SOLO NUMBER EIGHT
═════ How it Feels ═════
He woke up in the middle of the night with his heart in his throat, hammering hard enough to leave him dizzy, swallowing down a sound before it was overheard. Curled down into the puddle of blankets on the floor, for a moment he stared into the darkness and was unsure exactly where he was, what this room was. Not a new feeling: Ever'd been living in that apartment, the smell of pizza and marinara wafting up from the restaurant downstairs, for months. He should have been used to it by now, shouldn't have been able to forget.
By nature, though, he was something of a transient creature. For years, he had bounced from one home to another, had filled the gaps on park benches or curled up around his bag in the warmest corners of the subway. He claimed that being alone was his own decision, that he
chose not to stay with one lover, one boyfriend, one patsy, for more than a couple weeks at a time -- and to a degree, that was true. They always ended in flames because he wasn't equipped to be a proper boyfriend, yes, but also because he refused to put the effort in. His relationships came easy, and went easy, and it meant that he never had to be honest with anyone.
Not even with himself.
The Negaverse, though, was certainly not his usually sort of relationship. Where most people wished they could be absorbed into something that accepted them and rewarded them, that was a dream Ever'd give up on the moment he'd discovered what he was. He'd never be able to throw himself in with abandon, the way other people did, because some piece of himself was always put in reserve.
Perhaps that was why he was having nightmares about his promotion. It wasn't just the wash of pain that overwhelmed him and left him gasping in memory, but it was also the kernel of a feeling that had swallowed him whole near the end.
For a blissful moment, he'd felt at home. He'd felt, potentially, loved, even if it was love that stemmed from chaos. He'd been a smoothly rotating gear, instead of sticking and grinding things to a halt. And, perhaps most of all, he'd
liked it.
Three in the morning and he sat sucking in deep breaths, smoothing fingers up through his hair. He should probably have been thinking about Zac, and on some level he was -- the young man went hand in hand with his new position in the world. He couldn't leave one without the other, or without fallout. It was terrifying, but in some way, it also stole his breath.
He wanted that feeling again.
He didn't know what to do.
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