Chapter 4
Parker
Song: Mess is Mine by Vance Joy
“Your coffee is in the kitchen,” I shout in greeting as the front door creaks open, not bothering to look up from my coursework.
It’s rained most of the day—and not the gentle kind that makes you want to curl up with a book (Reid) or play Minecraft (me).
It was the miserable “sky opening up like the floodgates of heaven” kind.
Whenever it rains like that, it’s basically guaranteed to overstimulate Reid, so I always have a pot of decaf ready for him if I’m home before he is and wait for him to initiate our evening routine once he’s regulated on his own.
On a normal day, I would at least pause what I’m doing long enough to say hi and talk about what we’ll be making for dinner together—a routine we fell into relatively soon after moving in together.
But I know it will be a few minutes before Reid makes his way to the living room as he processes the transition from being out in the cold rain to the warm, dry indoors.
I’m kind of in a groove working, anyway.
Today was the first day of classes after the winter break, so it’s not like I have any real homework or studying to do yet.
I’m sure once I get farther along in my program, my professors will lecture on day one.
But since I’m still in entry-level courses for the most part, the professors are taking the idea of “syllabus week” to heart.
That doesn’t mean I’m not still taking things seriously, though–hence the calendar that’s so big it takes up half the wall above my desk, the pile of neatly-annotated syllabi, and the colorful array of pastel and neon highlighters I have spread across the coffee table.
I reach for my pink highlighter, the one I use to circle exam days, when I hear a frustrated grumble come from the entryway.
Honestly, it’s more of a growl, which isn’t a sound I’ve ever heard come from Reid before.
I push the cap back onto the highlighter, listening for the snap so I know it’s on and the ink won’t dry out, then peel myself off of the living room floor to see what’s wrong.
“Hey, is everything—” I start gently, not wanting to overwhelm him, but I stop short once I see him. “What happened?”
He’s soaked to the bone—his hair plastered to his forehead and clothes dripping onto the tile as he fights with the zipper on his coat.
I know he had an umbrella with him when we both left this morning, but did he forget it at work?
That wouldn’t be like him at all. I look down and see it’s collapsed, but it’s just lying on the floor instead of in the basket it belongs in.
That’s also when I see the growing puddle of water pooling where he stands.
A puddle of grayish-brown water that has me itching to grab a mop, or at least a towel.
But I force myself to ignore it for now.
Making sure Reid is alright is more important than my stupid contamination OCD.
“Car. Puddle,” he says, almost inaudible through his gritted teeth.
“A car drove through a puddle and sprayed you?” I clarify, reading between the lines.
He nods, and his hands are shaking so badly that he loses grip on his coat zipper again. I don’t know if it’s because of the cold or the anxiety I assume he’s feeling due to sensory overload. I’ve seen him when he’s overstimulated before, but never like this.
Stepping forward, I reach out to take over for him. “Here, let me—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, his voice cracking.
He jerks away from me, and I jerk back too on reflex. I hold my hands up placatingly as his eyes lift to find mine. His normally warm, comforting brown eyes are tinged with fear and a little glassy. They stay on me for only a second before darting around the entryway.
Fuck, that was a mistake. He usually doesn’t like to be touched—it was one of the first things I learned about him.
With how much he’s opened up to me over the past few weeks with our cuddle arrangement, I just…
forgot. The only thought in my head was that I wanted to help him.
But if I had thought for half a second, I would have known it would be a mistake. But I didn’t and made things worse.
“Sorry,” I blurt. “I’m sorry.” My voice cracks on the last word, coming out more like a whisper.
I need to make things better. “Shit. Okay, um, let me get you a towel at least. And do you want your robe? That way you can get out of those gross clothes on the tile so you don’t track anything onto the carpet. ”
Nodding, he goes back to fighting with his coat.
I wait for a beat, seeing him succeed in unzipping it this time, then spring into action.
I rush to the hall closet and grab a fresh towel, then into our bathroom for the robe he hangs on the back of the door.
By the time I’m back in the entryway, he’s out of his coat.
He’s standing there, arms crossed, possibly waiting for me.
