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The house they settle down in is small and narrow, a twenty-years-old replica of the houses sandwiching it and the ones across the street- a San Francisco model, tried and true. It's become a bit of a pet project for Merriell, who started off by painting the once-white front a pale mint blue, working shirtless in the hot summer while Eugene placed their books on shelves in the living room and bedroom and unpacked the kitchen. They tackled the backyard together, pulling out the dry overgrown weeds and planting grass and herbs and a lemon tree. Eugene burns in the sun despite the sunscreen he dutifully applied that morning, and Merriell rubs lotion on his back and shoulders and kisses the bridge of his nose where the sunburn brings out his freckles.
It's a fixer-upper for sure. The roof leaks for a few days in January before Merriell gets up there and fixes it, Eugene watching him wearily from the backyard the entire time while trying to look like he's just examining the heathers they planted the week before. The pipes creak awfully before giving in and letting the shower run, and they always keep the plunger out next to the toilet brush. At night the house creaks and pops as it settles into its foundations with a sigh.
Merriell is a light sleeper. He had to be growing up the way he did, where a missed drunken footstep or an unnoticed creak of a floorboard could have dire consequences. Nighttime was a time of fear that had nothing to do with the dark and everything to do with what it gave people permission to do, of sweaty palms and a racing heart on high alert. There are some nights Merriell doesn't remember, and he thinks it's probably better that he doesn't. He doesn't need to know what happened to him; he can make out the shape of the missing links by the voids they left, the way he flinches back from the singed edges of holes burnt into his memory. He resolutely doesn't go knocking on troubles' door- not this time.
The war added insult to injury; instead of heavy footfalls and mumbled curse words he spent his nights listening out for rustling in the foliage and the tell-tale smell of smoke. He was used to the panic by now, welcomed it even, let it fuel his determination to survive in a way it didn't back home. He didn't jump at every little sound the jungle made like the others around him, didn't reach for his rifle when he heard an unfamiliar bird sing in the trees above. Absurdly, he was calm with the knowledge that at least here he could fight back.
("I'm sorry that you feel safe here," Burgie once told him during a rainy night in Gloucester, his honest eyes pinning Merriell down where he sat. He didn't know what to say to that.)
Even after it was over and he came back safe and somewhat sound the sanctity of night continued to elude him. His mind reacts to the smallest sound disproportionately; a drunk cursing up a storm down the street made him leap to his feet and reach for his rifle before his mind registered that he wasn’t on some putrid island in the Pacific but back home in New Orleans; the knock of a tree branch on his window sent him crashing to the floor with his hands on his head in fear of a grenade. He’d stare at the ceiling for hours, body tense and taut like the string of a bow the second before the arrow is released, fingers interlaced on his stomach and his ears both straining to hear movement in the treeline and fearing the moment it finally comes and he has to get up and aim to kill again. He always ended up sinking into a semi-conscious haze each night and emerging from it, bleary-eyed and sluggish, around dawn.
He thought that living with Eugene would make it better, make it stop, and it did in some ways. At least now there was someone to remind him that he’s safe and that there’s no impending threat waiting to kill him in his sleep, someone to wipe the sweat from his forehead and hold his shaky hands when they twitched for a weapon, someone to hold him and kiss him and fuck him if he needed to justify the racing of his heart. Some nights all it takes to make Merriell’s brain shut down is the slip of Eugene’s arm around his waist and his steady breathing in his ear. Those nights are when Merriell is filled with so much love and gratitude for Eugene that he doesn’t know what to do with all of it and it feels like it’s going to tear him apart, but he doesn’t allow it to; he turns soft instead, closes his eyes and lets the rhythm of Eugene’s heartbeat lull him to sleep.
Some nights Eugene has nightmares.
It's rare for Eugene to go a week without one; Merriell can count the times he did in the last six months on one hand. He figures it’s fortunate, in some twisted way, that he’s such a light sleeper that he can catch on to when Gene is having a nightmare and wake him up before it gets too bad.
