like an orchid

it was subtle.

joost would have missed it if he’d blinked, the way that you had ducked your head a mere inch when he’d raised his hand just a little too high; a little too close to your face. how you had ducked your head and flinched, taking the slightest small step backwards as you’d done so, without so much as glancing his way once.

the conversation around you had still flowed, free of the weight that had then sat so uncomfortably on his shoulders, because somehow, no one else had caught it. somehow, the guilt of nothing more than a simple high-five between himself and dima became a burden that he, and only he, would have to bear. and the fact that you had still then taken his hand and not dropped it until he’d run off to go get ready for his set, and had still laughed at all of his friends’ jokes as though you hadn’t been affected by anything at all, didn’t matter. it couldn’t matter. 

the image of it is still playing on repeat inside his head. the soft crinkle of your nose as your whole face had scrunched up, bracing for a hit that was never going to come. you were scared of him, for just a moment. afraid that right then and there, surrounded by so many of his friends and crew just beside the tour bus, he would put his hands on you. at the very least, it was a sign that you thought he’s even capable of doing so. 

it’s not something he should still be thinking about, not whilst you’re all curled up in his arms, on his chest, lulled to sleep by the low hum of the bus engine. he’s already let it carve a permanent furrow in his eyebrows and ruin a show because he kept forgetting all the words to his own songs. now he’s letting it keep him up, and he’s staring blankly out the window instead of sleeping with his face buried deep into the crook of your neck. 

but joost settles for waiting, patiently, for his own thoughts to tire him out. he lies still, counting each of your slow, gentle breaths like sheep, trying to convince himself that he’s simply just spiralling over nothing. that he’s over exaggerating, because maybe it wasn’t a flinch and you don’t think that he could ever hurt you. maybe it was just a fly that he hadn’t seen, buzzing around in your face, bothering you. maybe it doesn’t have to all be so terrible.

he feels it when you jolt; it draws his gaze away from the blur of some trees going past and back down to your face. your wide, teary eyes, and the way that your lips part as you try to remember where you are — remember whose hands are gripping onto your waist. 

“i’m fine.”  you speak before he can ask you if you’re okay. without meeting his eyes first, you felt that it was him, felt that it was his hold keeping you steady, his erratic heartbeat underneath your ear. you don’t want to worry him anymore than you already have. “bad dream.”

you feel him squeeze you just a little tighter. “do you want to talk about it?”

and at the sound of his voice so warm inside your ear, you chuckle against his chest, only because you can’t imagine bothering him with something so insignificant. “no, i’m fine.”  instead you just stretch, yawning a little. “sorry, did i wake you up?”

softly, he shakes his head. “was it about earlier?”

it peaks your interest, makes you shift, turning around to face him until you’re resting against his sternum. “what happened earlier?”

the bus rattles beneath you. the wheels catch a pothole, and it’s only because of joost that you aren’t thrown up too high into the air. it’s enough to make you laugh again, even brighter this time, and without noticing that he isn’t quite laughing with you. his giggle is there but it’s hollow, only for show.

“when we were hanging outside with everyone, you flinched at me like i was about to…do you dream that i do things like that?”

and there are streetlights casting an orange glow across your nose, your cheeks; your eyes shine as you stare back at him. it means that he sees it when your tired smile drops into something so much sadder, and you move to sit up away from him. he sees it when your shoulders tense, and he notices it when you just can’t look at him anymore.

“no…no, i don’t. you just…you know how i am; i’m jumpy.”

joost sits up with you, and his head tips to the side. “yeah, you struggle with horror films sometimes but you watch them anyway because you love them. that’s not the same thing as thinking i’m about to hit you when i -”

but despite the late hour, you just can’t stop your voice from rising. “- no one ever said anything about you hitting me, joost.”

“so then why did you flinch?”  a few seconds of silence pass, only disturbed by the faint, white noise of the traffic around you. “i high-fived my friend and you reacted like i was about to right-hook you.”

“i didn’t mean to.”

“is that something you think i’d do?” 

you still won’t face him; your head still hangs low, offering him nowhere else to look other than the soft, bare curve of your spine. the mess of hair that cascades down and past your shoulders. “of course not.”  

“you won’t even look at me, schatje.”

“i’m tired; i’m still waking up.”

