11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Marco
T hree days. Three whole days and nights of being reluctant to leave my bed but unable to sleep. I'd known this crash was coming. I could feel the icy dark fingers clawing at my brain more insistently every day as my energy waned and my appetite died right alongside my will to live. It wasn't always this bad, but the creeping weight I carried around never truly left. I tried everything. Exercise. Self-help books. Meditation. Medication—every different kind on the market. Therapy. Diet. No matter how hard I tried, the shadows still clung.
And times like these, they didn't just cling, they suffocated. I'd known it was coming. Unfortunately, the night spent with Henny triggered it to swallow me up faster and more intensely than I had prepared for. I blinked my gritty eyes at my phone and groaned. Three thirty in the morning. Night number four without sleep. I squinted at the nightstand and found the last bottle with any water remaining in it. I didn't want it, but the persistent, throbbing ache in my head told me I needed it. It tasted like depression as it slid down my throat—stale, heavy, and chemical.
It physically hurt to roll out of bed. The covers stunk. I stunk. The entire house stunk, drowning under the miasma of my mental health spiral. As much as I wanted to stay under the blankets and wallow in my bed, I couldn't. I had important meetings to attend and if I wasted away any longer, my family would come sniffing around. That in and of itself was enough to give me the energy to move. Barely.
The lukewarm water of the shower hurt my skin. That's one thing they never tell people about depression. That shit legitimately hurts. Shower too hot? My skin felt like it was incinerating. Too cold? It flayed me alive with ten thousand shards of ice. Even lukewarm, the droplets hitting my body caused visceral pain to spread through my nerve endings. Dead on the inside. Entirely too alive on the outside.
I washed as fast as I could given my lethargy. Even drying my body was too much work. I stood in front of the mirror, hating everything I saw, before opening it. Razor? Too much effort. Toothpaste? Too far away. Medication bottles? What was the point? I closed the cabinet and reached for my toothbrush with a sigh. I froze when I saw the second neatly standing beside mine in the holder. I'd kept his fucking toothbrush like a complete and utter fool. As if he'd ever want to see me again after the way I treated him.
I half heartedly brushed my teeth without toothpaste. It was better than nothing. “ Even the smallest success during a low should be celebrated. ” The words of my therapist echoed too loud in my head. I hated her. I hated everyone. Mostly, I hated myself. I couldn't fathom getting dressed yet, so I grabbed my robe off the back of the bathroom door and winced through the ache of limited movement for too long a period of time.
The soft scuff of my soles on the tile floor grated at my hearing. The refrigerator was so loud as I tugged it open. The interior light burned at my eyes. Once I managed to blink away the stars, I sank even lower. The greens were wilted. The berries were a velvety forest of greyish mold. Judging by the smell, the ground turkey wasn't fit for consumption. It didn't matter. I definitely didn't have the patience or strength to cook it. I let the suction pull the door shut and sidestepped to my guilty pleasure cabinet. I grabbed the box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls and shuffled to my favorite spot in the world—my reading nook.
I curled up in the chair and tore into the box, ripping open the plastic with trembling hands. Science told me this wouldn't help in the long run, but honestly? Fuck science. I'd take a false promise dressed in artificial flavoring for a temporary shot of something good if it meant a fleeting reprieve from the absolute mindsuck of my depression.
One roll, two rolls, three rolls, four. I shoved them in my mouth one after the other like a robot. The shit was just gonna end up making me throw up in the end anyway, so I might as well binge it now and hope some of the sugar made it into my system before my gut protested the unwanted invasion of food. Yet another thing people didn't know about depression. It wasn't just sadness and tears and melancholy and low energy, although I had those in spades. It was also stomach upset, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and cramping so bad I once thought I was dying. Thanks to my mood state, I wasn't mad about it at all. Alas, I lived miserably ever after.
