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The sound of your keys jangling against the plastic Spider-Man keychain sealed the thought of rest after a long day. You could feel your head pounding, your legs sore; a sigh got mixed with the hotter outdoor air that seeped into the house as you swung open the door.
The air is a hundred times more comfortable than the heatwave outside that pushes your physiological limits even as the sun has already set. It smells sweet and dense, a nearly tangible smell that makes your brain switch to a curious mindset on what's going on at the kitchen.
—You're here —Miguel smiles warmly, tilting his head while holding a wooden spatula—. How was your day?
—Hi —You drop the keys on the little glass table just after the door, without yet looking at him—. How're you?
—Everything alright. Job's nice. Got finished early, I was watching TV like an hour ago, just before starting dinner. What about you?
—The same as always —You smile wearily, sighing and sitting in front of him, on a stool that's just behind the bar against the stove.
—Did something happen? You seem... More tired than always.
—Not really. Just bored, don't worry about it. Talk to me, I like listening to you —You try to signal Miguel's worry away with your hand—.
He narrows his eyes and nods, grabbing a glass and turning to the faucet, opening it and letting the glassware fill to an acceptable level. He looks over at you and places the glass gingerly on the counter.
—I'm always available to listen to you. Just start talking —His hand grabs the spatula again and silently stirs the contents of the pan, without looking at you.
There's no tension between you; the air as light as whenever you're together. The A/C hum fills the room along with the soft sizzling of food. Your throat goes a bit dry, your fists clenching your clothes wherever your body felt it was more safe to hold yourself.
—I just don't feel like anything at all —Your disconnected and guilty voice raises his concerns, making him turn the stove off, cover the pan, and sit next to you.
—What's going on? One of those days? —He smiles softly and respectful, his hand resting on your thigh.
—It hasn't only been a day of this. I'm just tired, it's no one's fault. I know I'm surely overreacting or thinking things that aren't even real —You pinch the bridge of your nose and scrunch your face in tiredness, stretching your lower back at the same time.
—I... —He taps his fingers softly over the cold surface of the counter, looking away and lowering his voice—. Bought your meds for you today, they're where you always place them.
—Yeah, thanks.
—I'm here for you, yeah? Just talk to me.
—You shouldn't be putting up with me. You don't deserve for me to keep you here, to always be fearful or double guessing my words... To be limited by me.
—Why would you say that? Do you feel that way about me?
—Yes. I don't like you being restricted.
—You're not restricting me. Am I doing so with you?
—No. You aren't —You speak drily.
—Listen —He stands and pushes your legs a bit apart, just enough so he can fit in between them—, I haven't been putting up with you. I don't have anything to put up with.
—Yeah, but I'm tiring. I hate when I treat you bad, when I feel angry at you even though you did nothing wrong. Don't you want to go outside? To not worry about buying meds, to go to a bar and have a drink with me, to not have to always be taking care of someone, to have normalcy?
—No. I've adapted to you as you've adapted to me. I'd hate normalcy with you.
—It's still not fair. You deserve to live, don't you get it? —An exasperated sigh leaves your throat.
Miguel's warm hands softly cup your face, his thumbs tracing under your eyes, caressing the dark bags. He smiles lovingly, walking closer.
—Am I not living right now? I like being with you. Doesn't matter how many times I have to remind you of that.
—I know, thank you, I just don't want to bother you or anyone —You lean on his hands, closing your eyes—. I don't know what else is left for me to do.
—It's not called persistent just because —His hands carefully slide down to your shoulders, pulling you close enough so you can hear his heartbeat—. Let me serve you dinner.
—No, let me do it. Stay seated.
You stand and feel your body ache, not in a transmissible sickness kind, but rather a pain that's incomprehensible and doesn't have a clear source.
A little bit of steam comes out the release hole on the lid of the pan, your hand feeling humid when you lift it and let the gas diffuse through the kitchen.
—It smells really nice, Miguel.
—Yeah? You like it? —His eyes brighten up, he grins and pushes himself over the counter.
—Of course I do —His sudden and uncommon outgoing attitude surprises you, causing part of your fatigue to postpone.
