Page 30 of Elas

Again.

As nice as it was to let loose last night, I’ve been hungover and exhausted all day, despite sleeping until noon. Elas came back into his barracks with his usual smile, but something about it was off. Forced and fake, and not reaching his eyes like it usually does.

He denied anything was wrong, but ever since he got back, he’s been avoiding me. I already know I’m an imposition in his space, and this new dismissive attitude has made me hyper aware of that fact. He wants to be alone, and that’s no longer an option. I gave him as much privacy as possible, but it didn’t seem like enough.

Most of the day, I stayed curled up in an armchair, chugging water and reading a random old sci-fi novel that was sitting on the shelf. My thoughts kept drifting fromthe pages, though, wondering why I’m at this end of his cold shoulder. The fuzzy remnants of last night’s conversation swirl in my head along with the lingering punch of the liquor. Gods, I can still smell it. The alcohol was stronger than I’m used to, and it had been ages since I’d had that much to drink.

A faint memory tickles my brain—one where I was flirty and teasing. Where I asked Elas to touch me. Nausea swirls in my stomach as I consider the very real possibility that I crossed a line. Elas is my only lifeline here. He’s the one who pulled me from that prison, and the one person I trust without reservation. The thought that I might’ve unintentionally driven a wedge between us has made me restless to fix whatever damage I’ve done.

Midafternoon, I put together a peanut butter sandwich for myself and made him one as well. It was a peace offering, even though I’m not positive what I’ve done to upset him. When I knocked on his bedroom door and delivered it to him, I couldn’t find the courage to ask. He simply smiled and thanked me, but said nothing else.

The shower pelted a few hours earlier than usual, and he’s been locked in his bedroom ever since. Worry keeps me awake—stress about my precarious situation mixes with the concern that I’ve already overstayed my welcome. This is the first place that has felt like home in forever.

Growing up, I lived in several rebel camps. My mother was a medic as well, and we moved where we were needed. After my parents were gone, I continued the trend, staying at a camp for a few years before the itch to move would return.

No matter where I went, I was accepted with open arms, but it always felt temporary. Like I knew that I didn’t need to get too comfortable, because there would come a time when I’d pack up and leave again. The camps were never permanent, and they certainly were never home.

But now, curled up on the couch of someone I barely even know… someone I’ve been told my entire life to hate…

My restless soul has settled.

And I’m acutely aware it could be ripped away at any time.

Anxiety brings me to sit again, tired of lying and staring at the ceiling. The woven rug is warm under my feet as I stand, pouring myself yet another glass of water to rehydrate my cottonmouth.

A noise comes from Elas’s room, and I stumble into the kitchen table as I turn my head towards the dark hallway that leads to his door. I freeze, my ears straining against the silence, but there’s nothing besides that same damn cicada shouting its displeasure.

I fill my cup with water and chug half of it when I hear it again. The low rumble of Elas’s voice is muffled, but it’s undeniably him. It’s impossible to tell if he’s having a conversation or if it’s something more intimate.

My stomach bottoms out at the thought of someone in bed with him. I’ve not left the apartment today, barely even scraped myself off the couch, but I took a shower earlier. Someone could’ve snuck in while I was preoccupied. Hell, for all I know, there could be other ways to get into his room. Unlocked windows and secret signals for a lover he’s kept hidden.

A surge of something dangerously close to jealousy heats my insides, picturing his giant body with some anonymous face. I sit my glass on the table with a quiet clink as I take a few cautious steps closer.

“No, please,” he mutters, and I hear the faint swishing of fabric as I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against it. “Not again… not again, not again, notagain…” A low, ragged whine tears from his throat, so similar to the cry of a wounded animal that it cracks my heart right in half.

“Elas?” I call, tapping my knuckles on the door. “Elas, are you alright?”

“No,” he cries, louder this time, but I can tell the answer isn’t meant for me. It’s shouted at whatever demons are plaguing his mind. “Let me out. No… no…”

My pulse pounds as I twist the knob and step inside his room. A silvery beam slices through the window, shining a spotlight on his giant frame thrashing in his bed. Sheets tangle around his body, coiling and compressing like a serpent. “Elas,” I call again, raising my voice to reach him over his constant stream of pleading. “Elas, wake up. You’re having a dream.”

He shakes his head, arguing against my words that don’t quite break through his panic. His brows pinch as though he’s in pain and his eyes are screwed shut. “Please,no. No, no… please… let me out,” he whimpers. “Not again… I can’t do this again!” The desperation in his voice severs the last of my hesitation.

“Elas!” My knee drops onto his mattress, and his eyes snap open, crazed in the moonlight. His hand flies out and slams against my chest, directly above my heart, and static courses through my skin where we touch. He balls a fistaround my shirt and scrambles to his knees, chest heaving as he kneels in the middle of his bed. “Elas, it was a dream. Just a dream…. you’re awake now. You’re safe.”

“August?” he rasps, his voice hoarse as he fists my shirt tighter and pulls me closer.

“Yeah, El, it’s me. It’s August. You were dreaming.”

“Light,” he pleads, shaking so fiercely it vibrates the entire bed. “Please, light.”

“Of course.” My fingers tighten around his wrist, urging him to let go so I can help pull him from the suffocating darkness. My thumb glides across his knuckles, comforting him until he slackens his grip.

“Give me two seconds,” I whisper. “Two seconds, and I’ll be right back by your side.” He squeezes his eyes shut and nods as I run to flip on the bathroom light. It’s not so bright that it will hurt, but it shines through his doorframe and illuminates him like a work of art in some long-lost museum.

“Is that…” I trail off, my chest full of lead as I stare at him. He’s beautifully tragic. Completely naked, his powerful body kneels on the center of his bed while his head sags into his palms. Long, dark braids hang in front of his shoulders, his face hidden.

Light bounces off every plane of his frame as he trembles, shivering as though he’s freezing alive in the balmy, humid night. Scars decorate his skin, slices and tears and unstitched injuries that cover his chest and thighs. I forbid my eyes from wandering further as I take in the broken warrior before me.

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