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Hitch hadn’t done much since he’d come home.

Partly, it was doctor’s orders. He’d lost a lot of blood, and his eye was ******** beyond repair before he’d even set foot in the center. After a couple of days in the hospital, he’d been sent home with strict orders to stay medicated and stay in bed.

Partly, he just… didn’t really have much of a desire to do anything. He got up if he needed to take a piss or something, but aside from that, he mostly just laid there curled up on his side. It was harder to tell if he was awake or not considering half his face was swathed in bandages, but the honest truth was he wasn’t really doing much sleeping. Or eating. Even his answers had been short and to the point.

He wasn’t trying to be cruel to Rhys or anything. Really, he wasn’t. But he’d said it before, “Don’t wanna talk ‘bout it, “ even if it was all they probably both thought about. Sometimes there were attempts, strained smiles and stilted small talk that seemed to illicit physical pain for the effort.

It felt like drowning. Everything outside of Rhys had gone so ******** wrong, and that persistent, dark voice in his head was louder than ever, reminding him that he was screwing that up, too. Rhys was going to get sick of dealing with him, and he -should-.

Once, when he’d gotten up, he’d stared at one of the framed photos of his mother for a long time. It was laying flat now against the shelf, face down.

This was what it was until one night. Hitch was laying there, much like he’d been every night, when he heard footsteps - slow, steady, deliberate - which he would have just chalked up to his husband, but -

Wasn’t Rhys downstairs?

“Babe?”

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They hadn’t talked about it.

They hadn’t talked about Hitch pulling his hand free of Rhys’ at the hospital, or about the doctor, or about the fact that the doctor had treated his mother, or about the fact that his mother was likely the youma they had seen at the end of the hallway, watching with glazed, dead eyes.

They had talked about none of it, because Hitch hadn’t wanted to talk, and that left Rhys alone.

Rhys had stopped asking questions. He was not a cook, and therefore, had ordered food the last several days because he hadn’t been sure of what else to do in the meantime, because usually it was his husband that cooked, and enjoyed it, whereas Rhys just let him do what made him happy. Rhys could boil water, but even that seemed pointless, so instead he ordered, and they ate in silence.

It felt oppressive. It felt thick and cloying and terrible and he wanted to talk about it.

Hitch did not, so they did nothing.

He was downstairs now, curled up on the couch. The television was on, but he wasn’t really watching it, Rhys wearing several layers of gray and black shirts with sleeves that came down over his fingers and a pair of black sweatpants. A pillow was clutched to his stomach, arms wrapped around it, and he was looking, but not seeing.

There was the creak of a staircase, the faint sound of Hitch’s voice, calling for him. Rhys tried not to sigh.

“What is it?” he mumbled.

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Downstairs. Like he’d thought.

Hitch lifted his head and at first said nothing. He was listening, carefully; it had been a rough few days, and honestly it wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility that he’d imagined it. Or maybe it was even one of those creaks that came with a new home, sounds he was unfamiliar with (even if their home was less new now and he really should be comfortable with them by this point - although some part of him, one of the playful shreds left in the wake of the carnage, mused that maybe it was part of the territory when a guy went half-blind).

A creak.

Hitch sat up completely, swinging his legs tentatively over the side of the bed. He listened carefully, staring straight off ahead. He rose slowly to his feet, a little unsteadily, and again, listened.

For what felt like an eternity, nothing. And he almost wanted to laugh at himself, because yeah, he’d been losing it a little. It just figured he’d start psyching himself the ******** out. He was about ready to give it up and get back into bed when he heard the sound of a door in the darkness of his left side of vision, and when he whirled to see, even if there was nothing there, he could have ******** sworn -

More steps.

More creaks.

Hitch’s chest got tight, and immediately, he turned and half-ran from the room. He slammed the door behind him and half stumbled down the stairs, catching himself on the railing at the bottom to steady himself until he saw Rhys, finally, and -

“I think someone’s in the house, “ he spat out, panicked and more frantic than he should have been about it. Then, quickly, he corrected, “No, not think, I ********’ know it, I HEARD ‘em Rhys, someone’s in here, someone’s ********’ in the house - !”



He could hear footsteps on the stairs, which were carpeted, but had wood paneling underneath that creaked a little whenever anyone put their weight on the third or fourth step. Rhys was used to it by now; used to the familiar sounds of his husband wandering around, or waking up and ambling downstairs to make breakfast before Rhys inevitably slumped into the room, sleepy eyed and tousle haired.

