Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

It's a comfort that cuts, watching the shower water collect and disperse rapidly in thin streams over your curled body. You never sat in the shower before Mount Massive, before the filth of what went on there sunk beneath the surface of your skin like a deep bruise you keep bumping, bursting newly with every paranoid half-attempt you make at continuing your existence.

Showers used to be necessary tasks, cleaning your body like cleaning a counter-top, like mopping a floor; now you feel like a counter-top, a floor, inanimate and unable to know how to perform this maintenance yourself.

You've forgotten basic functions, how to do them the right way and not some roundabout sit in the shower until the water runs cold to make yourself clean, sort of way.

Life is a language you used to be fluent in but only recall vaguely now, fractured—on the tip of your tongue like glass shards lodged precariously.

(At this point you just want to spit this lingering, broken code out in a bloodied mess and be rid of it.)

Other functions are easier to remember:

like

>Start MorphogenICEngine/RootSystem/MorphogenicEngineV5.exe

and

>Start Walrider.exe

Mount Massive's air ducts were cramped, but you hurled your body through them nonetheless, fit yourself impossibly into frail metal lockers that always closed with the too-loud clang of a child banging on pots and pans.

Your body is contorted smaller than that now, safe in your apartment's shower, forehead against knees, arms wound tight around legs. Blunt human fingernails digging in, drawing blood, spreading your scarred skin red with irritation where it isn't already flaring from the heat of the water.

Your apartment has neighbors on three sides—left, right, behind. Every time you walk out the front door it's like breaking the fourth wall: a mistake, an act of bold comedy.

You're already in the car and on the way to see your therapist when you realize you didn't wash your hair. You can't remember the last time you remembered to wash it.

It's okay. You don't need clean hair where you're going.

Because what is this particular brand of therapy for, if not for revisiting Mount Massive three days a week?

(And nothing was clean inside Mount Massive.)

(Not even its memory is clean. There's a residue.)

Except, there is no Mount Massive anymore, not physically—they burned it down after months of confiscating the remains of what went on there. It took the authorities a handful of hours to extract all surviving staff and patients from the building after the Walrider fled the grounds.

It's unfair. Ridding yourself of the memories is not as easy as demolishing a building, quick and done and hauled away in smoldering pieces. Except—it is that easy, and the same reasons that led to the state's decision to destroy Mount Massive's building urge you to claw the memories free of yourself, burn them, destroy them, rip them from your protective skull.

And that's the problem, isn't it? Ridding yourself of the memories, the pain they instill to this day—it shouldn't be as easy as demolishing a building. But it is that easy. It would be. It can be.

Easier, even.

You are only skin and bones, various fluid and organic material easily demolished, after all.

But you shouldn't want that.

And that's not the only way to proceed.

Some part of you remembers your old code, remembers how you used to function before you blew a whistle and survived a nightmare.

The code's been rewritten. You're a different creature now, different instincts, perspective.

But you remember the old code, the old truth. Destroying yourself isn't the only way to get rid of pain.

That was something you thought was true about human beings, once. That there are other ways to cure pain than death.

(It doesn't feel true anymore.)

It's something Lisa wore herself threadbare telling you, up late nights, reassuring until her throat was just as hoarse as yours. Until reassurance became a defensive wall of I tried my best, this isn't on me.

Night after night. Until she couldn't take it anymore.

(Until she filed for divorce.)

It's better for the children this way. Your sons...

They.

Aren't really yours anymore.

The body you dragged home from Mount Massive wasn't really their dad anymore.

The world is calling it the Mount Massive Asylum Slaughter. It lasted only a handful of hours.

A handful of hours.

Piles of human bodies dead and stinking of raw meat—testament to the injustice and inhumane experimentation Murkoff put the patients through.

So many people lost their lives.

You only lost (your marriage) yourself.

That makes you lucky.

This is what surviving meant.

You hadn't known that, not fully, not at the time, not slipping on spilled organs on dirty floors while running through dark halls, the whir of a hand-saw gaining, the threat of violation purred like a promise.

If you had known this kind of loss came after (divorce, separation, alone, alone, alone), you might have...

Given up.

Let that place take you.

Let Lisa and the children mourn the man they once knew.

Let them keep their good memories of you, keep your image held tight like hands clamped over a mouth to quiet heavy breath.

Instead you made it out alive only to let your children creep curious and scared into the doorway while their father was an inconsolable mess of hyperventilation and tears and too many regrets.

Instead you let them feel you flinch when they tugged on your sleeve, tried to curl in your lap.

Instead you let them see you push Lisa away when she surprised you with a touch.

Instead you let them see you stumble a retreat as Lisa backs you into a corner, her brows knitted with concern and confusion and determination to wrap you into a hug that she doesn't understand suffocates you now.

You wonder...

Too often, you wonder if there's a way you could have survived Mount Massive differently.

Survived in a way that didn't leave you with so much regret, so much metaphorical blood spilling over your fingers.

You feel so much fault. So much shame.

(Start Morphogenic Engine.)

(Stop Morphogenic Engine.)

So many innocent patients you watched die—so many people butchered and mutilated while you hoisted your trembling body into air vents and threw yourself into lockers and under tables, clinging to your own life and not sparing one moment for anyone else's life.

Not one, single moment.

(You told yourself it was for the greater good—someone had to escape, ensure the truth was exposed.)

(You told yourself there was nothing you could do to save the patients that you hadn't already done by sending an email.)

(An email—ha.)

You got what you wanted. You're alive.

(So many of Mount Massive's patients are dead.)

You no longer believe it was the right choice to put your safety above their safety. Why hadn't you pulled the docile ones along with you? Tried to reason with the ones who would talk, hostile or not?

(They were victims of Murkoff same as you.)

Even before the riot, the slaughter, you were surviving your Murkoff employment. What you witnessed during your time on staff as software engineer had been enough to keep you up at night. The beginnings of the same shame and guilt that weigh so heavily now were beading even then, the soft press of Murkoff's blade on delicate flesh—drawing blood, digging wounds.

Three years later, you are still haunted by the combined effort of your time as a Murkoff software engineer and your time as a man running for his life.

Three years and one divorce later.

Some things are too big to cover up.

Your scars.

The damage.

Murkoff's crimes.

The world knows. Murkoff is destroyed. Drained of its last cent.

The surviving patients of Mount Massive are contained in a facility specializing in their recovery from the Morphogenic Engine.

Receiving help.

(Help you didn't give them.)

Recovering.

Living their days comfortably under a staff that cares.

Being released back into the public, slowly, when they're ready.

One by one.

And you still feel like you're scrambling for your life.

Every single day.

Chapter Text

It's okay to tell your therapist certain things.

Like how standing at a street corner sends intrusive thoughts through your body like a swarm of insects closing in. How your limbs itch with impulse to step forward into the street too early when a bus is coming.

You can see it happening. One step forward. Impact. Pavement scraping. A flash of numbing pain, tires over limbs as if you are the thing that is made of rubber. And then nothing.

You don't want to think this. You don't want to. You really don't want to.

The knives in the kitchen. Pain medication. Household cleaner. Electrical cord. Bathwater. Plastic bags.

You can't walk across a bridge without thinking something you don't want to think. A leg over the railing, the drop, the water like concrete.

You picture it. Over and over.

You live it inside your head.

Not all the time.

Sometimes.

Any time is too much.

And no one knows. No one knows because all they see is your blank expression, perhaps distracted. All they notice is how many times they have to say your name before you look up at them, confused and barely listening. Perhaps at best they'll think you're rude.

And that is scarier than the suicidal ideation that bombards you. The fact that no one knows. That they could never know, unless you tell them.

And if you tell them.

If you tell them enough.

Then.

They start to think you didn't really feel it. Didn't really mean it.

Because.

You only have one life.

One chance to prove that you do really feel like dying.

And.

Every time you don't follow through on the grief, the impulse to end your life, it seems like proof to them that you must not have really meant it.

You don't know how to tell them that you're sorry. That you don't want to feel this way. That you're afraid if you feel this way alone, it will consume you. That you'll follow through on something you can't ever take back.

You told Lisa about the suicidal ideation.

Concern faded to annoyance, eventually.

She became accustomed to the danger you claimed to be in. Until. It didn't seem like danger anymore, not to her. It became an obstacle holding you back—an obstacle you were letting hold you back. Because obviously you didn't really want to kill yourself—otherwise you would just do it.

(She didn't understand—she didn't understand that you would have done it, if you hadn't turned to her for help instead. She doesn't understand that you were saving yourself, by confessing the urge, by grounding it in reality and taking away its power.)

You shouldn't have told her.

But. Keeping it to yourself. That was more dangerous than anything.

So.

You tell your therapist now.

If you didn't have anyone to tell, you're sure your dysfunctional brain would manage to absorb you into the world it creates, convince you that there is nothing outside of your fading will to continue living. No world. No people. Nothing. Just the drop. The rushing water below the bridge.

It's bad.

It's really bad.

You didn't always think this way. On some level you know how absurd it all is, but it does nothing to stop the intrusion of harmful thought. It started in Mount Massive, when you wondered if letting that place take you might be the best option. And it's still with you, now. Stained into your skin.

The only place you can hope to get any real help is MMSS—the Mount Massive Survivors' Sanctuary. A government-funded facility that opened up as a means to house and rehabilitate the victims of the cruelties that went on at Mount Massive Asylum as well as other sites uncovered to have been unknowingly influenced by Murkoff's experimentation.

A specialized facility for surviving patients is something you fought for as part of the initial legal trial against Murkoff. Shipping surviving patients to mental health facilities all over the country wasn't going to have good results for the survivors, not when the Morphogenic Engine's effects were unknown and unstudied long-term.

It's a miracle a specialized facility like MMSS was opened at all—it helped that many mental health professionals were interested in an opportunity to study an event as infamous as the Mount Massive Asylum Slaughter. They were invested in being the first to research the bizarre effects the Morphogenic Engine had on the human psyche.

Founding MMSS is partially a publicity stunt on the state's part—after the footage you took that night went viral, the state needed to do something to make up for their neglect—for turning a blind eye on Murkoff for all of those years.

The staff at the Survivors' Sanctuary are aptly qualified, working day in and day out to undo the effects of the Morphogenic Engine.

Which is why you choose to attend MMSS for therapy, despite knowing that housed within the high security buildings are many of the patients that terrorized you during the riot.

The Cook.

The …

Well. The others. There were so many faces and voices that urged you faster through those dark, grimy halls.

(And you never felt safe during the riot, not even around the patients that lingered docile and babbling in corners, finger-painting with unknown fluids on crumbling walls.)

The doctors at the Survivors' Sanctuary are allowed access to restricted evidence gathered at Mount Massive; psychiatric reports and documents relating to the Morphogenic Engine. They are doing their best to reverse the effects the Morphogenic Engine had on so many of the patients at Mount Massive.

(The effects it had on you.)

“You keep calling it a hero complex, but in my opinion these fantasies definitely fit well within the natural stages of grief,” Dr. Everett, your psychologist, says on Friday, which is the worst day for you, because after this you have to spend the weekend alone, with two days until your next appointment.

