In silence, Marc moved away from their embrace, and with his gaze shifting from the guitarist’s hands to his eyes the whole time, he untied him. Chris was heartbroken and so fucking disoriented all of a sudden.
“Baby, look at me. You’re okay,” the bassist rasped, caressing his arms. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Chris was listening, but it was as if his brain didn’t get the memo. His body went cold, and he began to tremble uncontrollably. The soreness in his muscles was like a seizure, but it didn’t hurt as much as the emptiness biting at his soul.
“I’m right here with you,” Marc repeated, wrapping his arms around Chris as he rolled him onto his side and lay behind him. “Don’t fight it, just let it all out. It’ll be better. Trust me.”
In the delusion of this altered reality, where what he felt and where he was didn’t match, his mind shut down and he couldn’t speak. He was suffocating. The fear of losing was too big. The admiration. The respect. The friendship. The way this man looked at him. How could he even think for a second that they could be something other than what they were? No matter what he longed for, if he let out the truth, he would lose it all.
Tears streamed down his face.
He hadn’t cried in ages, didn’t even know why he was crying right now. But he couldn’t stop. Had lost total control of his body. As his vision went black, Chris rolled onto his back to create more space in the cavity of his chest. The pressure building became more unbearable by the second. He brought his hands to his face. Nothing seemed to be enough. Not the deep intakes of air. Not the irrepressible howls. Not the prayers to be skinned alive.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.The sounds he was making got muffled. Why was his heart aching so bad?
Unconsciously, he rolled again, facing Marc this time. And like a calming balm, he wrapped himself around Chris.
“It’s alright, baby,” he said, weaving the fingers of one hand through his hair as his other arm held him tightly against him. “I’ve got you.”
“Don’t—leave me,” the guitarist mumbled in a hoarse voice as his internal crisis started dissipating.
Marc kissed the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
This man was everything anyone would wish for in a partner. A masterpiece of contrasts. Blissful anguish. Encrypted dark fantasy. He was a beautiful melody made of chords and dreams. But him… He was a walking disaster. Twisted. Devious. Broken. Unwanted. And now he was also a hostage of this man.
Marc deserved better, much better.
Once Chris had completely calmed down, Marc guided him to the bathroom. He was so numb his entire being felt like a crumbled sand castle.
As every time they’d had one of these rougher sessions, he took care of him. Shampooed his hair. Lathered up his body. And here they were now, lying on the bed in just their boxers. Chris was dying to smoke, but it wasn’t allowed—stupid smoke-free spaces. Though it wasn’t as if he could move.
“How are you feeling?” Marc asked in a whisper, grazing his fingers up and down the guitarist’s arm.
They were face to face, but the guitarist hadn’t dared to open his eyes yet. He was embarrassed as fuck of the scene he’d just made. Marc had told him it was normal, that after such a high, the fall was usually hard. But, come on. How? How the fuck could a rush of adrenaline and oxytocin cause such agitation? And the sobbing? Holy fuck. Nothing he had ever experienced before had been so visceral.
“Like a truck ran over me, but I’m fine,” Chris replied, uttering his first coherent words after an hour of disconnected thoughts.
“Maybe we should talk about it.” Marc’s voice was still appeasing, but there was an edge to it.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“How about at the beginning?”
Chris snorted without opening his eyes, but he didn’t miss the note of a smile in his tone. “Smartass.”
Marc chuckled. “Yeah, but no, seriously, you didn’t answer my question before. Why are you here?”
Chris finally looked at him, frowning. “Because I wanted to see you?”
“That much is obvious. And don’t get me wrong, loved the surprise even if it, um… probably didn’t turn out as expected. But why? I’m coming back on Sunday.”
“Because.”
“That’s not an answer.” Marc quirked a brow.
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“The truth.”
