gets bored and goes looking for someone new. I am never wondering if there are better people out there for me. I have only ever wanted you, Atlas.”

“Fuck,” he says again, and reaches for me. Dirty hands clasped tight to my face, he pulls me to him.

Balanced as we are on uneven metal stools, the kiss is awkward. I can’t get my hands on him the way I want to, and Ican’t pull his body into mine. But he tastes just how I remember, and when I brush my tongue across his lips, he makes a desperate sound and kisses me harder.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says on a gasp, pulling away sharply. “I should have asked first. I know you don’t always want… Sorry.”

Those lovely eyes are wide, lashes unbelievably dark on his pale face. There’s clay in the hair around his ears, and brushed across his cheekbones. I’m sure I don’t look much better. I touch the pad of a finger to the side of his chin, wishing I could tell him that I love him.

“One day, I will tell you something,” I promise. “You will not believe me if I say it today, so I will wait for now. But, one day.”

He looks quizzical at that, but doesn’t press me. I sit forward to kiss him again, because apparently that is allowed.

“What’re you making, there?” he murmurs against my mouth. We look down at the misshapen pile of clay on my pottery wheel.

“Abstract art,” I say confidently, making Atlas snort. “It will speak to everyone differently.”

“Mm,” he hums, a teasing tilt to his mouth as he looks at me. “And what does it say to you?”

“It sayslet us leave the pottery to Atlas, who is a professional.”

I get a laugh, a full smile,anda kiss from that joke, which leaves me feeling very pleased with myself. Atlas bends over his wheel, fingers flying confidently through steps he hadn’t gotten around to showing me yet. I watch silently, every now and then locking eyes with him when he glances over at me. There is a very faint flush on his cheeks, as though he’s uncomfortable with my scrutiny.

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