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There was an old saying that Trystan had heard multiple times growing up. It was the sort of quote that you roll your eyes at the first word, because you know exactly what you were going to be told. There had to be a reason why it was used so often, though. That was because it floated to the surface of Trystan’s head at times like this.
The eyes are the window to the soul. Said mostly by flailing artists and the writers of young adults novels, the quote was mostly used without purpose or cause. It was one of those quotes that sounds deep but once you scratch the surface of the words, there was not much that could be said about it. A mirror is a simple object, and a soul was the subject that most poets worth their shit could only get halfway through identifying. The two of them didn’t belong to each other.
If anything, the quote was only used to describe some people who felt like they could see the true emotions of others by the nature of the eyes of another. When in reality, the true emotions of a person are a gift to be given to someone else. They were a drawbridge that could only be opened by the owner. Trystan would know. After all, he couldn’t remember the last time he had put the drawbridge down. That quote nagged at the back of Trystan’s mind. Perhaps because he felt the same emotions that he always felt when he had to listen to that quote. Desolate.
Lincoln Cole sat in his bedroom. Trystan sat next to him. As he looked at the walls surrounding them, he pondered. The bedroom of Lincoln Cole was not the fairytale Trystan expected it to be. It was not white and lime green. There were no satin bed sheets or fluffy pillows. The most Lincoln thing in the room was a smiley face scrawled onto a planner on his desk.
That’s where the feeling came from. If the eyes were the window to the soul, then the bedroom is the window to the heart. That was how he felt about the situation
The reality of the bedroom was grey and coffee cream. It was an emotionless calendar on his wall that tracked the date with emotionless quotes from the lives of men who died boring and plain deaths. Even Lincoln himself didn’t look himself. He hadn’t failed to notice the stiffness in his walk or the flickering of his eyes. He wasn’t nervous. Even in this state, Lincoln Cole didn’t feel the emotion. It was more like he was cautious. Like the child of overprotective parents. You learn where the creaky steps are.
It was bizarre to him that he was here and they were there. Beforehand it was more like there was a complete view of Lincoln and who he was, he just wasn’t completely generated yet. Here, it was that he looked like his Lincoln, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was like a painting soaked down by the rain, and Trytsan didn’t have an umbrella.
Regardless, it always felt like a dream with Lincoln Cole. When Trystan was around him, he thought that maybe he himself wasn’t so bad. He studied the flaws in the other boys’ complexion and thought that maybe he could compare. It was a lot more easy to live in a lifetime where people like Lincoln Cole could have cracks in their perfection. Perhaps that was a selfish hope of his.
Regardless, Trystan felt privileged to be there now. He watched as Lincoln plopped onto the mattress. He then let himself lie down on the bed, with his hips and feet still making contact with the floor. The boy looked like a forein object on the gray surface underneath him.
Trystan felt himself move to lie next to the boy. His nerves were buzzing. He forced even breaths to come out of his nose. He was hyper aware of the body next to him.
He had never shared a bed with anyone, let alone a boy before. He clasped his hands together over his stomach and started at the grainy ceiling above their heads.
He could feel heat in his chest. It was a gravy-like feeling. His entire body was too hot, He wiped damp hands on his jeans. He turned a nervous gaze to Lincoln. Trystan found it hard to breathe.
“I think you should see a therapist,” Lincoln said plainly. It was in a tone that bore no emotions. One that spoke only with words, because the sentiment itself was too hard to say to do it with feeling.
Trystan tried his hardest not to look over at Lincoln. He didn’t want to see his expression. It would hurt him too much to see stricken or stony features on his partner’s face. At the same time, panic whirled in his chest and he desperately needed to look at something that would ground him.
It was all too much at once. The bedroom, the words, having another person talk to him about how he was and not how much trouble he had caused for other people. It trapped him like barbed wire binding his body tightly and he found that he couldn't move.
“I say this coming from a place of love, Trystan,” Lincoln started again. He spoke slowly, as if talking to a stray cat. Trystan couldn’t say anything in defense, because in the moment, he and a stray cat didn’t have many differences. “I- you know, with everything that happened last year, I figured it couldn’t hurt to talk to someone. I’ve been worried about you.”
Trystan pressed his lips into a hard line. He curled his hands into fists and only stopped when he felt a knick of grounding pain. “Worried about me? It was over a year ago. I’m fine.”