That hadn’t happened since the night at the hospital. Since Hitch had all but lost his eye.

Rhys’s arms tugged the pillow closer to him, pushing aside the feelings of unease, the anxiety always there, ever present in his mind. His bottles of medication were in the kitchen drawer; he should probably take his daily dose, but he hadn’t yet worked up the energy to make it off the couch.

The footsteps increased. Rhys glanced over at the staircase, feeling slightly irritated and a little hurt that Hitch had not answered him, even though he’d been the one to call down first.

“Logan?”

Something creaked. Footsteps shuffled. Rhys tightened his hold on the pillow, frowning, but a thundering of footsteps came crashing down the stairs for real this time, and there was Hitch, wild eyed and panic stricken, his expression one of bright fear.

Rhys slowly sat up, feeling jetlagged and exhausted.

“What?” he said, sluggish brain slow to put the pieces together. “What do you mean? There’s no one in the house but us.”




Hitch made a low sound in his throat, sounding mostly frustrated but maybe a little bit something else: fear. It wasn’t a common hat for him to wear. He was the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve (or hide them poorly), but he was more the type to face things head on than get freaked out (bar all the ******** times he’d almost died) - he’d sooner punch a ghost than run from it, which worked well when he had Rhys to take care of.

Except now he actually had something to be afraid of.

“There IS, “ he insisted, an unfamiliar keen of a frantic edge in his voice. “I’m not ********’ crazy! I heard someone ********’ up there, I - I’ve been standin’ up there listening, Rhys, ********, I - don’t you hear it?”

His one good eye was frantic and a little wild. He didn’t know whether he wanted Rhys to say he was right or not. “I ain’t been walkin’ up there. Not until just now. Didn’t you hear it?”



There was something on Hitch’s face that made Rhys feel uneasy. Hitch was an emotional rollercoaster of a man, but he was also a fortress; a rock for Rhys to hold onto in the storm of life. He was so used to Hitch being the solid one that seeing him in a frenzy of - was that fear? - was unnerving in a way that Rhys couldn’t quite explain.

He got to his feet, wavering a little unsteadily. “I...heard footsteps too,” he said slowly. “But I...I thought they were you. Moving around.”

But - come to think of it - he’d heard the footsteps before Hitch had come down the stairs. Hitch had come pelting down at full tilt in a clatter of noise and sound, but the footsteps before had been quieter, more subdued...as though whoever it was had been cautious about their movements.

Something chilled down the back of Rhys’ spine. He moved closer to Hitch, arms around his waist, hugging himself as though this might protect him from the uncertainty now roiling in his gut.

“Y...yes I h-heard something,” he said, fear biting at his throat. “But - b-but we’ve been home all day, who….”

He trailed off, his heart beginning to pound.




Hitch took a step closer to his husband too - and then back again, tilting his head just enough to let his hair fall over his face, not exactly obscuring the white of the bandages but doing something to take away from the starkness of them. It wasn’t really so different from what he’d done when the half-youma general had clawed his face, it was just more… it was worse than that. A lot worse. But a lot of the insecurities that went with it were in the same vein.

Then there was another crack and he stepped closer again, his hand drumming lightly on his own thigh because he didn’t know what else to do, and his shoulders were painfully stiff, that wild look not at all gone from his eyes.

“What if she found me?” The words spilled out before he could stop them.



His hand twitched, almost reaching for Hitch’s.

Almost. But something inside of him still ached, still hurt, in spite of the strong and nearly overwhelming desire to pull Hitch into his arms and hold him. He didn’t want to feel this way; it felt wrong and ungrateful, because Hitch had saved his life more than once and in so many ways - and he had just found out that his mother was still alive and youmafied. It was enough to make anyone lose it.

Rhys took a breath, and then his head jerked up sharply as the floorboards creaked. There was another faint shuffling of footsteps, and Rhys’s heart began to pound, his pulse quickening.

There should not have been anyone there. There should not.

The question was low and raw sounding even to Rhys’s ears. He turned and looked at his husband, watched the dark hair over his bad eye, thick and tangled, and felt a terrible sense of helplessness. Reaching out a hand, pushing past the feeling in his chest, Rhys slid his fingers lightly against Hitch’s.

“It’s not,” he said, and swallowed down the fear. “Logan, it’s not. It can’t be.”




His gaze had snapped to the stairs when he thought he heard another sound - it was unfortunate timing. When Rhys’ fingers touched his, Hitch couldn’t see who was doing it.