Samantha Everett has master's degree in psychology, a doctorate of psychiatry. She is such an expert in the mental health field that when someone was needed to head the rehabilitation program surrounding the events of Mount Massive and Murkoff's Morphogenic Engine, she relocated from an esteemed research position at a major university to the remote mountains of Colorado.

(When you finally stopped talking yourself out of it and took the plunge into getting professional help, Dr. Everett was waiting.)

Dr. Everett is simultaneously patient and serious. The pale pink frames of her glasses contrast elegantly with her dark skin. She often spins her plain, rose-gold wedding band absently as she listens to you. Her wife is pregnant with their first child—you've met her wife a few times, waiting outside her office at the end of the work day. They both work in different parts of the facility.

They're a cute couple.

Maybe knowing a bit about Dr. Everett's personal life is why it feels like she's the closest thing you have to a friend now.

It's Friday. The worst day.

And the clock on the wall is ticking by too fast. Your appointment is almost over.

You're slumped in the comfortable chair across from Dr. Everett's desk, knuckles worrying your teeth, leg bouncing with the anxiety the clock gives you.

Maybe Lisa had been right. Maybe you should have voluntarily committed yourself to MMSS. The doctors had suggested it—a loss of freedom offered like a life raft.

(Back then, you didn't want to admit you were drowning at sea, even with all that water in your lungs.)

But they couldn't force you. Not even Lisa could force you (she tried—it was the last straw, the last condition before she filed for divorce: commit yourself voluntarily to a mental hospital, any mental hospital—because she couldn't help you and you needed help).

You couldn't do it.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe you need it.

(Deserve it.)

But after what Jeremy Blaire did to you—forcibly committing you as a patient at Mount Massive—the thought of being kept anywhere against your will makes you sick to your stomach.

It's bad enough that you have to enter a building where so many people who still haunt your dreams reside, even if they are kept in different parts of MMSS. You never see them, but you know they're in the building somewhere, receiving the best treatment anyone has to offer.

They deserve to be treated, despite what they have done. You know, god, you know that on some level it's not their fault what they did to you, to each other.

Some of the patients who committed the worst atrocities during the riot had serious criminal records previously—but they had been found not guilty by reason of insanity, had to be, otherwise they never would have been in a facility like Mount Massive in the first place—and so they deserved real treatment, not...

Not the Morphogenic Engine.

Not years of physical, mental, and sexual abuse at the hands of the Murkoff doctors.

You were only forcibly committed into Mount Massive for a handful of hours and in that time you were nearly driven to insanity yourself by the Engine, and not to mention physically and sexually assaulted by one of the so-called doctors who hit you and licked a writhing, wet stripe up the side of your face.

It's not difficult to imagine what abuse the long-term patients went though for years inside Mount Massive.

Even, even... Frank Manera. The Cook.

And.... the...

The Groom, too.

Even though... The Groom was a killer before he ever saw the halls of Mount Massive, he deserved real treatment for the mental illness that a court of law deemed responsible for his past crimes.

(This is the mantra you recite to settle the doubt in the pit of your stomach. Doubt that says maybe these people don't deserve the help you fought for them to have.)

And The Groom is getting treatment at MMSS—and he did survive, somehow, though you had thought he was dead, impaled and hanging from the rafters, falling unconscious as you laughed at his presumed last breaths.

The Groom... Gluskin...

His life before Mount Massive is public knowledge. His crimes notorious. His schizophrenia a subject of study. His childhood traumas a spectacle for news coverage, documentaries, and wikipedia articles alike.

The man had murdered and mutilated two women before he was deemed criminally insane and committed to a mental hospital (and eventually, transferred Mount Massive).

Gluskin himself was a hot topic after Murkoff was exposed—at that point he had been committed for many years, his whole adult life. His progress and recovery were on a well-documented positive track before he was transferred to Mount Massive. And then suddenly the documentation changed, Mount Massive's doctors found him uncooperative, violent, and dishonest. And of course, by the time the riot occurred, the Morphogenic Engine's therapy ultimately instigated Gluskin's slaughter and mutilation of dozens of other patients.

Gluskin's history was an important piece of evidence during the trials against Murkoff, and was ultimately key evidence for convicting Murkoff's more prominent employees of wrongdoing.

Murkoff's defense argued that because Gluskin was a murderer before Mount Massive, Murkoff wasn't responsible for his, or any other patient's actions during the riot.

Luckily no one bought it.

Because despite what Gluskin had done in the vocational block (had done to you), there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Mount Massive had made him worse.

Mount Massive had made one of the country's most gruesome murderers worse.

(It's almost laughable—sometimes you do laugh. Like you laughed at his would-be corpse hanging from the rafters, bleeding down a pole, his blood a steady drip drip drip onto your relieved, smiling face.)

“Waylon?” Dr. Everett's voice is patient but probing. “I hope I didn't trigger you, just give the word and I will drop the subject.”

What had she said before?

The stages of grief.

The fantasies.

You still think the fantasies are the biggest contributor to Lisa finally pulling the plug on the marriage.

You should have never told her about the fantasies.

"And what stage of grief would this be?" you ask, unable to hide the note of skepticism.

"Well, let's go over all the stages again," she says, like there's time for that, like the appointment isn't almost over, like you're not on the verge of being alone with your thoughts again. "The first stage is denial."

Denial.

You never quite understood what that meant until your family's cat died when you were seventeen. The pet's death was not untimely, she had reached an age years beyond a cat's typical lifespan. She had lived a comfortable, healthy life. For weeks after her passing you combed over every aspect of the event mentally, mind wracking to the point of physical discomfort, trying to work out some way in which her death could have been prevented. She essentially died of old age. There was no preventing it.

Still, your entire being told you that there must have been something you could have done to change her fate.

That's denial. That's fucking denial.

Feeling like you can change the impossible, like you should have been able to change the impossible. Like it didn't have to happen.

You don't like where this conversation is going. You don't like how intimately you know denial. How it works. What it feels like.

You know it too well.

You're not sure you've ever stopped feeling denial since you left Mount Massive.

"We've discussed denial, you're familiar with it."

You swallow. "Yes."

She nods. "The second stage of grief is anger."

That means nothing to you. Of course you're angry. Anger makes sense.

"That one is pretty straight forward." She waits until you nod, and then nods too. "Third stage is bargaining."

Dr. Everett has been so patient with you about the bargaining.

You've been stuck deep within the third stage of grief (bargaining, bargaining, bargaining) for well over the entirely of the past three years.

What you're grieving, you don't know.

But your thoughts won't stop trying to make concrete events better, preventable.

The death of a cat at the end of its lifespan. The riot. The escape. The past. The code you entered to start a torture machine. Blood dripping onto your face as you laugh up at a dying man.

These things are concrete. They can't be changed.

(That sickeningly sweet relief of Gluskin's death. The bodies dripping blood and gobbed flesh from the ceiling. Gluskin's blood leaking down the metal rod. Your mouth behind your fingers, bubbling with relief and mirth and thank god thank god you're alive.)

You need these things to be different. Desperately.

You need them to be different than the linearly etched path of memory that leaves you sobbing and sleepless most nights. Most days.

Bargaining.

You want every single thing about the riot to have been different.

It makes the most sense to want it different right from the start—to not have been caught sending that email. To have found a way to quit your software engineer job at Murkoff cleanly, and then expose the truth from the outside, from safety. To have never taken the job at Mount Massive in the first place.

But that's not the sequence of events that haunts you.

It's not getting the job offer, seeing the salary and thinking Murkoff was a saving grace that was going to pay off every last cent of both your and Lisa's student loans.

It's not being too brash and getting caught sending the email exposing Murkoff.

It's not getting yourself thrown into the Morphogenic Engine by Jeremy Blaire.

It's not failing to find a way to quietly quit your job instead of staying to witness the horrors.

It's not the way you ran from the whir of Frank Manera's saw.

None of that.

It's Gluskin.

Eddie Gluskin haunts you.

You don't know why.

It's always been Gluskin.

Eddie Gluskin died, or you thought he had, and you had laughed.

Uncontrollable relief at the justice of it.

(It made you feel so safe, to think his corpse was draining above you.)

Before the riot, a more lucid Eddie Gluskin had slammed his fists against reinforced glass and asked you personally to save him from the horrors of the Morphogenic Engine.

Looked you right in the eyes.

And you had wanted to help him.

But there was nothing you could do.

Instead of helping him, you entered the code that started his torture machine.

You were chased, attacked, mauled, nearly cooked alive, and you only ran, only filmed.

(Clinging to your own life and not sparing one moment for anyone else's life.)

You thought Eddie Gluskin had died and you laughed, glad for the violence dripping red from his chest.

But Eddie Gluskin had lived, rescued with the rest of the hundreds that survived that place.

Now Eddie Gluskin is the feature of even more made-for-TV documentaries of varying quality.

He begged you for help. You started the Engine.

Ha. You had laughed when he had died.

Did it need to happen that way? It doesn't feel good. It feels terrible. It was all terrible.

There's no pride in the running, the hiding, the filming. Filming had been helping, that's what you thought. You didn't try to reason with any of the hysterical patients, not once, not even from the safety of an air duct or a blockaded room.

Frank Manera. Eddie Gluskin. Not a word to either of them. Why?

Why not?

You wish you had tried, because now it's all you think about. What if?

Denial.

Anger.

Bargaining.

What if?

Bargaining. You know there's nothing that you could have done differently. But.

You don't know that, too.

(Maybe there was something. Something you could have done differently.)

(There probably was.)

(Had to be.)

(You never tried anything but running for your life.)

Dr. Everett is saying something about the last two stages of grief.

Depression. Acceptance.

Depression is a given.

Acceptance is something you doubt is possible for you in this situation.

The stages don't feel like steps you're climbing, instead overlapping, collapsing into a muddled aching mass.

You haven't reached acceptance yet. You're not sure what you're supposed to accept.

You accepted the divorce, eventually. Came to terms with it. That's about the only acceptance you've felt in a long time.

So why can't you accept this other grief?

This Eddie Gluskin grief?

Why?

Why not?

"Are you sure it's not just a hero complex?" you ask, small and desperate and barely able to speak through the web of frayed nerves clogging your insides.

You don't want to hear the truth—that you've been stuck for the last three years in an endless swirl of the first four stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression.

Dr. Everett smiles wryly, "Of course it's not. I know you beat yourself up for that, because of the email—but that's not a hero complex, Waylon. That's what any good person would do: try to expose the atrocities they witnessed."

"So—so what?" You know you're bitter, disgruntled, and that's awful, but you are and it shows and you can't help that. "I'm stuck on the first four stages of grief? After three years! Why do they even call it stages if I haven't moved on from a single one of them?"

You're getting worked up, breathing hard, panic building as easily as rain collecting in a gutter. Panic always comes too easily these days. It's about the only thing that does.

But Dr. Everett remains calm, patient. Her smile is still there. "Perhaps stages is a bad descriptor. Oftentimes people find themselves in your position—instead of moving form one stage to another, they carry each stage on their back, having it weigh them down until acceptance finally comes."

Except acceptance hasn't come.

Won't ever come, probably.

You can't imagine accepting any of this.

And why shouldn't you fantasize about changing things? About... escaping Mount Massive differently?

Surviving in a way that doesn't leave this thickly smudged residue of guilt and shame.

Surviving in a way that doesn't end in a man dripping from the ceiling, presumed dead. You laughing at his corpse.

