Dr. Hersch had nodded. “I don’t foresee any sort of drastic decline going forward. But,” he had added, “you need to keep an eye on him. A traumatic brain injury isn’t like a broken bone. The healing process isn’t cut and dry; you should keep an eye out for any odd behavior, signs of pain or loss of sensations in his limbs. You will likely see personality changes, mood swings, agitation. If something seems wrong, listen to your gut feeling. He has appointments here every week for the next month, and I want to hear if you have any concerns about his recovery. Agreed?”
The doctor’s words ring in Auriel’s ears as he sweeps bits of the broken bowl into the dustpan. His stomach twists into a series of knots that threaten to bring the chili back up. Ever fiber of his being is screaming that something is wrong. Olivier hadn’t just dropped the bowl; it had slipped right through his fingers.
It takes a couple of minutes before Auriel is satisfied that the kitchen floor is completely clean, and then he has to find a bandage for his foot. When he’s finally able to track down Olivier, he finds him in the living room sitting stock-still on the settee, staring unblinkingly at his own fingers.
Auriel leans against the door jamb and clears his throat.
Olivier lifts his head slowly, as though he’s waking from a dream. Then he’s looking straight at Auriel and it’s clear that he is freaking the fuck out.
Auriel walks slowly to the settee and asks, “can I sit?”
Several seconds pass. Then Olivier nods, scooting over to make room. Auriel considers reaching for Olivier’s hand again—God, he’s aching to touch him, to comfort him—but he settles for saying, “this isn’t unexpected.” He is sitting as far from Olivier as he can get, trying to give him space. It is physically painful.
“Excuse me?” says Olivier quietly.
Auriel clears his throat. “Dr. Hersch said that you might have issues with sensation. You know, in your hands or whatever.”
“Hmm,” says Olivier, utterly neutral.
“It’s not, like, great,” continues Auriel, determined to penetrate this stubborn numb protective layer Olivier seems to have donned. “But it’s something that happens with, um, head injuries.” A beat, and then: “we can get it checked out. Tomorrow if you want. Or we can wait until your appointment next week. But I don’t think it’s a sign that anything is going wrong in your brain other than what we already know about.”
That draws a short bark of laughter out of Olivier. “You mean my shit memory?”
There’s a part of Auriel that wants to say don’t talk about yourself that way. I love you too much to hear you say that. It almost prevails, in that moment. But then his sense of self-preservation kicks in, and instead he says, “Dropping one bowl doesn’t mean you’re making a u-turn on your recovery. Okay?”
“Whatever,” mutters Olivier.
“I wouldn’t make a habit of it,” Auriel ventures, testing the waters. And Olivier does crack the shadow of a smile.
“Maybe we should invest in paper plates for the time being.”
Auriel huffs and rolls his eyes, but he’s pleased that Olivier is playing along. They sit there for a while, not talking much, just winding down from the adrenaline rush. Finally Olivier gets up and starts walking slowly around the room, examining things as he goes. He stops before the shelves of DVDs and runs his fingers slowly along the cases.
“It’s not all the time,” he says, keeping his back to Auriel who makes an encouraging noise. Olivier continues. “It’s just…I’m not even thinking about my hands, I’m reading something on my phone or carrying my damn bowl to the sink, and then this insane sensation snakes across my fingers and it’s like they’re not there.”
It strikes Auriel that that’s exactly how he feels about Olivier. He’ll be thinking about something else entirely and then bam, he realizes that the Olivier he knows is gone. He wishes he could say that, but Olivier obviously already has enough on his mind. And Jesus, when did Auriel get so damn needy anyway? He’s annoyed with himself for thinking about his own emotions when Olivier is opening up to him about the very real, physical ramifications of the accident. Guilt curls, hot and snarling, around Auriel’s chest. Pushing his internal monologue aside, he looks right into Olivier’s eyes and asks, “Has it been like that since you woke up?”
Olivier nods. “It usually doesn’t last long. They feel completely normal now.” But they can both see that his hands are shaking slightly. He rambles on, “this isn’t…I mean, I don’t have a tremor or anything. I’m just freaked out right now.”
