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He finds you in the bathroom. You’ve wedged yourself in between the toilet and the tub, some compulsion from your brain to physically hide from the distress, some disconnected part of you not seeming to understand or care that it’s coming from the inside. You know Marcus has found you in more unconventional places. His closet. The pantry. Sitting next to the bed with your face stuffed into a pillow. You duck your head, lowering your forehead to your knees in a futile attempt to hide the mess of tears on your face.
He gently prises your fingernails from your arms, frowning slightly at the indents left behind, but makes no further attempts to touch you. You know he wants desperately to gather you into his arms–he always does–but he understands that he needs to wait until you make the first move. He never has to wait long.
Marcus sits on the bathroom floor, holding both of your hands, waiting for you to stop shaking. You know that if you looked up, he’d be gazing back, his eyes full of warmth and concern. You can’t find it in you to raise your head just yet.
Eventually, you scoot forward, out of your awkward hiding spot, to sit next to Marcus and lean your head on his shoulder. He responds immediately, pulling you properly into his lap to hold you. You know his shirt immediately gets wet when you press your face into the material, and you start to shy away in embarrassment, but his hand cups the back of your neck, his voice low and soothing in your ear..
“You know I don’t care, sweetheart.”
Marcus’s hand softly strokes up and down your back, the two of you just existing together in the moment. As the panic leaves you, the dread starts to settle in. How many times have the two of you sat like this? How many more times will he agree to sit on your bathroom floor while you cry into his shoulder? You’ve been upfront with Marcus from the start–hell, the two of you have gone to therapy together–but you always worry if enough will become enough, and he’ll get tired of you. The doubt swirls in your mind until it becomes too much to bear, and it forces its way through your lips.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” you whisper.
“No,” comes Marcus’s soft reply. “I don’t.”
The relief sends a fresh wave of tears down your cheeks, and Marcus’s hold tightens. “Why would you think that?” he asks.
“I’m afraid you’re going to decide it’s too much, that I’m too much, and–”
“Never,” Marcus insists, putting more emphasis into his voice but keeping the same soft volume. “Listen to me–you are never too much.”
“Are you sure?” you ask with a watery, humorless laugh. “I can barely stand myself sometimes.”
“You’re your own worst critic,” Marcus tells you. “You’re too bogged down with what goes wrong that you’re missing all the things about you that are wonderful.”
You snort–a particularly hideous sound, because you’ve been crying for so long.
“Mmhmm,” Marcus insists. “You’re smart, and funny, and you’re patient with all of my bullshit,” he says, and you can feel the smile playing at his lips, “of which there’s quite a lot.”
Your smile is genuine this time–charmed by Marcus’s playfulness.
“Why don’t we go sit on the couch,” Marcus suggests gently. “Not that I don’t love our bathroom, but this is hell on my lower back.”
You wince. “Sorry,” I murmur.
“No, no,” Marcus says emphatically, shaking his head. “Honey, I’ll sit with you anywhere. For as long as you need. But I can also recognize when you’re starting to feel better and–” he stretches, popping in several places as he does, “–offer to cuddle you somewhere soft, instead.”
Your grip tightens on Marcus, the last few tears–of gratitude, this time–escaping the corners of your eyes. You nod into his shoulder.
“Plus,” Marcus says as he stands, pulling you up with him, “all I can see from this angle is that we really need to re-grout the tile in the shower.”