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A knock at your door. You stir, barely peeking your head out from the blankets. Everything hurts, you still feel soaked through to the bone even though you took a shower and changed your clothes and made some tea and did everything right.
Somebody calls your name, his voice soft. "Are you in there? Harvey said you, uh...went back home pretty fast after...everything last night."
You clench your hands into fists. Cotton curls under your fingertips, and you wish you still had nails to dig into the palms of your hands. Bitten to the pink from anxiety, but maybe that's a good thing because you would definitely be drawing blood by now.
"He said that I'm alright. At least, as alright as I can be. He had to work quick, pumping my liver and everything. I was barely conscious for most of it, but he did say that I was lucky that you found me when you did. Aside from the toxicity, with how bad it was, I could've easily rolled off the cliff and—"
Stop. Stop talking.
He seems to hear your silent pleas. He always was good at figuring out what you wanted to say before you could get the chance to.
He lets out a long, shaky sigh. Something knocks against the wood. You can picture it: him pressing his forehead against the door, hair messy and eyes heavy with sleepless nights. You wonder if he'd gotten a change of clothes, too; if that green polo and shitty purple jacket were still damp and messy with alcohol and rain and mud.
"I'm sorry," he croaks.
You pause in your mindless self-rambling to listen.
"I...I don't know..." He huffs out a short breath, and you swear you hear a curse or two. "I can only imagine how that must've felt. Going from that amazing night to...to finding me half-dead. We'd shared such a sweet moment, and I-I fucked it up. I know I did, and that's not fair to you. I don't ever want you to think that you weren't good enough. It just all hit me, all at once, like a huge truck. I was so tired of feeling."
Aren't we all?
"It's not an excuse for what I put you through." Another shuddering exhale. You wonder if he's crying. You wonder a lot about him these days. "I-I just hope you can...forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I thought that it would hurt more if you...had to keep putting up with me."
Somewhere deep in your body you find strength to move. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and get up. You weren't even the one drinking, yet you feel like you're hungover, headache and nausea and all. Even though your hair is a mess, even though you're wearing pajamas that barely fit you anymore because they were the first thing that you grabbed last night, even though your breath stinks and you haven't eaten and everything is horrible—
—you open the door.
Shane stands there, mouth slightly agape; what was he about to say? Either way, he closes his mouth fast, and stares at you like he's never seen you before in his entire life.
You've never been good at words. So you stare at him, trying to communicate the breadth of your hurt and relief and anger.
It seems he picks up on it because his eyes water.
"I don't think I've ever been more glad to see you angry at me," he says. It's a poor attempt at a joke, but it's the dry humor that you've missed.
You carefully fold him into your arms, squeezing him tight around the torso as you bury your face into his chest. You don't know if Harvey's work had done any damage—judging by the slight hiss he lets out, the pumping definitely left a lasting impression—and you'd rather play it safe than sorry. But he hugs you back with all the strength he can muster, as if he had never been to the clinic in the first place.
You hum and shake your head.
"Are you upset?"
You nod.
"At me?"
It takes a second. You give a noncommittal shrug and squeeze him a little tighter. You're here now. But that doesn't mean I'm not mad.
He lets out a shaky laugh. As you stand there, you realize so many things have been shaky because he's shaking. "I figured. I...I really did mean everything, though."
You think back to...two nights ago. Two whole day cycles. With your hands interwoven with Shane's, with your skin pressed against his, no contact missing wherever possible. Sweet, honeyed, and careful. You'd never been treated so gently by anyone before.
And then, one night later. Marnie had come to your door in the middle of a downpour. Shane had never made it back from the saloon, and she hated to bother you so late into the night, but she was so worried and Jas was on the verge of tears and would you please help them —
—and then you'd seen him, right there on the edge, beer bottles strewn about—
—and you hadn't been able to say anything because words always escaped you even when you needed them most—
—but he had read you loud and clear anyway and asked you to take him to Harvey.
You'd never seen Harvey so serious before. Everything, all of the medical words and his frown under that bushy moustache and Shane looking paler and more lifeless by the second, had scared you away.
You realize now that it wasn't really anger. Yes, you were upset that Shane had seemingly thought nothing of your time together. Yes, you were mad that you hadn't gotten there before Shane could. Yes, you were near hysterical, bordering on a panic attack as you'd sat there for as long as you could stomach it.
But maybe, all this time, you'd just been scared. Scared of losing him.
It takes you a little too long to realize that you're on the ground and holding onto Shane like he's a lifeline and you're drowning in the middle of the ocean. You can hardly draw breaths and you're crying so hard that your throat hurts and he's rubbing circles into your back awkwardly.
You hiccup. You hit his back with your fists without any true anger, only because you don't know what else to do with your hands.
"I-I'm sorry," he's stammering. "I can go, I can understand why you're so upset—"
You shake your head viciously. It only makes the headache worsen, and you're certain you look like you've gone mad, but you want nothing more than for him to stay with you, right here.
You mime writing, and he helps you stand up. Even as you walk, you're holding onto him. There's some irrational part of you that's scared all of this has been a hallucination, and the moment you let go of him, he'll vanish and it'll be Harvey or Marnie instead.
You grab a piece of paper and a pencil. Your hand is shaking so bad that you can barely write, but it's legible.
Not mad at you. I'm scared of losing you.
His brow furrows. "You were hitting me like you were mad at me."
You scowl. I didn't know what else to do. Stupid.
A little gasp. He looks affronted. You stick your tongue out at him and continue writing.
I was scared that all of this didn't mean anything to you. Got confused and thought I was mad. I'm upset that you thought you had no other option.
He lurches forward and grabs your hand. "No, no. I know I'm stupid, and I know I make you upset sometimes. But nothing has ever meant as much to me as this"—he uses his free hand to gesture between the two of you—"does, right now."
You squeeze onto his hand tight. Never do that again. I'll help you find help. But never scare me like that again. Please.
“That’s why I came here, actually.” He lets your hands hang between the two of you, resting gently on the table. “Harvey got me connected with an old friend of his in Zuzu City…a therapist.” He says it like it’s some kind of curse, but his expression betrays a careful optimism. "I’m gonna start taking things a little more seriously from now on. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone anymore.”
You scribble fiercely on the paper. The pencil leaves little bits of lead behind. If you were in a better state of mind, you could wax poetic about it, but maybe the metaphor is there without needing to describe it. You’re not a burden. I’m glad you’re getting help. And I’m glad you’re still here. As an afterthought, you hastily write, With me.
His smile, soft already, somehow grows even fonder. “Me, too. I’m glad you found me when you did.” He lets out a heavy sigh, and with a dull thud, he rests his head on the table. Carefully, you thread your free hand through his hair. “And…I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’re stuck with me, for better or for worse.”
You don’t need the paper to communicate the breadth of your relief. You rest your head next to his, and he opens his eyes to look into yours. He squeezes your hand tightly, and you return it, digging your fingers into the back of his hand until the skin blanches.
It’s a silent promise. This time, you’re certain he won’t break it.