Or perhaps he’s shutting down and can’t process enough to decide what to do next.
I hold out the towel for him, and it takes him a moment to unfurl himself, but eventually he takes it.
He scrubs at his face and hair a little more roughly than is probably necessary.
But I’m not really one to judge; I’ve rubbed my skin raw more than once when caught in a cycle.
Once his face is dry, he drops the towel and goes for the buttons on his shirt.
He glances up at me, still not meeting my eyes.
Oh, right. Privacy. I jerk my hands up to hold up the robe between us, blocking my view of him.
I also close my eyes for good measure. It's not much, but considering I don't want him to have to leave him alone again, it's good enough.
“I’m not looking, I promise,” I say.
He lets out a huff, something between a laugh and an uncomfortable whine.
The sound nearly breaks me. I hate that he’s feeling so miserable, that I can’t fix it.
Not that he needs to be fixed, I mentally amend.
Even just the idea of someone hearing that thought and believing I think he needs ‘fixing’ gives me anxiety.
I would never think that of him. He’s perfect just the way he is.
I just wish I could fix this situation for him—make things so he’s not so overwhelmed.
I feel the robe being pulled out of my hands, so I let my arms drop to my sides. “Let me know when you’re, um, decent,” I say.
He hums, which I take to mean he is. It makes sense that he doesn’t want to talk right now. But I peek one eye open just to be sure, then open both once I know the coast is clear. My gaze drops to the pile of dirty clothes at our feet. His eyes follow mine, and he rushes to pick them up.
“No, don’t,” I say, waving him off. “I’ll take care of it. You go take a shower.”
He hesitates, still in a half-crouch, reaching for the pile.
“Go,” I tell him again.
He nods, then skirts around me and disappears down the hall.
The next half hour passes in a bit of an anxious blur.
My focus narrows as I scoop up the dirty clothes and throw them in the washing machine.
I tidy and mop the entryway, and pour the disgusting water down the kitchen sink.
I scrub the sink since it’s where we put things we eat off of, and I don’t want city street grime contaminating our eating surfaces.
Then, I wash my hands. I’m reaching for the towel to dry them when I feel a prickle in my brain—that feeling that there’s something still wrong, that I’m still dirty.
It nearly has me reaching for the hand soap again, but I stop myself short and breathe.
I’m fine. The mess has been cleaned up. I washed my hands.
I take another deep breath, force myself to dry my hands, and then head back to the couch to finish my calendar—my brain needs something else to focus on right now.
Besides, if I’m right in my assumption that he’s experiencing a shutdown, Reid probably won’t come out of his room for the rest of the evening.
So I pick up my highlighter and continue planning out the rest of my semester.
About an hour later, my phone buzzes on the table. I glance over to see the screen lighting up with a text from Reid, and rush to grab it.
Reid
Sorry
Parker
Why are you apologizing?
Reid
I feel like I might have snapped at you.
Parker
You were shut down and couldn’t really talk. I understand.
Reid
But you were only trying to help and didn’t deserve that. So I’m sorry
The intrusive voice in my head chimes in that I did deserve it since I was only making things worse, but I take a deep breath and do my best to ignore it. Instead, I choose to believe Reid. He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, so if he said I didn’t deserve it, then I didn’t.
Parker
Thank you
How are you feeling?
Reid
Still shut down
Parker
Do you have your weighted blanket?
I glance around the living room to see if it’s here so I can bring it to him, but he quickly replies.
Reid
Yeah, it’s helping
Parker
is there anything I can do to help?
Reid
You don’t have to
Parker
I know I don’t have to but I want to
Do you want some coffee? Or how about some hot chocolate?
Reid
You made me coffee
Technically, I did make him coffee before he got home. But I finished the pot off half an hour ago since I figured he would be in his room for the night, and I don’t want to point it out and make him feel bad.
Parker
Or I could make you some cocoa. I could kind of go for some cocoa right now actually
Reid
No, I mean before I got home. You said my coffee was in the kitchen but I didn’t process it at the time. I’m so sorry
Parker
Don’t even worry about it
Reid
But I didn’t say thank you. Or even acknowledge it.