(You entered the code that started the machine Eddie Gluskin was strapped to kicking and screaming the word rape.)

After he begged you personally for help.

And.

You entered the code that started his torture machine.

And.

You laughed at his corpse.

And.

He tried to kill you.

Maim you.

Violate you.

So you shouldn't care.

But.

You entered the code that started the machine that tortured him before any of that.

And...

Fuck.

And...

Dr. Everett must sense your thoughts from your guarded posture—your crossed arms, gaze shoved to the side—because it's like she reads your mind when she says, "It's understandable to fantasize about re-writing such horrendous events. To want them to have worked out differently. It's our job now to come to terms with the fact that these events are concrete and cannot be changed—and that the decisions you did make under those unfortunate circumstances do not reflect on who you are as a person."

But how could it not reflect on who you are, that you knew what kind of torture that the patients of Mount Massive went through—hell, even experienced a taste of it first-hand—and still... still, you...

You laughed at a man bleeding out in the rafters.

(Of course you laughed, Lisa said she would have laughed too after what Eddie Gluskin perpetrated against you. He deserved it. Most people would have laughed. Most people would have felt joy seeing that man dying.)

(Most people wouldn't feel bad for laughing—why do you feel so fucking bad?)

And how could it possibly be okay to fantasize about that particular portion of your time in Mount Massive (the vocational block, the vocational block, always the vocational block) going differently?

How is it a normal part of grief to fantasize about an alternative where you reason with The Groom, spare yourself from his blade, even if it means giving him your flesh?

You had been honest with Lisa about the specific brand of fantasies you have regarding how you could have handled the riot (the vocational block, the vocational block, Eddie Gluskin) differently.

She had called it disgusting.

She couldn't understand it. You don't blame her.

It is disgusting—she was right to be disgusted.

"Survivors of sexual trauma often struggle with blaming themselves—wondering what they could have changed to prevent it," Dr. Everett continues, unsolicited, when you don't reply.

You cringe at the words sexual trauma.

"But the truth is, there was nothing you could have done differently. It was your perpetrators choice to put you in that situation. Whether you consider that perpetrator Murkoff or Gluskin himself, it was out of your hands, Waylon."

She's wrong.

There are things you could have done differently.

And that's the problem.

There is so much you could have done differently—from start to finish, but especially in the vocational block.

Eddie Gluskin's desire to turn men into women, his delusions at the time—they were obviously a result of internalized homophobia twisted and amplified by the Morphogenic Engine. And not to mention the physical and sexual abuse the Mount Massive doctors must have put every patient through over the years.

You had known that. You had known that these patients weren't themselves, no matter what crimes may have landed them in a mental hospital in the first place.

There was a clear difference between the man who begged you for help in the control room and the man who hunted you through the vocational block.

You weren't yourself after the Morphogenic Engine either.

You still aren't.

But it's not the Engine's fault anymore. It's just you.

It's just you, thinking this, over and over.

Thinking about how you could have reasoned with Gluskin.

Convinced him not to maim you.

Left the vocational block as a man who didn't laugh at the assumed death of another human being.

Left without the guilt.

(But this fantasy, this other way—it leaves you guilty too, doesn't it?)

(Why are you doing this to yourself?)

(Lisa had asked you that.)

(You still don't know the answer.)

* * *

Dr. Everett wraps up the appointment with the same grace and kindness she always maintains, and before you know it you're stumbling through the empty, hospital-white halls of MMSS.

Down four floors (despite the slight limp Mount Massive left you with, you forego the elevator and take the stairs), through the security checkpoint, into the lobby—out the front doors of the facility.

Out into the world again.

Alone.

On Friday. The worst day.

Even though it's only just barely approaching evening, everything is washed out in that dull autumn light, like the sun is too lazy to light the sky more than a pale, sickly blue.

Outside, the Survivors' Sanctuary just looks like a couple of secluded brick office buildings, inconspicuous compared to the clinical interior. High, wrought-iron fences surround the ample grounds, and there's a gate and a guard stationed for entry into the parking lot.

The grounds are mostly empty fields, sparse trees. A sidewalk hugs the buildings, disappearing around them. It winds in a circle around the facility, around the squares of chain-link barbed-wired fences that section off areas for the patients to have time outdoors.

A cage within a cage, outside of another cage.

You've never taken the sidewalk around the facility.

It's a long walk around. And if there are patients out in the fenced-in yards, they would surely be able to see you through the chain-link.

And you would be able to see them.

See him.

Maybe.

It's... nice out today. The sun is warm despite the crisp breeze.

Sometimes you see other visitors, families of the patients, take the sidewalk around the grounds. Sometimes to walk off a stressful or worrying visit, sometimes just to let the kids with them run through the empty fields.

At the time you sent the email to expose Murkoff, you hadn't even thought of the patients of Mount Massive as people that had families—you had only thought of them as people that had basic human rights.

When these family members come across you in the parking lot or lobby of MMSS, they always stop to thank you profusely for saving their loved ones.

(You always try to avoid them.)

(The attention is humiliating.)

(Having any eyes on you at all is humiliating.)

There's no one outside today.

You shove your hands in your jacket pockets and turn down the sidewalk this time, instead of going straight to your car.

For the first time.

And it's... nice. The breeze.

The fresh air. The solitude.

The neatly manicured grounds are well-maintained, the grass still bright green even for this time of season.

There are birds chirping and enough space on all sides to beat back that ever-present feeling that something could be following you.

And anyone who could possibly see you walking from the windows of the facility above won't judge you for any frantic glance you toss over your shoulder, just in case.

Because everyone here—the doctors, the patients, the visitors—they know who you are. And they know what you've been through. And they would understand your paranoia.

You're not prepared when the sidewalk approaches the spot where the cold brick wall of the building turns to chain-link.

Voices are the first thing you notice.

There are patients outside in the fenced-in yard.

Your hands tremble inside your pockets. A cold-sweat condenses over your skin.

You could just turn around. Pivot on your heel.

Turn back. Walk back to the parking lot, out of sight of the patients caged inside the fence.

You've already been more adventurous with this short walk than you have been in three years combined.

You can barely bring yourself to do grocery shopping, let alone venture anywhere that isn't your apartment. Your life consists of the short walk to your car, the drive to MMSS, and then back to your car and back to your apartment.

It's more than introversion. It's self-isolation. It's jumping at every person on the street that passes you by. It's paranoia. It's fear.

It's not wanting other eyes to meet your eyes.

It's a strong desire to keep everyone in the whole world from knowing you exist.

You keep walking.

Slow your walk, in fact, to stare through the chain-link, floored by...

By the peaceful way the patients are interacting.

They're pooled in groups around picnic tables, talking and laughing. Some in MMSS patient uniforms, some in normal clothes. On their knees, planting bulbs in gardening plots. Lying in the grass, heads in other patient's laps. Casually draped across benches, reading alone.

It's... normal.

As if they're all just out relaxing at a public park and not surrounded by barbed-wire fencing.

Had you expected something else?

Had you expected shouting and crying and blood coating hands?

Of course... of course that's not how it is.

Not anymore.

Your cheeks blaze in shame, in having known all along that these people were getting better but somehow not fully realizing it until now.

You. You can't remember the last time you laughed like they are, seemed genuinely happy like they do.

You haven't felt anything good in. So long.

How long?

Too long.

You walk faster. Wanting to be away from here. Feeling like an intruder, a blood-stain on the white cloth of these people's happiness.

And that's when you see him.

Eddie Gluskin.

There's no mistaking that scarred face, even from a distance. That slicked-back hair, shaved down to skin on both sides of his head.

He's sitting on a bench under a tree surrounded by flowerbeds.

You stop.

Stare through the chain-link.

There is a fence and barbed wire, several trees and rows of bushes between you and where Gluskin sits in the distance...

But your heart beats wildly like you're back under a long sewing table, forcing yourself breathless as his bulky legs pass by, not noticing you in your hiding spot, voice reverberating off of the walls, gentle, coaxing, purring endearments.

(Darling, darling, darling.)

The most absurd thing about seeing Eddie Gluskin in person for the first time since you left him hanging from the rafters of Mount Massive's gymnasium is not the peaceful scenery, the flowerbeds and the pale sky and the yellowing autumn leaves.

No, the most absurd thing about this are the three other patients surrounding him.

One on each side of Gluskin on the bench—a man with his head shaved completely bald and another man with dark hair. Close in proximity. Like they aren't afraid of Gluskin at all. A tall blond patient standing behind the bench leans forward to loom over Gluskin, look down at him, speak to him.

Gluskin tips his head up just slightly at the blond patient, seems to laugh at something they say, though you are too far away to hear any of it.

Of course he's functioning.

Recovering.

Of course he's not in that manic state that he was in when he chased you through Mount Massive. That was induced by the Morphogenic Engine.

Without that, he's...

Not the same Eddie Gluskin you remember.

The wind is too loud. It rattles the fence. A metallic chime.

Your heart is in your throat, pulsing like it wants you to run for your life.

This is too much.

It's too much because.

Because...

Gluskin looks up, suddenly. Stares straight ahead. Right at you, in the distance.

He... catches you staring at him.

Does he.

Does he know who you are?

What he did to you?

Any of it?

Does he remember?

Does he know that he is happy right now and you aren't—haven't ever been, not since you fled Mount Massive?

Your breath kicks into overdrive, not sustaining you no matter how rapidly or deeply you breathe it in.

And then Gluskin's three companions all look in your direction, too.

Your attention snaps left as the bald man next to Gluskin raises his hand to wave at you. The dark-haired man reaches across Gluskin to smack the other patient's hand down, force him to stop waving at you.

Gluskin hasn't stopped staring.

You swallow, cool air burning your lungs.

Your body feels like it's on fire.

You pivot on your heel, turn back the way you came.

You mean to walk, you really do, but you end up running all the way back to your car.

Chapter Text

The facts:

You are a Software Engineer working in the depths of Mount Massive Asylum.

Murkoff's psychiatric doctors need your help resolving a coding error in the Morphogenic Engine.

A patient named Eddie Gluskin is ushered into the Morphogenic Engine Room by gun point. He breaks free and bangs on the glass partition directly in front of you. He begs you to help him; he screams they're going to rape me, rape, rape!

The stoic and impatient doctors frighten you. The towering medical equipment frightens you, the rows of monitors rapidly displaying statistics and brain scans alongside indifferent whispers of cancer and cell death.

The screaming patient named Eddie Gluskin doesn't frighten you. Not here. Not now.

No, you are only scared for him.

A video feed of Eddie Gluskin on your monitor shows thick tubes shoved so far down the man's throat and nostril that the word rape seems fitting.

>Start MorphogenICEngine/RootSystem/MorphogenicEngineV5.exe

You debug the code that starts the machine that Gluskin was dragged to, kicking and screaming the word rape.

>Start Walrider.exe

It takes you less than two seconds to type.

As soon as you enter the code, weeping red wounds blossom on Gluskin's face, his skin cracks in some places like dry earth cracks in some places.

Later, much later, you run down the stairs and into the vocational block of Mount Massive so fast you almost stumble and fall.

You find Eddie Gluskin.

Of course you recognize him; you debugged the code that started the machine that Gluskin was dragged to, kicking and screaming the word rape.

