Chapter 17
Luca
The bathroom mirror's fogged white around the edges, and the steam makes the whole room feel softer than the rest of the house.
Eucalyptus hangs in the air from the oil Grayson added to the bath before he left us alone, sharp enough to clear my head and warm enough to loosen some of the tightness still sitting under my ribs.
Blake sits in the tub with his shoulders slumped forward and his head bowed.
His glasses are on the counter. His clothes are folded in a careful pile on the closed toilet lid because even half-exhausted, Blake finds a way to make order out of whatever he can reach.
Without his suit and the hard set of his mouth, he looks tired in a way he'd hate me noticing.
Not weak. I'd never think that about him.
Just worn down, stripped of the sharp professional edges he uses to keep everyone from seeing how much the day's cost him.
My fingers work through his wet curls, rubbing shampoo into his scalp in slow circles.
His hair's soft beneath my hands, darker with water, and every time my thumbs press into the tense place behind his ears, he sinks a little farther against the tub.
He keeps one hand on his knee above the water.
His fingers are still faintly shaky. Not enough that anyone else would notice right away. Enough that I do.
"I can wash my own hair," he murmurs, but the complaint's thin, and he tips his head back into my hands as he says it. "I'm not helpless, Luca."
"I know." I drag my thumbs gently along his temples, then smooth the wet curls away from his forehead before the soap can run toward his eyes. "I wanted to do it anyway."
His mouth tightens like he wants to argue, but the argument never becomes words.
He closes his eyes instead, and the water shifts around him as his body gives in by one careful degree.
He's been trying all day not to look tired enough for anyone to make decisions around him.
Here, with the door closed and the rest of the house busy with birthday chaos, he lets me hold the weight of his head in my hands.
I rinse the shampoo slowly, shielding his face with my palm while the handheld spray beats softly against the tile.
His breathing's evened out since I got him into the bath, but the tremor in his hand hasn't fully stopped.
I try not to stare at it. He hates being watched like a symptom. I understand that more than I want to.
"You scared us today," I say quietly, and Blake goes still beneath my hands.
His lashes stay lowered, wet against his cheeks, and for a moment the only sound's the showerhead and the soft movement of water against the tub.
The silence doesn't feel empty. It feels like he's deciding whether to give me the truth without making it easier for both of us first, so I keep my hands steady in his hair and add, "You scared me. "
His throat moves. "I scared myself too." The words are so small they almost disappear into the steam.
I turn off the water and set the showerhead back in place.
My hands return to his hair because I need somewhere to put all the feeling that rises in me, too sharp for the quiet room.
He doesn't pull away when I bend and kiss the top of his head.
He only breathes out, long and uneven, and lets his forehead rest against my wrist.
"The room went dark at the edges," he says after a while.
"I thought it was the code at first. I kept trying to read the same section, and it wouldn't make sense.
Then I realized it was me. My head. My eyes.
My heart." His mouth twists faintly, but there's no humor in it.
"I hate that. I hate that I can still know what needs to happen and have my body refuse to cooperate. "
"I know." When he opens one eye, tired and skeptical like he expected more of a lecture, I slide my hands down to his shoulders and press my thumbs into the knots there.
"That's all right now. You already know I want you to stop sooner.
You already know I want you to answer Quentin.
You already know all the things I could say.
Right now, I want you warm and clean and fed before Rosalie decides her birthday decorations require executive oversight. "
That gets a breath from him that almost becomes a laugh. I count it as a victory. His shoulders lower beneath my hands, and when I work at the tight muscle near his neck, he stops holding himself upright and lets the porcelain take more of his weight.
The bathroom door opens a few minutes later, and Grayson slips in with towels stacked against his chest, his hair twisted into a messy knot and his sleeves pushed up past his elbows.
He looks tired too. Not the same way Blake does, not pale and sharp around the edges, but worn thin from too many hours spent making sure everyone else has what they need.
