Respite

LaVieEnRose

Brian paused the movie and said, Okay, that's enough.

I blinked. What?

That's three times I've tried to talk to you and you're zoned out. Go lie down.

I'm reading the subtitles!

He gave me a look. You are. Okay. What's happening in the scene?

I thought about trying to fake it, but I had to be realistic of successfully guessing what was happening, considering Brian picked this movie so it was probably some ridiculously boring and intricate subplot about business ethnics and corporate subterfuge. I'm thinking about a project, sorry. I'll pay attention.

I don't give a shit if you pay attention. You think it's hurting my feelings that you're not rapt with attention to the fucking movie? You're spacing out and losing time. Go lie down.

I'm fine.

You're being seizurey as fuck and I don't want to pick your teeth off the floor. Go to bed.

I'm not seizurey!

That's what you always say right before you swoon like a goddamn damsel.

Fine, be wrong. I threw the cushions on the floor and lay down. I'm not going to bed.

He shrugged, crossing his ankles on the table. Good enough. See you after your seizure.

I rolled over onto my back. I was thinking about that thunderstorm painting. Remember I said I wanted to do a thunderstorm painting?

Yep.

So I'm thinking about that.

Sure you are.

You are so goddamn annoying.

Look at it this way, he said, sipping his beer. Now you don't need one of those seizure alert dogs. You have me. You’re not allergic to me.

Want to bet? I definitely feel irritated.

Ha ha, he fingerspelled, slowly.

Plus a dog probably wouldn’t bother me when I was just thinking about a painting. Play the movie, at least, so I have something to do while I’m not seizing.

Fine, but you're just gonna miss it and I'll have to go back and watch it twice.

I know, I feel bad about how taxing my seizures are on you.

He pressed play and I watched the movie and made a whole point of staying focused on it and pretending I didn't notice him glancing at me every time I moved. After half an hour I rolled back onto my back and gave him a look.

Can I get up now? I said.

Shut up.

**

He studied me the next morning while he was slipping on his tie, his cheeks still flushed from the shower and everything that happened therein. Maybe you should work from home today.

I didn’t have to leave for another hour, so I was lounged in bed in my towel, considering breakfast. And my thunderstorm painting. Manage a gallery from home?

Yeah.

You’re seriously deranged, you know that?

He shrugged.

That performance in the shower wasn’t enough to prove I’m okay?

No, that was admirable. But...you still just seem off, he said. Your eyes aren't right.

I’m distracted about that painting, I told you. People get distracted. It’s my gentle artistic soul.

He snorted, but he didn’t relax.

Brian, I’m fine. Haven’t had so much as a hand twitch in four days.

He frowned. Maybe your meds are too high. We'd just upped them a few weeks before, when I'd fallen in the shower; I'd just tripped, people trip, but Brian was fucking convinced it was seizure-related and it was just easier to ask my neurologist to bump me back up for a little while than continue arguing with him about it.

I threw up my hands. First you're afraid I'm going to have a seizure, now my meds are, what, stopping me too much from having a seizure?

Usually your hand acts up a few times a week at least!

Yes, this is a good thing.

Not if you're a fucking zombie because your dosage is too high.

This man was going to be the fucking death of me. I'm not a zombie! I'm distracted by a painting, oh my God. I'm going to go to work, I'm going to get my shit done early, I'm going to have time to paint, everything's going to be right with the world. I got up and kissed him. You're gonna get frown lines, you know.

He swatted my hand away.

“Everything's fine,” I said. “I'm having a good week.”

Famous last words, he grumbled.

“Christ, how I put up with you before I was brain damaged, I'll never know.”

He picked me up by the waist and just...set me down somewhere different. “Bye,” he said in English.

“Have a good day, Brrrrrian,” I said, dragging out the R in the way that makes him smile.

**

Marie ran me ragged that day, chasing down invoices from a catering supplier who hadn't gotten back to us yet, calling a gallery in Munich that mishandled one of our paintings and chewing them the hell out, supervising the placement of a new sculpture in the atrium. I love my job.

I had lunch at my desk, made plans with Derek and Emily to hang out at my place after work—so much for staying late and painting, but whatever—and scrolled through some of the emails in my inbox, looking for sales. One of Brian's favorite décor sites had a vase I liked on clearance, so I sent a picture of it to him.