Gluskin hunts you down.

Gluskin tries to make you his bride.

Gluskin locks you up, knocks you unconscious.

Ties you to a table.

Touches you.

Violates you.

Sexually assaults you by way of gloved hands on your naked thighs and words promising a gross bouquet of penetration and seed and mutilation.

And children.

(You already have children.)

He pulls your body, your groin, towards a high-powered table saw spinning so fast you feel a pulsing breeze whirring from the serrated blade.

By some miracle you escape.

(The miracle is an intervention by another patient that you don't spare a second thought for, who you let perish by Gluskin's hands while you cling to your own life.)

Gluskin hunts you again, finds you, beats you, tries to hang you.

You struggle free.

He is impaled on a ceiling rod by a simple pulley system propelled by your weight crashing to safety.

He speaks to you one final time.

'We could have been beautiful.'

He had spoken to you before they strapped him into the engine, he had beaten on the glass, begged:

'Help! Help me! Help me, they're going to rape me! … Help me! Don't let them do this! Don't let them! You! I know you can stop this!'

He bleeds down the beam, unconscious.

Presumed dead.

You laugh in sweet relief.

It feels good.

It feels so good to have Gluskin's warm blood dripping from his open abdomen onto your smiling face.

You debugged the code that started the machine that Gluskin was dragged to, kicking and screaming the word rape.

This is how you wish it would have gone, instead:

In the vocational block, you reason with Eddie Gluskin and convince him not to mutilate you.

You tell him you are sorry for what Murkoff has done to him, what you helped them do.

You tell him you blew the whistle on Murkoff; they won't be able to hurt him or anyone else anymore.

Gluskin helps you out of that hellhole, or maybe you help him out of that hellhole.

You never see him hanging from the rafters.

You never laugh.

You never debug the code that starts the machine that Gluskin was dragged to, kicking and screaming the world rape.

Reality:

You want it to be true so badly, this alternate reality you've crafted in your head. This alternate reality where you make nice and never laugh at a dying man. Never press the button that starts his torture machine.

You're sure everyone familiar and stranger alike would judge you if they knew how badly you want to have reasoned with Gluskin in Mount Massive.

(For wanting to beg him to fuck you instead of kill you, if that's what it takes.)

Lisa does know about this and does judge you.

You know reasoning with him would have never truly worked. You're not delusional. You know this. You know this. You know this.

This is what would have happened, if you had tried to reason with him:

In the vocational block, Eddie Gluskin is too delusional, too deep in psychosis induced by the Morphogenic Engine to be reasoned with.

He is not lucid like the Gluskin that banged on the glass and begged you for help; he is a monster, like The Cook is a monster—a being that did not exist before the influence of the Engine and will never exist outside of the Engine.

An unnatural phenomenon.

But The Groom is speaking to you, coaxing you as he hunts you, betraying personal desires about family and lust.

Apologizing or reasoning will not work, his mental state is too deteriorated to understand what Murkoff has done to him.

Eddie Gluskin wanted you to help him—he banged on the glass and begged you for help—he wanted the hell of Murkoff's experiments to end.

This Gluskin—The Groom—does not know of Murkoff, doctors, the Morphogenic Engine, or torture as therapy.

This Gluskin is so far gone he knows only of deeply personal desires that have been ballooned and popped by the Engine, festering into delusion.

A delusion of seed and family and love and surgery.

At the time you guessed that he was making women to kill them.

You haven't thought that since the day you stepped foot off of Mount Massive's grounds in a stolen jeep.

Your guess is that his particular brand of psychosis that night was a result of repressed self-loathing regarding a sexual attraction to men.

Here's where the shame starts:

Armed with the knowledge that the gore splattering the walls is some sick, swollen cacophony of internalized homophobia, you...

Well.

You imagine yourself seducing Eddie Gluskin into self-acceptance.

(Tempting him with your flesh, your willingness.)

(Showing him he can like you as you are, that it's okay to like you as you are, as a man.)

(Show him that he doesn't have to maim you.)

(You make him like you. )

(You manipulate him into fucking you, instead of killing you.)

He doesn't pull your groin towards a buzz saw.

He doesn't hit you.

You don't laugh at his dying form.

* * *

You've discussed this fantasy with Dr. Everett so many times that somehow it isn't a difficult subject anymore.

She says the fantasy is a series of intrusive thoughts. She says it's natural to re-imagine past events in a way that gives you complete control over your perpetrator (Gluskin, Gluskin, Gluskin). That it's not uncommon for victims to try to use sexuality to gain control over their abusers, especially in domestic abuse situations.

(But it's not natural, it's not understandable, it's disgusting—Lisa thought so, you know so. There's no way it can be okay—there's no way it should comfort you to imagine yourself seducing Eddie Gluskin into submission.)

(But it does comfort you.)

(It comforts you so fucking much, to imagine yourself with that kind of power.)

(The power to convince. To change his mind.)

(To make him want you so much he becomes harmless and docile.)

(There's something wrong with you.)

It's Monday and you shouldn't talk about the fantasy again. It's an well-worn subject and nothing good comes from discussing it, because the thoughts still intrude at all hours, in daydreams, actual dreams, in a shameful physical response of relief and lust from your own body.

(There's something wrong with you.)

"Last Friday, when I got out of my appointment with you..." You're not sure if you should tell Dr. Everett this, but what else do you have to talk about? "I tried to take a walk around the building."

"That's great, Waylon. You could use the fresh air."

"Yeah. Yeah—but, I, I couldn't make it all the way around. Because, uh..."

Dr. Everett waits for a response, but you fall silent, look away.

She tilts her head quizzically for a moment before she nods, seeming to remember something. "Ah—I understand. There were probably some patients out in the yard around that time."

You nod, foot shaking nervously, knee bouncing. "I saw him."

Dr. Everett doesn't need to ask who you mean. "It's the first time you've seen him in person since the riot, right? You didn't have to see him during the court proceedings against Murkoff?"

"Right." You have seen Gluskin on recordings since Mount Massive—on your own viral video footage and also on the news briefly as he's walked into the courthouse in handcuffs to testify against Murkoff. "Right. It's the first time."

"How did you feel?"

You let out a breathy sigh, or maybe a laugh. Drag your hand down your face.

How did you feel?

Terrified.

Excited.

Disgusted with yourself.

"He's—he seemed... recovered. Normal. And. Here I've been, caught up on what I did to him. Helping Murkoff's doctors start up the Morphogenic Engine. Laughing at him when I thought he was dead..."

Does Gluskin even think about what he's done to you? Probably not. If he even remembers you at all he probably doesn't even feel fucking responsible for it—and should he? The Morphogenic Engine was influencing everyone in Mount Massive so heavily and unpredictably at the time.

Yeah. He should. He should feel bad. Because, it was still his hands that took so many lives. His hands that stripped you, tied you up, trailed down your bare thigh...

"You're concerned that he seems to have moved on from the event, whereas you still think about it?"

This time you do laugh. "It's not just that I think about it, you know that. It's that I think about letting him fuck me so that he doesn't cut off my genitals instead."

Dr. Everett doesn't react to your venom, the way you spit the words, and somehow that only increases your anger. It should calm you down, that she's not judging you right now. But it doesn't, it just makes you angry. You deserve to be judged. You deserve punishment. You don't deserve to exist.

"You want to know how I feel?” you ask, bitter, rhetorical. “It—it fucking sucked, it sucked to see him looking so fucking well-adjusted. It sucked to know he'd probably be disgusted by the things I've been thinking about. He killed so many people that night—he probably doesn't even know who the fuck I am."

Which just makes it so much worse that you're still caught up on him. Out of all things that night happened to you that night, he's the one thing you can't get over.

If Gluskin hadn't slammed into that glass and looked you in the eye and asked you directly to help him, would you still be this obsessed with his ghost?

"Did you speak with him?" Dr. Everett asks.

"What?"

"Did you speak to Eddie Gluskin through the fence?"

"No! Of course not."

"Then it's an assumption to say he's well-adjusted now. All you have are assumptions about what he must think or feel or be like now. So is it possible that these assumptions are colored by your current state of mind?"

You cross your arms over your chest tight enough to hurt. Resist digging your nails into your arms. She's right. Of course she's right.

But—

You can't halt the question before it spills out of you. "Is he doing better? Better than I am? He is, right? He was talking to other fucking people. I can't even do that."

"You're talking to me right now," Dr. Everett points out gently. "And I can't discuss too many details about another patient."

Another patient. Right. To Dr. Everett, you are the same as Eddie Gluskin. As everyone else locked inside MMSS. A person damaged by Murkoff. A patient. A patient. A patient.

Even though you're only here for a one-hour therapy session three days a week, you're still just a patient to her. Same as the rest.

"But I can say that Eddie Gluskin's recovery is going well—all of the patients here have completely recovered from the Morphogenic Engine's effects, though there are still concerns about the long-term results of the exposure, which we are keeping an eye out for. But so far, it seems like the Morphogenic Engine's effects wane quickly once out of its proximity."

You already know that, you watched the recordings of Gluskin's testimony during the Murkoff trial. He was lucid, more like the Gluskin that banged on the glass and begged you for help. He certainly wasn't delusional and ranting about marriage and surgery.

"But, he was still sick before he was ever brought to Mount Massive."

"He had been diagnosed with several severe mental illnesses, yes," she corrects gently. She doesn't favor that term—sick. Always corrects you when you call yourself sick or wrong.

"So what about those?"

"I don't work with Gluskin directly, he has a team of other doctors that oversee his care." She smiles, folds her hands on the desk, spins her wedding ring. "But even if I did know, I wouldn't be able to tell you. All I can say is that he has been a model patient and does not give the staff trouble to my knowledge."

And she is the one who oversees this entire facility. So she would definitely know if one of the patients was causing trouble.

You can't grasp the notion that Eddie fucking Gluskin is a model patient.

(Even though... you saw it for yourself, just the other day, Gluskin sitting on that bench conversing with other patients, surrounded by trees and flowerbeds. Picture fucking perfect.)

"The staff aren't... afraid of him?" you ask, disgruntled. "The other patients aren't?"

"I wouldn't say the staff is afraid of him, no. Many of them seem fond of him," she says thoughtfully, surprising you with her willingness to answer such a petulant question. "As for the other patients—some may still have trauma about the riot; patients that have unsavory history are kept in separate wards unless they request otherwise. We're very careful to make sure everyone is comfortable here."

That shuts you up. It baffles you. Eddie Gluskin. Recovering well. The staff is fond of him. Other patents don't mind sharing a bench with him, having a laugh with him.

What the fuck?

What the fuck?

Why does this information bother you so much?

Had you thought that Gluskin was probably just as obsessed with the events of Mount Massive as you were? That you both shared that—that you were both still caught up on the same thing?

"He probably doesn't even fucking remember me," you mutter bitterly, knowing it's childish, a selfish reaction to someone else's happiness. "And if he does, I probably fucked up his recovery by letting him see me walk by the fence the other day."

You sure can't do anything fucking right, can you?

Not a single goddamn thing.

Either way you're a fuck-up.

Why should you care if you fucked up his recovery, anyway?

His memory has been tearing you apart since you left him bleeding in that gymnasium.

He shouldn't have ever fucking banged on the glass and asked you for help.

