Page 55 of Atlas

“Do you want some water? I’ll put your shirt in the washer and try to get the blood out.”

He passes it over. This isn’t me backing out of this or changing the subject. I just want to take care of him. It’s the small things that say so much.

“Do you have mint tea?”

“I do. I’ll make that.”

I take his shirt to the washer, apply a shitload of stain remover to it, and throw it in with the other darks that are already in there. I get it going and head to the kitchen to fill the kettle and get the mugs ready, thinking all the while about what he said about being constantly nauseous and how hard it was for him to eat.

We’re both quiet as we arrange ourselves on the couch. He sits ramrod straight, not wanting to have his back touch the furniture and risk smearing ointment and blood on it. Two mugs steam on the coffee table, their wispy white tendrils curling into the air like incense.

Atlas’ hair is still damp, curling away from his forehead. It’s a mess and he’s made no attempts to style it. He doesn’t need to. He’s so effortlessly beautiful. I don’t know if I should tell him that all parts of him are, even the stuff he hates.

He thinks he’s made a lifetime out of hiding who he is, but that’s just one aspect that has taken over his life. It’s not fair to him and I can see how he’d hate it and how the hate would spread and infiltrate him, poisoning the way he sees himself. It’s complicated, and I can’t heal a lifetime with just a few words. The only way to show him that I’m not afraid of any part of him and that I treasure the entire person he is, is to show him, over and over. As his girlfriend. As his friend.

I’d do anything to fight for him, but I also don’t want to crowd him. I’ve never been clingy. I hate that so much. There’s a difference in not letting someone shove you away so they can go die on their own hill of self-sacrifice that doesn’t even need to be a damn hill, and not giving them space to breathe.

Right now, he hasn’t closed himself off. His expression is softer than I’ve seen it in a long time. He looksexhausted. That panic attack and all that adrenaline bled out of him and left him spent.

“Honestly,” he whispers, studying the steaming cups of tea. “I can’t remember the last time I was truly okay, even though I tell everyone that I am.”

I rest my hand on his knee, though a little tentatively. He edges it closer, wanting to be touched. “You’re not alone in that. Fine is the most universally un-fine word there ever could be.”

He covers my hand with his. “I feel like I’m falling apart.”

I tighten my grip on him. “You can do that here. It’s a safe space.”

“I’ve always had a safe space. My parents are the most loving, open minded people that I know. It’s because of them that I never lost hope or spiraled straight out of control. They were just so… they’ve always been so proud of me. I didn’t want to disappoint them. I didn’t want them to find out how flawed I was, all while knowing that they’d love me no matter what. How stupid is that?”

He won’t look at me, but I study his face for any inflection, any emotion. He’s become very good at hiding it. Right now, the only cracks are in his voice, which is practically sandpaper.

“It’s not stupid.”

I yelp in surprise as he pulls me into his lap, dragging me when I can’t get my legs under me. He grazes his hot lips over my cheek, then over to my nose. I close my eyes and he kisses past them, his beard, his nose, his lashes, all tickling my skin.

“It’s how I feel right now. The push and the pull. I want to push you away so you don’t have to deal with this shit. Part of me wants to up and leave, go somewhere else for a while until I get myself sorted, but I know that will just hurt everyone and make them worry. I can’t just leave my job or my club. My parents would be out of their minds with fear. The idea is so appealing because it’s false. Going somewhere else isn’t going tofixme.”

“You’re not defective,” I say, too sharply, not angry at him, but for him, that he could ever think or feel that way.

His arms close around me in response and he hugs me as tight as if I’m going to vaporize. “Thanks,” he mumbles, releasing a small sigh. “I was supposed to be your bodyguard, but here you are, saving me.”

“Not saving you,” I insist, kissing his forehead. “Just being here with you.”

He shakes his head. “You keep me safe. It’s so crazy how the first time I met you, you just felt that way.Protected. I still kept things from you, but those nights we camped out here? They were some of the only times I’ve ever slept for more than a few hours at a time.”

“Is that why you looked so amazed when you woke up in my bed? I thought it was because it was mine and because I tied you- oh my god. Itiedyouup. I was just playing. I didn’t realize how that could make you feel.”

“It didn’t.” He presses the pad of his thumb to my bottom lip. I flick my tongue against it. He groans, his pupils dilating, his eyes getting heavy. “Nothing you’ve ever done made the panic worse or better. I’ve tried to figure out what causes it. It’s so damn random. That’s the most frustrating part. It comes and goes. There’s nothing that makes it worse or better. The small spaces thing, yes. I do hate those. I’m just lucky that usually I have enough warning before the panic hits. That’s why no one knows. Because I’ve always been able to get somewhere private. Or masked it by feigning illness or sports related shit.” He paints my bottom lip with my own saliva before leaning in and kissing it off. “You’ve only ever made me feel better,” he growls against my mouth. “Human.”

“I’ve grown so much with you.” I feed him the words between kisses. “I know that we’ve only known each other for a year, but I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

“You won’t have to.” The sorrow and regret in his eyes burns unmistakably bright. “I- think I want… that I- that you’re right. Ishouldtalk to someone. I need to do something. Nothing that I’ve done has fixed me.”

I don’t tell him that he’s not broken again. I know that he heard me. I need to hear him now, however he chooses to express himself, even if that’s messy. Messy is okay. The fact that he’s told me all of this and asked for help is a huge deal. “We could go to Seattle. We could find a doctor, or several doctors, and be discreet. You could meet with them alone, or I could go with you if you want me to. Whatever you need and however you need it, I’ll be there. And just because you talk and you listen, doesn’t mean you have to do what they say. You know yourself. They don’t. If you don’t feel like it helps, we won’t give up until you find the right fit.”

He gnaws on his bottom lip so hard I’m afraid that he’ll draw blood. I press the pad of my thumb and index finger to the spot. He cautiously licks my finger like I did his, but he takes it further, grasping my hand and sucking them into his mouth. He groans. “I’m good at blending in. Too good.”

“That’s a skill people learn.” It’s hard to focus when he’s sucking on my fingers like that. “They adapt because they have to. That doesn’t make you a liar. It doesn’t make you lessyou.”

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