Five rolls, six rolls. Too far. I let the box and wrappers slide to the floor as the first wave of nausea hit. With my head in my palms and my elbows on my knees, I practiced the stupid fucking breathing exercises to try and stave off the worst of it. Turns out, the position was a comfortable enough one to trick my body into throwing in the towel for a little while.
Stiff as fuck and disoriented beyond belief, my eyes fluttered open some unknown amount of time later to focus on the ceiling of my living room. As reality came back, I realized I was laid out in the reclined position of the chair with a blanket draped over me. That shit happened sometimes. Huge chunks of time would go missing when I was in the pits of it. One time, I even tried to make macaroni and cheese. I had zero recollection of doing it until I found the entire sauce pot filled to the brim with pasta and cheese in the garbage can.
This didn't feel the same, though. I went from numb to hyper aware in seconds as I registered the sound of footsteps in my kitchen. I all but fell out of the chair and stumbled around the partition before freezing in place. Brandon fucking Fortini was standing in the middle of my kitchen with a stupid grin on his face and a can of soup in his hand.
“Morning, Sad Panda.”
“What the…” I had to cough to clear my throat. Three days without speaking to a soul had sent my vocal chords on holiday. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I tugged the robe closed as I caught his gaze drifting southward. Once I tied it shut, I scuffed into the kitchen and slapped the switch for the overhead lights off. That shit was entirely too bright.
“Decided to drop in. I was in the neighborhood.” He turned toward the counter. “Soup’s for breakfast. I can't cook for shit.”
“How did you get in here?” I rubbed the sand from my eyes as a flurry of emotions tried to claw their way through the numbness.
“I have my ways.” He waved a hand toward the counter and I squinted to try and discern what he had motioned toward. Realization struck in a flash—there was a fucking lock pick set laying out as if that were a normal thing.
“You… broke into my apartment?”
“Yeah. Not sorry.” He cracked open the can and dumped it into a pot on the stove. “Sleep well?”
“Did you…?”
“Yes, I caught you before you ate the floor, pushed you into the chair, and covered your dick.” He glanced over his shoulder with a smile. “Stole a Swiss Roll too. Those shits are delicious. You're full of surprises, Sad Panda.”
“Bran—”
“Shh, no talkie. Go sit. This’ll be ready in like, two seconds.”
I blinked.
“Coffee? I'm sure I can figure out this machine.” He flicked my coffee maker. “Pretty sure your organic bullshit milk replacement is past date, but coffee is coffee.”
It was too much. It was all too much. I didn't ever, ever want anyone to see me when I was at my lowest. I went out of my way to keep people from figuring it out. And here was fucking Brandon standing in the middle of my wreckage with a dipshit smile as he stirred a pot of vegetable barley soup at whatever o-fucking-clock in the morning it was. I turned on my heels and strode out of the room.
“Oop. Nope, hey!” Hot on my heels, Henny reached out and grabbed my wrist. “Hold up.”
I couldn't face him. I couldn't see the faint bruise on his cheek or the stupid fucking smile on his face or his knowing, sparkling eyes. I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes shut as the traitorous burn of tears threatened.
“In the words of Daddy Jer, I'm going to give you a hug and you aren't going to bitch about it.”
“Don’t touch me.”
“Too late. Here it comes. You ready?”
“Bran, please.”
“Here we go, baby.” His arms looped around my waist and suddenly, he was everywhere. His touch burned like hot pokers. His scent invaded my nostrils. His whispered words penetrated through the rush of blood pounding in my ears. “Here we go, baby.”
My muscles were tense until they weren't. My arms were stiff until they weren't. My nerves were overwhelmed until they weren't. At a glacial pace and full of reservations, I wrapped his shoulders in my arms and finally exhaled a breath that felt like I had been holding it for days.
“There you go. Not so bad, eh?”
“Shut up.”
“Mmkay, baby. I'll be quiet.” He nestled his cheek against my shoulder and held me tighter. Gradually, the trembling in my body subsided. The cloud that had been suffocating me was still there, but for a brief moment filled with relief and hope, I could breathe a little easier.