Stages of Eugene’s nightmares:
The Beginning: First, his eyes start to move around behind his eyelids and his brows furrow. He might move his head or change position.
Ramping Up: Breathing gets quicker. Groans or whimpers can be expected. Hands balled into fists.
It’s Bad: Full-on shouting. Sweating. Erratic movement. If Merriell hasn’t woken him up by now, he’ll jolt awake in a panic.
The Worst: Upon waking up, he won’t know where he is.
Merriell’s learned the stages of his nightmares, knows them by heart already; being ready to handle them when they occur doesn’t make it any less painful or hard to see him suffer so much. If Merriell is lucky enough to catch a nightmare in the beginning stages, all he has to do is smooth over the wrinkles in Gene’s forehead and press himself closer and Eugene will relax after a few moments. But anything worse than that means that when Eugene wakes up, gasping and shaking, all Merriell can do is be there for him as he puts himself back together, piece by aching piece, until the sky turns a weak grey and they don’t have to worry about the dark anymore, at least for a few hours.
Tonight is bad. By the time Merriell’s brain comes back from wherever it goes during those foggy non-hours Eugene is thrashing around the tangled sheets as if he’s trying to shake off a beast that’s hunting him, with screams to match. It takes a panicked half-second for Merriell to register what’s even happening, his mind still stuffed with cotton and stupid with sleep, but he turns strangely calm when he sees the fear on Eugene’s face. Old habits die hard; he jumps head-first into the stormy water.
Smoothing a hand over Eugene’s sweat-soaked hair, he ignores his instincts to grab one of his flailing hands in his. Restraining Eugene during a nightmare is never a good idea, as he’s learned after some trial and error; usually it only serves to scare him even further and sends him into a deeper panic (on one notable occasion he tackled Merriell to the floor and held an arm to his throat before fully waking up and realizing that Merriell wasn’t, in fact, an enemy soldier trying to murder him).
“Gene,” he whispers, scraping his nails on Eugene’s scalp in a motion he knows he’d appreciate if he was awake. “You’re okay, it’s just a nightmare. You’re safe, cher, I promise you you’re safe, wake up.”
It doesn’t work right away- it seldom does when Eugene is this far in. Merriell keeps talking to him in an even, soothing voice, stopping only to drop an occasional kiss on his heated face. He’s hot despite it being relatively chilly for May, and Merriell makes a mental note to get him a glass of water after he wakes up and calms down enough to hold a cup without shaking too bad and spilling it all over their bed. For now, though, he keeps whispering reassuring words in his ear and wishing he knew of a better way to help.
That’s when Eugene wakes up, bolting upright with a scream dying in his throat. There’s a horrible moment where Merriell can see the uncertainty in his eyes, in the way they flicker madly around the room, taking in his surroundings but not recognizing them. His whole body tenses up, shoulders rising up to his ears and his hands clutching the sheets. Merriell watches him live out a momentary limbo where his breath is stuck in his throat and he doesn’t know if he can let down his guard because he doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t recognize this room, this house where they’ve rebuilt their lives and his heart cracks for the both of them- then Eugene’s shoulder sag; a second later, his eyes fill with tears.
“Shit,” leaves him on a barely-there breath, managing to sound both relieved and utterly wrecked at the same time. The tension that held him together leaves him in an instant and his head drops, exhausted, to where he has his arms propped up on his raised knees. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”
The first few times he was there to help Gene after a nightmare, Merriell’s first reaction after he woke up was to wrap him up and coddle him until it didn’t seem that bad anymore or until he was ready to talk about it. He learned, however, that it was better to wait until Gene was clear-minded enough to ask for physical contact. It’s a deadly mistake sneaking up on a wound-up Marine, even in peacetime. Even if that Marine is Eugene.
