Page 169 of Piece Us Together

He starts sobbing again, clambering to my lap to bury his face in the hollow beneath my throat. I wrap him up in my arms and hold him close, reaching a hand for Maison at the same time. He’s crying, too, gentle tears rolling down his cheeks as he watches us. His breath is shaky when he releases it, his voice the same as he says, “Make him stop.”

“He’s allowed to cry, kitten. You scared him. You scared both of us.” I stroke the stretch of skin beneath the line of his short sleeve. His eyes flutter, the drugs and pleasant feeling pulling him closer to sleep. “We’re so happy you’re home.”

He stops trying to open his eyes, his body relaxing into the couch. “Home,” he says, the word barely more than a soft sigh.

I can tell he slips away from us just seconds later, drifting off into a place I hope his nightmares can’t reach him.

“Don’t let him do it again,” Nolan begs, his fingers digging painfully into my back. “Make him stop, sir. Please.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat and make a promise I once made to the man we love. “I’ll figure it out.”

Nolan and I don’t have the luxury of pain meds and exhaustion, nor do we want to leave Maison behind in the living room, so we cuddle up on the end of the couch with Maison’s feet against my thigh and Nolan in my lap. We put the pyramid documentary back on, but I can tell his mind is a million miles away. I don’t try pulling him back. Not when my own is just as bad.

I feel sick with the amount of questions I have. No matter how many times I tell myself I can’t get any answers until Maison is in a proper state of mind, it doesn’t get any easier to let go.

I know one thing, at least. This is over. No more secrets. No more disappearing and coming back injured, with what I’m pretty fucking certain isn’t even his blood spattered on the skin below his goddamn ear.

The documentary ends at some point. I don’t know how long we sit there without it playing, only noticing when I’m drawn back to the present by Nolan starting to tremble.

“Hey,” I whisper, shifting him in my lap until he’s straddling me instead of sitting sideways. I cup his cheeks. They’re tacky with dried tear-tracks and wet with fresh ones. His poor bottom lip is bitten nearly bloody. He starts shaking harder as our gazes meet. “Hey, now. Breathe. It’s okay. He’s here. He’s okay.”

“You’ll figure it out?” he asks.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“It’s—it’s bad, sir. It’s big. He—I don’t think he’ll ever pick me. Pickus. I’m too afraid to—to ask.” He falls forward, hiding his face as he starts to cry again. “What if he doesn’t pick us? What if he won’t stop?”

I cup the back of his head and look over. My breath catches when I see Maison watching us, his brow furrowed. He has tears of his own falling down his cheeks.

I knew these men would break me, but I never thought it’d be like this. This pain is visceral. It’s bone-deep and soul-crushing. It makes me feel like I won’t just lose them if this thing doesn’t work out, but lose myself.

Maison looks away first, his eyes falling closed.

“I’ll figure it out,” I say again. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

I tell them we all need sleep. I corral them into the downstairs bedroom, not confident we can get Maison up the stairs even with his painkillers having worn off. Maison sits up for me as I carefully peel his shirt off. There’s more blood just beneath the neckline of it.

“Nolan, can you please go get a bowl of warm soapy water and two washcloths?”

“Yes, sir.”

Maison’s hands find my waist, clinging to my belt. The marks on his knuckles are nearly healed. There are fresh scratch marksjust beneath them, down the back of his hand to his wrist. Not deep enough to bleed or worry about, but definitely noticeable. His throat looks a little swollen, like someone tried choking him.

“You were in a fight,” I find myself saying despite promising myself I’d keep my mouth shut for now.

He doesn’t tell me to let it go. He doesn’t make up a lie. He just leans forward until his forehead is pressed to my stomach and says, “Yes. A few.”

“You won?” I ask, feeling a stupid spike of fear despite having him right here, safe with me.

“I won. Always do.”

“Until the time you don’t…”

His fingers flex against me. “Y-yeah. Until then.”

“Would you stop? If I asked?” I close my eyes like I can hide from the question. Hide from his answer. “Or is he right? Would you not pick us?”

He manages to say, “It’s not—” and then he starts to cry.

---