He should have known you couldn't do anything. That you were a prisoner of Murkoff too.

"You were well within your right to go for a walk around the facility," Dr. Everett reassures, seeming to genuinely care about your obvious agitation.

"But couldn't it be traumatic to see one of his victims? Couldn't it cause him to relapse?"

"Truth be told," Dr. Everett starts, and then hesitates, finally sighing. "Gluskin has requested to meet with you or send you a letter several times over the years, but I've been apprehensive to allow that for obvious reasons. His doctors, however, encourage this contact and think it would be good for him to apologize to you personally."

...What?

Your heart drops, stomach tying itself in knots. Your fingers feel numb.

What?

He. He's been.

Wanting to see you?

Wanting to apologize?

Write you a letter?

"So I wouldn't worry about it having been traumatic for him to see you the other day. It's something he's been prepared for, though obviously it's not going to happen."

You sit up straighter, brows knitting, voice desperate like reaching through the darkness to grasp for something lost, fumbling, scrambling. "Why not? Why haven't you told me? Why wasn't I asked about this?"

"I considered letting you decide if you wanted to accept his request to hear out an apology, either by visitation or letter—but I assumed this request may alarm you."

"So I'm too fragile to make the decision on my own?" you spit the words.

She has a right to be concerned.

She has a right to try and shield you from anything that might tip you over the edge you've been peering over for so long, fingers curled around the cliff-face, sometimes dangling a leg, stepping down, testing the hand-holds before deciding the way down is too far, too daunting, and climbing back up on shaky limbs.

Dr. Everett isn't saying anything—she's taking too long to consider her reply and you're spiraling down and you can't stop the momentum.

"So I'm, what, just, not allowed? Forbidden? You don't think it would help to hear an apology?" You're self-destructive and self-loathing. You want to stop—Dr. Everett doesn't deserve this anger spit in her direction.

"Do you think it will help you to hear his apology?" she asks, calm.

"I don't know—yeah, it fucking might."

What have you got to lose at this point?

It might help you to tell him to his face that you don't accept his apology. That what happened will never be okay. Even if the Morphogenic Engine was making monsters that night, it—it still wasn't okay. It won't ever be okay, what Eddie Gluskin did to you.

"I apologize for not telling you sooner,” Dr. Everett says. “I admit I assumed you would be upset at the notion of hearing from him, though I do personally think listening to an apology can in many cases be a healing experience."

You tap your foot against the carpet, your whole body feels jittery; sick and nervous and barely functioning.

"I have some of Gluskin's letters for you here," Dr. Everett says, leaning down to pull open a filing drawer on her desk. She comes back up with a few white envelopes in her hand. Sets them on the desk. "I planned to give them to you when the time is right. Do you want them now?"

Your eyes lock on the blank white of the envelopes.

You can't breathe.

Can't think.

Just like that—she's giving them to you just like that?

Right now?

You swallow. Can barely feel yourself nod.

Dr. Everett slides the envelopes across the table.

You stare at the offensively blank paper, buzzing with anxiety.

You lean forward, reach out to them with shaking hands. Touch them gingerly with just the tips of your fingers.

What do they say? What does Gluskin's handwriting look like—a messy scrawl? Impossible-to-read cursive?

What could he possibly have said in these letters?

When did he write them? Are they dated?

(He remembers you? He remembers you, specifically? Even after all those bodies in that gymnasium...?)

As if snapping out of a trance, you push the letters back across the desk.

Reject them.

"No—I don't want them. How recent are they?"

"I believe they were written last year."

Last year? Dr. Everett has been keeping this from you since last year?

"I don't want them. He might have changed his mind since then."

"I can pass him a message that you'd prefer a new letter, if you'd like."

"No—no, you said he's willing to meet with me in person, right? Why can't I let him apologize to me in person?" With his fucking mouth. With that fucking voice that... that...

That called you darling. That attempted to coax you out of whatever dark corner you shoved yourself in to hide from his prowling form.

"You would be willing to meet with him in person?" She's genuinely surprised.

Your face flushes. She knows about the fantasies. This isn't. About that. It isn't. At all. "He can say anything in a letter. If I look him in the eyes, maybe I'll be able to believe whatever he has to say."

And if he's lying about being sorry, you'll be able to tell.

Besides, it's just a one-time thing.

You can handle it.

She nods. "Maybe it will be good for both you and Gluskin."

What is that supposed to mean?

You must be looking confused, because she elaborates, "Seeing each other in person may help to humanize you to each other. It may help you both to realize that reality is quite different from fantasy or memory. It's good to have a reminder that the people who cause you grief are real people with their own lives."

Your face blazes hotter at the mention of your fantasies. Yeah. She's right. The Gluskin you saw sitting on the bench was much different than the Gluskin you play coy with in your daydreams. That Gluskin, the one inside your head, he doesn't really exist. Hasn't ever existed, maybe, not even in the vocational block of Mount Massive.

"How... how soon can I meet with him?"

Dr. Everett shrugs. "I'm sure it can be arranged as early as this week, if you'd like. It's whatever you feel up for, Waylon. Confirming with Gluskin and his doctors is just a formality. I just want you to be sure."

"I'm ready, I'm sure," you breathe, sounding more confident than you are. But you've been stagnant for so long, stuck in this mire, repeating the same sequence of your trauma (the vocational block, The Groom, Eddie Gluskin) over and over again in your head.

If this can give you even the barest hint of closure, then you've got no other choice.

* * *

They arrange the meeting in the empty patient's yard. You'll be locked inside that barbed-wire fence. Alone with one patient. Eddie Gluskin.

Surrounded by green grass, manicured gardens and broad daylight.

Alone, aside from the staff on guard of course, though you know from experience that they do their best to blend into the background. You considered meeting with Gluskin through the fence, as having a barrier between you and him would provide the most comfort. But part of you wants to stand up to him, to stand before him unafraid.

So you sit at the cold, stone picnic table in the empty yard, the day painting itself bright and cheery across the sky. And you wait. You wait for them to deliver Gluskin to you.

God, what were you thinking?

When the door to the building finally opens, your heart hammers on your ribs like they're the bars of a cage. Eddie Gluskin walks into the yard, shuffling, his arms and legs bound in padded cuffs like a prisoner.

Why is he restrained? He certainly wasn't when he was out in the yard with the other patients.

You can't stop from fixing your wary stare on him as he approaches. He's even taller than you remembered, streaks of gray threading through his dark hair. He isn't wearing a patient's uniform, instead dressed in clothes that are much more formal than the hoodie and ripped jeans you're wearing. His attention is locked on you, expression soft and brimming with trepidation and curiosity.

The anger is immediate. Why are you angry? Why do you suddenly feel like shouting, like growling, like slamming your hands bloody against the stone table?

You've told yourself so many times that it wasn't fully Gluskin's fault—that it was Murkoff who turned normal monsters into dozens-of-corpses-hanging-from-the-ceiling monsters.

You make eye contact and Gluskin seems to hesitate, as if mentally preparing himself for the upcoming encounter.

That pisses you off. A lot. He isn't the one who should find this difficult.

When he finally approaches you, he gestures down at the side of the picnic table opposite of you. “May I sit?”

That voice. Genial and smooth. Gentle, currently. Tentative. The hint of a speech impediment. This voice repeats in your head so frequently and yet, hearing it now, it sounds so new, like your memories of it are not so vivid after all.

How many times have you felt yourself grow aroused, imagining him purring those same endearments he spit at you in Mount Massive. Imagining him taking your invitation to touch you.

Touch you—instead of kill you.

It's fucked up. It's fucked up that you fool yourself into thinking you could have possibly consented to that situation.

But you want that power. The power of being desired. So bad. So fucking bad.

Because the alternative was death.

You don't know how you're alive right now.

You don't know how Gluskin is, either.

It was a fluke.

The reality is...

You would be dead right now if it wasn't for that random patient who decided to attack Gluskin seconds before you were split in two by a table saw.

You wouldn't have survived on your own.

(You didn't survive on your own.)

You need to fix that.

To figure out a way you could have saved yourself.

Because the reality is. You didn't save yourself.

You should be dead right now.

You didn't think quickly enough when that saw was between your open legs.

And now that's all you can think about.

It's all you've thought about for three years.

This man. In front of you right now.

It doesn't feel real.

It feels like stepping from the curb into traffic. Like waiting on the sidewalk for a bus's approach. Like walking across a bridge. Like putting yourself in arm's length of danger. Feeling hazard's lure.

Fuck.

You remember to nod in response to Gluskin's inquiry to sit. You don't trust yourself to speak.

“Please don't mind the restraints,” he says good-naturedly, shaking his bound wrists. “I am by no means required to wear them by facility rules. However, I insisted that they be adorned for this particular occasion.”

What the hell is he getting at?

“As I thought it may assist you to feel safer.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

You shouldn't have come.

Two sentences in and you are already done with his bullshit.

It seems so manipulative.

Because...

Because.

Everyone finds your anxiety and unusual stress tedious—they never try to accommodate you. Lisa frequently found herself at wit's end with the intricacies of trying to make you feel safe. If people who loved you expected you to just suck it up, there's no way Eddie fucking Gluskin is genuine in his want of your comfort now.

(The restraints on his limbs do make you feel safer. They do. They really fucking do.)

(Fuck.)

“I can see that I've already upset you. I apologize.” Eddie smiles, lop-sided, nervous, lip twitching in what you can only disbelievingly describe as a tremor. “I have been dreaming of this meeting for so long that I—I may have over-thought things a bit.”

Dreaming. Dreaming of this meeting. He is still as delusional as he was in the vocational block of Mount Massive.

(As delusional as you are most days, now.)

Why did anyone think otherwise? Are you just being paranoid? Or are you the only one in the world that's been through enough hell to not be fooled by Eddie Gluskin's charm?

No, that couldn't be it. The staff here... they know what Gluskin's done. There is no way they'd fall for his pleasantries. And they trust him. They trust him to be here with you right now.

Your heart pounds. You don't know why.

(Is it because he just admitted to thinking about you in the years since the riot—is it because you're not the only one who still thinks about what happened?)

You can't stop staring at the rough scaring over one side of his face. Fading at the edges, paling. His jaw is wide and strong. His broad body had been so imposing in those dark halls.

(It still imposes.)

“Have I hurt you? I'm sorry—I, let me start over.” Gluskin has the gall to actually look troubled. “Waylon Park, I didn't know you by that name, then, but I have since come to learn your name, so I hope you don't mind me using it.”

You do mind. Oh, god, do you mind.

(He's called you so many things, darling, whore—so many endearments sung like love through the coppery musk of the vocational block—but your name is more powerful than any of them. Your heart skips sickeningly, like tripping face-first into concrete.)

You keep your mouth clamped shut, teeth clenched painfully hard, leg bouncing uncontrollably beneath the table. If this man really is on a road to recovery, the last thing he needs is for you to scream at him, which is all you feel capable of at this point, because, because...

He's the last chance you have at making this better. At destroying the delusions you've constructed about what it would have taken to save yourself from that table-saw.

(The answer is that nothing could have saved you, right? Not even sex, not even offering yourself up to him like a spouse on their wedding night. But maybe, maybe it could have—it's the only. Only thing you can think of. That may have prevented your death.)