We stood like that, wrapped up in one another, for an obscenely long time before I finally mustered the strength to push him away. I hadn't cried, not fully, but my eyes were misty enough that I needed to scrub them dry with the heels of my hands. When I stole a glance at him, he simply smiled.
“Soup?” He turned me back toward the kitchen area. “And coffee.”
“Fine.” My words were thick and muffled. As soon as I was close enough to the table, I collapsed into a chair with a heavy sigh. I didn't really want either, but I didn't think I could say no. Not after the way I'd treated him. Not when he was being so fucking nice after I treated him like garbage.
True to his word, the soup appeared in front of me, followed shortly thereafter by the coffee. I sipped at both, not really consuming much of anything but trying to regardless. I didn't have the energy to bitch at him as he cleared out the fridge, tied off the garbage bag, and loaded the dishwasher, all the while remaining quiet as a church mouse and pretending I didn't exist. I honestly didn't think he knew exactly how much I needed that small, seemingly insignificant kindness—to simply exist in the presence of another without having to make excuses or pretend I was okay was one of the greatest gifts I'd ever received.
He landed in the seat across from me with a cup of coffee, still smiling but otherwise inoffensive and subdued. It was a side of him I'd never seen before. Guilt gnawed at my gut and I had to stifle a hiccupping gag as my meager meal and half a dozen Swiss Rolls threatened to come back up the way they went down.
“Yeah, that's enough for now, big guy.” He pulled the bowl away and took a bite. “Huh. Not as bad as I thought it would be.”
“Bran… I'm sorry.”
He paused, his eyes darting toward me again. “For what?”
“For… this. And for the other night.” I slouched down in my chair with a heavy exhale. “I got carried away—”
“Hold up. Please do not. Just don’t.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Baby, I asked for that. And before you twist my words… legit, straight up, dead ass, I asked exactly for what we did. Sexy. As. Fuck.”
My face twisted into a soft scowl. “You… enjoyed that?”
“Yep. Did you?”
Unease thrashed in my stomach. I had to breathe through another wave of nausea before I trusted my gut enough to open my mouth. The answer was one I was guilty about voicing. “Yeah.”
“So, what's the problem? Is it the gay thing? Bi people exist. Pan. Heteroflexible. Labelless. I'm not worried about labels. Whatever works for you, baby.” He shrugged and sat back with his hands cupped around his mug. “Bearing in mind that I sometimes need a little TLC after shit gets kinky and assuming that you'd be interested in revisiting the scenario… the other night was fucking perfect.”
“It's… look, I'm not g—”
“You're not gay, I get it. You don't have to keep saying it.” He rolled his eyes. “Never mind. It was great. I get it if you don't want to fuck around again. My feelings are not hurt and I won't hold it over your head.”
The blender of my brain was stuck in high gear. I inhaled, held it, and exhaled before trying again. “I'm not gay. I've never lusted after a guy. Yeah, I've fucked a couple but that was… and I'm not proud to admit this… a convenience thing. But—” I held up my hand to keep him from interrupting. “Even though I kind of hate you, for some fucking reason, I also fucking want you.”
“You know what they say about the line between love and hate,” he murmured, leaning over the table. “Take all the time you need, baby. Because I don't hate you.”
With a wink, he slid from the chair and collected the dishes. It was such an oddly domestic thing and left me reeling. I was full of shit. I'd gone and lied right to his face like the asshole I was. And he fucking knew it. The truth of the matter was, I didn't hate him at all. I definitely wanted him, as terrifying as that was. But there wasn't an ounce of truth to the statement that I hated him.
Now if only I could get my head on straight—or not so straight after all—about it. First, I had to pull it out of my ass and function. My identity crisis would have to take a back seat to my mental health crisis, but judging by the way he was content to clean up after my disastrous self, I suspected he'd understand. Maybe. Hopefully.
I really wanted him to understand.