He emailed me back quickly. Not bad. Where do you want to put it?

Your desk at home.

Okay, he said, so I paid for it with my credit card.

He replied again a minute later with a link to a picture that was, of course, of his cock. I laughed and shifted in my desk chair.

Not bad, I wrote. Where do you want to put it?

**

I'm quitting the fucking library, Emily announced, standing on a chair and rooting around the cupboard for snacks. It's weird, watching people do things like that without caring. Get on high surfaces, drive. Boil water. It's not sad, really, it's just...I don't know. It's strange to think about the things I've learned to consider that most people don't. You don't notice until it's right in front of you.

Derek said, What the fuck are you going to do for food?

Keep stealing from Justin.

You should be a doctor, I said. Daphne's gonna make bank.

I can't even handle the fucking library, now I'm supposed to be a doctor? Christ, there's just so many fucking rules there! You have to scan every book ten thousand times into ten thousand different systems, and if one goes missing it's like a fucking federal case, and I'm like..it's a two dollar paperback. Who the fuck cares?

I think you're supposed to care about books if you work in a library, I said.

Exactly. So I'm quitting the library. Brian walked in then, and Emily waved her hand at him. Hey, hot shot, can I work for you? I hate my job and if I have to go back there one more day I will burn it down and I'm still theoretically against book burning. Probably.

Brian blinked at her. Too fast, he said. I've been speaking English all day, ease me in.

Will...you...hire...me? she signed, comically slow.

He picked her off the chair and set her on the floor. You're going to eat me out of fucking house and home, now you want me to pay you a salary?

Don't pick me up!

He does it to me all the time too, I said. Brian came up behind me and lifted me a few inches off the ground, his arms all the way around me, growling a “Hey,” into my ear that I could feel, warm and rumbly and wet. His cheek was scratchy against mine and oh, so nice.

Brian, Emily said.

He let go of me. Yeah, sure, I'll hire you. Hey Derek.

Emily jumped and probably squealed, from the way Brian winced. You will? she said.

Yeah, sure. My assistant needs an assistant because she hates doing work, and you two would get along. She signs okay and we have an interpreter. He studied her. Thirty-eight, starting salary? And I'll give you a raise after six months.

Emily stared. Thirty eight thousand dollars?

Is that enough? What's your rent?

She looked at me. Is he serious?

He's serious.

Emily hugged him, which since she's so short and he's so tall basically consisted of climbing him like a tree.

This is disqualifying, Brian said. This cannot happen.

She dropped to the floor, jumped up to kiss him, then danced her way over to the living room. I'm quitting the library!

I studied Brian, sipping my soda.

What? he said.

Oh, nothing, you're amazing and perfect and I'm madly in love with you.

He opened the fridge. I think I've heard that from someone before. Keep it in your pants, Taylor.

I pressed myself into him. Do I have to?

He studied me and made a grab for my crotch. Maybe not.

Derek said, What the fuck, I'm still in here.

**

I'm not sure you know what you're in for with Emily, I said to Brian later, when we were brushing our teeth. She's not exactly organized.

He laughed and spit. Who knows. She's Cynthia's problem now, not mine.

I can't believe you just offered her a job like that.

Why? I love making reckless decisions and throwing away my money.

Put that way, true, it seemed very in-character. You knew how much she hated that library job, I said. You were doing something nice because you like her.

Why do you make everything sound so fucking gross? Did you take a class in this? I thought they sent me copies of your class schedules, as your generous benefactor. He plugged in his razor and started shaving. Did you get to work on your painting today?

A little. Do I seem less distracted now?

He gave me a bit of a smile. A little. Hand still hasn't bothered you?

Nope, still good. Will you calm down now?

How am I not calm? I'm standing here shaving. I can't ask about your hand?

You can ask. I stood behind him while he shaved and wrapped my arms around him, burying my nose in his back to smell him for a little while. I got up on my toes to rest my chin on his shoulder and he wrinkled his nose at me in the mirror.

Don't come crying to me when I accidentally shave off a chunk of your hair, he said. You're hanging all the fuck over me lately.

I shrugged. You've been stressed out.

I'm not stressed out.

Well, you're acting weird.