Merriell takes this time to get up and get Gene a glass of water for later. It’s probably better to do it now, when Eugene is so high-strung he won’t even notice that Merriell is gone. The linoleum floor of the kitchen is cool beneath Merriell’s feet as he pours a glass and makes himself drink it slowly, sip after careful sip, as he lets himself relax just a tiny bit. The battle is won. Now he just has to tend to the wounded.
A quick glance at the clock above the dining table tells him it’s almost 3AM, which means they won’t have to stay awake for too long before the day begins anyway. It doesn’t make much of a difference to Merriell, who’d still be tired at work no matter what the night brought, but Eugene has an exam in a week that he has to study for and he doesn’t retain information as well when he’s not well-rested. Merriell frowns and pours another glass, then switches the light off and goes back upstairs. Maybe he can get Eugene to sleep for a few more hours.
Fat fucking chance. Eugene’s in the exact same position he was in when he left him, but Merriell can see the tremors going through him from here. He’s shaking so bad the bed vibrates when Merriell sits down on it, setting the glass on the night table. He clears his throat. “Hey,” he tries, keeping his voice as soft as possible- like he’s talking to a wounded animal, which feels so appropriate he deliberately ignores the thought. “How you doin’?”
Eugene jumps at the sound of his voice, a small movement that involves mostly his shoulders bunching up around his neck again. There’s a dark patch at the back of his shirt from where he sweat through it during his nightmare, the fabric there sticking to his skin in what must be a very uncomfortable sensation. Merriell’s fingers itch to smooth his hand over his back, but he won’t, not until Eugene says he can touch him, not until he unwinds enough to let himself be reached out to.
The irony of the situation isn’t lost on Merriell in the slightest- he’s on the outside, anxiously waiting to be let in, when it’s historically been Gene who waits for the click of the lock. Wasn’t it Merriell who left him on that train, thinking he was kind while knowing he was cruel? Wasn’t it Eugene who came to New Orleans to find him three months later and stood on his doorstep completely at his mercy? Wasn’t it Gene who asked Merriell to move to San Francisco with him? Isn’t it always Gene who’s open and waiting?
They’ve always been a paradox; an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. It doesn’t matter which one of them is which. In the end, someone always budges, and they never stop pushing.
Merriell watches Eugene breathe, drawing practiced, even breaths- in through the nose, one, two, three, four, out through the mouth, one, two, three, four, five- in a routine they’ve become so accustomed to that Merriell finds himself mouthing the numbers along to Eugene’s breathing. By the twelfth practiced cycle the tremors seem to have subsided almost completely, with only the slight shaking of Gene’s hands giving him away. Eugene straightens his back and sits up against the headboard next to Merriell, slumping against it as if that simple movement completely drained him of whatever strength he had left. His face is tear-streaked and red; his eyes seem to stare straight through the opposite wall and into a blank space. He looks exhausted in every sense of the word, like someone reached down into his body through the flesh and muscle and squeezed his soul dry.
“You should drink some water,” Merriell tries, but he doesn’t reach for the glass. Eugene shakes his head and drags the heels of his hands over his eyes in a violent jerk, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows hard.
“I saw Oswalt,” he says suddenly, looking down at his lap. Merriell bites the inside of his cheek. Nightmares about fallen friends are some of the most difficult ones to handle; the guilt is always stupefying, leaving an acrid taste in the back of his throat and the thought of if only I was there, if only I was fast enough, strong enough, smart enough-
You can’t dwell on it, Ack-Ack’s voice says in the back of his head, and Merriell almost laughs. It’s not like he has a fucking choice. It’s not like any of them have a fucking choice. What else are they supposed to do? There’s nothing else to do with a pain this big but dwell on it, meditate on it, lock it so far back in your mind it’s all you can think about. You died, he tells the Ack-Ack in his head. You died, and we came out alive. We have a right to live out the rest of our lives in this filth.
