dichotomy ; gawsten

forty three

slight trigger for anxiety and mentions of sexual abuse

messy feelings are fun lmao

"I'm worried about Awsten."

She moves her head down to rest on his chest and tightens her grip around his waist. He exhales softly, tilts his chin down to kiss the top of her hair. "I...yeah. Me too. He didn't look so good..."

"He isn't good," Grace mumbles. "He's- he's a mess, Otto. He's falling apart. Hurting so bad. I don't- I don't think this is something he's just gonna "get over"-" She pauses to make the air quotes. "It's already fucking him up..."

He bites his lip. He knows that. It's not a secret. It hasn't been for the almost fifteen years he's known Awsten. He attaches himself to people, molds himself to their sides and makes a home for himself amongst the warmth of their bodies, rips himself open and bleeds and lets the pain wash over them once, and then never again.

You would never know by looking at him. No one ever does. No one ever imagines that sunshine smiles and limitless laughter, skirts and baggy sweaters and mint sky hair, polish-covered nails and cotton candy eye shadow, would be tears and red eyes from days with no sleep, red dripping down white, heaving chests and ragged breaths and broken sobs, crackled dreams don't touch me I don't want it get away from me leave me alone-

No one knows about it.

Awsten doesn't talk about it. He remembers the car ride home after every therapy session, white-knuckling the steering wheel and gritting his teeth at the repetitive answer he always got to that one question, remembers raising his voice and hearing the hitch in Awsten's, feeling the bugs wake under his skin and start pinching at the same force tears rolled down Awsten's cheeks.

Otto I don't wanna talk about it please don't make me talk about it I can't do it please don't make me I told you you know I don't want anyone else knowing I don't want to talk about it please don't make me talk about it I can't talk about it please-

He always cried. He wouldn't stop. The sobs felt like individual bullets, each one piercing his heart, chipping a new layer to the ground. They dislodged pieces and smashed into the muscle until there was nothing left.

So he nodded, pulled Awsten into his chest once they were inside, held him until he fell asleep, stared at the ceiling and muttered out words, hoped, prayed, that he was making the right choice.

Because putting a band-aid over the bullet hole would hurt less than letting it bleed.

Sleeping beside Awsten and accustoming to being roused in the middle of the night, holding him close and promising forever, breathing you're safe here you're okay it won't happen again it will never happen again I'll die before I let someone do that to you again-

No one's ever gonna hurt you again, I promise.

"I just..." He trails off, shaking his head. Grace props herself up on one elbow to meet his eyes. She brushes a lock of hair from his face and tucks it behind his ear, leans forward to place a kiss on his cheek. He smiles and takes her free hand. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what he's freaking about. I thought he was better. He's had such a good few months, I just..."

"He has," Grace agrees. "But you wanna know what happened? You happened, Otto. He almost lost you."

"But he didn't," Otto replies. He takes a breath and sinks back against his pillows, winces at the pull in his abdomen. "Fuck."

"You okay?" Grace glances over at the IV pole. "Do you want me to find a nurse?"

"M'good," he mumbles. He pulls her back down and presses another kiss to her head. There's a fire in his chest that's stoked every time he moves. New sparks and a burning flame that won't die are housed there, making their presence known every time he breathes or moves or coughs. Sore, but not dead. You're sore, but not dead. You could've died. You could be dead right now.