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When Type finally leaves the bathroom, he is glued to his phone, texting.
For a moment, Tharn allows himself to watch him; to appreciate the slim, toned beauty of his body, the tousled dampness of his hair, the adorable expression of concentration as he focuses on the screen. There was a time, once, when he would have been jealous of whoever Type was messaging – but not any more. They trust each other far too much for that, now.
Tharn smiles at him from the bed. “Who are you talking to?”
“Huh?” Type glances up, surprised. “Oh. Tar.”
“Oh? How’s he doing?”
Type sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed, casting his phone aside and leaning into Tharn’s gentle touch. “As well as can be expected, I guess.”
That surprises him. It seems like a a long time since everything had happened, and Tharn had assumed Tar was okay now; he had moved to France for a fresh start, a new beginning, and Tum had never mentioned anything to suggest he was still unhappy.
“Really?” He asks, concerned. “I thought he would have gotten over what happened by now.”
“Asshole.” Type sits upright and shoves Tharn’s hand roughly away from him, eyes glinting with anger. “You don’t just get over something like that.”
“Type,” he says soothingly, leaning close. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
Type just glowers at him. There is something buried in his eyes, something deep and raw and painful, and Tharn hates himself for planting it there.
With a sigh, he sits up against the headboard and pats the space beside him. “Come here and talk to me.”
“About what?” But he comes willingly, which means Tharn is at least somewhat forgiven.
“We never really talked, afterwards, about what happened to Tar.”
“What is there to say?” Type refuses to meet his eyes. “He was raped. That’s it.”
“Type.” Gently, Tharn reaches for his hand, and he doesn’t pull away. “I know what happened to Tar. I’m not asking about that. What I mean is, we never talked about how all of this felt for you.”
Type shakes his head, a deep furrow between his eyebrows. “This isn’t about me, it’s about Tar. It might be hard to believe, but I’m not that self-centred.”
Tharn smiles at him. “You’re not self-centred at all anymore. You’ve changed a lot.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
They fall silent, and Type nestles closer to him, rests his head against his chest and lets Tharn play with his hair. After a moment, Type says, almost inaudibly, “There was a video. Of Tar, of when it happened. He showed it to me, and I didn’t watch all of it, but…I still think of it, sometimes. When I close my eyes, I see it.”
Tharn’s chest aches.
“It looks consensual in the video – but it isn’t, it really isn’t. He’s drugged, he doesn’t know what they’re doing to him, but you can see the fear in his eyes – and the things he said about it afterwards, about how it felt - “
Type’s voice cracks, and Tharn holds him close and rocks him gently. “Shh,” he whispers. “Shh, you don’t have to say any more.”
After a few moments, Type sniffles and pulls away, rubbing at his eyes with his wrist. “I’m the only one who really understands him.”
Tharn guides him into his lap and kisses his hair, love and pain filling him in equal measure. “You’re a good friend to him, Type.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he insists. “He talks to you all the time. He leans on you, Type, and you’re always there for him.”
Type’s breath hitches again, but he catches himself and exhales shakily. “No. He just needs someone who understands him. I never had anyone – no-one was there for me after it happened.”
Tharn’s eyes sting with unshed tears, and he ducks his head to press a kiss to Type’s nose. “You’re really caring, you know that?”
“Shut up.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
Type just huffs, swiping at his eyes again, but Tharn can see the tiny smile on his face. He’s about to change the subject, to wrap his arms around his boyfriend and let them sleep, when Type says quietly, “He’ll never get over it, not really. Even when you think you’re better – when the nightmares are less and you can smile again, and sometimes you stop thinking about it – it always stays a part of you, for the rest of your life.”
Softly, he asks, “Is it a part of you, Type?”
For a long moment, there is no reply. Then he feels Type nod against his chest, and his shoulders begin to shake with suppressed sobs.
“Shhh, Type.” He tightens his arms around him, holds him as close as he can. “It's okay, I’ve got you. It's okay.”
Type gasps for air, curling his fists into Tharn's vest, and Tharn rakes a gentle hand through his damp hair and murmurs soothingly to him, and rubs his back as he chokes on his tears.
“Breathe,” he tells him softly. “Take a deep breath. You're alright. Look at me.”
Slowly, Type raises his head, and Tharn’s heart breaks at the sight of him; his flushed, tear-stained cheeks and damp eyelashes, the immense grief in his eyes. He wants to hold him tight forever, never let anything hurt him again.
Tharn strokes a thumb across Type’s cheek, wiping away the tear tracks, then ducks his head to press a feather-light kiss to each of his eyelids. “You’re so brave, and so strong, and a better person than most of us could ever hope to be.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not true. I’m an asshole. I hurt people.”
Tharn just smiles at him. “Sometimes,” he agrees, and blocks Type’s half-hearted punch. “But in the end, you care a lot, and you always do what’s right for them.”
Type exhales steadily and wipes his eyes on Tharn’s shirt. “Go get me some water.”
“Of course, my wife.”
“Fuck off,” Type calls after him as he heads towards the bathroom. Tharn laughs quietly to himself, grateful for the return of his demanding, foul-mouthed boyfriend. When he returns to the bedroom, Type is lying beneath the comforter, his face drawn with exhaustion. Tharn feels his heart melt.
“Here.” He holds out the glass. “Drink it all.”
Type sits up on his elbows. “Thanks,” he says, and Tharn can tell it’s not just for the water.
“Always,” he replies, settling beside him and feeling the warmth of his body, the tangible force of love between them. “Always.”