Page 64 of Strange Lad

“Let me try. Please,” I plead. “It’s my job to bring you out of the dark place.”

His chest heaves, a clicking sound coming from his throat while he swallows. “And it’s my job to make sure you don’t get stuck in it with me.”

I tug on his hand, not wanting to argue or cry and help him to his feet. I don’t let go of his hand while I lead him back to my bedroom and insist he lays down. To my surprise, he doesn’t fight me. Once he’s flat, I take up my spot on his right and pull the covers over us. He rolls to face me, so I do the same, and for long minutes, we just watch each other. Eventually, he gets up and brings me medicine for my fever. I take it, and then we resume our positions once more.

I’m exhausted, and so is he.

“We’ve never done this before,” he whispers eventually.

“Does it bother you?”

He shakes his head. “You should sleep.”

“I will when you do.” I tuck my hands under my cheek, wanting to hold him again, but I don’t dare.

“Sometimes,” he swallows, “I don’t want to sleep because I’m afraid if I do, I’ll wake up and realizethishas been a dream.”

“Us?” I study his pinched face.

“You could have anyone you want,” he says instead of answering me. “I don’t get why you’re trying so hard for me. Why you haven’t given up.”

I check in with myself, wondering the same things occasionally. Our friendship started because I wanted to help him. He had no one in his corner, and I have unlimited empathy. It broke my heart to see how alone he was. From there, I started to get glimpses of the Oli I remembered as a kid—a bit strange and nerdy but so warm. I may have joked about him being an Ice Queen, but that’s only due to this touch aversion.

Oli is anything but frigid.

His heart ishuge.I’ve tried hard not to require much in our friendship, but he’s been ready to provide any time I have. Ready to take care of me in any way I need it. Whether that’s being a couch potato beside me because I’m lonely or listening to me do vocal exercises because I get insecure about my technique. Whenever I need to complain about first-world problems or if our manager pisses us off, Oli is there for me. He never turns me away.

We get along so well, too. Some of our hobbies might differ, but we’re so similar at our cores. We both want to help. We both want to feel wanted. He thinks I’m hilarious when most people think I’m overly dramatic. He doesn’t care if I forget deodorant and get a little smelly. He lets me have Funyun breath and indulges my curiosity.

There is so much more, too.

But what it boils down to is this. “Because you’re my fucking person, Oli. And I won’t give up on my person.”

His eyes flutter shut at my admission, something like relief smoothing out his features. When they open again, he’s staring right through me like he can see everything inside. “You’re my person, too.”

A few tears sneak free, so I quickly wipe them away. “Can I hold you?” I ask through a sniffle.

“Yes,” he breathes and lifts his arm.

I seal our fronts together, banding my arm around his middle, and press my head to his firm chest. My heartsings.I’ve never felt more right than this moment. Like this past year of dying to touch him was a test I passed. With everything that’s happened today, I feel like I accomplished something.

Whether I’m in the dark place with him or I’ve pulled him out of it doesn’t matter to me currently because as long as I can hold him, he’s safe. I’ll protect him for as long as he will let me.

Iwake to an empty bed covered in sweat. Sitting up, I peel the damp hoodie off my body and shirt and blink through the sleep fog. Beside my bed is a glass of water and fresh cough drops. I can smell again, thank fuck, and the magical scent of chorizo is coming into my bedroom. My stomach growls as I swallow down some water and pop a cough drop in my mouth.

I feel much better this morning, but I still worry about Oli. As I leave my bed, I can’t help the smile that forms. His clothes from yesterday are in my hamper, and the tags from the sweats and t-shirts I bought him are in the little trash can by my door. That means he’s been up for a while. Quickly lifting my arm, I sniff under it, surprised I don’t reek. However, I still throw on a clean shirt because I might be nose deaf to it.

“Small miracles,” I mumble and leave my room.

A shower would be nice, but I want to make sure he’s okay first. Last night was…rough. I’d been so content to just lay there and hold him—thankfully, too sick to get a boner. I wonder if he’ll let me do it again.

Scratching at my chest, I enter the kitchen, and he slides the chorizo and eggs onto a plate. I’m glad the clothes fit; only slightly disappointed there’s no skin exposed.

“Morning,” I say through a yawn. Oh, would you look at that? I’m no longer pre-pubescent.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, offering me a brief smile.

“Better. How about you?”

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