“It was the day Bill got hit the second time, in Okinawa,” Eugene continues, voice cold and detached. “Only instead of Bill getting hit, it was Oswalt, and instead of you and Hamm holding me back, it was Bill.” He clears his throat. “And I just- I kept trying to get to him, but I couldn’t, the mud was sucking me down, and I just watched him bleed to death right in front of me.” His voice breaks on the last word and he finally looks up at Merriell, eyes glassy but not shedding any tears. “Can you hug me?”
He sounds so small and vulnerable that Merriell can feel his heart breaking in his chest. “You never have to ask, cher,” he murmurs, arms already pulling Eugene flush against his bare chest. He cradles the back of his sweet head in his palm and feels him manage to somehow fall apart just a little before collecting himself, his shallow breath hot against Merriell’s neck and his hands clawing at his back. His nails are short enough that it doesn’t hurt, but Merriell can feel the desperation behind the act, the need to grab and hold onto something before the wind sweeps him away. “I’m here for you. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m just so tired,” Eugene mutters into his neck, voice muffled by warm skin. “I don’t want to see him anymore. I hate the fact that I have to keep living with this. It’s not fucking fair.”
“I know,” Merriell soothes him. The hand that isn’t on his head is going up and down his back in broad strokes, down from Eugene’s waist and up to the jut of his spine at the nape of his neck. He can feel the tension slowly leaving Eugene’s body; it won’t go away completely, at least not enough for him to go back to sleep tonight. He presses a kiss into Gene’s hair, just above his ear. That’s alright. They can make it to the morning just fine.
---
The house is quiet when Merriell comes back home that afternoon. It doesn’t seem like anything occurred after he left with a kiss to the corner of Gene’s mouth that morning. He frowns as he toes off his work boots and pads into the living room; usually Gene studies on the couch, commandeering the coffee table for his many notes, textbooks, diagrams, and coffee cups for days on end as he prepares for this exam or another. He likes it when Merriell puts on one of his jazz records, humming under his breath as he shuffles his papers around with a deep furrow to his brow. Sometimes Merriell can convince him to get up and dance with him for a few minutes to relax his mind; sometimes he’ll take a break and join Merriell out in the backyard for what he promises is only a short break and always turns into two hours of napping on the grass, or- if Merriell plays his cards right- sex; sometimes Merriell will place a fresh cup of coffee on the table (close enough that he can reach it, but not so close that he’ll knock it over while reaching for something. He’s learned his lesson). Merriell held onto some hope that he’ll walk inside and hear the crooning of a trombone and smell coffee turned sour after a few hours of neglect, but the living room is eerily quiet and still. No textbooks. No notes. No music. No Gene.
A quick look in the kitchen tells him that Gene wasn’t in the kitchen as well; the ham and cheese sandwich Merriell made him this morning still sits on the dining table, plastic wrap undisturbed. No new dishes in the sink, either.
Oh. This is a bad day.
Eugene gets them sometimes, usually after a particularly jarring nightmare. On days like these he doesn’t move, doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink; he becomes a ghost in a living body, merely lying in bed with no power or will to do anything. It never fails to terrify Merriell every time it happens. He always feels like he should be doing something, anything, to get Eugene to snap out of the stupor he’s fallen into, but he also knows there’s nothing he can do, and that’s the most horrible part- this is Eugene’s battle, and he fights it alone. No matter how much he wants to, Merriell can’t be his backup this time.
He’s had days like these, too. After the war, after China, after the train, after everything. He still doesn’t know if some of them were his fault; he tries not to think about it. Some days he couldn’t deal with the bitterness that was simmering in his guts, the memories and the void of memories that both existed and never did, the knowledge that he had something good back in Pavuvu, in China, and yes, even in fucking Okinawa, and that fear of good things made him run away from it.
