Atlas beams, a striking contrast after the gloom of before. He looks from Conin to me and back to Conin, a question furrowed in his brow. The infirmary ceases to exist as Atlascarefully ambles forward. He leans in on the mattress, freezing as his fingers ruffle the sheets. Conin propels upward, his mouth parted with expectation. Atlas lingers there a moment and then shatters the space between them.
Atlas presses his lips to Conin’s. My boyfriend kisses him back.
It’s fleeting.
But it happened.
And I feel as if my chest could burst.
Atlas retreats with a grin that could brighten the sun. Conin’s pleased gaze remains transfixed on him.
“I’ll go find an orderly now,” he says.
He pecks Conin on the mouth again before he leaves, siphoning his last breath in the aftermath. The silence that follows Atlas’s departure speaks volumes. We’re left grasping for straws in his wake.
“I’m going to see a therapist,” I finally manage to say. “After . . . you know . . . I want to get better. I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”
“You don’t need to tell me yet, Ezra. Not if you aren’t ready.”
“I want to,” and I find that it’s the truth.
“Do you think you can handle this? How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says.
I find that hard to believe, but I don’t tell him. Tears slip down my cheeks and hang loose on the cornice of my jaw before I can suppress them. My chin trembles and I can’t do anything about it.
“Fuck,” I sob.
There’s a creak on the bed. Conin’s strong, muscled arm wraps around my neck and pulls me tight against his chest. Sobs wrack my body. The numbness returns.
“I’m so, so sick of this. I’m sick of craving alcohol every time the depression comes back. I’m sick of . . . feeling sick all the time—feeling useless—feeling like a fucking nobody.”
“You were never a nobody,” Conin placates. His breath is warm on my ear. “You were always someone to me.”
I’m hysterical—inconsolable. He lets me cry for as long as I need—for what probably ends up being hours.
“I wish you could see how amazing you are,” Conin says after most of my energy’s been depleted. I take in shuddering breaths. He strokes my back with the arm he slung over my shoulders, a comforting graze that settles my nerves.
“Can I tell you something?” he says.
“Sure.”
“When we were kids and I first saw your eyes—I was truly, wholeheartedly captivated. I thought it made you some kind of superhero because I never knew someone could have two different colored eyes. And, you know, then it turns out you actually have superpowers, which makes you a million times cooler in my eyes. My point is . . . I was always in awe of you.
“I feel like shit that I didn’t see how much you were suffering. And the little I did know . . . I did nothing about it. I’m so sorry, Ezra.”
I nurse his hand in mine while the appreciation I feel for him multiplies.
“You couldn’t have done anything then,” I choke out.
I grip his hand to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault, that he and I are fine.
“But you did what you could when it came down to it.”
Conin squeezes back.
“Where are you?” he asks.
