CLOSER
POST-202 POV—BRIAN

I can look at him now, just a few hours later, as he sleeps next to me, and I think I see a difference in him. I’m probably imagining it, but I don’t think so. He looks peaceful. I’m not even going to touch him. Part of me really wants to, wants to move closer to him, to hold him—really tightly—but I’m not going to destroy the one good thing I did today. He’s happy right now. I want him to stay that way.

I want to watch him breathe, watch him sleep for a few minutes without the violent interruption of a nightmare. I want to see how long it will take him to decide if he’s going to sleep on his back or his side and which one it will be tonight. I want to see, if once he’s really sound asleep, if he’ll forget that his hand doesn’t work well anymore, if he’ll stop holding it against his body like that to remind himself because it reminds me.

And I don’t need to be reminded.

I want to know if once I turn off this blue light that glows over our heads, if he’ll bring as much beauty to the darkness as he does to the light.

I know he will.

I sort of want to tell him while he’s sleeping that I didn’t know what I was going to do when his memories came flooding back this afternoon, that I was terrified when he started to cling to me, terrified that I wouldn’t have any answers when he was ready to let go.

And I didn’t.

“Brian, it’s okay. I think I just want to go to sleep for a while.”

“Okay.”

“Will you—"

“I’ll stay right here.”

And I did.

I want to tell him right now as my arm lies on his pillow and my fingers barely brush his hair that I was afraid to touch him tonight, afraid that I’d hurt him, that I wouldn’t know how to give him what he needed, that it was nothing like the first time.

Nothing at all.

That his body was smooth and dry tonight, not hot and nervous like that night. That he was different tonight. He needed something from me. I could feel it. I felt him pulling it out of my fingers as I touched him, felt him borrowing the warmth from my hands as I held him because he needed to feel it again. I saw it in his eyes when he kissed me. I knew when he reached for me that that’s what he was reaching for.

A connection.

To me.

To us.

And back to himself.

I want to tell him that when he came in my arms tonight, moaning softly into the sheets, that I almost cried, I was so relieved. That I know I came, but I don’t remember it at all.

I want to tell him that I’d never made love to anyone like that ever before. That I’d never made love.

I want to tell him as he turns toward me now in his sleep that I’m scared of the way he makes me feel. That I want to protect him, help him find his way back, that I’m terrified that once he gets there I won’t be able to stand beside him.

Because I never have. Not when it mattered.

I’m scared that he trusts me to keep him safe because he shouldn’t--because I can’t--because I don’t.

I want to wake him up and tell him that I feel closer to him now than I’ve ever felt and that I want him and I’ve never been more afraid to touch someone in my entire life.

But I won’t. He’s happy right now. I want him to stay that way.