14. Hotaru
The sting doesn’t come.
The shocking heat and incredible force of Arlo’s hand on my forearm does.
He immobilizes my intent without a word. His gaze meets mine. The soul-burning sorrow in his eyes breaks me in two. The boy I was before I met Arlo Judge and the man I am now, wholly devoted to helping mend his shattered pieces, no matter what it costs me.
“Don’t please.” He pulls my hand away from my body.
I release the blade. It clinks onto the tile, making a sound disproportionate to its impact on my life. People should hear it for kilometers. Hell, countries away should clutch their hearts and beg to know what that sound was.
It’s the sound of me giving my heart and my life over to Arlo Judge.
As if he heard it as profoundly as I did, he lets go of my arm. His warm fingers slip around my nape, and he pulls forward.
I’m so caught off guard that my feet slip from beneath me. My knees catch me before I crash into him, but he tugs harder.
“Hold me?” There are tears in his words.
I let myself fall then, completely and irrevocably. Physically and emotionally.
My cheek meets the soggy tears on Arlo’s cheek and the impeccable warmth. The unwavering set of his jaw, even in the midst of a total breakdown. My chest meets the width of his. Our hearts pound against each other’s.
His skin. Oh God, his skin is battle born, warm, and more perfect than I could have ever imagined.
“Always,” I whisper the words and wrap my arms around Arlo.
Arlo!
My mind and body rejoice in the contact.
I shouldn’t. He’s hurting in every way. I shouldn’t find any joy in this, but the deviant that I am, I do.
He buries his face in my neck and locks his arms around me as though I might disappear with a shift of the wind.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Somehow, I manage to heft his bulk off the floor, maneuver myself onto it, and gather him onto my lap. I lean against the wall and cradle him to me.
He stays there, burrowed against my chest, his arms around me, his face in my neck, my arms around him for minutes that pile into the better part of an hour.
My greedy hands long to roam his skin, to soothe his tormented flesh and offer comfort.
I don’t.
My tongue yearns to tell him that I love him in whatever manner and capacity he can accept, no matter what that may be.
I don’t.
There’s no chance I’ll push his boundaries, potentially triggering him more than something already did, and end this connection.
It’s all we have.
A pile of minutes pass. My legs have long since fallen asleep. I don’t care. I’ll let him be my tourniquet. If I need to have my legs amputated, so be it.
I realize this is not a healthy mentality. Again, I don’t care.
All I care about in the whole fucking world is in my arms right now.
“What triggered you, Arlo?” My throat burns and my words are reedy.
They touch something raw and throbbing with pain. He jerks in my arms. His head shakes from side to side.
“Okay,” I breathe. “You don’t have to talk about it. Not now.” I rub my thumb over the curve of his shoulder and tighten my grip across his back. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
His shaking head slows and turns into a nod. He nestles impossibly deeper, hollowing out his place in my soul, making it bigger and deeper, more comfortable.
More time passes.
He starts shivering against me. He’s lost blood. The cuts are not actively bleeding, but his lower half is covered in deep red. My legs are smudged with the stuff that should only be inside him, not out.
“Are you hungry?”
His head shakes.
“Cold?”
A nod is all I get.
“As much as I’d love to stay here forever, I have to get you off this floor.”
He makes no move, not in response and not in an effort to stand. I give him several more minutes, but his shivers only get worse.
“This is what we’re going to do.” I smooth my hand over his hair because this might be my only chance, and I can’t fucking help myself. “I’m going to get us up. I’m going to turn on the shower as warm as it’ll go and let you clean up. Then we’ll tuck in and get some sleep. Nothing may change by morning, but you’ll feel a little better after a shower and sleep.”
He nods against the crook of my neck.
“Okay.” I give him one last squeeze and then ease myself out from under him.
My legs are like Yokan, a traditional jelly candy my father’s mother used to make for me when I was little. I have to use the wall to maneuver myself to the shower and crank the lever to hot. My toes tingle, and my arms are nearly numb, but I manage to shuffle to the razor blade and toss it into the trash. I use tissues and clean the blood off the floor. It’s not as much as I initially thought. Though, any out of Arlo is too much.
