Archive of Our Own

It’s one of those early nights.

Unbelievable as it sounds, they have been happening more often. Maybe it’s the age thing and they need more time to recharge after a long day. Or the demands have gotten exponentially bigger.

It would go like this: one of them would go to bed early and the other would follow half an hour later at most, sleepy or not. Schedules and deadlines be damned.

Brett enters the dark bedroom to find Eddy over the covers, his phone next to his face, screen down. He is lying on his side, curled tightly into himself, his head resting on his forearm, feet tucked it. Eyes open. How can a grown, athletically built man look so kitten-like is beyond Brett’s understanding. Brett grabs a light cover and slides in bed next to him.

Bed, a good refuge from one’s responsibilities. From one’s brain – not so much. He traces the lines with his fingers on Eddy’s exposed back. The loose tank top allows it. The skin is very warm and tan, peppered with a few freckles, beauty spots and small blemishes here and there.

If there was a map to human’s soul on one’s back, would you want the key to read it? Would you dare? Would you put it on display or burn? Eddy’s spinal cord is defined just enough in all the right areas. Brett counts the vertebrae one by one, tracing them with his finger. The shoulder blades are framed with strong, healthy muscle. He draws the circles around them. A sculptor would be lucky to work with such life model.

Mismatches and contradictions. Humans tend to have mismatching traits all the time. Oh, sorry this one thing you discovered by chance doesn’t fit into your image of someone that you made up in your head.

Oh, sorry what I said today doesn’t align with your understanding of the type of human you boxed me it. Sorry it contradicts what I said a month ago. Humans can grow? Thought processes and opinions may change every day? What a novel concept.

But some of those pressure points are causing too much inner damage. They are like double-edged spikes, hurting both the owner and those around them. Growing is painful even when you are a grown-up, isn’t it.

Brett would do the honors. He would pull out those invisible spikes, one by one, if he could. Rewrite the map, take the ache away. It’s a delicate job, though.

Brett’s hands may be naturally suitable for playing instruments. Long, slender fingers and flexible wrists, used to the graceful and effortless-looking choreography of pulling out the sound.

But here? He feels like he has bulky wool gloves on while trying to perform an intricate knitting technique.

Short-temperedness. Pull it out.

Defensiveness. Pull it out.

It’s a bit like acupuncture. Sometimes it’s the tiniest of the needles that happens to activate the tear ducts the strongest. And the nurse would nod and say “good, good” which may be the most heartless thing ever. Yay, you got the neurological reaction out of your patient. Which kind? Doesn’t matter. The nerves are reacting to the pricking of the skin, right? Which means, it’s working.

Overthinking. Ouch. Pull it out.

Agitation. Pull it out.

Somehow, they don’t account for the reverse effects. If forced smiling at your reflection in the mirror may trick your brain chemistry for real, won’t the forced moisture in your eyes trigger the opposite? Connect the dots. Those callous medical professionals.

Detachment. That’s a big one. Pulling it out is not worth it. It will just leave a hole. A hollow emptiness. Pull it out.

Self-doubt. Not a big, but a really stubborn one. Removing it will definitely hurt and maybe produce a drop of blood. Pull it out.

Imposter syndrome. Pull it out.

Emotional insecurity.

It’s one of those that are stuck in firmly, deeply rooted into the very core.

Maybe he has never been good with emotions himself. Only too proficient at faking.

Humans are simple creatures after all, at least on the surface level. Couple of smiles, witty comments and quick-fire jokes do the job. Act approachable and come off as a genuine person. Serve the presentable part of your soul on the plate to be savagely devoured and save the self-reflection and dying from embarrassment for later.

Maybe he has always known he is not really well-equipped to go deep. Not that Eddy wouldn’t let him. That guy’s heart is practically falling off the imaginary sleeve. Only pinned by a few remaining needles of self-reservation left from the emotionally stumped young adult years. Yet, Brett has always treaded lightly. He knew when to be caring, but also when take a step back.

Would he dare to go down there? Without fear of ruining something so dear and meaningful? Without anguish of learning the things he might not be able to forget? Could he carry on like nothing, having seen the deepest, darkest bottom of the other’s heart?

Pull it out.

Brett’s hand is getting really tired.

He can’t continue the tracing of the patterns for much longer. At this point, they are not even patterns anymore, more like chicken scribbles. But his job is far from being finished. Crap. There are still so many painful spikes left? What is he going to do with them?

Oh, but there is another way.

Yes, there are issues associated with it. Wouldn’t he just push the remaining needles deeper? Inflict even more damage? A simultaneous impact of a few dozens of them may cause pain shock. And wouldn’t he also cop some of the damage himself?

Maybe it’s a bad solution. It definitely is. He just really wants to be done. Too impatient to do his job properly. Who assigned this job to him, anyway?

So far, he has been only pulling. If doing it the other way means copping some damage, then be it. Let the ones that are left stay there. Let them be a reminder and a motivator. Let them sting both ways, so that not a single moment of life feels numb. Not that different from the usual, is it.

The next moment his torso is pressed flush against Eddy’s back, as he’s wrapping his arm around the other guy’s waist.

There is no reaction. His heart is beating a regular, steady rhythm. From such small distance Brett notices that Eddy’s neck has relaxed, face sinking more into the pillow, breathing getting deeper and quieter. He has dozed off.

Did he unknowingly pull out the insomnia one?

Maybe he can congratulate himself, then. For being useful, for once.

Maybe it isn't hurting now.

Good job.

He carefully puts both of their glasses away, pulls the blanket up and closes his eyes, too.

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