“and that means you now can’t look at me? even though that wasn’t an issue about five minutes ago?”

something in his tone flips, changes, and his voice falls a little deeper. there’s almost an annoyance that hangs off each word, which only grows the longer that you stay quiet with your back still to him. because joost just isn’t used to being shut out like this — not by anyone and not by you, of all people. he’s a helper; people talk to him and he helps. they let him help.

and you’re not letting him help. instead you’re leaving him to sit with this thought, this fear that you really do think something so awful of him, without any possible relief whilst you simply let him. you’re still there beside him, but not truly there, not when he needs you to be. 

quietly, he sighs, just loud enough for you to hear. you think he’s about to say something, maybe poke another small, indefensible hole in your logic when suddenly his arms raise, and he stretches. it’s even accompanied by a deep yawn of his own, but it’s still enough to get you though, isn’t it? enough to have you wincing, yelping, jerking to the side away from him, just in case. 

“don’t.”  again, immediately, you rob him of the chance to speak first. “i’m fine.”

but it only takes a surrendered, gentle plea of your name for you to start falling apart at the seams, your breathing turning heavy, laboured. you find yourself gathering the sheets up into your arms just to have something to hold onto. it’s all so dramatic, so unnecessary for something that you’ve spent so long trying so hard to forget; you blink once, twice, as many times as it takes for you to hopefully stop seeing what’s not even there. 

the rising of the early morning sun casts a soft blue hue across the room. it brings with it a chill that settles along your skin, raising goosebumps, and rain that has the bus windows starting to shake inside their frames. you’re almost thankful for the noise of it, of the harsh, low thumping of each droplet hitting against the thin glass, because you’re struggling to catch your own breath. 

“schatje,”  in turn, joost inches forward just enough for you to be back within his grasp if he still had the heart to touch you; right now you resemble something far too similar to a landmine for him to risk that just yet. “baby, you’re not fine.”

around you, the crisp, white duvet does little to keep you warm as you shiver despite the rosy heat that sits just beneath your cheeks. “i am, i just need a minute.” 

“you’re shaking like a leaf, schat.”

this just isn’t something that you ever imagined having to tell joost, is it? or anyone in your life now, for that matter. how terrified of everything you used to be; how many years you spent living in fear of someone who was supposed to protect you from all the monsters hiding underneath your bed. 

“it’s not you. please, it’s not you. it’s not.”  it’s a sentiment that you repeat until the words begin to lose all meaning. 

“then what?”  and his own are strained, catching in the very back of his throat as he fights against every natural instinct to reach out to you. “you know you can talk to me; what happened?”

“my family wasn’t like yours growing up; we never used to watch tv together.”  the crease between his eyebrows deepen as he watches the rapid rise and fall of your chest; how you shake your head as though you’re trying to toss your own thoughts right out. “they were mean and they scared me, and they’re still…stuck inside my head. it was just habit earlier; it wasn’t you.”

the bus suddenly comes to a stop and you freeze only for a moment before you’re jumping up, stumbling, and swapping the sheets for a hoodie of his to keep you covered up instead. a stolen cigarette balances delicately between your lips as you slip into a pair of crocs that’ll do little to keep your feet dry from the rain. it’s still without turning to face him that you mumble something about needing some fresh air. 

you don’t turn back when joost calls out for you. you don’t acknowledge it when your name starts to sound like something almost akin to a cry. it’s only the bus driver, hans, that you bless with a smile once he announces a brief stop for a petrol refill, and a chance for those of you awake to finally stretch your legs. 

because it’s not just the two of you, is it? parsa’s crawling out of his bunk just in time to catch you rushing down the hall with your head down low and hood pulled all the way up, before disappearing outside. he’s there to see joost sat defeated in his bed through the wide gap in the door, all doe-eyed and raking shaky fingers throughout his hair.

he’s too torn between following you and just leaving you be for a while, that he simply does nothing. 

“uhh…everything okay?”  the question is hesitant — conscious of the already thin ice that it walks on. 

it’s only met with a small nod; there’s a lump lodged somewhere deep in joost’s throat now that’s just large enough to choke him if he speaks. 

“you gonna go after her or what?”  and from the corner of his eye, parsa can see you standing just a little too close to the side of the road to be considered ‘safe’. you’re already drenched from head to toe as you take in another drag of your cigarette. “it’s fucking raining balls out there, man.”

“she just needs some air; she’ll be back in a minute.”  maybe it would have been more convincing had the words not then been followed by such a soft, shuddering gasp of breath. 