It’s hard to adjust to good intentions after a lifetime of bad ones; he tried. He fooled himself into thinking he could make it work, took small doses of that goodness until his body accepted it- a stolen kiss here, a squeeze from pale, long fingers there, sneaky eye-contact with hazel-green eyes there- and then, on a train ride somewhere between Texas and Louisiana, his immune system rejected that goodness. He got off at New Orleans and watched that head of auburn hair move away and out of sight, and then spent the next two months purging the rest of that boy from his system with alcohol and cigarettes and missed phone calls from Burgie for fear that talking to his best friend will introduce some of his own kind of goodness back into his life.
You can say many things about Romus Valton Burgin, but perhaps the most true of them all is this: he doesn’t give up, and thank God for that. He wrote Eugene, gave him Merriell’s address, and then came down to New Orleans himself and wrestled Merriell back to his feet. It took some time. Merriell didn’t go willingly at first, but Burgie is a persistent and hopeful son of a bitch.
I love you, Snaf, he told him, hand outstretched and waiting for the glass in Merriell’s own. And you know I ain’t the only one. You need to make things right with him.
Everyone needs someone to help them out of the dark. Burgie helped Merriell, and Merriell will help Eugene every single time. He grabs the sandwich and yet another glass of water with a straw and goes upstairs.
Eugene is lying on his side in the exact same position Merriell left him in hours ago, blanket up to his waist among the crumpled sheets. His gaze is fixed on the wall in front of him, but he doesn’t look like he sees it at all. Carefully, so as not to startle him, Merriell sets the sandwich down on the bedside table and crouches until he’s face-to-face with Eugene’s pale one. “Hey,” he says, smiling slightly and reaching out to brush the hair away from Eugene’s forehead. “I love you.”
Eugene blinks, a slow, tired thing, but he doesn’t look at Merriell. That’s okay, he wasn’t expecting him to; these things take time, and Merriell is ready to wait this out. “Did you move at all today?” he asks carefully. Eugene responds with the slightest shake of his head against the pillow, then stills again, as if that tiny motion exhausted him. Merriell nods to himself, then holds the straw up to Gene’s mouth. “Here,” he prompts him, and is pleasantly surprised when Eugene takes the straw and sips. He doesn’t drain more than half the glass, but it’s a good start and an indicator to where he’s at and what Merriell can convince him to do. There have been times in the past where Merriell had to try over and over again to get him to take a single bite of a cracker or a gulp of water; the fact that he didn’t have to beg him for hours this time bodes well. Maybe they can work through this together.
“Good,” Merriell praises him as he sets the glass down and picks up the sandwich, unwrapping it and tearing away a small piece, which he holds up to Eugene’s mouth again. “Now eat this. I’ll give you more if you want it, but let’s start with a bite first.”
Gene opens his mouth, then closes it again once the food is placed inside it. He chews slowly, his jaw working against his skin, and Merriell smiles wide and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Good,” he repeats, and even he can hear how absolutely in love he sounds. “I’m so proud of you, Gene, you’re doin’ so good. Thank you for indulgin’ me, I know it woulda been easier to lie here and ignore me.”
He chooses to interpret the loud exhale that leaves Gene as a laugh.
Feeling satisfied for now, Merriell climbs into bed and settles in behind Eugene, snaking one arm under his head and wrapping the other around his waist, pulling him close until they’re chest-to-back and he can feel his sides rising and falling with every shallow breath. All he can do now is wait. If Eugene wants to talk, he’ll talk eventually. If he doesn’t, well, Merriell is perfectly happy to lie beside him and hold him close. Maybe he can get him to eat or drink some more in half an hour, if he’s lucky. He can drift off for a little while, let his body relax from work; he’ll wake up the second Gene needs him.
They used to do this back in Pavuvu between shooting ranges and miscellaneous tasks. Something about surviving the hell that was Peleliu made them curl in on each other and stay close. Eugene would sit at Merriell’s feet on the sandy ground, head on his knee and Merriell’s hand in his hair as he played cards with Jay and the newly returned Leyden. At times they’d all go swimming, running head-first into the water and diving into it with abandon. The ocean water felt cleansing in a way Peleliu’s downpours never were, the turquoise water scrubbing them raw and making them human again. It felt strange, after all the horrors they’d been through, to splash around and act like kids again, but maybe that’s exactly what they needed to begin the long and misleading process of healing.