His first reaction was to recoil with a sharp gasp, jerking his neck just right so he could see - oh. Immediately regret flooded his features, and the bright red of a mortified flush visibly splashed over his cheeks. “Sorry, “ he breathed out, reaching for his hand again and hoping it wasn’t Rhys who pulled away that time.

But - “How do you know that?” There was a tension in his voice, a kind of - “She saw me. She said my name, she - she knows I left her there - “

There was really no way to know that. It didn’t mean he hadn’t been thinking it. Even when he was silent, he was thinking, always ******** thinking. He’d stared at that window, expecting one night to see her glaring back with those hollow eyes and - “What the ******** else could it be?! I knew she’d ********’ find me, I ********’ KNEW - “

He sounded angry, but he wasn’t. He was ******** petrified.



Something inside of Rhys froze.

A flush burst over his cheeks, unwanted, unable to stop it, flooding his face with color. He stared at Hitch with a startled expression that blossomed into hurt a second later, Rhys’s lips parting in shock, his heart hammering against his chest.

He could not stop the feeling in his chest. His eyes blinked rapidly, trying to stop the stinging before it started, trying to keep his head above water, but the drowning feeling was rising, and the old anxieties - the reminders that he was not good enough, never good enough was pushing up, spreading into his chest, exploding outwards.

He didn’t want it. He didn’t want to feel that way.

Rhys did not pull away from the touch against his fingers, but he didn’t grip back, fingers slack and trembling slightly.

The anger was painful. It caught at his throat. Burned his heart.

Never enough, not nearly enough.

“I - I d-don’t know,” said Rhys, a little hoarsely, his throat dry. “I d-don’t know. It - it m-might be h-her, it m-might, b-but...I don’t - don’t think she would - she w-would know where we - where we l-live, how c-could she.”

He tried to breathe. Tried to focus.

“W...we can l-look,” he said. “Upstairs. We can l-look.”

There was no basement in the little townhouse; up was all there was.




Hitch wasn’t stupid. He was ******** up, mixed up, screwed up, yeah, all of the above. But he wasn’t an idiot, and… it wasn’t like being a mess had made him love Rhys any less, even if he was more convinced than ever that he just didn’t deserve him at all.

Hearing him stutter like that was a keen reminder of why; cringing, he tightened his grip on his husband’s hand, trying not to look at Rhys’ face stained red and wishing he couldn’t feel his fingers trembling. You did that, you ********> It didn’t do anything to help the fear; if anything, his chest felt tighter, the feeling of claustrophobia more acute than ever. Nothing really changed, he couldn’t just switch it off, and here he was hurting Rhys with it.

“I’m sorry I - “ He didn’t really finish the thought, looking down and biting hard at the inside of his cheek. “I couldn’t - I - “ He felt like a kid stumbling for an excuse, inarticulate and clumsy. It didn’t feel like enough to say, “Couldn’t see you…” Like it was some hollow thing that didn’t mean anything because he really should know what his husband’s touch felt like.

His face burned hotter still. “She saw my face, I mean - I dunno - nothin’ really protectin’ me from - from her followin’ me, an’ - “ He wondered if Rhys thought he was crazy. But it might be her, and really - “The ******** else could it be? I mean…”

Look; go up there and see. He winced, looking like it was the last thing he wanted to do. Another creak upstairs had him tensing, squeezing hard at Rhys’ hand. Hitch opened his mouth and then shut it again. Even if he knew logically that going up there together was the smartest idea… what the ******** would he do if it really was her?



The stutter was a hateful thing. It reminded Rhys of all the reasons why he would never be the sort of person that other people could talk to normally, because he couldn’t make the stutter go away. His mouth and his brain and his throat all worked in tandem against his heart and his wanting, making the painful vibrations instead, so that the syllables came out staccato and uneven and breakable.

He hated it. Hated what it did to him. Hated that it was an obvious indicator of his feelings, that it became worse when the anxiety was worse, that it curled in his throat, waiting to break free.

His fingers were still limp in Hitch’s grasp, trembling, shaking. He wasn’t sure anymore if it was because he himself was shaking or because Hitch was, his husband’s head tilted downwards, dark hair falling over his face again, shielding it from view.

Why was this so hard?

It should not have been and yet it was. It ached.

I couldn’t see you.