Both of you eat in silence, occasionally glancing and smiling at each other. This is how your dinner usually goes, a moment of shared space.
—I was watching hockey. Want to watch it with me?
—Sure, why not.
—I would like to play hockey. Not professionally or anything, just to have fun. What would you do right now if you could? No strings attached.
—Hmm... —You try to think, the fog on your brain making your reasoning opaque, some memories surface but none that would give you the satisfaction to readily talk about them—. I don't quite know, maybe something simple like drawing or... Playing hockey with you, that sounds fun too.
—What would you like to draw?
—Nature. People. Whatever crosses my imagination. Looks fun.
—Indeed. Why haven't you started learning?
—It's hard to show up constantly. Sometimes I get bored or void of meaning even if I like it a lot, and I'm fearful of failing.
—I get it, yeah. You do think that way of a lot of things, don't you?
—Yeah. Quite hard, I get tired of myself lots of the time. Just pathetic.
—Don't be so hard on yourself. You're not a bad person.
—I'm just tired, you know? Of everything, of being tired, I just don't want to do anything anymore. Nothing means anything to me... Except you, you still mean the world to me.
—You don't have to be so complacent —Miguel scoffs with a soft and innocent smirk—. You can curse everything around you, you could hate me, I would still love you.
—Well, you shouldn't. That's the point of what I'm trying to say. You don't have to put up with me, you don't deserve this.
—Why are you trying to push me away? Did I do something wrong?
—Of course you didn't —You sigh softly and rest your head on your palms—. You have done nothing but help me, but I feel conflicted by having you here, by limiting you. You need rest too, I want to be able to be someone which you can go for comfort without feeling responsible for my well-being.
—You already are. It's just that your issues are a thousand times harder to overcome alone than mine. You're not irrational, you know? Well, you can be sometimes, we all are, but most of the time you're just being yourself, letting yourself feel. Don't you think that's good?
—No. I feel too much.
—I think sometimes you don't feel, and that's what causes a whole lot of trouble for you.
—Could be. I can't really feel happiness or relief, everything's too bland.
—Are you scared of me getting burnt out or of me becoming something bland?
A shiver and a sensation of heat go across your body, making you instantly feel sweaty on your neck, legs, face and under your arms. You turn rapidly to face him, expression dumbfounded, a feeling of being transparent that makes you want to run away and hide under the covers of your bed.
Miguel slowly tilts his head and crosses his arms, blinking smoothly and leaning on the counter, his voice soft and compassionate, a tone reserved just for you:
—Is that it?
—Yes. Both. I don't want to... Pass it on to you. I'm scared you'll be a collateral, and I'm terrified of you ceasing to mean what you mean to me.
—You don't have to worry about me. You should focus on y-
—I worry about you. Just... I don't understand why you would be with someone who's sick in this weird way that's chronic and invisible, unpredictable, you don't have a clear path of what could happen, I can be calm one d-
—I don't need a clear path. Not with you. You're... —he scoffs and smiles— the only source of uncertainty in my life. And I love that. Your unpredictability is not something bad, it's something I love about yourself. You make my life fun, give me a purpose that's not objective nor rigid. I can be my true self with you, you know?
—Mig-
—And I just hope you feel the same way about me. I know that you have trouble finding purpose, but I want to be someone that you can rely on with no strings attached, you don't need a filter. Be a mess with me, I'll keep you together.
—You ca- —Your voice stops, a thousand thoughts reeling at light speed through your brain, your neurons synapsing and making you remember extensive periods of your life, a chemical overload clouding your judgement.
In a tenth of a second, millions of molecules of retinal photoisomerize to show your brain the sight of Miguel; that incredibly smart, strong man who could lift a triad of cement parcels in one take coming undone in front of you and offering you all of his mental and physical strength to contain something as ravaging as your emotions spilling violently out of your brain.
His hands reach your face, cupping the overloaded expression:
—Want to take a shower? Relax a bit? —He once again traces your eye bags with his thumb.