“nah, fuck that. go fix whatever you did and get her back in here.” 

the tough love hits him somewhere between two ribs, and it hurts. the quiet implication that he just must have done something wrong, must have been the one to drive you outside and into the rain one way or another, because who else could there possibly be to blame? the faint scoff and the look that he gets before parsa disappears out of sight, and the bus door opens again. it hurts.

from the window, joost watches his friend stray no further than a mere few steps away from the bus. as your friend too, parsa lingers just in case with a morning cigarette of his own between his lips, but it’s not his place to interfere. it’s not him that’s still sitting in bed whilst you’re busy trying to catch yourself a cold. 

perhaps the implication is not that joost did something wrong, but that he’s still not doing anything at all. that thought alone is enough to finally get him up, pulling what at least smells like a clean jumper over his head as he drags tired feet down the bus. 

you’ve already smoked all the way down to the filter by the time that he reaches you, calling out a gentle “liefje!”  before he hesitates and stops just a little further than an arms length away. wet hair clings to cold skin as you turn on the spot to face him; his shoulders drop slightly, so you know that he can see the same puffiness that you feel around your eyes now. you know you can’t blame last night’s smudged mascara for it. 

“liefje,”  he quickly finds himself squinting because wind keeps blowing rain into his eyes, and his nose has already turned a little pink from the cold. “if i have to bribe hans to let you smoke on the bus then i will, just — come back inside, okay? you’ll get sick.”

you sniffle, wiping your sore nose on the sleeve of your hoodie. “i just needed a minute to think, joost.”

“i know, you keep saying that.”  and then quietly, you watch him sigh as he runs a trembling hand through his hair again. “tell me what to do.”

“i don’t know.”  the words come out not much louder than a whisper. you know that it’s not good enough.

“tell me how i can help you. you’re not letting me help you.”

“i said i don’t know!” 

ash spills to the ground as you let the butt of your cigarette fall from your fingertips. it hits cement before tumbling down into the gutter, discarded, soon to be washed away by some small, overflowing drain near by. for a second, you let your gaze drop, and you watch as it starts to slowly disintegrate at your feet.

“i’d ask for help…”  you don’t see it when joost suddenly goes rigid. “i had these friends online, on fucking club penguin or something, and i’d ask them for help because i couldn’t trust anyone else…it never worked. the help never came.”

“schat…”

“i’m not sure what i expected — they were kids my age, i think. they couldn’t have done anything.”

it’s nothing short of a relief when he takes a single, short step forward, and you don’t react. if anything, you lean a little further into the space, still not quite meeting him halfway but not shying away from him anymore, either. he considers it to be progress, regardless.

“you can’t blame yourself for that; you didn’t know.”

“no, but my dad still broke my jaw when he found all the chat logs, though.”

and something old starts to ache at the memory.

the feeling of your father’s nails digging into the soft, sore flesh of your cheeks, his hot spit splattering across your face as he’d yell that you deserved this over and over again. that really, you had been asking for it, each and every strike from such worn, calloused hands, because he wouldn’t have needed to touch you at all had you just learnt to behave yourself. 

he wasn’t asking too much of you, or for anything unachievable for a child of your age; his expectations were no different from any other parent, really. you were the problem — your inability to only speak when spoken to, and to only take what you were given and be grateful for it, because you were lucky to have what you did. you had a family that willingly kept a roof over your head and food on the table; a family willing to put up with you because truly, no one else would. 

every time that you stepped out of line, disappointed him, you were giving him no choice, weren’t you? every bruised rib and black eye, it was always your fault.

what he did to you the night that he found all those messages sent to your friend ‘@piinkpenguingurl01’, terrified of being hurt again and begging her to tell a grown up because you couldn’t, you’d deserved worse, actually. he told you it was a kindness that he locked you away in your room for as long as he had, leaving you to starve up there for three days because your jaw was so swollen you couldn’t eat. he’d wanted to do worse. your mother would have let him.

you’re so lost in the thought of it all now, with even the slightest details falling from your lips before you could ever try to stop them, that you don’t see it when joost begins to close the gap between you. he takes one, and then another careful, not quite hesitant but slow step towards you; he doesn’t stop until his arms are around you and squeezing. 

it’s protective, how he does it. how he holds you in a way that hides your face in his chest, shielding you from the rain. how he so delicately rubs a hand up and down your back as the other cups the back of your head. for just a moment, his fingers move to brush dripping hair away from your eyes, and he catches sight of the faint scar that lies just beneath your ear. he bends down to leave behind a kiss just as he’s always done, though now he can’t help but to let the touch linger. 

