Chapter Twenty-Six
Elijah
Icome to with vomit already pouring into my mouth. The lap bar raises, and I rush off the platform, emptying my stomach onto the dirt below my feet.
“Elijah!” Bennett yells, moving to rub my back as I heave over and over again.
What the fuck was that? What the absolute fuck was that?!
“Talk to me, are you okay? Let’s get you some water. Come—”
“Stop touching me!” I scream, pushing his hands away. I can feel residual vomit on my chin, hot tears streaming down my face. “I told you I didn’t want…ugh.”
“I’m sorry! I… I didn’t…” He’s staring at me in shock, as if he can’t believe the reaction I’m having. And to be fair, neither can I.
“I’m leaving,” I say, and I move quickly and dizzily toward the exit.
“Wait! You’re in no state to drive. Let me—”
“Bennett,” I interrupt. My voice is calm, all things considered. I stop briefly to look at him from over my shoulder. “Please leave me be.”
I’m not sure how I get home.
One second I’m finding my car, and the next I’m stumbling into my apartment in a heap of sobs and fresh vomit. I sit in front of my toilet and empty more of the contents of my stomach, grasping the porcelain bowl so tightly my fingers ache.
He looked just like Rowan. This Aaron looked exactly like him.
Was I dying? I was falling from what looked like a bridge, and I was so happy about it. Why? What kind of sick dream was that?
And why was Rowan there? Why did he have another name instead of—
Oh no. No fucking way. There is absolutely no way I am falling for his past lover’s bullshit, am I?
Another wave of panic courses through me, and a loud sob sounds against the walls of the bathroom. Seconds later, I’m quick on my feet, the room swimming around me as I rip open the medicine cabinet.
That’s about as far as my smooth reaction time extends, as I drop the open bottle of pills out from between my trembling fingers. It tumbles to the floor, and my medication flies in every direction.
This only proves to heighten my panic, and I drop to my knees, shoving two fat pills into my mouth before swallowing them dry. I’m panting on all fours, staring through blurry tears at the mess around me.
Cold tile bites into my skin, and the only sounds I can make out are my own cries and the ticking of a distant clock.
What is happening to me? Beyond the panic and the shock of that dream, I feel a sorrow and a guilt so intense that I can barely breathe. As if I have made a grave mistake—as if something has been taken from me.
I feel like I’m dying.
And I want to see him. I want to see Rowan so badly that it physically hurts me just to think of him—yet I cannot think of anything else.
He and this Aaron figure are blurring into one behind my eyes, and I can feel myself diving headfirst into a severe panic attack.
Holy fuck, I’m going to die here. I’m going to die right here on my bathroom floor.
Some part of me thought this experience would be peaceful. That when I inevitably ended up convulsing and seizing on my tile floor, that I’d be glad for it—which is strange, as I’ve never thought of my own death before now.
I’m not sure how long I stay on my hands and knees, but soon, there is a loud knock at my door, and then I see Rowan rushing into my apartment with an expression of pure terror spread over his features.
And I must be dreaming, because I’m not sure how he would have gotten inside or when he would have grown the balls to come in the first place.
“Elijah!” he calls, falling to his knees in front of me.
I’m still sobbing, such harsh and sorrowful sobs that I cling immediately to the front of his shirt. If I’m forced to dream of him again, I’m taking all the comfort I can get.
“Rowan,” I plead. “Please, make it stop. It hurts.”
“What hurts, baby? Tell me, and I’ll fix it,” he promises, and I lift a hand and find myself yanking roughly at the silky black curls on his head.
They are the same—these curls are the same as the ones that took flight above me as he fell to his death.
I turn to the left and vomit again, right there on the floor. Rowan does not back away; in my dreams, he is not disgusted by me.
“My chest,” I pant once I can speak again, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. “My chest hurts so badly.”
“What are these? What did you take?” Rowan demands, and I see one of the pills held between his fingers.
“Alprazolam. My meds,” I cry, trying to grab them. “I didn’t want… I didn’t want you to see. Even in my dreams, I…”
“Your dreams?” he asks, and he grabs my wrists to keep me from trying to rapidly grab the scattered pills.
“Make it stop, Rowan. This ache won’t go away. I was dying, and Aaron was dying, and he looked just like you.”
Rowan’s eyes grow wide, and it seems that even in my own subconscious, I can offend and surprise him. He looks terrified, concerned, and maybe a bit relieved—but that must be wrong.
