Chapter Fourteen #2
‘It’s weird, like, no I don’t know they’re happening necessarily, but I guess my brain or subconscious does know something is going on.
Sometimes I get auras – those are actually small seizures – so like I smell smoke that isn’t there, or occasionally my vision will glitch, like someone knocked a few pixels out. It can be a little disorienting.’
‘And what is helpful for you during, and afterwards?’
God dammit. Why does he keep saying all the right things?
This conversation is already excruciating to have with a near-stranger, but the fact that Christopher is responding the exact way that Nash always hopes people will is killing him.
Not Kermit. Not this giant posh flappy anxious weirdo getting it.
Nash outright refuses to feel squishy and cared for by this gigantic locust man.
Except, he does. There’s the tingle in his chest. Respect.
Care. Being treated like a person who matters.
A feeling that he hasn’t felt in so long outside work because he’s kept people away, not least because so many of them run screaming about it being too serious for them.
Or they did what Stefan did. After all, that’s why he has barely dated for years.
One of a few reasons, at least. He shivers and pushes those memories back away.
He might be willing to lay out the intricacies of his disability to Christopher but .
. . that? No. No, he never wants to talk about that.
‘Don’t call an ambulance unless it’s been like five minutes, and you should time it to make sure if you can.
Just let me ride it out, and make sure there’s nothing I can hurt myself on.
Then when I’m back, get me, like, a Snickers, and a drink of water.
The seizures might be quick and look like nothing but they can knock me out for a day, maybe two if I’m really unlucky. I just need to sleep it off after.’
‘Okay. Just Snickers, or is any chocolate bar suitable?’
‘Just something in that vibe,’ he sighs, pretending to be exasperated but it’s hollow.
He feels the need to act out, to spark up that back-and-forth, but Christopher just won’t bite now.
He doesn’t want to outright yell come on, argue with me because that’s weird behaviour, but part of him really does.
This vulnerability is like an uncomfortable costume, itching at his skin.
‘It doesn’t have to be exactly the same thing. Just some kind of sugary salty snack. I don’t even know if our Snickers is the same as your Snickers anyway.’
‘Noted.’ No I’m just trying to help, or anything like that. The man just takes Nash’s stinky little attitude, even when he’s putting it on, and swallows it, and the worst part is, it’s making that tingly feeling grow more. They need to have a fight so he can dispel it, remember how annoying he is.
How annoyingly nice he is.
All the talk of Snickers reminds them that they haven’t actually eaten anything for dinner yet.
Given the cat already opened the packet, they decide on the remaining sausages fried up to make mustard-laced sandwiches.
With a hot tea, it is somehow exactly what Nash needed.
It’s the sort of thing he craves after a seizure, really – carbs, protein, and some sugar.
Comfort food that replaces all the energy he’s lost into the void.
Nash silently volunteers to wash up, while Christopher dries and puts things away. It’s quickly become an alarmingly domestic kind of evening. It’s nice but a little unnerving. A little too familiar, maybe.
‘Perhaps we should get an early night,’ Christopher says, glancing at his watch. ‘I’m bushed and you must be too.’
‘I’m bushed,’ laughs Nash in his bad impression of Christopher. ‘You’re what? A bush? Are bushes known for being tired here? All your topiary is wilting from exhaustion?’
Thank God. That feels better. It feels as if some of the hot energy got let out of him.
‘All right, fair. I guess that one doesn’t make sense.’ Christopher gets up to grab his pile of blankets from the other side of the room.
And before he realises what he’s saying, Nash hears the following words come out of his mouth. ‘We should just share your bed.’
Christopher’s entire face immediately goes bright red. Oh good, he’s being weird about it.
‘Calm down. I just mean, I don’t take up all the bed, and it’s silly for you to try and sleep on that couch again.
You look like an adult trying to sleep in a kid’s bed.
It can’t be comfortable. And seeing as you’re the designated driver in this partnership,’ – he tries to ignore the hitch in his chest at that word – ‘I’d rather you were well rested so that you don’t, you know, murder us both on the tiny roads here. ’
Still red, Christopher ponders this, gnawing at his bottom lip.
‘We can do a line of pillows down the centre if you’re that worried,’ Nash sighs, walking to the bedroom.
‘That’s not necessary. I’ve shared a bed before.’
Nash swears he can hear the gulp in Christopher’s voice.
‘Good for you.’
He splutters. ‘With Haf, I was trying to say. Platonic bed-sharing.’
It’s kind of cute how embarrassed this man gets about sharing space.
Maybe what Nash needs is to take back some of the power this evening.
He’s been vulnerable and talked about all the seizure stuff.
And clearly this sharing a bed business bothers Christopher in a way that Nash doesn’t want to explore too deeply.
So instead, he whips off his jumper.
And with it goes his shirt.
It’s amazing to see someone’s skin change colour so rapidly, but Christopher’s cheeks morph from their already slightly embarrassed strawberry pink to scarlet red.
And he practically throws himself into the bathroom, yelling a series of words that Nash is pretty sure were about brushing his teeth.
Holding the jumper to his mouth, Nash cackles loudly. That was worth it. If he’s honest with himself, Nash kind of likes how nervous he can make Christopher.
It’s . . . kind of cute.