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“I don’t, always, at home.”
“That’s something else.” Burne’s eyes were a tragedy, aware of it, saying words regardless. “I haven’t wanted to say anything. Ihaven’t. Because you know your own health. But you don’t wear it. You dropped it on the floor before we had sex, last time. And I know you’re okay, most of the time—but you called me, that time, when youdidpass out—”
“So you’ve been worrying about me not taking care of myself this entire week. And not mentioning it to me.”
“I’ve—” Burne set his coffee down. Yanked a hand through his own hair, pushing up shaggy auburn. “That makes it sound so much worse.”
“I think I was right,” Devon said. “We don’t know each other as well as we thought.” He felt the dry crackle of a headache like the scar of the lightning in his skull. He blinked; the lights flared in the kitchen. His temples throbbed.
Burne’s eyes narrowed. Scorching blue, seeing him too clearly. “Are you okay right now?”
“Yes.” No. He wasn’t getting enough air. His chest hurt. “I need a minute. A few.”
“Can I help—”
Devon held up a hand. Burne stopped talking.
“We need some space,” Devon managed, and fled before the glittery sparkles overtook his vision. He saw Burne move to follow, and stop.
He made it to his bedroom and shut the door. And then he slid down it, leaning on it, until he ended up on the rug. Sitting down. No. Lying down. That felt better.
This rug was thick, companionable, muffling sound. It stretched fluffily upward to cradle him. The strands, this close up, were pewter, cerulean, jade, indigo, obsidian. Dark, but threaded with color.
Calm, he thought. Calm. He wasn’t going to pass out. He could have an argument with his boyfriend, like a normal human person, and not collapse.
He pressed fingers against the inside of his wrist. He thought: boyfriend. Yes, please. Still. If he’s still here when I can stand up again.
He breathed in, slowly, and out, slowly. He focused on sensation: the softness of the rug, the thick weave of his sweater against his skin, the chill in the air.
He lay on his back, looking up at his ceiling. The tiny silver flecks danced and steadied. Deep blue held them secure.
Skies. Stars. Space.
He hadn’t really meant he needed space.
His pulse spiked again, sharp.
He shut his eyes, opened them. The blue lingered above him, gazing down, a friend.
Meditation techniques. Deep full-body breathing. Not thinking, or rather letting his thoughts drift. In and out.
He was still here. His heart, lungs, cold fingertips, toes in their striped socks: those were all here. Present. Part of him.
He felt a piece of the tension break off and ebb. His heart had slowed, not enough, but getting there.
He lay there without moving, next to the bed, and let himself sink into the fluff for a while, deep and somnolent as granite, marble, basalt. Grounded, molten, part of the earth.
He had no idea how long it’d been. Maybe he should sit up. Maybe he should apologize.
Being thick spread-out rock, he didn’t think he could move yet. He listened to the rain, as it beat itself against the glass of all his windows. Scampering, clamoring, it drenched his house in water and light, the refracted opalescence of existence inside a waterfall.
He did need to apologize. It’d been an overreaction, and unfair. He knew Burne cared; he knew Burne showed that care through action, asking questions, expressing emotion.
It hadn’tentirelybeen an overreaction. They did need to talk. They evidently needed to get better at talking, if Burne had been worrying about him and not saying so.
Where on earthhadhe dropped his watch? He’d been impatient, that morning.
Burne had been honest about the car question. About trusting him.I want to, he’d said. Because Devon had asked for honesty. And Burne listened to him.