Eugene had started to turn bitter and hard by the end of Peleliu, but when they’d lay on the warm sand after a soak something would always turn in him and he’d grow soft again, glowing in contentment under the unified shade of many palm trees with his eyes closed and the bridge of his nose pink. Merriell fell in love with him in those moments, when they were clean and young and blameless. He’d wrap himself around Eugene and think that he’d do anything to see him live like this for the rest of his life.
He should’ve known that those brief, sun-kissed moments won’t hold up. None of them stayed clean for long- Okinawa’s filth stuck to every inch of their skin, got caught under their nails, dug itself into the very marrow of their bones. He could feel it even when Japan surrendered and the war was over, even in China, even when he got back home and hung up his uniform in the back of his closet, never to be seen again; the grime and rot still clung to him no matter how clean he got.
Maybe it was foolish of him to wish to never see Eugene bloody and dirty again. He should’ve known that these stains will never come out. A few good weeks won’t make any of them pure again, and their sins will never be absolved. Merriell tightens his arm around the man in front of him and silently apologizes to him for choosing not to see the rot that had already taken hold of him back then, in the warm Pavuvu sun.
He doesn’t know how long they lie there. It’s possible that he drifts off a few times; the shadows grow longer and longer on the wall in front of them every time he blinks. The arm he has under Eugene’s head is numb, shooting pins and needles every time he moves his fingers around. He nuzzles his nose into the nape of Eugene’s neck, the short hairs there tickling his face in a way he’s grown accustomed to, soft and smelling of worn-out sheets and sleep.
“I feel like I’m dead,” Eugene says suddenly, matter-of-factly, as if he’s simply pointing out the weather. Oh, look, it looks like it’s going to rain later. Better bring an umbrella. His voice is raspy and dry from disuse and contains no emotion at all, as if he simply doesn’t have any left in him. “Like I died back there and didn’t notice until now, and my body has just been festering and decomposing the entire time without anyone smelling it. I feel see-through. I don’t feel like I’m here.”
Merriell doesn’t ask what he means by back there; he already knows. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts the arm he had around Gene’s waist and begins to run his nails up and down Gene’s forearm, raising goosebumps along the way, providing Gene an anchor while he thinks out loud. It’s not his place to talk. He’s done his share of talking about his demons, Eugene and Burgie drawing the words out of him syllable after thorny syllable until his throat was raw and a metallic taste danced on his tongue. Eugene and Burgie stayed for him; maybe he can help Eugene feel a little cleaner too.
“I was- a completely different person before this,” Eugene continues, and ah, here’s the anger sneaking into his voice, the muscles of his back tensing against Merriel’s chest. “I was idealistic and naive and dumb, I was so fucking dumb, I actually wanted this. I wanted to be some sort of hero and fight for my country and do what’s right and my father tried to warn me and I didn’t fucking listen, I didn’t pay attention, seeing Sid should’ve set off the alarm in my head but I convinced myself that I’d be different somehow-” a sharp bark of humorless laughter leaves him, rattling them both and echoing in the room. “-I wasn’t different, I was a dumb fucking kid that went and died in the Pacific for fucking nothing. This was never about defending my country, this was about pride and ego and I played right into it. I let myself be killed and replaced by someone who’s willing to do anything to survive and- and then I came back and tried to live until I remembered that I’m dead.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. When he speaks again his voice catches in his throat. “How am I supposed to live with this? I didn’t even know I was dead. How can I cry over my grave when it’s unmarked?”
