Page 87 of Hilarina and the Ogre

It doesn’t matter, Trenton tried to tell him, but of course it was useless without his mouth. Even if they fire you, it doesn’t matter. We’ll be okay. It’s all okay.

But Hilary still had his eyes shut, his breathing labored. “If you leave, I’ll go crazy. I really will go crazy this time, Trenton. If you forget again after remembering. I can’t do it. Please, I can’t do it anymore.”

I won’t forget. And he knew even if he’d had his mouth free to speak it wouldn’t have helped. He had failed seven times. A few words couldn’t undo that. But he meant it. He knew it was true.

Hilary stayed there, pressed against him and trembling. He seemed young again, not an adult at all, but the same boy who had confessed to loving him as if it was some kind of crime. “Please be here. I need you to be here. I’m sorry—” He stopped, unable to continue.

Trenton pushed up against that face. It was all he could do. If Hilary had punched him for it, he would have gotten up and done it again. He would always reach for this man, memories or ignorance, he would grow toward him. His friend. His beloved. The only one who would cry over a broken fool like him.

Hilary pressed back against him, his cheek to the tape, as close as he could get. “You’re crazy to want this. To not be fighting me. Is this Stockholm syndrome?”

I love you. He wished he’d said it more. He should have known to say it more. Every chance and every day he ought to have said it.

Hilary kissed him, the tape, a single hard kiss that was meant to be the strength he needed to break away, and it seemed to work. Hilary left the room. Trenton heard him putting on his shoes and then his windbreaker. It was still cold in the mornings. But though the door opened, it didn’t close again. Instead, there was the sound of running steps, and Hilary was sobbing as he climbed back into the bed and kissed him and kissed him, unable to stop. The man needed so much more, and oh, how Trenton wanted to give it to him. He jerked hard against the tape, breaking the skin on his wrists again, but it did nothing. He couldn’t do anything but take those kisses and make some sounds, but what else could he do? He couldn’t stand it. This hurt, this panic he had caused. Axel, at least, had died, limited to only a single hurt, even if it was a grievous one. But himself—how much longer would he hurt this man? He couldn’t bear it. Not any of it. Every good thing between them now a weapon to make the hurt worse.

Hilary tore at the tape using his fingers, which was nearly as useless as nothing, but in the right spirit at least. The feeling of it sent Trenton’s heart surging up in his chest, and he pushed harder at him, trying desperately to get at him, to grab onto his shirt with only the tips of his exposed fingers and get him closer. It was the scissors, still on the dresser from the previous night, that saved them. Hilary accidentally scratched his cheek with urgency and shaking hands and then tore off several layers of skin without the benefits of the oil, but God, Trenton would have sacrificed so much more to speed it along. He was kissing Hilary before anything more than the barest edge of his mouth was free. His hands were still uselessly pinned down, but he got Hilary under him, somehow, simply the weight of him keeping him there, and Hilary’s mouth was cruel in its need, biting him, tearing through skin already inflamed from the trauma of the tape, but he would have given him anything just then to keep the man from stopping. But his beloved did stop, twisting his face away to gasp, and then it was crying again. Hilary at first, but then it was together, both weeping like fools. But then Hilary wasn’t only crying, but laughing into it, because really, it was so ridiculous, being squashed under a man-insect larva creature in a cocoon of duct tape, snot mixing with tears, the least romantic pair of morons in the history of anything, both howling like drunken wolves at six in the morning.

“Shit,” Hilary said after he’d pushed Trenton over onto his side. It was to get better access to the tape, though he was working with his fingers again. The scissors had gotten tangled in the blanket somewhere, and finding them would have required separating for at least half a second—an impossibility. “You should have me arrested.”

“I won’t go anywhere you aren’t.”

It was difficult to speak. The tape was still on most of his mouth, so he had to force the words out through half-pursed lips.

“Your hands are bleeding.”

He’d forgotten. It was only Hilary's saying it that brought the throbbing back. “Sorry.”

“What?”

“I think it got on the sheets.”

Tears came to Hilary’s eyes, and seeing them again, and so soon, Trenton panicked. “Don’t—!” Still bound up, he could only lurch and bump up against him. “It doesn’t hurt, Hil. It doesn’t matter at all.”

Hilary gave up on the tape and fell against him, putting his arms around him and pressing forward like he was trying to crawl up and into his chest. “It scarred. Your arm. And it still hurts you.”

The change of topic had him scrambling. “It doesn’t. It really doesn’t.”

“It does. And not just when you’re remembering the past. Whenever you exert it. And when it’s raining. I see you rubbing it.”

Trenton was still integrating all the memories from his seven lives, but his friend didn’t have that struggle, all the memories already lined up like soldiers to be used against him.

“But that’s nothing. Everyone has things like that. It’s just part of getting older, Hilary. And anyway, it’s not your fault. You didn’t—”

“But I did! I provoked her. Even when I didn’t have to. And doubled down on it despite knowing there would be consequences. I did it, and I dragged you into it, and because of me—”

“No.” It was a shocking revelation. He thought he’d known the weight of what the past had done to Hilary. The things Axel had done. And the effects of his own running and forgetting. Too much for a boy—even a man—to withstand. But still not all. Because Hilary was also carrying this, a burden he had picked up all on his own, perhaps the heaviest of them all. The blame didn’t belong to Hilary. The man had to see that. He was too smart not to see it. And yet, Hilary had said it and had been saying it for so long that it had become the truth. And the worst part—worse than the sinking realization of just how much damage such a belief could bring—was knowing it had been avoidable. If he’d been there. If his mind hadn’t cut its losses and run, he might have argued with it before that belief set in. Might have shown Hilary the fallacy of it.

“Cut me free.” It was focus he needed. He hadn’t forgotten the danger that crackled all around him. He couldn’t afford to be reckless. “Just an arm is enough. Give me an arm, Hilary. Use the scissors.”

The man’s hands were back to shaking again, trembling with a palsy that made wielding the scissors dangerous, and Hilary knew it. He dropped them and wouldn’t pick them up again. “I cut you. Before.”

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t hurt me in a way that matters.”

“Bullshit! You hurt me all the time.”

“Because I’m not as good of a protector as you are. Use the scissors, Hilary. I’ll help you.”

Hilary made that sound again as he did it, soft and heartbreaking, like a child being forced to do something he wasn’t ready for. So brave, always so brave, to think of the kind of hell Hilary been going through alone—and for him. For him.