“i’m so sorry, liefje.”

somehow, that’s the thing to finally break you.

before, you had been stiff in his arms as you’d tried to adjust to the sudden deep pressure. your eyes had still stung from all the tears that you hadn’t let fall yet. 

but those four little words have you collapsing right into him, don’t they? with your arms winding around his middle, you stuff your face even further into the wet cotton of his jumper, and you cry until your nose stuffs up. it almost hurts to breathe, and you’re so cold that you can no longer fully feel your toes; the short curb beside you feels more like a cliff as you cling onto joost as though he’s the only thing stopping you from falling. 

it’s why you panic when joost then tries to take half a step back — even in the state that you’re in, he misses being able to see your face. 

“woah! hey,”  he feels your grip shift to his biceps, your hands taking fistfuls of his sleeves as you try so desperately to pull him back. “i’m still here, i just think we should really head back to the bus now, okay? s’that okay?”

it’s almost instinctive the way that you nod your head despite how you make no effort at all to move. suddenly you’re agreeable in a way that’s just so unlike yourself, because really, you would’ve said yes to anything if it meant staying this close to him. maybe it’s here that you’ve felt safe for the first time ever; maybe you’re scared that you’ll never feel like this again if you dare to let him go. 

you’re grateful that he doesn’t once ask you to. 

without another word, you’re lifted up just high enough to wrap your legs around his waist, and it’s by a firm hold on your thighs that he carries you back to the tour bus. with your face hidden in the curve of his neck, you don’t catch the worried glance you both get from hans as you go past, soaked down to the bone and dripping water all across the floor. you don’t see the look shared between joost and parsa as you cross through the bunks and back down the hall until you finally reach your room. 

the door’s kicked shut before you’re put down, and thick digits are toying with the hem of the hoodie that you’re wearing. he waits for you to nod again before the fabric is pulled up and over your head, and you’re being given just enough room to step back and out of your shorts. it’s quietly, that you’re dressed up in clean, dry clothes, and your hair is dried with a towel that he finds on the floor. it’s not until you’re climbing into bed again that he’s turning his attention onto himself for a minute, and changing into something not so sodden. 

the bed dips as the engine starts to rumble and the whole bus starts to move; beneath the duvet, gentle arms pull you back up flush against his chest. 

“you didn’t deserve any of it, okay? no matter what he told you, i mean it, it wasn’t your fault.”

but you lose the words that had been on the very tip of your tongue, because suddenly, there’s a voice angry inside your head, shouting. the sound of your father demanding that you repeat after him, his mantra of ‘’i did this to myself’ so that you would know as well as him who had really been to blame for what he’d done. 

it’s almost compulsive how you start to shake. how your hands fly up to cover your ears as your eyes screw themselves shut, and you curl yourself up into a ball in joost’s arms. how your breathing quickly turns ragged, and tearful, whispered pleas slip past numb, tingling lips. 

“shshshsh, hey, hey, i’m here; you’re alright.”  the arm that lays heavy across your waist grows tense as it hugs you even tighter. “just try to breathe, baby. i’ve got you.” 

“i can hear him.”  

“he’s not here.”

“he’s in my head; i can hear him.”

the mattress bounces a little at the movement — joost propping himself up above you on an elbow just beside your head. with a careful hand, he pries away one of your own and clutches it to his heart, letting you feel each and every strong beat of it underneath your palm. 

“open your eyes.”

surprisingly you do, and it’s only then that you see the few wet streaks that have turned his cheeks a little rosy. 

“look, it’s just me. you’re safe.”  he pauses to smile meekly before raising your hand just to kiss your knuckles. “he can’t hurt you anymore; i won’t let him.”

outside, a pale ray of sunlight peaks out through the bleak grey and pours in through the windows of your room. it casts a dim shine across joost and the bright blues of his eyes; the frost-white tips of his eyebrows and the almost ginger of his moustache. you take in and focus on even the faintest details of his face because in this light, they seem almost new to you now. every pore that’s dotted over the bridge of his nose, the beauty spot that lives just below his bottom lip. 

“promise?”

the bus turns a sudden sharp corner, and it’s only because of you and the grip that you still hold on his hand that he’s not tossed off the bed and onto the floor. it’s enough to make you both crack up just a little bit, the smile already on his face stretching wider as the corners of your mouth twitch ever so slightly. 

he settles down beside you after a tender moment, though before you can retake your place at his side, he’s tugging you up to lay flat out across him again. the sheets bunch up all around your hips as he slips a warm hand underneath your shirt, and his fingertips start to draw odd circles along the soft skin of your spine. it’s the only thing that he knows for certain will send you off to sleep in mere minutes, and it’s in spite of the early morning traffic, that now is no different.