He’s still staring into space when I crouch down in front of him. The blood on his legs is dried and crusty. His cuts are shallow. Still, the sight of them makes me want to punch the tile.
His other scars…
Fuck.
I want to soothe every one with my lips. I want to breathe old Japanese words of healing over them, over his heart, and then I want to carve his uncle’s heart out with my grandfather’s wakizashi. It’s shorter than a katana, but no less deadly. It will let me see the fear in his eyes more closely as I cut the life from his body.
“I’m going to grab you under your arms and around your back. Okay?” He gives the slightest shift of his head. “When I do, I need you to wrap your arms around me and hold on tight.”
No truer words have I ever said. I want him to hold on tight.
Forever.
I’d like to tack on the sentiment. I don’t. He’s going through enough right now.
“Here we go.”
He’s shivering. His skin is cool against mine. When his arms clutch my back, I have to catch the sigh that threatens to breach my lips. I hold tight and heave. Arlo helps. It’s good because he’s big as hell now, and it lets me know that none of this has happened without his consent.
Arlo is strong on his feet.
“Good. You’re doing great.” I slide open the opaque door, shuffle us closer, and then check the temperature. “It’s ready for you.”
We stand in each other’s arms for more than a minute. He’s still shaking. I bite the bullet and push him toward the shower while also trying to extricate my arms from him.
He walks backward into the shower, but his grip holds.
“Arlo?” I narrow my gaze on him.
Finally, his beautiful eyes meet mine. They’re pleading and slightly dazed like he has no idea what’s happening. It has to be shock.
I step into the shower with him, close the door, and shift him under the spray. It cascades in hot streams over his body and down mine. In seconds, my singlet is soaked through as are his boxer briefs.
In the cocoon of the warm shower, I listen to the beat of Arlo’s heart. I memorize the tune and try to time my heartbeats to his.
“Blakely.” Arlo’s brutalized voice sounds like the mist around us. Barely there, but powerful in its foreboding.
On one of the many nights we’ve lain in bed, so careful not to touch, tired and also wide awake, he told me the story of his brother’s girlfriend.
Blakely McAllister.
She is also Arlo’s first crush. I don’t begrudge her that. Not much anyway. She’s the only source of comfort for him from his old life. For that, I adore this girl I’ve never met.
They’ve spoken on the phone every Sunday since the accident. Unless he is in the hellscape of his uncle’s house, which he never will be again.
Blakely McAllister was supposed to be in the car on that fateful day when Arlo lost everyone he loved. Sickness had kept her from attending the college visit. It also saved her life.
A coldness I haven’t felt since I opened my mother’s bedroom door settles in my spine. Sure, it’s possible that she’s found another boyfriend, and Arlo is taking it harder than I’d expect, but if losing his parents and brother and then finding himself in a literal torture chamber for months on end hadn’t pushed him to self-harm, I’m afraid to know what has happened to send him over the edge.
I tighten my hold on Arlo. “What about Blakely?”
“She’s dead.”
He speaks as though a robot has taken over his mainframe. His unique voice is devoid of emotion.
That scares me more than the cuts and the blood.
She was the last string to his former life. Now she’s gone. Just gone. My insides turn solid.
“How does that make you feel?” I manage to choke out.
He’s quiet for too long. I smooth my hand over his back, willing the words and emotions from him. Nothing comes.
“Arlo, how does her death make you feel?” I force conviction and determination into my voice.
“Empty.”
“Is that why you cut yourself?”
“I…I don’t know. Her mom called me. She said…” A series of shivers jar his chest against mine. I hold him firm.
“She died of an overdose. They didn’t even know she was taking drugs. She didn’t leave a note. So they don’t know if it was intentional. But she’d stopped going to classes weeks ago. Stopped buying groceries the week before.”
His fingers slide into the wet hair at my nape. The tips of them mold my skin in a death grip. Suddenly, my insides are fine. Too fine. I press my lips together to keep from moaning.
I feel the underworld singe my toes through the tiles. Hell, here I come. That’s exactly where I should go for even the glancing thought of a boner right now.
Fuck me.
“When she said it, I couldn’t feel anything. I was hollow.”
“And I wasn’t here when you needed me.” Any excitement my body felt evaporated in the pits of my hell. It’s ash now.