"I wanted to tell you, but it's just that I could never find the heart to. Home court advantage and all." There was a humorous tone in Lincoln’s voice, but there was nothing funny about what he was saying.
"Is it?" He snapped. He knew it wasn’t fair of him to be upset at Lincoln, that it made no sense, but uncomfort quickly turned itself to hot sticky rage. The heat in Trystan’s face quickly migrated down to his chest.
"Is it?" Lincoln replied slowly. Trystan heard the sheets rumple at his side. Trystan moved his cheek into the mattress.
"A home court advantage?” Trystan bit his lip. He crossed his arms and gripped the thick material of his tshirt. He knew he was being unfair. He knew he was stepping over lines that would hurt Lincoln, but there was something in his head, or a lack thereof, that made the words pass his lips. There was a brick on his chest and he’d say anything to get rid of it.
Trystan felt the mattress rise as weight was lifted from it. He didn’t have to look to know that. Fear filled his body like a lightning strike. A lightning stroke that was trampled down by a cold hand pressed against Trystan’s forehead. Trystan shivered and wrapped his arms tight around his torso. His only anchor was the thick fabric of his own shirt. It was not comforting.
A calm voice spoke into his ear. “I know that this is hard for you, but that does not give you the excuse to treat me like that. Can I hold you?”
Trystan nodded, suddenly desperate for the comfort that he had batted away at before. Tears welled up, and suddenly no amount of blinking could keep them at bay.
Arms surrounded him. The buttons on Lincoln’s shirt pressed awkwardly into his back. That was all it took for Trystan to start balling. It was the ugly sort of crying that involved Trystan wailing like an injured cat into Lincoln’s sweater. “I’m sorry,” he wailed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”
“I know, I know,” Lincoln muttered, “you’re going to be okay.” Lincoln’s hands were cool on Trystan’s burning neck. Lincoln was so good. Trystan was filled with incredible guilt. He didn’t deserve Lincoln’s calming words or his present body. Trystan’s mind and body were filled with shame, overpowering and overwhelming.
“I don’t, I’m sorry I don’t,” Trystan went on in unintelligible rambling.
Lincoln’s hand went up and down Trystan’s back in a soothing motion. “Yes, you do,” he promised.
Trystan removed his face from Lincoln’s sweater. His mood only dropped when he spotted the mess he left on Lincoln’s sweater. He could only imagine the mess he left on his own face. He turned it back into the mattress. “I want to be good, I want to, I promise.”
“I know you do.” Lincoln’s expression was… Well, it was complicated to say the least. His expression was warm and concerned, but his eyes, holding true to the word of phrase, were hurt. Trystan really had hurt his feelings, and it was not going to be something that he could simply forget. Trystan had shown him how he really felt, and that would not go away easily. That only reinforced Trystan’s vicious thought cycle.
“How do you do it?” Trystan mutters softly.
Lincoln’s expression went blank. “Do what?”
“You’re so calm,” Trystan insists, “and confident. Nothing phases you.”
“Well I don’t. I’m not. I don’t know the first thing about depression or panic attacks or having a boyfriend. All of this is new to me too.”
“Linco-”
“I’m an acquired taste, Trystan. I’ve never had boys knocking on my door. You know that. The only reason I know how to take care of a panic attack is because i’ve been having them since I was five.”
Trystan laughs. Well, it’s less of a laugh and more of a dry shaking of his shoulders. His heart rattles in his chest like an empty can; sharp and hollow.
“Trystan, wh-”
Trystan laughs harder. “We’re really are messed up, aren’t we? That’s why we work.”
He knew that wasn’t quite true. No relationship started on flaws could work. Not really. It could bring the two of them together, though. In an abandoned bathroom where the lights flickered if you moved too fast. A bathroom that had a counter that was always moist, even after weeks without use.
What really made the two of them work was an innate ability to understand each other. The both of them knew what it was like to shake in their rooms alone, their throats closed and their faces wet. Both of them knew what it was like to hate yourself so much that it became another emotion entirely.
What made them work was that the both of them had an admiration of the other. Trystan fell a little bit more in love with Lincoln and the way he was always able to smile. He saw the best in what little bits of joy the world tossed to them.
Trystan just hoped he was one of those things.
The two of them would stumble, they’d argue and cry until they couldn’t anymore. But in the end, the two of them would come back together. Trystan would see that therapist. Because they both understood how important it is to have a place to call home.
“Yeah, I suppose that’s true,” Lincoln said. The corner of his lip quirked up.
Trystan knew he understood.