#littlewrites

Waylon sat very still, staring down where Miles had fallen against him. He draped his arms loosely around Miles’ shoulders- normal Miles, familiar Miles- while a trickle of blood stained from his nose into the arm of Waylon’s shirt.

He eyed the baseball bat he’d abandoned and let out a long, deep sigh while he tried to remember his therapist’s breathing exercised. 

The idea of meditation seemed a little weak for the given situation, but Waylon would manage. As long as Miles looked like himself, he could use it to keep himself together.

Miles groaned and started to stir by the time Waylon had gotten to the part where he was supposed to imagine being a warm stone under the hot desert sun.

“Mornin,” Miles croaked. He attempted to lift himself up, then rested against Waylon once again.

Waylon’s whole body tensed up like a rubber band pulled too tight before he sucked in another breath, and let it out gently through his nostrils. The feeling of another human being held against him was, as most things were these days, too much- both an icy pang of apprehension and the warm creep of reluctant comfort.

He didn’t want to be feeling it, even if it made him feel awake again.

It had been a long, long time since anyone else had touched Waylon, outside of Gluskin and the endless parade of doctors. Even his own wife- back when he could call her his wife- had kept him at arm’s length. His whole experience had narrowed down to one word: clinical.

Somewhere beneath layers of panic, paranoia, and mistrust, Waylon felt something hard to name spiderweb inside him like, like a cracking windshield.

He hugged Miles closer; it felt safe, and comforting, and if the gesture wasn’t exactly welcome well…he was sure Miles would forgive him for the indiscretion. There was no telling the next time he’d experience safe human contact and in that moment, he wanted to remember what it felt like. To be alive. To be apart of someone else’s life, even briefly.

Blood trickled down Miles’ face as he looked up at Waylon, which called Waylon’s brief sense of safety back into question.

“I think it’s actually past noon,” Waylon said.

He scrubbed the heel of his palm against the blood tracked down Miles’ nose and chin with a wan smile. It did wonders to take the sickly edge from the man’s face.

Miles’ arms shook as he leveraged himself up and swung into an upright sitting position. Waylon ignored the pang of disappointment as he followed suit, one hand against Miles’ arm, just in case he swooned again.

“Sorry,” Miles said.

“It’s fine.”

“That’s not exactly true, is it? Thanks anyway.”

“How do you feel?”

Miles eyes were heavily lidded. “Not great.”

Waylon punched the TV remote on to fill the silence; some quiet program about art and museums droning in the background. Miles winced as sunlight dappled across the living room in an arc, which prompted Waylon to jump up and yank the blinds closed.

“Thanks.”

“You need something?” Waylon ventured.

“Nah. M’fine.”

Waylon worried his lip between his teeth and went to the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water that he held out to Miles like a peace offering.

Miles took it from him with a squint. “Kinda thought you’d start screaming again.”

“Think I got it all out of my system for now.”

“I’m not-“ Miles started, staring at the glass guiltily, “I don’t mean to sound like you don’t have a good reason to be-“

“It’s okay, Miles. Really.”

“Is it? Can’t believe you’re not having any second thoughts about sitting here right next to the big-bad-boogeyman Walrider.”

Waylon picked at his fingernails. “You’re not the Walrider.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Does it hurt?”

The question rushed out of Waylon as if he’d been holding it in for a while.

Miles jerked to attention. “What?”

“Changing like that, I mean.”

“Not…no? Not really.”

“‘Cause it looks like it hurts.”

“It doesn’t. Not at first, anyway,” Miles said, and pressed his thumb to his temple as if to demonstrate where it hurt.

“M’sorry.”

Miles grinned. “Now that’s more like it.”

Waylon smiled despite himself and pushed at Miles’ arm chidingly.

The smile fell from Miles’ face. “It’s like…an instinct, you know?”

“Huh?”

“Changing…it’s like an instinct.” Miles spread his hands out and inspected them as if he were afraid they’d start changing again without warning. He probably just wanted something to look at other than Waylon.

"You just…fade out. You’re still there, but something is else is piloting you. Watching from behind your own eyes.”

Waylon shuddered at the familiarity of the description. He reached out and placed his hand on Miles’ shoulder after a great deal of internal effort.

Miles exhaled and leaned against him.

“Well, I haven’t done anything too awful, at least. I think.”

Waylon’s eyes flicked away. “I really don’t want to be contradicting you right now, and you might not even remember but…you did almost tear a man in half. Just like, yesterday.”

“Oh. Yeah. You know, I had forgotten about that for a sec there.”

“So…why didn’t you?”

“What, tear the guy in half?”

“Yeah.”

“You were screaming,” Miles said simply.

“So? Why should that stop you?”

Miles’ mouth worked silently for a moment. “So, I- I dunno man! None of this makes any goddamn sense! Everything stopped making sense the moment I got shot by a firing squad and didn’t die.”

“Well, what do you remember?”

Miles grimaced. “A knife, blood, the sound of screaming and then…not much else.”

Waylon blanched. “Christ. Was it me? Was that my fault?”

“No- I mean, maybe? It’s not anyone’s fault! I just- fuck it,” Miles groaned. “I’m not doing this right now! This does not have to be unpacked.”

He stood suddenly, swaying on his feet. Waylon jumped up and reached out to steady him and tugged him back onto the couch.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

Miles dropped his head into his hands. “I just want some whiskey.”

Waylon hated how defeated Miles looked in that moment, shrunken inside himself. He hated how defeated he felt even more, even as he crept off to the kitchen to pour a glass of whiskey.

He stared at the liquid for a long time, watching it refract the dingy kitchen through the glass while he silently hated himself for doing it. Hated Miles for asking him to do it. It felt like guilt was coating his skin like grease, or dirt, sinking into his skin where he could never wash it off.

He wondered how many different times he could show up and ruin Miles Upshur’s life. He wanted to hurl the entire bottle against the wall. Instead, he handed it to Miles without looking at him.

Miles took the glass, watching Waylon curiously as he drank deep and slammed the glass onto the coffee table hard enough for whiskey to slosh out. His voice, when it came, was sharp.

“What?”

Waylon took a step back and stared at the floor. “You…you shouldn’t drink this much.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Well,” Miles said flatly, “I’m very fucking sorry for wounding your delicate sensibilities. If you want, I will go and do this somewhere you won’t have to see.”

Waylon’s eyes stung faster than he could process the feeling of rejection. He swallowed the feeling down and balled his hands into fists; he was tired of crying every time Miles got to him, and tired of making it everyone else’s problem.

He wanted to scream, but instead his voice came out small and unfamiliar.

"Do whatever you want.”

Miles drained the glass in one impressive swig and slammed it onto the table, empty. “I intend to.”

“Fine, then. I’m going out. I’ll be back.”

“You’re going outside? Alone?”

If Waylon hadn’t know any better, he would have thought Miles looked a little guilty. Then again, Waylon’s worst quality might have been his penchant for wishful thinking.

“Is that okay?” Waylon said sharply.

Miles expression closed off and he stared into his empty glass. “Whatever. Just don’t like…fuckin’ die out there.”

The tension between the two of them at the mere mention of Death was palpable. For a second Waylon would have sworn they’d had simultaneous visions of that man in the alley, the knife in his fist.

The desire to stay, to avoid the entire looming world outside Miles’ apartment welled up in him like nausea.

Until he watched Miles get up, unsteady and tilting on weak legs, to grab the whole bottle of whiskey and bring it to his lips. Waylon grabbed the door handle before he could lose his nerve a second time.

Miles waved a hand without even looking up.