It rings true. Reluctant though Olivier has been to discuss his recovery with Auriel up to this point, he isn’t the type to lie.
For the first time since he and Hattie had decided to keep Olivier and Auriel’s relationship a secret, Auriel considers just telling him. Because the hallow expression on Olivier’s face does not have Auriel convinced that secrecy is the right path. Olivier clearly needs support and companionship, the kind of interactions that Auriel can’t provide while he’s pretending to be his damn roommate.
He takes a deep breath, and stands to move toward Olivier.
“Listen, Olivier—” Their eyes meet and it takes Auriel’s breath away. His train of thought is drifting away, dissipating in the air between them like smoke. He mentally grasps for it, tries to focus…
“Yeah?” Olivier prompts, his gaze still locked on Auriel.
Auriel clears his throat and reaches out to set a gentle hand on Olivier’s thin shoulder. They are both achingly aware of the fact that Olivier still hasn’t bothered to put on a shirt. Auriel longs for the man before him, and almost immediately berates himself for thinking about Olivier that way.
“I just think there are some things you should know,” Auriel murmurs. And God, why hasn’t he taken his hand off of Olivier’s shoulder? Why does that tiny bit of physical connection feel like a balm to his sore heart?
Olivier blinks slowly and looks up from beneath his long eyelashes. “Like what?”
Auriel is balanced upon the precipice of the confession. It’s dizzying, excruciating, as he considers whether he’s brave enough to take the leap. He is devastatingly aware of the fact that once the secret is out, there’s no tucking it back away out of sight. And when it comes down to it, when he can’t put off the words any longer, he finds the thought of rejection so much more frightening than the first time he told Olivier how he felt about him two years earlier.
“You’re not alone, you know,” is what comes out of his mouth.
Olivier’s eyes narrow, as though he finds the words hard to believe. “I mean, no offence, but you’re in no position to say that to me.” He doesn’t sound angry, but the no offence is clearly meant to be taken with a handful of salt.
“No, what I mean is…I care about you. I’m here for you.” Auriel can hear himself making a mess of this, beating around the metaphorical bush and smudging the meaning behind his words. He moves his hand from Olivier’s shoulder and runs it through his own hair.
“Listen, you seem really nice,” Olivier starts, and Jesus, it couldn’t be plainer that he feels really fucking awkward about this whole interaction. “But you’re just some guy who lives across the hall from me, you know? And I’m losing my shit here. I have no idea what’s going on in my life, and I’m across the damn country from my parents.”
Auriel wants so badly to course correct, to get this conversation back on track. But he feels as though he’s a beat behind, struggling to keep up. He settles on saying, “I can help you make arrangements to go home if you want.” He is instantly terrified that Olivier is going to take him up on that offer.
But Olivier just laughs mirthlessly. “I’m not sure crossing time zones is going to do me any favors at this juncture. And I don’t want to be a burden to them, you know? You’re probably not aware, but they have some pretty serious financial issues.”
That’s putting it lightly; Auriel is well-versed in the vicious cycle of debt that has ensnared the Sauveterres. As a young new
ly-wed couple they broke the bank putting Olivier’s mother through college at an Ivy League school, hoping that she would land a job with a handsome income. But jobs that once required a Bachelor’s were going to candidates with a Master’s, and any higher level positions wanted a PhD. Twenty-first century America was full of college-educated baristas, and the academically-inclined were swamped with loans and interest and the need to refinance. Olivier’s unexpected arrival into the world had required an emergency c-section, and before they had that paid off his father was diagnosed with cancer—a highly treatable type, but one that required nearly a year of chemo and radiation treatments. In an attempt to keep the electricity on and the debt collectors at bay, Olivier’s parents began applying for various credit cards, maxing out each one paying off their previous debts. Their credit tanked and the interest they owed sky-rocketed. By the time Olivier left for college—paying his own way through with private scholarships and a hefty government grant—they had declared bankruptcy. Our credit will reset in seven years, his mother had assured him, her smile not reaching her eyes.
“They wouldn’t think of you as a burden. It’s killing them that they can’t afford to fly out here.”