And Gluskin's not saying anything. He needs to say more. Quicker. Everything.

“I know this is a bit much for our first meeting,” he says, eventually. “But I have borne this weight for so long that I am afraid that I am unable to carry it any longer, having you here in front of me now.”

You wish he would just get on with it.

“Waylon Park—I am sorry.”

You feel nothing but anger. A flash of hot white urgency to commit violence against this man who could dare say those words so casually—not violence in the form of a fist but in the form of standing abruptly and walking away, not looking back.

But you don't budge.

What he has done to you, what he made you watch him do to others—it's not something that can be washed away with apology. Especially not apology without preamble.

You try, you try very hard to remind yourself that this is a mentally ill man, one who banged on that glass and begged you to save him from the abuse of Mount Massive. A man who you wanted to save, because you wanted to save all of the patients you were inadvertently hurting by working for Murkoff.

You're not just confronting your perpetrator—but a victim of Murkoff too.

A man who has committed monstrosities and has had monstrosities committed against him.

The myriad of Eddie Gluskin's publicly known childhood traumas is enough to make you feel guilty for hating him.

“I know I cannot apologize for what I put you through during the riot,” though Gluskin never says it, you can hear the darling attached to his words. “I am not apologizing for that. It would be insulting to the hellish experience I've put you through.”

Yeah. So what the hell is he apologizing for?

“I am here today—I've wanted to see you for so long, to tell you that I am sorry for my continued crimes against you, and to let you know that my problems persist despite my best efforts, and the efforts of my many dedicated therapists.”

What the hell is he talking about?

“I sincerely hope you can forgive me.”

Gluskin looks downtrodden and that's fine—but you have no idea what he's talking about.

Finally, you say, voice strained, “What are you referring to?”

He looks up at the sound of your voice, looks at you like he did in Mount Massive, like he can see his future when he looks at you. Like he's in love.

And you know, you know before he says it.

“Sadly, I am still experiencing a great many idealizations and fantasies involving you. Only you. No others.” He pauses, as though waiting for a reaction, looking curious and tentative over your face, which is hot with anger, blank with fear at your own curiosity. “I am, admittedly obsessive—always have been in general, about many things—but as I've come to realize in the last few years, this obsessive behavior can be very unhealthy when directed at another person.”

You can't believe what you're hearing.

How does he even remember you? You were just one of many victims.

(Why you? Why you? Why you?)

What floors you, what twists your gut into confusion is that Gluskin can admit any of this. That he can label what he's feeling as an unhealthy obsession.

Only someone on the cusp of getting better is able to be so self-aware.

It doesn't mean he'll make the right choices regarding his illness, it doesn't mean he'll be able to resist impulses or keep from hurting anyone. But it's something. It's progress.

“They allow me to obsess over simpler vocations, like sewing or knitting. Those are all well and good.” He looks down at his bound wrists, his threaded fingers. “But not even I wish to be plagued with constant thoughts of you.”

He sounds almost bitter.

(Bitter!)

“It's painful, to lie awake at night with thoughts of you, dreaming about a meeting such as this, a chance to apologize and build a friendship with you—it's delusional, I know. There is no reason for you to want anything akin to friendship with me, after all I've done.” His face isn't flushed but his eyelids rim red, like he's close to tears. At the start of this conversation he had seemed so much calmer than you feel, but now he looks barely held together, as if this very conversation is unbinding him at the seams. “There is no reason for anyone to want to spend one moment with the likes of me.”

Friendship—he claims to want friendship from you, of all things?

(Not mutilation and blood and force, force, force.)

You almost laugh.

You're torn between pity and fury. Pity because this man's life was ruined by his severe childhood abuse well before he ever hurt anyone. Pity because he seems to really want to make amends. Pity because any chance at recovery had been ripped away by Murkoff.

Fury because—well, boo-hoo, he murdered and mutilated a bunch of people and now no one wants to be his friend.

It's hard to reconcile that both things are true—that yes, he did commit atrocities, and yes, he did have some atrocities committed to him, by his father and uncle and Murkoff.

(And you. You... debugged the code that...)

How, how the fuck are you supposed to know how to feel about any of this?

Besides that maybe your fantasies have been right all along. If he's this obsessed with you now, if he remembers you this well... maybe you could have manipulated him with sex, back in Mount Massive. Saved yourself.

There's some part of you that is morbidly gleeful at Eddie's confession. Some part of you that's validated knowing your fantasies could have saved you from his saw. There's too much relief in thinking you could have seduced him easily.

(Too much relief in knowing you're not the only one still stuck in the vocational block of Mount Massive.)

Gluskin still looks like he might cry.

You feel a little like that, too. Defeated by the knowledge that offering him sex on that buzz-saw table may have really truly been the only way you could have saved yourself.

It's disgusting. You're disgusting.

(It feels so good. So fucking good to believe right now that you could have saved yourself. )

(It shouldn't feel good. It's too hefty a price to pay.)

“I know you really wanted a family,” you offer, somehow, feeling more tired than anything. You have no idea what you're trying to say, if you're trying to empathize with him or taunt him.

“I did,” he says after a moment, voice quiet, eyes dropping from your face but not leaving you completely—as if he's afraid to look away. “And I mourn that loss. I mourn that I have squandered any real chance of having that. I know I will never get another chance, never get another shot at life. It's the same for the people I've irreversibly hurt—I've taken away their only life. And because of that, I will never have a life I so desperately desire.” He smiles a humorless smile. “A fitting punishment.”

“It's not a punishment,” you say because it's true, not because you want him to feel better. “Just cause and effect. The way things are.”

“I suppose you're right.”

He seems so genuine, and you can't even bring yourself to hate him for it. Is he only trying to appear sympathetic to manipulate you? You don't think someone irredeemable could admit the things he is admitting right now.

“When you think about me now, do you think about making me into a woman?” As soon as the words leave your mouth, you realize that they could be seen as a means to provoke the other man. But really, you are just curious.

“No,” he says, so firm it makes you jump. He notices your wide eyes and his demeanor softens. “No, I don't. Therapy has helped me come to terms with the fact that the strictly traditional worldview instilled in me by my... in my childhood, was a cause for a lot of dysphoria in regards to my sexuality.”

Sadly, it makes sense. Gluskin clearly had a deep-seated need to be normal. Gluskin's attraction to men answered the question many people asked about his initial crimes before his time in Mount Massive: the murder and mutilation of two women. Though he killed them and mutilated their corpses, he never sexually abused them in any way. Though his crimes were clearly influenced by misogyny, they were bizarrely not motivated by sexual desire.

Which also explained why his crimes in Mount Massive seemed to be much more sexually motivated, since his victims were other men. Though Gluskin technically didn't rape anyone during the riot either, not with his own body. But you know there were worse things: saws and blades and grimy twine.

“You're okay with yourself now, with your sexuality?”

“I prefer men, yes,” he says, much more easily than you expect him to. Like he's letting you know that the sky is blue.

You've relived that vocational block so many times. You've re-watched the footage you took as a means of self-harm. You're stuck on it. Lisa knows, Dr. Everett knows. Everyone knows this is what haunts you.

Not the cannibal, the hand-saw, Jeremy Blaire.

The Groom.

This frantic, exuberant man who wanted to make men into wives. Who wanted to make you into his wife. Who marveled over your soft skin and bone structure. Who called you darling, who felt desperately entitled to your love.

The nightmares have been routine for over two years.

The daydreams are worse.

There's nothing you could have done to help Gluskin, to help yourself out of the vocational block with cleaner hands—factually you know this.

Factually, you felt sorry for him, even at the time. You were made sick by Gluskin's misguided and obliviously cruel attempts at curing some deeply ingrained loneliness.

Factually, you hadn't even tried to reason with him. Not once.

It wasn't your job to. It wasn't your responsibility to try to talk your way out of harm.

You're not at fault for what happened to you. For Gluskin's almost-death.

But out of all the patients you met during your escape from Mount Massive, Eddie is the one that haunts you. Because your brain keeps supplying scenarios in which things could have gone better—where you don't just survive by well-timed fluke.

(Why? Why?)

One of the thousands of scenarios involves talking Gluskin down, helping him come to terms with whatever violent self-hatred he has about his probable attraction to men. Convincing him he doesn't need to mutilate you, that it's okay, it's okay to find you attractive as you are. That he's normal. That there's nothing wrong with him.

Most of the scenarios just involve you asking him to fuck you.

(You're awful. Awful.)

“I hope that doesn't scare you now—that I'm attracted to men,” Gluskin tries, carefully attempting to nudge you free from your thoughts. Could he tell that you were somewhere else just now, stuck in your head?

You feel like crying even more now. Someone—the doctors here—were able to help Gluskin come to terms with his sexuality. You kept telling yourself you were insane for thinking maybe you could have done that yourself in Mount Massive. You had to be crazy to think it might have been possible. But it wasn't crazy. The evidence is right in front of you.

It's so fucked up. So fucked up that just a few years of decent therapy has helped such a severely mentally disturbed and self-loathing man. It's so fucked up what Murkoff did to the patients of Mount Massive Asylum under the guise of helping them.

“No,” you manage, somehow able to speak gently. “That doesn't bother me at all. Doesn't scare me.”

Gluskin looks half relieved, half suspicious. You don't have the strength or patience to reassure him any further, even though you consider telling him that you also find men attractive. Always have. Women, too. People, mostly.

“Can I ask you something else?” you say, before you can lose your courage entirely.

Could you have prevented what almost happened in the vocational block (his death, your death) by playing along with his little Bride and Groom delusion in some way?

By pretending to love him, by trying to manipulate his delusions into something that could be used to your advantage?

So often you've thought, maybe if he had believed you loved him too, you could have helped each other escape that place.

Rationalizing your trauma is normal, apparently. Obsessing over Eddie Gluskin and the skin sewn to fabric, the saw and table and bound wrists... it feels anything but normal.

This might be your only chance to ask him if your fantasies would have worked.

(Should you ask him? You can't... you can't tell him about your fantasies. Can't tell him that you think about him constantly.)

“Please do inquire about any topic you wish,” Eddie assures. “I am here to answer any questions you may have. I want your mind to be at ease.”

Darling. You can still hear the darling attached to the ends of his words, like neat little bows.

“If I had played along during the riot,” your voice is thick with the turmoil these thoughts have overrun you with. Three years. Three years of needing to know. “If I had pretended to be the bride you wanted me to be. Would you have still mutilated me? Killed me? Or would you have believed me if I assured you that you could love me as I was—as a man?”

(It's a watered down, family friendly version of what you should really ask, isn't it? You're lying, in a way, right now. Chickening out. Censoring yourself. Not willing to expose anyone else to your thought-crimes.)

Gluskin closes his eyes, clearly unsettled by the question.

The silence stretches, and you grow more sick by the second. The least this man can do is have a conversation with you—answer your goddamn question.

“I want to tell you that I wouldn't have insisted on," he hesitates, before finally deciding on putting things lightly, "hurting you. I wish I could tell you that I might have accepted you in some way, back then. That there is some turn of events in which I might not have harmed you.” He pauses to take a shaky breath. “But that would be a lie—a delusion. It took me months to come to terms with my denial. Extensive therapy, day in and day out. Dispelling that denial was a full-time job.”