The upstairs floorboards creaked again. Rhys’s fingers jerked instinctively, not out of Hitch’s grasp, but a startled twitch, his gaze flicking upwards, his heartbeat pounding against his chest as Hitch’s fingers curled more securely around his; a gesture of fear, rather than comfort, and at last Rhys’s fingers slid alongside his husband’s, interlacing them, though it was still a light grasp, almost tentative.

“W-we’ll figure it out,” he said quietly. “We - we won’t h-hurt her. We’ll just...t-talk. That’s it.”




Selfishly, at least some small part of him found relief in feeling his husband’s fingers slip between his own; he’d been petrified for a minute that he was going to pull away and declare that he was done with all this. With Hitch’s messes, with the baggage, with all of it.

It was a stupid thought. Irrational. But Hitch wasn’t really thinking logically right now. He’d honestly been beyond it as far back as when he’d felt the sickening pop of his eye in his head, and even that now felt like a lifetime ago.

Talk.

“Talk, “ he echoed out loud, strained and punctuated by a little laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “‘Bout what, huh?” Him being nothing like the man she’d wanted him to be? Him not knowing enough to know she wasn’t dead when he left her there? All the s**t she’d gone through all this time while he’d moved on with his life? “The ******** is there to talk about, it’s already - !“

His voice had taken on a fevered pitch for a second, and abruptly, Hitch shut his mouth. He ran his free hand through his hair, his breath shaking, and he chided himself. There was a goddamn reason he didn’t want to talk about it. But if she was here, if there was nowhere to go - “********, “ he spat out, shaking his head.



He wanted to walk away.

No, that was untrue. He did not ever want to walk away from Hitch; from his husband, his lover, his best friend, the man who had saved him from himself and from everything else. He was not ever going to do that, not as long as Hitch wanted him, not as long as Hitch would have him.

But he did want to hide. To bury the churning, unpleasant emotions in his chest and never let them see the light of day, because he felt selfish and angry at himself and frustrated and hurt and afraid and it was like being back at the starting gate all over again.

Remember this is his mother. She was supposed to be dead. She was supposed to be gone. He’s in pain. Remember that. Be patient with him. He’s almost lost an eye.

“I know,” said Rhys, “Logan, I know. But the alternative - the alternative would be to - to attack, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it be to - to do something worse? And if we t-tried talking, if we….if we did anything like that, it could...m-maybe we could, you know. F-figure something out.”

He had no idea. There were more footsteps, and Rhys started towards the stairs, pulling Hitch with him.

“Come on.”




Almost lost an eye.

If he’d heard it out loud, Hitch might’ve laughed. Maybe that was part of his silence, too: Rhys was still optimistic. Hitch didn’t have any of that s**t left to spare. He’d felt what that crystal had done to his face. He’d felt more than blood on his hand as he’d curled up alone in that alley, sobbing into the receiver for help. He’d heard what the doctors said - he’d heard the odds weren’t good for recovery. They’d see how it healed, but he was probably going to end up with a goddamn empty socket in his head, or else jam it with glass. Neither option sounded super attractive to him.

He didn’t want to think about it. Any of it. Talking about it meant he had to think about it, and then he’d -

“Do you know??”

Say stupid s**t like that.

“It’s my fault she’s - she’s gonna attack - she’ll ********’ attack when she realizes I - “ He resisted Rhys’ tug, tugging back to try and get him to look at him. “There’s nothin’ to figure out, ********, I - I left her there, Rhys, I left her with those people, an’ now even if she does ********’ know me - I can’t, Rhys, I can’t do this, I don’t ********’ WANT ANY OF THIS, “ and he didn’t even know if it was her or not. He didn’t, but he was convinced.



His eyes widened.

For a few seconds that felt like an eternity, Rhys started at his husband, his face pale beneath the myriad of freckles, his expression one of stunned disbelief. One of his feet was on the stairs, body half twisted to look back at Hitch, and he was frozen in place, his heart pounding out a terrible, icy beat against his chest.

The footsteps creaked above their heads, but he didn’t move. He simply looked.

And then, quite abruptly,, Rhys jerked his hand away from Hitch’s with startling force, the color rising so rapidly in his cheeks that he went from white and shocked to flushed and angry in a matter of a milisecond, spinning around so that he faced Hitch fully now, arms at his sides.

He did not recall moving, and yet he had.

”NO!” he snapped. ”No, I don’t know. I don’t know at all. I can’t promise anything. I can’t say for certain what’s going to happen. I can’t explain how your mum is still alive, or reassure you that she’s not the one making the noise upstairs, or that everything will be fine, because I don’t know. I don’t know how to fix this, or you, or her, or anything. I can’t make you promises that I can’t keep, but Logan - “

His fingers were clenched so tightly against his palms that his knuckles were white, nails digging into his skin.