That piques Olivier’s interest. “Have you spoken with them?”
Tread carefully, Auriel thinks. “We’ve had some conference calls with Dr. Hersch. You know, talking about your treatment while you were in the hospital, stuff like that.” He doesn’t mention that he texts them several times a day, sometimes to update them, sometimes just to check in, see how they’re doing.
“Oh, wow. You’re, like, an above and beyond roommate. Seriously.”
“Yeah, about that,” Auriel says, licking his lips nervously. We're not just roommates, he thinks. You're the love of my life. But what comes out is, "We're really close.” Understatement of the century.
Olivier quirks an eyebrow. "I mean, clearly we're close enough that you're helping to take care of me." Something passes over Olivier's face, and Auriel wonders if he's catching on. But then he says, "I don't know what I was expecting from my future, but this wasn't it. I mean, I moved across the country with Hattie on a whim, yeah that makes sense I guess. But I feel like everyone here knows things about me that I wouldn't share."
"What kind of things?” Auriel asks. He's bombarded with snippets of knowledge he has about Olivier...how he likes his coffee, the weird way he insists on folding towels, the fact that he loves bottoming but is weirdly secretive about that fact, even around his long-term boyfriend. It's like a damn confession each time he asks to be fucked. God, Auriel's breath catches in his lungs as he thinks about that.
Olivier's mind is on other things, apparently. "Stella said I made her watch Molly Ringwald movies with me. What the hell kind of self-respecting guy admits that he's a sucker for 80s chick flicks?"
Auriel has almost forgotten how stunted Olivier had been in some ways when they first met. He had been deeply entrenched in the thought that gender roles as they were presented by society mattered a whole lot. It had taken months of gentle coaxing and lengthy conversations over various alcoholic beverages to turn that tide. And look at the result...his online journalism promotes saying "fuck you" to gender norms. He writes proudly about loving men, about the struggle it took to come out. And he educates consumers of queer media about safe sex, something that had been immensely embarrassing for him to talk about when they first got together.
Christ, Auriel is overwhelmed. It has crossed his mind again and again since Olivier woke up, but he is falling apart trying to keep the Olivier he's grown to love in one hand while balancing this gauche Olivier who needs him in the other. It is quite literally painful.
"You've...become less worried about what other people think of you," Auriel admits.
"Apparently," Olivier snaps.
And it's not like Olivier hadn't snapped at him once they were established as a couple. He's a snarky little shit, it's one of the many—countless—things Auriel loves about him. But it hadn't been like this in recent memory. His tone hadn't been spiteful. It was always playful, pushing limits to see how Auriel would react. Olivier had once admitted that he loved watching Auriel respond to his more challenging statements.
"And you're...God, Olivier. You've grown a lot. I know that's hard to hear, and I don't want you to think I'm comparing you to the self you became or anything..."
"But that's exactly what you're doing," Olivier says. "It's nice of you to say you're not, but come on, man. Of course you're making comparisons. And don't hold back on my account. Let me hear it, I want to know what I was like."
The past tense is so jarring. Because for Auriel, the version of Olivier sitting before him is the past. And for Olivier, in this moment, the self that had two years of experience on him is the past. The juxtaposition is striking, and tragically beautiful. Auriel wishes he could just let himself cry it out. But he needs to get through this conversation first. Olivier needs him, even if he doesn't know it.
Determined to trudge on, to get to a point where he can come clean and tell Olivier what they are—were?—to each other, Auriel says, "You were astonishing. Brilliant and funny and pissy. That didn't change. It just became a part of my life, as well as yours. You tore down every wall you came to, and you loved doing it."
He's not able to look at Olivier as he says this, but out of the corner of his eye he sees that Olivier has gone very still.
"And Hattie felt it too. She's mad about you, Olivier."
"I know that," he says so quietly that it's almost a whisper.
"I don't know what else you want to know. But I think it's only fair to tell you—"
Olivier interrupts him with a question. "What did I do?"
"I'm...not sure what you're asking."
"For work," Olivier clarifies. "What did I do for work?"
Auriel feels a smile slink across his own features. "You wrote for an online news and culture magazine. I'll send you a link if you want."