In the silence that occupies the next few minutes Merriell can clearly hear the way Eugene’s breath stutters and catches as he cries, a muted, defeated kind of crying that cuts a way straight into his heart. He knows what it’s like to cry like that, having done it before when he was much younger and far more helpless than he is now. Eugene’s words run through his head over and over again. He can’t decide if they hurt or if, deep down, he knew them already.
It’s true that Gene was different when he first came to the Pacific; not just different from how he is now, but different from other people Merriell knew before. There was something wide-eyed yet determined about him in the way he shot Merriell dirty looks while cleaning out an oil drum, cheerful in the way he joked about an odd-sounding password even after his first day of actual combat. Merriell didn’t know many people who glowed under dust and dirt like that; like a moth to a light, he was drawn to Eugene from the first time he saw him. Something about him made Merriell want to preserve that glow at any cost. It was the first thing that actually made him feel hopeful in a long time, the feeling unfamiliar but warm in his chest. It made Merriell want to survive, too.
But it wasn’t like those feelings went away in Okinawa, no matter how angry and cruel Eugene got. Something about watching him turn mindless with wrath and trauma made the need to protect and shield him even stronger in Merriell; he couldn’t let him fall into that dark pit, not if he could help it. There was still a desire to be and do good in him, even underneath all the filth; and when Eugene came out of that hut and crumpled, head in his hands, in the mud, Merriell could see that glow return. He knew they’ll make it through.
“The person that you are now ain’t worse than who you used to be,” Merriell tries tentatively. “I know that person. I love that person.”
“I’ve killed people, Merriell,” Eugene retorts immediately, voice weak.
Merriell nods. “Yeah, I know. So did I. We were soldiers, Gene. That don’t make us bad people. Our experiences shape us, but they don’t define us. We gotta keep living with what we got.”
Eugene is quiet for a few minutes. Merriell wraps his arm back around his waist and laces his fingers with the ones Gene has on his stomach. His hands are warm and soft, and Merriell doesn’t take that fact for granted for a second. He remembers the days they were calloused and cold with mud, and he doesn’t want to feel them like that ever again.
Eugene gives his hand a squeeze. “Is this living?” he asks eventually. “I can’t sleep through a whole night. I can’t see blood. I can’t get out of bed sometimes because I feel so heavy with everything I’ve been through. I can get so angry without even knowing why. I don’t even know who I am sometimes.”
The sun is starting to set outside, bathing the room in a pinkish-orange glow. A single ray of light catches the dust floating in the air and ignites Eugene’s hair in a saint’s halo. Merriell presses a kiss into Eugene’s skin and holds him close. He’s been through that maze once before; he has a light to guide Eugene with now. The fact that he’s talking about it is a great sign for the future. “I’ll help you,” he promises him. “You’re lovelier than you think you are.”
---
The next few days are a slow, aching progress. Like a cold engine struggling to turn over, sputtering to life before turning off again, Eugene spends a few days alternating between lying motionless in bed and curling up on the living room couch under a blanket. An outsider might not think there’s a difference between the two, but Merriell knows the immense power it took for Eugene to get up and go downstairs just to show him he’s trying. Merriell doesn’t judge him for the days he doesn’t leave the bed; healing isn’t linear, and it’d be foolish of him to expect Gene to just go back to normal after a day in the living room.
There are some angry outbursts every now and then. One day Merriell comes back from the bathroom to find Eugene with his face buried in a pillow, grip so hard it seems like it might rip the fabric at any second, and a muffled scream emanating from it. He screams until he runs out of breath, then takes a short pause before screaming again. The cycle repeats itself for at least five minutes, and by the time he’s screamed himself out his voice is shot and his face is red. Merriell studiously does not look up from where he’s sitting at the opposite end of the couch reading his book, giving him time to recollect himself and writing a mental note to make tea with honey and lemon later.
“Sorry,” Eugene mumbles after a few seconds, sounding embarrassed. When Merriell looks up his face is red from reasons completely different from screaming at the top of his lungs for five minutes.