You don't want to look at him but you're frozen, posture shying away but eyes glued to him from their corners.

It's a truth you don't want to hear. It's a death sentence—it's knowing that no matter what actions you took in the vocational block, you would have died if it wasn't for that other patient showing up to distract Gluskin.

You don't want to believe it.

Gluskin has to bow his head slightly to meet your gaze with conviction. “I know I would have hurt you, no matter what actions you took. I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am for that.”

His honesty is apology enough, though you can't bring yourself to tell him that. Not yet, anyway.

Chapter Text

You wake up screaming.

A nightmare.

It's not the first time.

The dim glow of your son's old night-light doesn't provide you with enough peace of mind. You turn on the lamp on your bedside table with such haste that you nearly send the whole nightstand toppling over.

Your fingers are flying over the virtual keys of your cell phone before you can shake the overwhelming feeling of longing, of loss, of...affection that your dream leaves you with.

“It's me,” you say, when your Dr. Everett picks up.

“Waylon? Another dream?” There's shuffling on the other end of the line; bedsheets. You've woken her up.

You pull the phone away from your ear to check the time. 3am.

“Yeah.” You do your best to catch your breath.

“Which one?”

Oh. Of course she wouldn't know which. You have so many reoccurring nightmares. “The one about Gluskin. Where I'm bound to his table and I—”

Where you plead with him to love you, to be with you, to copulate, to love you the way you are, to keep you intact, to keep you safe, to spend his life with you.

It's awful and it's disgusting and Dr. Everett always says it's just your mind trying to protect you, to turn a bad memory into something with a happier ending. It's your subconscious trying to find a better solution to a problem that ended with a bad result. A solution that has you in control.

But it isn't happy, isn't better, not when you have to wake up and feel the shame the dream brings you.

“Ah. Probably brought on by your conversation with him the other day.”

Yeah. Makes sense, only, you have this dream all the time. Over and over, for three fucking years.

“Was anything different this time?”

It's always the same. Dream Gluskin complies to your pleas, he kisses you, he touches you, he makes you feel safe, and god, you love it. Until you wake up. Until you're left sweating and ashamed in your bed, nightmare gone, and uncanny feeling of emptiness plaguing you. Burning with shame at the hardness between your legs.

Except—yeah, yeah it was different this time. “He didn't have sex with me this time,” you say, long since over any embarrassment you used to feel admitting such things to Dr. Everett. “He mutilated me, he chased me down and killed me. Stabbed me, over and over.”

“Do you think this change has anything to do with what he told you during your recent conversation with him?”

Of course it did. He told you that he would have hurt you, no matter what you said or did during your encounter with him at Mount Massive.

Shit.

If you had just taken the time to collect yourself, to calm the fuck down instead of running to your therapist like a frightened child, you could have figured that out yourself.

“Shit. Yeah. I'm... I'm sorry for bothering you.”

“No, no,” she says. “That's what I'm here for. I like being here for you, you know that. It's not only my job, but it's what I want to do.”

Yeah.

Yeah, but.

You always put her through so much.

It can't be pleasant for her, two years of getting woken up in the middle of the night by your occasional calls.

“I think I'll be fine now.”

“Alright, ring me again if you need to talk. If not, we'll continue this discussion on Wednesday.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Oh, and Waylon?”

“Yeah?”

“We can always cancel your second meeting with Gluskin, if it's too much.”

“No, I,” you hesitate, because it sounds so wrong to say it, after the dream you just had. After the kinds of dreams you've been having about him for the past three years. “I want to see him. I think it helped me to see him.”

“No problem. I'll see you on Wednesday, Waylon”

“Bye.”

The call ends, and you're left staring at a generic phone wallpaper. The lock screen and wallpaper used to be photographs of your family. Your wife. Your sons. Now it's just default. It was too hard, seeing their picture throughout the day, whenever you went to use your phone for anything.

You can change your wallpaper, your desktop background, you can shut all of the framed photographs away in drawers and closets.

But you can never escape from the ample space in your bed, your empty apartment.

* * *

It rains on Thursday, so you don't meet with Gluskin in the yard. The staff provides you with one of the empty recreational rooms in a patient ward. It's not preferable, but it's okay. The orderlies will be waiting just outside the doors, if you need them. Other than that, it'll just be you, Gluskin, and several audio-less surveillance cameras.

Straight out the door, two lefts, into the stairwell, down two flights of stairs, and there's an alarmed emergency exit door. Easy enough to escape, should you need to.

“I will be perfectly honest,” Gluskin says as he saunters over, taking a seat on the sofa opposite the one you're sitting on. There's a low coffee table between the two facing sofas. Between you and him. His limbs aren't bound this time. “I hardly expected you to come see me again. I scarcely believed it when they told me that you had requested another visit.”

You hadn't expected yourself to want to visit him again either. But if it helps to make your dreams more realistic (he would have killed you, he would have killed you), and less, well, sexual, then that is enough for you.

Gluskin shifts in his seat. “Now, I hope this doesn't hurt your feelings, but I initially told my doctors that I couldn't bear to see you again—that I didn't want to.”

That is a surprise.

“I don't think it's good for me, you see. They think that meeting you like this will help to humanize you in my thoughts—that it will help to quell my fantasies of a potential future involving you. They think it will make me realize that my fantasies are ridiculous, unrealistic.”

Right. Yeah. That's what you're both doing here, isn't it? Dr. Everett said the same thing—that getting to know the real Gluskin will make your fixation on this fantasy version of events (fantasy version of Gluskin) die down.

Gluskin leans forward slightly, as though to keep his next words a secret. “I'm sorry to say the fantasies are stronger than ever since our last meeting.”

Absurdly, it doesn't seem like he's telling you this just to make you uncomfortable, to make your skin craw. He's trying to be honest with you, in his own way.

It does make your skin crawl, though.

“What do you fantasize about?” you ask, ashamed of the curiosity. Maybe his answer will make you feel less dirty for the fantasies you've had. Less... alone. Less fucked up.

The longer the words have left your mouth, the more you realize that there isn't anything that could make this situation any less fucked up.

Gluskin just stares.

It makes you feel like the most fucked up person in the room.

“Perhaps we should change the subject,” Gluskin offers eventually, as if you're the one making him uncomfortable. “I don't intend to be rude, but I'm not sure that conversation will bode well for our continued interactions.”

“I thought you didn't want to have continued interactions with me,” you snap, bitter, so bitter.

“Come now, that's not what—“

“You just said so.” You're being petulant. You feel like a child. Eddie Gluskin makes you feel like a child and you hate everything about it.

“Well, I am here, am I not? I have clearly changed my mind, for the time being at least.”

For the time being. Your anger flares at the veiled threat. As though, if you make the wrong move he might change his mind about being willing to meet with you.

How dare he deny you his time, after what he's done to you?

The least he can do is talk to you about what happened.

(He's the one who was there. Who banged on the glass. Who begged you for help. Who chased you and begged you to be his wife. Who nearly ended your life with the blade on his hip, his fits, a saw between your legs.)

(No one will be able to understand what you're going through, not like he potentially could—because he knows exactly what you went though. He witnessed it. He perpetrated it.)

(And. You haven't even gotten to apologize to him yet. For debugging the code. For starting the Engine. Should you apologize? Does he deserve that?)

(Does he even remember looking right at you, begging you for help before Murkoff doctors shoved tubes into his face?)

Your friends—hell, even your online friends—don't talk to you anymore. Not even Lisa. It's for the best, but the closest thing you have to a friend now is Dr. Everett.

Now not even Eddie Gluskin, who chased you through half of the asylum—chased you down a fucking elevator shaft and out a fucking two story window—wants anything to do with you.

He fucking owes it to you, and he's made it perfectly clear that he barely decided to grace you with his presence today.

The whole asylum. The vocational block. The gymnasium. The table saw. The elevator shaft.

And he barely decided to come talk to you today.

Shit.

You shouldn't fucking care about that. But you must be beyond broken if not even Eddie Gluskin will give you the time of day.

“For the time being,” you reiterate, dubious tone lost with how badly your voice cracks. “I don't even know why I bother.”

At this, Gluskin frowns. “Darling—“

“Don't call me that.” You hear him say it enough in your head.

“I'm sorry,” he says, quickly, sounding as though he's trying to hush a crying child. “I'm sorry, I know, that was wrong of me.”

“It's fine—just, what were you going to say?”

It's pathetic, so pathetic that you care about anything Eddie Gluskin has to say. That you actually want to know.

Gluskin holds your gaze tentatively. “I just want to know if you're okay—you seem different than our last meeting. Upset. Shaken.”

God, this is so fucked up. You haven't had anyone besides Dr. Everett ask you if you're okay in over a year.

The fact that Gluskin's inquiring at all strongly tempts you to spill you guts to him, to believe that he can understand what you're going through, what you've been going through for the past three years.

Surely if he's actually sorry for what happened, like he claims to be, like the doctors claim he is, then he has some inkling about what you might be going through.

(And you weren't the only one traumatized by Mount Massive—how many years did Gluskin have to endure physical, emotional, and sexual abuse from Murkoff's doctors? Not to mention the Engine.)

(And. The Engine. It changed him that night. It changed all of the patients who had the most exposure to it. Eddie's so different now than he was that night. Different than he was when he begged you for help.)

(You... you can't imagine how that feels, to not be in complete control of yourself. To commit violent acts during that loss of control. Murkoff did that to him. Murkoff is the real evil here. Murkoff, Murkoff, Murkoff.)

You tell yourself that he's so attentive, so thoughtful regarding your feelings because of the therapy. You know better than anyone how extensive therapy changes a person, makes them more empathetic, more willing to work through their thoughts and feelings via conversation.

Gluskin's good at talking about his feelings now, too, no doubt. His whole life has been therapy, therapy, and more therapy. You only go to therapy three days a week. He's been under professional care twenty-four hours a day for who knows how long.

“Part of me is really fucking happy to see that tattling on Murkoff has paid off—that you and everyone else here is doing better,” you lean forward, looking him right in the eye. “And part of me fucking hates to see you functioning instead of suffering.”

Eddie Gluskin's eyes drop to his folded hands. “It's not fair, is it?”

No, it's really fucking not.

You know you shouldn't feel this way. You know a big part of it is jealousy—why should they be better when you've only felt worse and worse and worse since you left Mount Massive?

It's selfish. Entitled.

Their recovery, their progress, even Eddie Gluskin's progress has no bearing on yours. They're separate beasts.

And. Logically you can't blame him for what he did to you—Murkoff was the real perpetrator. But. It was Gluskin's body and mind Murkoff used as tools to harm you. So. Despite everything. You can't help but want to hate him.

“I won't pretend like what you just said doesn't sting,” Gluskin says. “But I know it is well deserved.”

God, you wish he would stop being sorry, so you could feel less bad about hating his guts.

“But let's let the therapists handle that, shall we? We should talk about something more pleasant.”

You roll your eyes. Sarcastic, exasperated, and unable to hold back the mocking question, “What are your hobbies?”

(Besides murder, mutilation, and lots and lots of therapy.)

“I believe I mentioned this during our last meeting—sewing and knitting.”

Right, he did. And of course you knew that already, because of all of the makeshift wedding dresses displayed in the vocational block of Mount Massive.