"Someone hired me to write for them?" he asks incredulously. "I studied philosophy. Why the hell would someone hire me as a journalist?"
"You were working as a freelancer," Auriel explains. "Not, like, contracted or anything. But you published a lot."
"What did I write about?"
And it suddenly occurs to Auriel that he needs to tell Olivier about their relationship before sharing that link. Because Olivier waxed poetic about the joys of being an out gay man in a committed monogamous relationship. He wrote about the merits of other lifestyles as well, of course...bisexuality, polyamory, etc. He didn't tout his own life as the only way to live. But he did take pride in who he was. And that pride included writing about Auriel in several of his pieces.
"Um, being gay, mostly."
Olivier goes from skeptical to incredulous. "I wrote about being gay? I came out? Oh fuck, did I tell my parents?"
Auriel swallows audibly. "They're...aware. Yeah."
"Shit.” Olivier looks like he's about to work himself up to a full-fledged panic, so Auriel hurries on.
"I can tell you about that later. Don't worry, it wasn't a big deal really. Or, not in a bad way.” Way to go, he thinks sarcastically. You're totally diffusing the situation. "Seriously, you don't have to think about that right now."
Olivier lets out a long breath and says, "at least tell me I didn't have a boyfriend. I'm not sure I can handle the death of my slutty bachelor days."
The sentiment goes straight to Auriel's heart like a poisoned dart. Tell me I didn't have a boyfriend. Shit, shit, shit.
And wow, he doesn't know how to respond to that. So he says, "You didn't turn into a different person.” His voice doesn’t break, but it’s close.
Olivier seems to take that as confirmation that he wasn't seeing anyone, because his shoulders relax. "I'm not so sure," he mutters. "This is so fucking surreal.”
"You're telling me," croaks Auriel. He clears his throat, trying to cover up the fact that he sounds like he's falling apart. He is falling apart.
>
"I'm not sure what to do with all of this information," Olivier admits.
Auriel considers that. It makes sense...this has got to be devastatingly overwhelming for Olivier. But he can't bring himself to give Olivier an easy out.
Don't worry about the past, just live your life from now. That's what a good friend might say. Someone who cares about Olivier's wellbeing and wants to see him recover and go on to live a long, happy life without turmoil. But Auriel is not a friend. He's not even good, not in this moment. He is filled with a desperate need to find his Olivier and yank him through time and space to be with him here and now. And so he doesn't give Olivier an out, doesn't suggest that he forget about the past. Instead he says, "You built a really fantastic life out here over the past couple of years. I hope you don't push it aside just because it feels like too much to explore."
And then Auriel feels guilty as hell. Because he shouldn't be manipulating Olivier that way. He shouldn't be putting his own selfish desire ahead of Olivier's recovery. There's nothing good about rushing things.
"I'm not sure how to delve into all of this. You know?"
Auriel knows. God, does he know.
"I don't have any answers for you," he lies.
And Olivier nods, mulling that over in his mind. His gorgeous, quicksilver mind. Auriel aches.
"I think I need to go to bed," Olivier says at last. And with a small, muted wave he's walking down the hall and out of Auriel's sight.
Auriel sits there in the living room for what feels like an eternity. His brain swirls like a slow sink drain, circling the previous hour, examining it from different angles. His thoughts feel like they're moving in slow motion. It takes a while for Auriel to realize that his vision is starting to tunnel, his breathing starting to pick up. And that's never a good sign, so he sits up straight and wills his anxiety to back off. It doesn't exactly relent, but he's able to gather himself enough that the tunnel recedes and his vision flattens back out.
He sighs, and heads back into the kitchen. He hadn't bothered with the other dishes when he was cleaning up the shattered bowl, so he digs out a large tupperware container for the chili and fills the stock pot with hot water and soap to soak overnight. He wraps foil over the cornbread, leaving it in the cast iron. He wipes down the counters, washes his own bowl, loads the silverware into the dishwasher. Eventually he realizes that he'll either have to stop cleaning, or start tackling a bigger project. Deep cleaning the fridge, maybe.
Fragile Ground Page 4
