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“Skyler,” I whisper, and he shakes his head.
I hear a shaky, guttural, “G-go,” and my eyes fall shut.
“Never,” I tell him. And I remember what he revealed to me that time in the cave, how he told me how no one ever held him—how scared they were to touch him when he got like this.
“Are you gonna treat me differently now?”he asked me.
“Do you want me to treat you differently?”
He’d shook his head.
That conversation converges with other conversations, other moments—like the one on the beach, after he kicked sand at me then dove into the water. When I grabbed him, held him, and he said, “Tighter.”
I think back on everything I read about meltdowns and sensory overload and how pressure helps. A grounding, firm touch.
“It’s like magic. You touch me, and it all quiets. You hold me, and it all stops.”
My eyes fly open, and with a renewed sense of purpose, I say, “I’m going to hold you now.” And then I crawl into the closet with him. My head bashes on the wall, and a hand swats me. A foot kicks the door. It’s a tight squeeze, but I make it work, paying the struggle very little mind.
Wrapping my arms around him, I pin his arms where they’re at. He’s got one hand still fisted over his ear, and the other, curled against his chest, trapped by my arm. He fights me, panting, and yet as soon as I’ve got a good grip on him, and it’s clear he’s going nowhere…
He stops.
He slumps.
And he presses the ear not covered against my chest, right over my heart, and sighs.
Pressing my cheek over his head, I murmur, “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
He trembles, and I feel his mouth open. He sucks my shirt into his mouth, muffling a scream.
Glaring up at the ceiling, I make a promise to myself to never let this happen again. Hell, I might be handling this all fucking wrong, but doing nothing at all isn’t an option.
Fuck this shit.
If he needs to break shit and scream and let it all out, then I’ll make sure he has a safe place to do it. Seeing him like this—feeling him turn it all inward…
It’s fucking painful.
God,no wonder why he’d hurt himself instead. He felt like he had no other choice—take it out on himself, or take it out on everyone in sight.
I press a soft kiss to his hair, breathing him in.
“I’m so sorry, Sky,” I say thickly.
He shakes his head, and I smile sadly.
He tries to say something, and when he can’t get whatever words they are out, he slams his fist against his ear.
“Hey!” I bark.
He stills.
As much as I want to pin his other hand down, I remember what he said Canaan did to him. It might seem quiet in here to me, but for him, who knows what he’s hearing right now. I won’t be another person to take away his coping mechanisms, so long as he doesn’t hurt himself.
“You don’t need to do that,” I say roughly. “I’m not going anywhere.” I pause. “Can you hear me? Just nod or tap your foot or something.”
He nods.