—Y-Yes. Just let me clean the di-
—No need —His hand falls down to your shoulder, stopping you from standing just now—. Leave it there, that's something we can manage later.
You feel your shoulder get squeezed, and watch him stand and walk over to you, patting your head gingerly. His hand finds yours, and you find yourself walking behind him until you reach the bathroom.
The door clicks after you, even though there's no one who could interrupt the two of you. With swiftness, Miguel turns the water tap on, and after that he turns and smiles at you, your fingers still intertwined. His free hand grabs the lower end of your shirt, pulling at it innocently and silently asking for permission. You nod, lifting your arms as he helps you get topless; he follows.
—Looking cute —His hands slide from your shoulders to your elbows—.
—You too. Pretty —While you smile and look away ashamedly, one of your index fingers traces his v-line.
—Still feeling tired?
—Yes, but more calm. I'm not that on edge anymore. Thanks for your... —Now you're looking at him directly— Words. They, you mean a lot to me. A whole lot.
—You mean everything to me too.
Miguel strips down his shorts and then his boxers, testing the temperature of the water before getting in. He breathes out and quickly lets his back and hair get wet, leaning softly on the shower door, smiling warmly, his hand reaching out to you.
You nod and remove the rest of your clothes, holding his hand and carefully walking inside the shower. Miguel pulls you close, one of his arms around your shoulders, his fresh smell competing with the fog over your brain. The water is at a perfect temperature, it makes you relax and rest your head on Miguel's chest, closing your eyes in vulnerability and trust.
His free hand reaches to your head, softly caressing you. He kisses your forehead before reassuringly telling you to relax. A small amount of minutes after, he starts sliding soap across your body.
—Don't. I can do it myself —You softly push on his chest to stand, but his arms keep you close.
—I know that. I'm not supposing you're dependent —He pulls you even closer, nearly enough so you couldn't breath comfortably—.
Your hands find his shoulders and slide down to his biceps, your face on his chest and breathing relaxed. He leans back on the shower wall and closes his eyes, groaning softly.
He traces his fingertips on your back, you kiss his chest. As soon as you start dozing off, Miguel turns the tap and grabs a towel, wrapping you in it, lifting your face softly and making his lips brush yours. He wraps the towel tightly around you, his warm arms and chest keeping you still, water droplets drip down Miguel's hair and slide down your face, making you close your eyes.
—I'll leave you so you can finish getting yourself ready, yeah? I'll wait for my turn outside.
—Sure, thanks.
Miguel kisses your forehead, growing a towel for himself after, getting outside the bathroom and closing the door behind him.
You finish getting yourself ready, although not fully clothed; a bathrobe wraps around you. With a click you open the door and see Miguel drying himself on the edge of the bed, looking up and smiling at you, he lets the towel fall down over his lap.
—Ready? —He asks while lightly leaning backwards and supporting his weight on his hands.
—Yeah. Go on, I'll wait for you —You sit beside him and ruffle his hair, your hand getting quite wet—.
—Alright, don't fall asleep just yet —He grunts and stands, carrying the towel on his hand, leaving the bathroom door ajar.
You can hear him use hygiene products and brush his teeth, not taking long before getting out into the room again, the belt of his bathrobe is wrapped gently around his waist, letting the center of his chest and upper abdomen exposed. He walks over to you, smile as warm as the towel he wrapped around you before, his legs in between yours, his hands resting on and caressing your head and shoulder, pushing you gingerly towards his body. He smells fresh, clean, your brain fills with the idea of a future, of a time where you could be happy.
—Still want to watch TV? —His hand moves to the back of your neck, and his fingertips trace small lines in it, making you shiver.
—Yes. Although I probably won't last enough. Sorry.
—Don't worry. Just having you here is more than I could ask for —He slides his hands through your sides, kneeling and softly resting his face on your stomach—. So much more.
You are shaking softly, instinctively moving your hands to his shoulders and getting them close to the back of his neck, whispering his name.
—Yes? —He looks upwards, his gaze calm.
—No, nothing. Just... Hold me tight, please.
—As much as you want, for as long as you want —He whimpers softly and wraps his arms around your waist, comfortably tight.