The softness that comes over his face when he sees us is real, though.
He takes in Blake's lowered head, my hands on his shoulders, the damp towel already sliding off the side of the tub, and he doesn't try to fill the room too quickly.
He sets the towels on the warmer first, then bends to kiss my shoulder.
His mouth lingers there, warm through the steam, and his hand brushes the back of Blake's neck before he straightens.
"Rosalie's updated the theme," he says, keeping his voice low.
"It's pink dragons, cookies, and maybe stars.
The maybe's important. She said she'll decide once she sees how the stars behave. "
Blake opens both eyes at that. "Stars behave?"
"That was also my question." Grayson reaches for a towel and unfolds it, shaking it once before holding it ready.
"Samuel says they need to be aerodynamic.
James disagreed on the grounds that stars aren't supposed to fly indoors, and now Maceo's on the living room floor treating cardboard wings like a load-bearing structure. "
The corner of Blake's mouth moves, faint but real, and Grayson's shoulders ease as if he needed that small sign of Blake returning to himself.
I help Blake stand before the water cools too much.
He pretends he doesn't need my hand, then uses it anyway when his balance takes one uncertain second to catch up.
Grayson steps close without making a fuss, wrapping the towel around Blake's shoulders while I steady him at the waist. Blake's jaw tightens, but he lets us do it.
That matters. It matters more than he'll admit.
"I'm fine," he says, because the words are habit.
Grayson's hand stills on the towel. "You can be fine and still let us help you dry off."
Blake looks like he wants to object to the logic, but he's tired enough that he only sighs. I press my forehead briefly to his damp temple before guiding him into the bedroom for clothes, keeping one hand on the small of his back until he's steady on his own feet.
By the time we reach the living room, the party decorations have spread across half the floor.
Pink and gold paper covers the rug. Tape sticks to the coffee table, the edge of the couch, and, somehow, the hem of Samuel's shirt.
Rosalie sits on a cushion like a tiny supervisor, crown on her head and a marker in one hand, watching Maceo and James assemble something that started as a banner and has become a dragon with wings too large for its body.
Maceo lies stretched on his side on the hardwood, one sleeve rolled higher than the other, a dowel rod balanced between his fingers.
James sits cross-legged beside him with a plastic screwdriver and a concentrated frown.
They're both staring at the cardboard wing like its failure's a problem worth serious attention.
"It needs more support here," James says, pointing carefully. "If Rosalie moves it too fast, that part bends."
Maceo nods with complete seriousness. "Agreed. We reinforce the spine and add a second anchor point. The tape alone isn't enough."
Rosalie leans forward to inspect their work. "It has to fly pretty."
"It'll fly as pretty as the structure allows," Maceo says, and she considers that for a moment before granting the structure permission with a solemn nod.
Blake pauses beside me, some of the strain loosening from his face while he watches them.
Maceo must feel his attention because he looks up, eyes moving over Blake's damp hair, the loose sweater, and the way I've still got my hand near his back.
He doesn't ask in front of the children.
He only gives one small nod, then returns to the dragon.
In the kitchen, Luther stands at the counter slicing fruit into neat sections, his dress shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms and his hair still slightly mussed from whatever discussion he lost with Rosalie over sprinkles.
Grayson's beside him, arranging cookies on a tray and trying to keep Samuel from stealing decorations off the table every time he passes.
When Grayson leans across him for another plate, Luther's hand settles low on his back.
The touch is brief at first, then stays, and Grayson stills under it.
Not dramatically. His shoulders only drop a little, his eyes closing for one breath before he opens them again and reaches for the plate.
Luther notices the same thing Blake and I do. Yesterday, we might've looked away and let Grayson keep moving. Tonight, Luther takes the plate from his hand before Grayson can carry it anywhere.
"I've got this one," Luther says, quiet enough not to make it a scene.
Grayson turns his head, eyebrows lifting. "I can carry a plate, Lu."
"I know. I'm carrying this one."