“Come here, little angel,” he coos, masking his own emotions as he attempts to grab me from the floor.
“No!” I shout, shoving his hands away. “I need to wake up. I-I have to wake up. I can’t fucking breathe!”
“You’re panicking, Elijah,” Rowan says calmly, his cool hands taking hold of my face as he forces me to face him.
My eyes clench shut; I am unable to see the fear or the disgust that must be shown in those green eyes of his. It’ll crush me.
Yet I am incredibly happy that he is here. Even if it is not real.
“Breathe. In for four seconds, hold for two, then out for eight. Come on,” he prompts, and one hand leaves my face to place firmly over my heart. “Start now. In for four. Good job, very good. Hold it… now out for eight.”
I follow his instructions despite myself, his deep timbre guiding my every movement as I fall under his spell.
“Again, Elijah.”
“I’m dying,” I whisper, and my heart only begins to calm when I feel the brush of his lips over my cheek.
“You’re not dying, I promise you. One more time. Breathe in,” he commands softly.
Rowan taps his fingers against my chest in time for each second he counts aloud, and while my cries subside, I do not fight him as he scoops me up and carries me into my bedroom.
I don’t really register the walk. Suddenly my shoes are missing, and I’m sitting in Rowan’s lap as he rocks me gently.
My tears soak into his shoulder as they slowly dissipate, and each stuttered breath that leaves me is stolen with each inhale he takes.
“Sweet,” I find myself muttering. “Chrysanthemums.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Is it calming you down?”
“Mhm.” It truly is. The smell of him is breaking down every ounce of my panic one breath at a time.
And as I feel his heartbeat through his long-sleeve shirt, I become far too aware that he just might actually be here. Whether it’s his existence or my medicine working so quickly, I’m coming down from my panic attack at a startling pace.
“How…” I sit up against him, finding those cold green eyes watching me. “How did you get in here? Why are you here?”
Rowan’s brow furrows in confusion, his head cocking slightly. “I—you called me crying. You begged me to come. And your front door was cracked open.”
What the fuck? I have absolutely zero memory of calling him, although the door being cracked makes sense with how out of it I was when I stumbled home.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, turning my face away from him. When I try to stand, his arms tighten around me.
“Just stay here. Give yourself a moment.”
So I do. I settle back into him against my better judgment.
All of the things that transpired between us aside, his body against mine is a comfort that cannot be replaced, and I feel as if I will fall apart without him holding me together.
“You’re not dreaming,” Rowan suddenly says. “I’m telling you that now because I don’t want you to hate me or call the police once you’re fully stable again. You really did call me.”
I sigh, taking a second to breathe in the smell of him once more. “I know. I figured that out.”
Rowan is quiet for a moment, and I’m too afraid to read his expression or ask him what must be going through his brain, so I stay quiet as well. I do not move.
I am so fucking embarrassed. I know that I told Rowan once that I wasn’t a very emotional guy, but I never intended for him to find my medication or see this side of me.
“You… you said that I look just like him. Like Aaron,” Rowan suddenly recalls.
I freeze against him, my hands clenching where they grip his shirt. Fuck.
“Ignore that,” I tell him.
“I can’t just ignore that. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“Rowan, no,” I say, pushing away from him to stand. “I’m all out of sorts right now, and I think… I think you should leave.”
He says nothing at first, and when I finally turn to look at him, I find Rowan staring at his own hands. He seems to be debating something, fighting some kind of internal battle. Finally, his eyes rise to meet mine, and my own breath catches at the sight of his fierce determination.
“Listen to me,” he starts, standing from his spot on the bed. “I am going to say this, and once I’m done, if you still want me to leave, I will.”
He gives me room to decline or to insist that I don’t want to hear him out, but I do neither.
“Okay.” My voice comes out small—scared.
“For as long as I can remember, I’ve had dreams of this man named Benjamin. In these dreams, I am in love with him. And because of this, and my own crippling depression, I’ve never allowed myself to get close to others.”
I can see the embarrassment on his face as he speaks, as if he’s admitting to something he’s never quite said out loud.
He continues. “And when you showed up at my house it freaked me out, because you looked just like him. So, of course, I tried to send you away. Only, you were so persistent. And I could see it—that you felt some kind of draw toward me, too.”
“Rowan—”