Parker
It’s okay, really. I ended up drinking it myself, so it’s not like it went to waste
Reid
I just don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate you because I do
For the first time in about two hours, I feel my chest loosen. He may claim that he ends up saying the wrong thing more often than not, but he somehow always ends up saying exactly what I need to hear, even if I don’t know I need it. I smile as I type my response.
Parker
I know you do
But having it in writing helps
Now, do you want cocoa?
Reid
Yeah okay
Thank you
It doesn’t take long to make our drinks.
The process of heating the milk to the perfect temperature and getting the right ratio of chocolate to vanilla is basically muscle memory, given how often I make it.
I bring my mug to my spot in the living room, then pad down the hall to Reid’s room.
The door is cracked, so I slowly push it open and walk in.
The room is dark except for the small light from his eReader and the outside streetlights.
But I can still make him out on the bed.
He’s buried underneath his grey weighted blanket, with only his face peeking out.
His eReader is propped up on the tablet stand with the remote page turner I got him for Christmas clipped to the side.
I’d almost say he looks cute, all cozied up in bed reading, if it weren’t for the slight discomfort still lingering in his features.
He looks a lot calmer, for sure, but his brow is still pinched in the middle, and his eyes have this far-off look in them.
“Here’s your hot chocolate,” I whisper, not wanting to disturb the quiet space too much. I set the mug down, then turn to leave, but stop when he makes a soft sound. “Yeah?” I ask, turning back.
His hands come out from under the blanket and reach for his phone. He types something quickly, then my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Reid
would you stay?
I look up. “You sure?”
He nods and tries for a tentative smile before typing again.
Reid
Yes. I still don’t know that I want to be touched but I want to see if just sitting together would help.
We could watch something.
He wants my company, even when he’s feeling his worst. I don’t know why, but this feels huge. I bite back what is probably a stupid grin and nod. “Let me go get my mug.”
A few minutes later, I’m settled on Reid’s bed a respectable distance away from him.
It occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve spent longer than a minute in his room.
It’s completely different from mine—for one, he has a television, and I don’t.
But it’s also cluttered. There are Funko Pop figurines and assembled Lego sets sitting on floating shelves all around the room, stacks of books on the floor, and a pile of clothes on the chair in the corner.
But it doesn’t feel messy. I’m sure if I checked, I would find barely any dust on anything.
It seems more like he designed his room so that all the things that make him happy could completely surround him.
It’s his safe space, and the fact that he invited me to spend time in it too makes me feel embarrassingly happy.
He queues up Heartstopper, then looks at me for confirmation before pressing play. I’ve never seen the show, but it’s one of Reid’s comfort shows, so I’m content to watch with him. One episode in, I can see why he loves it. It’s fucking adorable. And relatable.
As the second episode starts, I feel the mattress shifting.
I look over to find Reid scooting closer, pressing our shoulders together.
After another minute, his head dips to rest on my shoulder.
I smile to myself and am overcome with a strange impulse to kiss the top of his head.
It’s not the only time I’ve felt it—I wanted to do the same thing the snow day we spent in the blanket fort.
I didn’t, of course. Platonic cuddling is one thing, but platonic head kisses may be taking things too far.
Plus, now that he's shut down, a new form of touch probably wouldn’t be welcome, anyway.
Instead, I rest my head on top of his, and focus on the show.
We’re on the third episode now, and I’m so engrossed with it that I don’t see Reid’s hand sliding out from under the weighted blanket until his fingers are brushing mine.
My stomach flips, which must just be surprise.
Or maybe the secondhand giddiness over Nick and Charlie’s first kiss—because you don’t need to be queer to see how sweet it is.
Except there’s a nagging voice in the back of my mind that doesn’t accept either of those explanations.
I shove that away, though, and calmly flip my hand palm up in invitation for Reid.
After a beat, he slides his palm over mine, then after another, laces our fingers together, almost like he’s testing how much physical contact he can bear at the moment.
I’m more than happy to let him explore that at his own pace. I’m just glad that I seem to be helping him. I give his hand a reassuring squeeze, and he squeezes back, a silent thank you.