Unsure about the talking aspect of this moment, I wrap an arm around him and pull him to my side. His entire body drops against me. He’s a big boy, so because I wasn’t expecting a dead drop, we fall backwards and sideways.
Smiling, I decide to roll with it, and I somehow manage to get him onto the couch so we’re laying together like lovers. Felton’s head is on my chest, his leg draped over mine. It might have been a sweet moment except that he’s still shaking.
Sighing, I run my fingers through his hair. It’s instinct to babble that he’s okay. That everything is fine now. But I’m not sure that’s true, and I don’t want to lie. I don’t want him to fall into a false sense of security.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask.
He shakes his head, but words tumble from his mouth. Most of them don’t make sense in context from one sentence to the other. Hell, I think he changes thoughts entirely in the middle of a sentence sometimes. One thing doesn’t clearly lead into the next.
What I can gather is that he went home for Thanksgiving and his father is a piece of shit. He spent time celebrating a four-year-old’s participation trophy, a first grade second-place spelling bee, among other things, and always managing to put down Felton while doing so. Sometimes there were indirect jabs. Other times, there were direct assaults.
It also sounds like other members of his family tried to make his father stop. They were always neutral—never speaking for or against Felton and his actions—but they kept trying to get his father to let it go. But he refused. Or he’d change the subject as if abiding by their wishes, only to bring Felton down in the next subject they talked about.
“Where’s your mother in all this?” I ask at one point, which is apparently a mistake because he seems somehow more upset.
I’d have thought that he’d tell me she had passed, or they were divorced, or something. I’m disturbed to know she’s there and silent. Completely and utterly neutral. Rarely says much of anything at all.
Part of me wonders if his father is abusive. Is that why she’s quiet? I almost hope that’s the case, otherwise she’s as much an awful parent as her husband. Sitting by while your husband verbally abuses your child and you do nothing for whateverreason, puts you at just as much fault as he is. Not that I want her to be abused. Absolutely not.
It’s quite a while later when I realize Felton has stopped talking. He’s stopped shaking too. When I shift slightly to look, he’s asleep.
Unlike when I left him the other day, there’s no peace on his face. He’s not relaxed. Even in sleep, I can feel his stress. I can see it in the way his eyebrows are pinched and his lips are pressed together. His arm around my waist is tight, gripping me as if I’m the lifeline that’s keeping him from drowning.
I’m afraid that I’m not quite as prepared for this battle as I thought I was. When I told Felton I’d help him, I thought he was just… bored? Even when he started opening up, I thought maybe I could help him find his inner strength. I’d help him get into a better spot in his career with a better agent, I’d help him focus on what’s important, I’d teach him the tools he needed to put some personal boundaries in place.
It's clear now that this is much more complicated and runs a lot fucking deeper than anything I know how to deal with. Now I’m not sure what to do. Telling him to seek professional help is likely going to rub more salt into his plethora of wounds. I’ll just be another person who thinks he’s beyond help.
MaybeIneed to find some help so I know how to helphim.
My mind wanders down different avenues to find help without forcing him to do something he doesn’t feel comfortable with or he’s not ready for. Before I realize it, I’ve fallen asleep and am startled awake when Felton shoots upright.
The frantic look in his eyes has me reaching for him and bringing his attention to me. He’s gasping, shaking again, but when he finally sees it’s me here, he relaxes. Warmth spreads through me that I’m able to bring him at least that.
“I thought I was still there,” he whispers.
“No, Fel. You got here early this morning.”
He nods, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have called first. Or… not just shown up. I wasn’t sure where to go and I needed to be with someone.”
“You’re welcome to come here. But can I ask you why you chose to come to me?” I ask.
He sighs and shrugs. “You’re the only one who knows what I go through with my father.”
“You’re close to Dasan and Willits. You haven’t told them?”
Felton shakes his head and shrugs again. “They know I don’t have a good relationship with my family, but we leave it at that. I don’t like to burden people with my personal issues.”
My hands are still on his face, so I find that I’m rubbing his cheek softly. “Friends do not find you confiding in them a burden, Felton. I would wager that neither Dasan nor Willits would feel that way.”
His body sags a little. I’m not sure if it's from more weight stacked on top of him or relief. He yawns and then apologizes through it.
“Come on. Let’s get you into bed for a while so you can catch up on sleep.”
Felton lets me get him to his feet, and I’m relieved to see that he’s not still shaking like he was last night. I lead him back into the spare room that he’d been in two days ago, only it’s put back together as my guest room with the furniture back in their places and all the sex paraphernalia put away elsewhere. Plus I’ve aired it out so it doesn’t smell like some guy just got his guts rearranged four times.
“There’s a bathroom here,” I tell him, pushing a door open a bit so he can peek in. He glances and nods before falling to the bed.
He’s far too big for it. Seeing him laid out nearly has me chuckling since he’s hanging off the end. But he curls up and I bring a blanket over him, tucking it in around his body. Closingthe curtain to block out the light as much as I can, I bring him a bottle of water and set it beside the bed before kneeling next to him.
