Doyle said, “I don’t want you using ZzzQuil anymore.”
“What does OTC medication have to do with love,” Larkin asked.
Doyle shook his head once. “Everything.”
Larkin felt himself shrinking inward under Doyle’s studious gaze. He’d never called out Larkin’s behavior for what it was—he was addicted to pharmaceuticals, plain and simple—nor did he use derogatory terms that made the truth about himself all the more difficult to accept. Doyle hadn’t brought up what had happened on Sunday, May 10, either. But he didn’t have to. His actions had spoken louder than any sort of intervention.
—thunder boomed outside the bathroom window, so close, so loud, the walkup shaking and shivering from the onslaught of the summer storm, Larkin trying to silence Patrick’s screams, trying to silence the crack of his own skull that repeated over and over like a warped record, and Doyle finding him before he could asphyxiate on his own vomit—
Larkin shuddered and swallowed down the taste of bile and chemicals and artificial berry at the back of his throat. Doyle was still watching, waiting for a response. He said, “I don’t have any more. I spilled it.”
“Let’s make that the last bottle, then.” Doyle rolled over, tapped the lamp, and the room went dark. He settled onto his back, his knees cracking as he gave a languid stretch.
“Ira.”
“Hmm?”
It was Larkin’s turn to roll onto his side, and he leaned over Doyle, scrutinizing a face composed of gray shadows against a backdrop of black. “What do I smell like for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said that touch was about more than skin-on-skin. I know my cologne has notes of almond, vanilla, lavender, and honey, but I think you meant something more conceptual and less literal.”
Doyle laughed, and it held an air of self-consciousness to it. “You—it sounds so stupid—you smell kind of like nostalgia. Like when I could smell my grandmother’s baking from out in the hall when I was a kid. A rare treat.”
“So I’m… a homemade cookie.” Larkin was thoughtful for a moment, noting that Doyle had once again slid his hand under the cotton shirt, but this time against Larkin’s back, which was decidedly less ticklish. “And how does my smile make you feel. When I do smile, that is.”
“You smile all the time.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“You don’t need to be smiling with your mouth to smile.”
Larkin furrowed his brows and asked, “Do you know what a smile is.”
“You do it with your eyes. It’s subtle, but I notice it. Like a glow that never gets snuffed out. It makes me happy.”
“So I make you feel nostalgic, homey, and happy.”
“I guess you do.”
“That’s very Live, Laugh, Love of you.”
“You sonofabitch.” Doyle laughed again, good naturedly as he grabbed the pillow out from under his head and whacked Larkin with it.
Larkin protested, then made a flustered noise when Doyle flipped him onto his back. “I think this constitutes as police brutality.”
Doyle sat on Larkin’s hips.
“Maybe not this part,” Larkin amended.
“Report me, then.”
“I’ll let you off with a warning.” Larkin touched Doyle’s chest, pressing fingertips against muscle and dragging through well-groomed hair. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “I wish I didn’t feel so physically numb.”
Doyle leaned over Larkin, pressed their mouths together, and said against Larkin’s lips, “It’s not permanent. And the first step is talking to Dr. Meyers about changing your prescription.”
Just the idea of no longer having access to Xanax, not even in his currently reduced state—read, his actual dosage—made Larkin’s heart lurch against his rib cage. He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t trust what might come out, so he settled for a curt nod and a second kiss.