He shrugs and smiles, nudging Gene’s feet with his own. “‘S’okay, cher,” he says and means it. He knows anger. He can deal with anger. And besides, screaming into a pillow beats the time Gene was so angry that it made him vibrate and drop the cup he was holding. No stains to mop up.
Some nights Merriell wakes up to Eugene awake and crying by his side, and all he can do is hold him and let it pass. That’s okay too; tears, like the ocean, can be cleansing.
The phone rings on the sixth day. Merriell answers it- he’s up anyway, chopping vegetables for soup. There’s music coming from the living room where a jazz record is playing on the record player. He’s a little out of breath from dancing around the kitchen when he answers. “Hello?”
“Oh, Merriell,” Edward Sr.’s voice comes through. He made a habit of calling at least once a week to check on Eugene’s wellbeing and hear how he’s doing in university, but he doesn’t mind speaking to Merriell as well; they’ve once had a lengthy conversation about fishing that both pleased Gene and made him suspicious (“Are you putting the moves on my father?”). “It’s good to hear your voice. How have you been doing?”
“Good, thank you for asking,” Merriell answers, mouthing your father when Eugene sends him a puzzled look from the couch. “How’s everyone on your end?”
(He wasn’t trying to put the moves on Eugene’s father. He was just genuinely surprised to be accepted so readily by someone who barely knows him, and wanted to return the kindness by giving bonding a try. If Eugene’s mother made the same effort, he would’ve tried to bond with her as well. He’s not that bad of a guy; not everything he does is to promote his own interests.)
“Very well, thank you,” Edward Sr. says. “Say, is Eugene around?”
“Yeah, he’s right here. Just a second,” Merriell says, then puts a hand over the receiver and waves Eugene over.
With a sigh, Eugene gets up and trudges over. Instead of taking the receiver, though, he takes Merriell’s chin in his hands and presses three gentle kisses against his lips. “I love you,” he murmurs into his mouth, resting a hand on his hip. Merriell is so in love he’s almost sick with it, but he only allows himself one more peck before pressing the receiver into Gene’s hand and pulling away.
“Talk to your father,” he chastises playfully, taking in the smile on Eugene’s face- fond, exasperated with the way he rolls his eyes and finally takes the call while Merriell steps back into the kitchen.
He can hear Eugene talking to his father as he chops carrots into small cubes, bits and pieces floating over the smooth sounds playing in the living room. “Hey, Pops. How are you doing? That’s nice. Tell her I send my regards. ...I’ve had a bit of a rough week- yeah, the nightmares again. I’m better now, promise. Merriell was a great help. I would’ve been way worse off without him. ...Yes, I’m taking my medicine, you don’t have to worry. I’m fine, Pops, I really am. I’m getting there.”
Merriell doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until a pair of arms wraps around his waist and a kiss is pressed to his shoulder. “What are you so happy about?” Eugene’s voice asks him, hot and close to his ear.
Merriell suppresses a shiver. He has dinner to make, and getting heated now will do no good. “Just thinkin’,” he replies nonchalantly, then sets the knife down and turns around to face Eugene, reaching up to cup his face. He looks better than he did in days, a healthy flush to his cheeks and his smile genuine. “Are you really fine?” he checks, looking Eugene in the eyes and stroking his thumbs along his cheekbones.
The smile he gets in response is blinding; Merriell is almost giddy with it, the way seeing Gene smile this wide is like seeing the fucking sun after months of rain. “I am,” Eugene reassures him, turning his head to press a kiss to one of Merriell’s palms, sweet and grateful. He looks bright, clean. Merriell has never been happier. “Thank you,” he adds, quieter, leaning his forehead against Merriell’s.
Merriell just kisses him, slow and passionate and hard, pouring every iota of admiration and devotion he has in his body into it. Eugene pulls him closer with a hand between his shoulder blades, kisses him just as hard, and Merriell feels so safe.
“I’m here,” he whispers into the space between them. “I’m here.”