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"Lavender" - A Short Snippet
🕑 Added 2022-01-24 03:06:40 +0000 UTCBased on the commission, "M! Jean x NB!MC Mc has an incredibly rough day and looks to his boyfriend for some comfort."
There are different levels of tired.
You’ve come to know this intimately—too intimately—your intern year.
First, the kind of tired that just hums in the background. That dispels itself with a cup of coffee, or walking around, or retracting in surgery—that only really comes back when you sit down and you feel it, the weight of it in your bones.
Then, the kind of tired that invigorates you. When you’ve pushed yourself beyond whatever safety measure there is, where the world is suddenly bright and awake and you are bright and awake, and you know—deep in the back of your mind—that you’re running on empty, that all this energy and excitement is a farce, but it feels so damn good that you don’t even notice—you choose not to notice.
And, finally, this tired. The kind of tired where you walk back from your shift in a daze, almost get hit by a car crossing the road. You are running on the barest of autopilots, your feet moving forward, your hand reaching out to press the elevator button. And, somehow, you’re in front of Jean’s door. And, the door swings open, and he takes one look at you and knows—that you’re not there anymore, not really.
He leads you inside, and numbly you take off your shoes before he guides you, gently, to the bathroom, his fingers twined with yours—firm, grounding. The sound of the shower starting is just a dull roar in your ears—you barely register it, or Jean unbuttoning your shirt, unbuckling your belt. It’s as if everything you’re seeing, everything you’re doing is completely detached from yourself: you see Jean test the temperature of the water with his hand, you feel the cool tile of the shower beneath your feet, the hot pummel of water on your back.
Something loosens itself within you, an uncoiling that makes you want to scream or cry or both. You press your palms against the shower wall, bracing yourself for—what, exactly? An internal dislocation, or something snapping back into place.
When you wrap yourself with a towel, your jaw hurts from clenching your teeth, trying to swallow something like a gasp, something like a sob, back into your throat.
Jean’s reading on the bed, and when you come in, climb on top of the covers, he folds you into his arms—not caring that you’re still slightly wet, or that they’re still suds still left in your hair. The two of you lie there for a long moment, your face pressed against his chest, his hand steady on your waist. You feel the rise and fall of his breathing, burying your nose into his shirt—the way he smells like lavender, like safety, like home.
You cry quietly, without much fanfare. Your shoulders shaking, your breath hitching. He holds you, and you cling onto him, your legs twining together—like he’s the only thing in the world that makes sense, the only real thing left.
What can you say to him, really? How can you describe it, this emptiness inside of you, that you’ve bricked away, that’s now open, a yawning maw? And how he’s the one keeping you from falling into yourself, the one tethering you to the now?
The next morning, you wake up before him and look at his face—smooth and peaceful. You reach out and cup his cheek, and he turns, presses a sleepy kiss to your palm before tucking you against him, his breath tickling your neck.