“I’m not your responsibility,” Arlo grouses, gaining a hint of emotion in his voice.
“I’m your guy, Arlo. I told you.” I dig my finger into his hair and grab his neck. “You are mine. Mine to care for. Mine to protect.”
When I know he won’t say more, I release my hold on him. He does the same, bringing his arms to his sides. I lather a rag until it’s overflowing with suds, and then start at his neck and then move to his chest. There are scars everywhere. Some look like cigarette burns, others are small splits in the skin that have healed in jagged lines, while some look to be fucking cigar burns.
I vow to do the same to his uncle with each one I clean.
When I finish with each scar, I quietly pray ancient words of healing over his skin.
His back is much the same, but fewer. I skip over his perfectly fine ass and wash the backs of his legs, before scooting around to his front. The soapy rag hesitates over his fresh cuts.
I look at them and think about what he told me, about feeling nothing when hearing such horrific news about his friend. That’s when I understand. If he feels it, he’ll blame himself.
The cuts save him from emotional pain that will be too much to bear.
If he doesn’t fight through it now, this wound will fester. It will be worse than any cut on his beautiful skin.
I meet his gaze and slowly clean his wounds. A tear slips from the corner of his eye.
When I finish with his legs and feet, I stand. His gaze follows me up, and we’re nearly eye to eye.
“Blakely’s death is not your fault.”
The balls of muscles in his jaw flex. His lips quiver.
“Blakely’s death is not your fault.”
His nostrils flare, and his hands ball into fists.
“Blakely’s death is not your fault.”
“It is!” His shattered voice and heart clatter around the shower stall. He shoots his fists into the air above his head and shakes them so violently that the veins in his arms and chest bulge.
“Blakely’s death is not your fault.”
“I talked to her Sunday.” He bares his teeth.
“Did she say she was having trouble?” I hike a brow.
“No,” he snarls.
“Did she say she was taking drugs or thinking about ending her life?” I whisper.
“No.” His fists come tight toward his chest as though he’s trying to keep his heart inside.
“What did she say, Arlo?”
His tears come in earnest, mixing with the water raining down on him. He hunches and sobs.
I wrap my arms around him and welcome the onslaught. I will see him through anything, so long as he chooses to fight for this life he has.
“We had a normal talk about classes and extracurriculars. She sounded normal. She told me…” He hiccups and then nestles his face into my neck. “She said she loved me and that she was sorry. I asked her what for.”
He straightens but clings to my arms.
“She said she was sorry for everything. I told her she had nothing to be sorry for, that I loved her too. She made some excuse and had to go.” His head shakes. “If I had just asked more questions.”
“If you had asked more questions, she would have gotten off the phone with you earlier or lied, like she lied about everything, about being normal, about going to classes.” I hold his face in my free hand. “It’s not her fault. It’s not yours either.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then zips back up. Then it drops again.
My heart expands in my throat.
There’s nothing I want more in this world than for Arlo Judge to press his lips to mine. I just don’t want it when he’s so damn vulnerable. So cut open. I don’t want him to regret it when his mind is clear.
I drop my hand from his cheek.
“Wash your important bits, and then come to bed.” I give him the wash rag and hitch my thumb toward my bedroom. “If you lock this door again, I’ll remove the hinges and store it under my bed. You hear me?”
“Yes.” He gives a shadow of a smile.
“Good.”
His gaze slides over my body as though just realizing I’m in my wrestling singlet. “What about washing you?”
I’m pretty sure I’d pop a boner the second he grazed the rag over my neck. Even if he means me washing myself. Another minute in this small space with him is too much. Especially with that look in his eyes. Like he’s not catatonic with shock anymore. I’ll embarrass him. Hell, a few strokes of my hand, and I’d embarrass myself.
Then he’ll never let me touch him again.
I can’t believe he’s letting me touch him now.
His shock and anguish have knocked down his walls. I hate that he’s hurting, but helping him warms me so deeply. It thaws a forgotten place in my heart.
And that scares the shit out of me.
His vulnerability exposes the rawest and most tender parts of me.
Now that I’ve felt him, I don’t know if I can go back to how things were without losing myself.