He unplugged his razor and turned around, resting his fingers on my waist. I'm acting weird because you're acting weird.

I groaned. I'm distracted by a painting!

I know. He kissed me. So what happened to Derek's wrist?

Oh, he sprained it playing Frisbee golf.

He headed to the bedroom and sat on the bed, setting his alarm. Of course he did. Has he gotten it checked out yet? I can get him an appointment with the doctor who fixed my wrist last year. Brian had an issue with carpal tunnel a little while back, from signing too much. He's okay now.

I stayed in the doorway and crossed my arms.

What? he said.

Are you just going to keep rescuing my friends one by one until I have a new crisis for you to fix?

I am not rescuing anyone.

You have an addiction, I said.

That may very well be true, but it's not for saving people.

I came in and sat on the foot of the bed. You don't know what to do with yourself when there's nothing wrong with me so you're boyfriending all my friends.

I'm boyfriending them. He repeated. Emily wishes.

Brian, I said. There is nothing for you to fix. Everything is fine. You can just calm down.

Stop psychonalyzing me. You're not even doing a good job.

I crawled up the bed and into his arms. You have a hero complex.

No I don't. I'm just drawn that way. And whose fault is that? He kissed me.

You get to relax, I said. People dream of a life without problems, you know. This is supposed to be a good thing.

Then help me relax, he signed, his fingers crawling up my sides, so I did.

**

I stayed late at the studio after work the next day to put some serious work in on my thunderstorm painting. I texted Brian telling him not to wait up, but he showed up a little after midnight, sweaty and drunk and hot as all fucking fuck, lurking around my studio in his club clothes. He pressed himself behind me so I could smell his cologne and I forgot how to paint. “Oh Jesus.”

He turned me around and pressed a deep kiss into me, like he was driving it right through my body. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

I just gave someone advice at Nova.

I laughed. You what?

I gave him advice on his investments and how to talk to his boyfriend about his credit card debt.

“Huh.”

You may have been on to something last night.

Yes, I know.

He groaned, probably, and threw himself on one of my stools. So I like to have a project! Is that a crime?

I like that you like taking care of me. It works very well for us since I'm a goddamn mess. But not if you can’t relax when there’s nothing for you to fix.

He nodded to my canvas. This is beautiful so far, by the way.

Thank you.

I feel like something’s going to sneak up on me. I just...I like feeling like I’m on top of things. He got up and nipped at my ear. On top of you.

I forced myself not to melt into him. But I’m okay.

You sure? He played with my hair. Maybe a little bit of a headache or something.

Sorry.

Can I wash your brushes?

Christ, you really do need a project. Go ahead.

He went over to the sink and started working. I watched all the colors rinse over his hands.

“It’s not your job to fix everything. And you need to figure out how to be calm with me when you don’t need to fix me,” I said.

Why does every problem about me have to become a problem about you and me? Can’t I just be a neurotic loser on my own?

I came around and kissed the back of his neck. He shivered. “Okay.”

He turned around and guided his mouth around mine, parting my lips with his teeth, cradling my jaw.

“I don’t want you around because you fix me,” I whispered.

He said something that looked a lot like “Why else?”

But he hadn't said it for me to hear. He didn't want words back. So I took his hand and put it over my heart and we just stood here for a while, his forehead bowed against the top of my head. He understood.

Christ, he said eventually. Look what you've done to me.

“I know.”

What the fuck, he said. Who gave you fucking permission to make me feel this shit? What was the fucking precedent?

I shook my head.

There is... He kissed me, fiercely. There was no fucking reason for you to think I would let you do this to me.

It’s my job, I said, and he closed his eyes and said “Justin,” and I loved the way it looked on his mouth, and his face looked like I hurt him and he hugged me so tightly.

**

The next night, I lay on his lap watching Survivor and texting Daphne about her boyfriend while he rested the file he was leafing through on my head.

I tugged on his sleeve. Daphne had a fight with Rafi.

Oh yeah? he said, barely paying attention.

Yeah, she sounds upset. I bet she could use someone to get drunk with her and tell her what to do.

He studied me for a beat, then sighed and slid me off his lap. My work is never done.

Poor, long suffering Brian.

He grinned at me on the way out the door, and I turned up the TV loud enough to feel it through the floor and chuckled to myself.