“I know you’re scared,” he said, “I know you don’t know what’s happening, or why it’s happening, but you don’t get to yell at me. You don’t get to take what you’re feeling out on me, because that’s not - “

Something in Rhys’s voice cracked, his eyes blinking rapidly, trying to dispel some of the stinging at the corners.

“- that’s not fair to me, or you. That’s not fair to us.”

He swallowed hard. It hurt.

“You didn’t ask for this, but neither did I.”




Hitch knew he’d ******** up. But he didn’t know how bad it was until Rhys whirled on him like that - and his eye grew wide, almost disbelieving. He was acutely aware of the fact, even if it’d never occurred to him before, that this was the first time in a long time that his husband had yelled at him - and never like this, out of fear or emotion, but this -

He’d pushed too far.

“I… “

For a second, he didn’t know what to say. His mouth gaped, open and then closed and then shut again.

“I’m sorry.”

In the end, that’s what he had, his voice frayed at the edges. “You’re - you’re right, I’m - I’m sorry, babe, I’m - “ His gaze had dropped to the floor. “Everythin’s just been so - so ********, I can’t - nothin’ I do is - ********, you deserve so much better than this, I - “

He winced, then. Because even if he felt it, it didn’t give him the right to say it; that didn’t fix a single goddamn thing. “I didn’t mean - ******** - I mean - I’m just, I’m sorry, I’ll - “ He reached out tentatively. “I’m sorry.”



If there was one thing that Rhys Hitchcock did not do often - if at all - it was yell.

A naturally quiet and shy person by nature, the last time Rhys could remember yelling - really yelling at Hitch was back when they’d first slept together, back when Hitch had tried to say that it was all a mistake. He’d been angry and hurt and embarrassed; and even then, it had not been like this. It had not been a flurry of emotions and frustrations and bewildered, unhappy hurt.

They had not been married then. They had not been through anything like they had been through now.

The edges of Rhys’s eyes were blurring slightly; he had to blink again to try and clear the angry tears out of them, lifting a hand to wipe at his face in frustration, the sleeves trailing across his face. He could still feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, unpleasantly fast, and his leg was beginning to ache.

He pulled the hem of his sleeves over his fingers out of habit and said roughly, voice still cracked, “Stop. Don’t. I don’t believe that, and you know it. I deserve you, and I’ll have you.”

Rhys’s face was still flushed, but after a moment, he allowed himself to reach out a sleeve covered hand and brush it against Hitch’s, turning a little.

“We’re in this together,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to be afraid alone.”




Hitch kept his gaze cast downward, although he did take Rhys’ hand again, holding it tight in his own as he shut his eye and took a long, slow breath.

He didn’t want to argue with Rhys. He didn’t - everything else had just been going so bad, just like he’d expected - “I knew the other goddamn shoe was gonna drop, “ and he sniffed hard, embarrassed that he was getting emotional about it. “It always ********’ does, I just didn’t … this ********’ sucks, “ and he kind of laughed, because it was just about the worst word choice he could’ve had for something like this. “It’s worse than anything my head came up with, an’ - I’m sorry,” he sniffed hard again, squeezing those familiar fingers tight in his own and shaking his head.

“This ain’t the time. We still gotta…” There was another creak; youma or robber, not like they could sit here ignoring it forever. Even if he wanted to. He just wanted to curl up under that blanket on the couch and stay there until he ******** rotted.



His own fingers were shaking slightly. Rhys tried to ignore the sense of unease, of discomfort that always stemmed from fighting with Hitch, because it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel as though he was on the right ground, trying to find his footing again.

He wanted to step closer. He wanted to pull away.

He wanted this all to be over.

But it wasn’t over. It was just starting.

Rhys adjusted their grip so that his fingers were interlaced with Hitch’s, sliding together. “It’s a bunch of bloody bullshit,” he said thickly. “But you have me, Logan. You know that, right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer; instead, holding Hitch’s hand, Rhys turned and began to step up the stairs towards the second landing, taking the lead for once, rather than letting his husband be the one to protect him from whatever was up there; from whatever they might run into.

That did not make his heart settle, as much as he wanted it to.




The security of that grasp, at least, was grounding. He held tight and fast, like he was half-afraid something would come along and tug Rhys away from him.