A few minutes of being in that position fly by, and Miguel stands halfway to peck your neck, smiling and making your nose rub with his.
—Have you taken your meds? —He says between kisses.
—No, not yet —You caress his face, then the sides of his head, feeling how his hair slides between your fingers— Let me go take them.
—Sure, no rush —Miguel kisses you again before standing and offering a hand for you, so you can stand again.
You walk over to the desk on the room, popping open a pill and putting it in your mouth, drinking from your water bottle that was on the corner of the table.
—All set? —He's already sitting on the bed, resting his head on the backboard.
—Yes —You look over your shoulder.
—Come here, then.
For the first time on the day, you feel safe. Finally you can rest at home, but ruminating over your actions and thoughts still causes you guilt. Your head is filled about strange interactions you had over the hours, about things you need to do, you want to do them but you can't, but ultimately what causes you discomfort is the conversation you had with Miguel; does he really feel that way or is he just telling you that to comfort you, to try and ease your pain? Hasn't he have pain of himself? Should he really be with someone as broken as you?
Your chest now rests against his legs; he places his phone on the nightstand and instead uses one of his hands to caress your head. The overwhelmed urge of being left alone and running away overflows your mind, making you shiver quickly.
—Hey now —Miguel speaks and places one of his legs on top of yours—. You alright?
—Yeah. All good.
—You sure about that? I can hear your thoughts from here, you know?
—Just scared. You know how it is —You grunt ashamed and angry, shaking your head and placing one of your hands on his stomach.
—Well, you don't have to be scared. I won't hurt you, and you won't hurt me. Not that you don't know that, though.
—Right.
—Just take it easy. You'll find you way, trust me.
—Have you found yours yet?
—Yes, but no. I can answer what I think my purpose is quite quickly and top of my mind, but if I think about it too much I spiral over what I really am —He shifts to lay down next to you on the bed, your hand now on his shoulder.
—How do you do it though? I try and try to find purpose in whatever, but after even some minutes it just vanishes, it means nothing again.
—Honestly, I wouldn't be available to tell you that. I don't know how it just happens, but even if I knew and told you, I doubt it would work for you... Your brain works differently than that of the mean. Hollow words won't help you. I think right now, mine will neither, I'm a bad speaker.
—Well, they're soothing me more than you think. Thank you for acknowledging I'm different, that I'm sick, that I need other ways.
—Don't worry about it —He shrugs and tries to brush the compliment away with his hand, smiling nearly imperceptibly and blushing just a bit.
You both stay silent for a while, your eyes lost in a point over each other's bodies but not on the face. Miguel's index finger traces circles lazily on your sternum, while your thumb moves one side to another over his abdomen.
—I'm sorry I can't be of much help —His voice is insecure, opposed as how you're accostumed to listen to him.
—You're being of big help. You're keeping me here, you're being patient and understanding. Don't undervalue yourself.
—...Can I hug you?
—Please do —You whisper.
His strong, toned, warm arms envelop your body, pulling you close to his chest; you can feel his breathing on the top of your head and listen to his heartbeat, one of his legs wrapped nearly at your waist. His fresh, clean smell comforts you once again, allowing you to feel safe, to lower your guard.
—I really love you —He speaks softly, involuntarily tightening his grip.
—I love you too, Miguel. I really do. I'm sorry to be such a burden.
—You're not. You're my lover. I would pull my heart out of my ribs with my bare hands if you needed a new one... Or even if you didn't, even if you only asked me.
—I would rip my soul out just so I could still be close to you. I would do anything for you, Miguel, even if my brain couldn't find a purpose. You're my biological imperative.
He softly lifts your chin and kisses your lips with as much tenderness as a botanist preserving the beauty of an endangered species. He turns to the light switch and presses it, the darkness enveloping both of your warm bodies. Miguel breathes out and kisses your forehead, while your hand slips inside his bathrobe and clinges devotedly to his back. You feel his warm fingers slide under your shirt, coming to rest very close to your neck while your gaze starts feeling heavy, the sight of him tattooed on the back of your eyelids.