Page 36 of My Lovely Tragedy
I don’t think a single moment spent with Brooklyn could ever be intolerable.
Each bite he takes is slower than usual for him. His jaw works to chew, then swallow, and even an action as habitual as that seems to take more effort than he has.
His torso is slumped over the counter, elbows pressed against the smooth soapstone, head hanging between his shoulders like it weighs entirely too much. The tendons in his neck strain and bulge against the pressure, sticking out just enough that a simple nick of a blade would send blood gushing.
My back aligns, and the legs of the barstool scrape against the floor from my sudden shift. Brooklyn doesn’t even flinch at the unpleasant sound. He drops his sandwich onto the plate, hand hanging, fingers limp and untouched.
“Brooklyn.” His name is soft and cautious on my tongue, against the back of my teeth. I reach out and tuck a piece of his silky hair behind his ear, rubbing the strands between my fingertips.
His Adam’s apple rolls slowly. Shoulders rise and fall with a single breath. His hair is still in my hand. “Just really tired.”
I rake my gaze over every inch of him, searching, pleading with him to meet my gaze, but he’s locked in tight, unmoving—or perhaps uncaring.
But no. That’s not right. Brooklyn’s feelings are loud. Boisterous and mostly inappropriate. Heavy and palpable and consuming.
Consuming…
My head tilts to the side as I trace the frown line dominating his lovely mouth, his overgrown stubble doing nothing to shadow the deep-set lines—lines I never noticed before. But now, they are solid and prominent in a way it’s hard to believe they were never there before.
He wears them often, if not always.
I tug on the lock of hair, wrapping the thick strand around my finger, coiling it as tight as it will go. Brooklyn’s still so docile and unresponsive; it makes my skin twitch and burn with the desire to see how far he would let me take it.
His eyes flicker toward me, his head shifting the smallest increments to the left so he can see me properly without his hair in the way. The action moves my hand with his head, and the hair unravels a few spools. He watches dully before meeting my inquisitive gaze.
Sadness and exhaustion swirl within his azure irises, shadowed by the low light.
Not a single word is spoken, but so much is said. I feel his burdens—his pain—as if they are my own. All through the connection of our eyes—the windows to our souls as they say.
Each breath comes shorter, more labored, as agony laces my heart, wrapping its thin chords around each vein and blood vessel, every ligament and bone.
My grip tightens unconsciously, bringing Brooklyn closer than he has ever been. Our faces are millimeters apart, each hot exhale fanning across my lips like the traces of a kiss.
With lids at half mast, his lashes fan across his under eye, casting feather-like shadows.
I slide my fingers across the back of his head, curling them to mold to the shape, holding. Caressing. My thumb drags along his forehead, feeling clammy warmth and beads of perspiration. I trace the shape of his thick brow, dipping my head down until my forehead rests against his, slick with his sweat and smelling of self-loathing. Fatigue and rue.
A tightness fills my throat, spilling into my chest, where it then flows down to my gut.
It’s a sensation unlike any other. It steals my breath and sends my mind ablaze with throbbing shockwaves that move with the beat of my heart.
Brooklyn’s body slumps, most of his weight pushing against me. My knees pressed into his thigh, his forehead against mine. My hand in his hair, holding his head.
We’re connected in almost every way, and the cathartic revelation ofminereplaces every cell in my body.
My eyelids flutter as I inhale deeply, filling my lungs and my brain with his scent. “Go on up and get some sleep, darling.” I rub our slick foreheads together. “I will be here if you need me.”
Brooklyn doesn’t respond verbally. Physically, he collapses into me, and I have to raise my other arm to catch him before he falls over, but after a long, silent moment, he pushes himself to his feet. His legs are unsteady, but they keep him upright.
The loss of connection is physically painful, and I’m barely able to contain my grimace as Brooklyn turns away from me. “Do you need some help?” My eyes dart to the ladder. He shakes his head without turning around. Thick, calloused fingers grip either side and I watch every step upward, eyes trailing over every inch of his back.
Every time he lifts his leg, I worry it will give out beneath him and send him crashing to the floor, but surprisingly, he holds himself just enough to collapse once he reaches the floor of the loft. All I have sight of is the bottoms of his bare feet, the pads thick with callouses, soft skin stretched between.
“Brooklyn?” I croak. Seeing him in this state, so helpless andunable,kills off a piece inside me. Leaving a vacant, cold hole.
“I’m,” a deep breath, “okay.” His legs shuffle. There’s the drag of cotton across the floor. Palms smacking against the wood. The creak of the mattress as it dips and then a near-silent breath as Brooklyn collapses.
And that’s where I stand for an endless amount of time, listening to the hushed sound of his breathing. Proof he’s alive and here and in my bed.