“I do, “ of course he did. They’d taken wedding vows for a reason, and he hadn’t forgotten. “I just… It ain’t like I forget, I just - “ They were already walking, and Hitch didn’t protest this time. He let it happen, let the explanation drop without forcing it.

Hitch had been trying to express it, on and off. The sensation of drowning, the heaviness that came with it. That lately it’d been worse and worse.

In moments like this, though, with his husband forging ahead, pulling the slack where it should have been Hitch doing it, he kind of wondered if Rhys already knew.

The craziest thing was getting up there, finally, and seeing… nothing. Not by the stairs. Not down the hall. Not in the bedroom. “The ********?” he murmured, still clutching that hand like a lifeline. But there was just … seemingly nothing?



Hitch received a small squeeze of his hand in answer to his petered off attempts at reassurance. Rhys was still not quite as settled as he had been, but at the very least, he knew Hitch. Knew how hard this was for him, knew that expressing himself in words was not always an easy thing to do.

And he knew as well the feeling of being suffocated under the weight of all of his anxieties, all of his fears, all of his painful and constricting breaths.

There wasn’t anything upstairs. The second floor of the townhouse consisted only of their master bedroom (not exactly grand, but still larger than Hitch’s tiny cramped living room), the second, smaller guest bedroom (approximately the size and shape of a closet), a bathroom, an actual linen closet, and then the attached bathroom off of the master bedroom.

They were all empty. Nothing was there except for the two of them.

“Could it be....” Rhys trailed off, because he had no explanation, no real understanding of what had just occurred. The sound of footsteps had been prominent and obvious; they both had heard it. They both knew what it was that they were hearing.

Rhys turned his head to look at his husband, lips pressing together in anxiousness.

“Any ideas?”




Hitch’s lips were pressed together too, in a fine line that he tried to coax into a smile. It didn’t really work, but it was still at least a half-baked effort to try and reassure his husband, somehow. “I lost it an’ dragged you with me?” he suggested with a kind of strangled half-laugh, only really half-kidding. They’d been through kind of a lot and all.

Some of the tension was ebbing from his shoulders, at least… it didn’t really make him feel -better- to know nothing was there. But he wasn’t the only one that’d heard it. Like Rhys had said, he wasn’t alone in this.

He sighed, heavily, moving to scratch at his nose with his free hand before idly dragging his fingertips over the bandages on his face. Then he kind of fidgeted. “Negaverse can teleport, “ and he sounded hesitant to acknowledge that - and didn’t really beyond that statement, instead swallowing hard. “Maybe it’s a sign. I dunno. Like. Maybe.”

He fidgeted again. “Maybe we oughta talk about it?”



Rhys gave Hitch a pointed look, but didn’t press the matter, only gave his husband’s hand a small squeeze of encouragement. After a moment, he said quietly, “Neither of us are mad. We both heard what was happening. Maybe it’s just...an old house. Maybe it’s someone playing a trick on us.”

Maybe we really are losing it.

No. He wasn’t going to go there. He wasn’t going to think that.

“A sign about what?” Rhys asked, and then, a little warily,

“Talk about...what, exactly?”

He knew, mostly, but Hitch had been dead silent ever since they had come back from the hospital. If there was anything that Rhys wanted at the moment - besides having his husband back - it was talking, but he wasn’t even sure now that he wanted to, a pulse of fear threading through him.

What if I’m too much for him?

What if it’s too much to handle?

He pushed the thoughts away and said instead, quietly, “Let’s go back downstairs. Unless you want to stay up here in our room.”




Hitch didn’t quite look at him; he felt a little ashamed, and a lot stupid. “That night. Everythin’. I…” He looked like he wanted to say more, his lips parted; then he shut them again, shaking his head. “Downstairs. We can put on the TV or music or somethin’ maybe?”

If there were any more tricks in this house, maybe it’d drown them out... not to mention he didn’t really want lulls in their conversation being weighed down by oppressive silences on top of everything else.

“I don’t even know where to start, “ he admitted honestly. “An’ I don’t really know what to do now, so that’s why…” He wanted to give some explanation for the silence, if only so Rhys knew it was on Hitch, not his husband, that he was struggling.

This was all his fault, after all; nobody else’s. When Rhys heard it all, maybe he really would be done with it. Maybe he’d leave and never come back.

On some level, Hitch knew he was being ridiculous… Rhys had stuck with him through a lot. But this was ******** even for him, and on top of that, any optimism had shriveled up and died long before he’d ever seen that youma mouth his name. There was just nothing left to give.

frayedflower