Maybe that’s why I’m still reeling with shock at the evidence of just how Eamon’s been tearing him apart, even though I’m so accustomed to violence.
Or maybe I’m just jealous that he managed to do something I never did at his age, when Father was still laying into me regularly for failing to live up to his expectations, but I no longer had the excuse of protecting Micah to hang around for.
“Tadhg?”
Bambi’s voice cuts through the thought and I turn to see him watching me from the passenger seat, his eyes shining in the soft moonlight.
“Yeah?”
“You asked how he looked, and I said I’ve seen worse, but he’s still pretty messed up. Then you didn’t reply. Where did you go just now?”
I shake my head, trying to physically banish all the memories that were threatening to creep in.
“Nowhere.” There’s a pause while neither of us speaks, but I still don’t turn the engine over. “I feel bad. I wish we could help him more.”
Micah tilts his head to the side, like he’s taking me in from a different angle.
“Me too,” he says, his voice gentle. After a second, he slips his hand over the center console in the darkness and laces his fingers through mine, settling something inside me. “We’ll do what we can. He’ll heal on the outside. Gunnar can probably help him make a plan. I don’t know him very well, but he seems like the kind of person who will immediately get over-investedin the situation. At the end of the day, he has to choose to not go back, though. That’s the hard part. Especially if no one can fix whatever circumstances drove him to the Banna in the first place.”
Micah’s words echo what I was just thinking about, but I can’t help but feel like choosing to say “the Banna” instead of “Eamon” was deliberate here. Like Micah is trying to draw parallels for me that my mind has already etched out in neon lights, thank you very much.
I’m already aware that this college-aged kid has made more significant steps toward securing his freedom than I have, with a lot less fucking help and in the face of much more intense obstacles. I get that.
Pointing out what a coward I am is redundant, at this point.
I don’t say that to Micah, though. I can’t find the words and the thought of fighting about it exhausts me to my core. The thought of not fighting about it and listening to him placate me with random gibberish about me being strong or good or whatever he can pull out of his ass exhausts me even more.
Instead, I grunt my acknowledgement, hoping that he’ll drop it, and put my eyes on the parking lot, pulling my hand from his. If I focus on driving us home, we can cut this conversation off at the knees before it even gets started.
And if there is a god, then as soon as we get home, I’ll be able to get some fucking sleep. Because right now, that’s the only thing that I can think about without wanting to crawl out of my skin.
Micah’s eyes are on me for the entire drive. I can feel them. This fervent gaze that’s poking at me, trying to peel back the corners of my skin. But my skin is heavy, stiff with anger and hatred and misery, so he can’t get any purchase on it. We continue to ride in silence, letting the inevitable misery of our future spread out in front of us like hot asphalt.
Micah
There’s something wrong with Tadhg.
That seems to be how a lot of my thoughts start, these days.
Tadhg, Tadhg, Tadhg.
Maybe I should resent it for him, but I can’t bring myself to. It feels too important. Like taking care of him is as much of an intrinsic part of me as his need to be taken care of is a part of him. So, I let my mind spin out the whole way home on all the different things that might be upsetting him.
Seeing Tobias was rough. He was torn up, for sure, even if he was putting on a brave face. I examine SA victims regularly as part of my job, and I’ve seen a wide range of hurt. Sometimes it’s more obvious on the outside, sometimes the inside, sometimes both. Tobias was carrying a weight of pain, that’s indisputable.
But I felt okay leaving him with Gunnar. The man has a savior-complex the size of Texas, but his heart is in the right place and frankly, my rescuing plate is full.
Because my stupid, insular brother won’t tell me what’s bothering him. Ever.
As soon as we get home, he mutters something at me and heads to the shower. I don’t want to jump him while he’s feeling off, but it seems like his walls are always down the most during sex, so I might as well try my luck and see if he’s feeling it.
Sometimes he’s keeping quiet because he doesn’t want to talk, but most of the time it’s because he wants me to drag it outof him. And the easiest way to do that seems to be with some rough touch, some gentle touch, and a lot of dirty talk.
Barely a few minutes pass between when I step into the steam-filled bathroom and when I get Tadhg facing the shower wall, leaning his face into his arms to muffle his grunts and curses as I kneel behind him and eat his ass.
With the way his body is trembling and writhing under the attention, you’d think he’d never experienced sexual pleasure before. But then again, I really don’t think he had. I still don’t totally understand how his brain works when it comes to attraction and how he identifies, but I’m not going to push him to figure it out. He doesn’t need a label unless he wants one.
The important thing is that I’m the only one who’s able to make him moan like this.