(And all the corpses dismantled and reassembled—skin stitched together, raw and stinking and barely resembling human bodies anymore.)

“You seem pretty good at sewing,” you offer. “I mean, based on the dresses I saw in Mount Massive. Not sure any of them would have really fit me though.”

You're not sure if you're really supposed to be talking about the riot, but screw it. Who cares? It is surprisingly refreshing to talk about those memories with someone who was actually there, too.

It's not like Eddie Gluskin deserves the issue to be sugarcoated, anyway.

“You have imagined yourself wearing my dresses?” he asks, unable to hide the astonishment in his voice.

Uh oh.

“Well—“ How are you supposed to answer that?

(Because the answer is yes—yes, you have.)

You can't tell him that you've had nightmares and daydreams (and wet-dreams) alike about wearing those bloodstained dresses, of him ravishing you in them. You can't tell him that in your dreams, the dresses and the affection (the seduction, the begging, the tempting, the sex) are the price you pay for keeping your genitals. For keeping your life.

“I thought you might force me into one, so it crossed my mind,” you lie, somehow keeping your voice even.

Gluskin nods. “I won't lie to you—the notion of you wearing one of my garments is a... pleasing thought. But I am delighted to tell you that I do not have fantasies of you wearing dresses, specifically.”

It almost feels wrong, hearing him say that. Disappointing.

It makes you the fucked up one, for imagining yourself wearing the dresses.

(So frequently, too frequently.)

So many times you've imagined yourself snagging a tattered patchwork gown off of a mannequin in Mount Massive during a heart-pounding, deserted moment when you've managed to lose The Groom. Imagined hurriedly shedding your coveralls and stepping into the dress on shaking, fumbling limbs, praying you get it on before The Groom rounds the corner and finds you.

And when The Groom does find you, you're nervous and terrified but not running, not backing down. You're staring up at The Groom as he approaches, slows, looks you over—and he mistakes the fear for coyness, and it's easy to look coy when he towers over you the way he does, when you instinctually shrink under his scrutiny—

And. God.

Fuck.

You really are the only one still hung up on this.

Not Eddie Gluskin.

Just you.

The worst part is that the fantasies don't terrify you, not the ones involving the dresses, the sex, Eddie Gluskin. They just leave you feeling sad. Empty. Alone. Ashamed.

(A little bit more in control, too. Shit—they make you feel downright powerful.)

It's so much worse knowing that not even Eddie Gluskin himself has fantasies as fucked up as those anymore.

(It's so much worse sitting before him now and knowing you don't have the power over him that you daydream about.)

“What do you fantasize about?” you ask him again. “I think it would help me to know.”

It's not exactly a lie.

Gluskin shifts. Considers you for a long moment, reluctant. Sighs, eventually. “My fantasies consist of getting to know you. Building a friendship. And, I know this may upset you, but, receiving forgiveness.”

Friendship, forgiveness, friendship, forgiveness.

How can he claim his fantasies are so mundane and innocuous when yours are shameful and lust-riddled?

“Seriously? That's it?” you ask, dubious. “No violent implies?”

“Heavens no,” he says, recoiling slightly, offended. It turns your stare incredulous. “I have not experienced violent impulses since my diagnosis shortly after my arrest. Decades ago. Not until my transfer to Mount Massive did violence ever cross my mind again. But I sincerely hope you understand that I was not myself the night I...”

You wait for him to finish but he trails off, voice catching audibly in his throat. You assess him for several long moments before finally deciding on mercy.

“I know,” you exhale a shaky breath. “I know. I know. If I didn't believe that on some level your actions that night were entirely a result of Murkoff's Engine influencing you, I wouldn't be here right now.”

Eddie visibly deflates at that, eyes brimming with astonishment and... fondness. “Thank you,” he says, strained.

Your heart thumps wildly in your chest, sick and nervous and confused by this man's genuine gratitude.

Fuck.

“You're seriously telling me your current fantasies aren't romantic or sexual, though? Really?” you ask, reverting the subject. Unable to acknowledge his gratitude.

“I promise it is nothing so vulgar as you might imagine—but, yes, to tell you the truth...” Gluskin hesitates, a flush spreading over his high cheekbones. “There is an element of romantic feelings involved, however misplaced. I am well aware we do not know each other sufficiently for that to be remotely appropriate. I am truly ashamed to admit this.”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Whatever.”

You can't tell him his admission washes you raw with relief. Because. You aren't the only one who still feels the wrong things. You don't know what you'd do even even Eddie Gluskin's thought crimes were more innocent than yours.

The silence is getting uncomfortable. You should fill it. "I forgot to bring this up during our last visit, but you saw me last week, through the fence—I was walking around the facility after a therapy appointment..."

You're not sure where you're going with this.

"Ah, yes. I recognized you instantly."

You frown, embarrassed, uncomfortable, not sure what it means that he recognized you from a distance even though your encounter in Mount Massive was only brief, all things considered. After he hadn't seen you in nearly three years.

(But you recognized him instantly, too.)

"I'm sorry if... if that was shocking, or uh, triggering, to see me like that. Unexpectedly. I shouldn't have been so careless. I didn't think I would see you."

(Didn't you want to see him, though? Isn't that why you kept walking, even when you knew there were patients in the yard? Weren't you curious in that morbid way that tugs you along, unthinking?)

Gluskin waves a dismissive hand. "It was surprising, yes. But no damage was done, I assure you. You did nothing wrong."

The reassurance feels good, somehow. But the lack of reaction doesn't—how can Gluskin claim to have had such a nonchalant reaction? He has to be downplaying whatever he felt.

(What did you feel, to see him sitting on that bench?)

"It didn't... bother you? To see me?" you blurt, disgruntled. "It must have made you feel something—think something."

Gluskin smiles unexpectedly wide, flashing teeth, eyes crinkling at the corners. There's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Mostly it made me think you weren't dressed properly for the weather—your jacket looked too thin for the chilly breeze. I thought you could use a hat. Something knit. Warm. Maybe a scarf."

Your face flushes, you grunt involuntarily with surprise at Gluskin's flippant answer.

He's... he's really trying to tell you he had such a nonchalant response to seeing you for the first time in three fucking years?

Such a... normal thought process?

Like, you looked cold, and he wants to offer you a hat, a scarf, something to bundle you up, take care of you—fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You can't even take care of yourself.

He's right.

You didn't dress for the weather that day at all.

And, fuck—he, he's still gotta be omitting whatever other reaction he had to seeing you that day, but—

(One of his first instincts was to take care of you.)

(You can't even take care of you.)

(Lisa couldn't even take care of you.)

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“You should knit me a hat or something,” you force yourself to say, unable to keep the slight note of panic out of your voice. You have to say something. Respond somehow, to distract from the disgruntled heat burning in your face that is surely visible to Gluskin.

(Fuck fuck fuck.)

“If I were to make you a hat... you, you would wear it?” The way he blinks, falters in the middle of his sentence, tilts his head just slightly, eyes imploring... he's hanging on your every word.

(And you can feel it right now, real and tangible—that power you've been fantasizing about.)

(The power someone has when they're important to someone else. When they're wanted. Desired.)

(The way Gluskin is looking at you right now...)

Fuck.

"If I made you a hat," Gluskin reiterates, managing to keep his voice smooth this time. There's still a note of anxious excitement that seeps into his tone. "You would accept it?"

You don't know. You just. You're panicking.

You force yourself to shrug. "Sure."

It's not like it could hurt. Maybe it will serve to remind you that Eddie Gluskin is a human being who is sorry, not someone who wants to hunt you down and mutilate you, not anymore—that was Murkoff's doing. And if the hat only makes you angry, you can always cut it to pieces, burn it.

Gluskin leans back, relief flooding into his posture. His steely blue eyes never leave you. “I would be delighted to do this for you.”

“Alright, I look forward to it then.” There is no real enthusiasm in your voice, just shock. A numb panic.

What did you just agree to?

(You agreed to see Gluskin again, at the very least, more contact with him, if he's going to deliver a hat to you. Fuck. Do you want that? Maybe. You don't know. These visits haven't been so bad. But...)

Gluskin doesn't seem to notice or care about your anxiety—he beams, smiling brighter than you've ever seen him smile. It's very different from the manic smiles that adorned him during the riot. “What about you?”

“Huh?”

“Hobbies, talents, interests? Surely there must be more to you than what I've seen on the news.”

What did the news paint you as? Software engineer, survivor, hero.

Is there anything else?

“I used to like...” Video games? Would a man Gluskin's age even know what those are? What else? Participating in tech related forums and reading children's books to your kids? Few of which you do anymore.

In the end, you just sigh, scrub your hands down your face.

“Your life has not been the same since the incident, has it?” Gluskin asks, much, much too perceptive. “That is most unfortunate. And again, unfair.”

Gluskin's life has only improved since the riot. Yours, however... well, no one needs a psychology degree to see what a mess you are.

The puffy, dark circles under your eyes. The scant, perpetual stubble. The wafts of wayward hair you cut haphazardly with the help of some dull scissors and the bathroom mirror.

Hell, you can only manage to do laundry and keep your apartment clean because if you don't the smell remind you of Mount Massive.

“I am very sorry.”

“You say that a lot, Gluskin.”

You're sick of hearing it. Tired mentally, physically. You lean forward, brace your elbows on your knees and bury your face in your hands.

“Unfortunately, it is the best I can do. There are only so many ways a man can express regret, verbally at least.” Gluskin pauses, hesitation audible. “Verbal apologies sound insufficient even to my own ears, you see. My true inclination is to express my regret through touch—a squeeze of your palm, my fingers caressing your face.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His words bring a phantom touch and your skin tingles beneath it.

You squeeze your eyes shut, heart racing with the knowledge that you've had conversation upon conversation with him in your head that sounded exactly like this. Something like forgiveness, something like care, something like coercion, something like safety, like lust, like anything but being maimed and killed.

You're glad your fingers are already obscuring your expression.

Maybe you are just desperate for companionship, maybe you just want to punish yourself, but god, it sounds nice. What he's saying sounds nice.

(What is wrong with you?)

“Words are often lacking,” Gluskin continues, voice barely above a whisper. “And touches... inappropriate. I am at a loss, I'm afraid.”

All you can do is breathe through your fingers. Rapid and terrified of your own inclination to take morbid comfort in his words.

“Your words aren't lacking,” you say, voice small and muffled through your fingers. Christ. You're on a downward spiral and you can't stop it. Engaging Gluskin like this is self-harm, and right now self-harm feels like the sweet relief of punishment deserved.

“What?”

“It's not lacking. What you just said. It was better than the apologies.” Your shock and apprehension must match his own expression. You feel like you're on the edge of a cliff, assessing the seawater below like it's a beautiful, elegant blade. “I liked hearing it.”

Silence. You listen hard, making sure your words don't prompt him to move towards you, to attempt to touch you. You don't want that. You... fuck, you don't know what you want.

But Gluskin's honesty feels good, vaguely alarming in a familiar, tactile way.

Straight out the door, two lefts, into the stairwell, down two flights of stairs, emergency exit door. If he tries to touch you, all you have to do is run.

When Gluskin finally speaks again, you jump. “When I first saw you the other day, standing behind that fence, hunched and staring—the wind tousling your hair... I wanted so badly to go to you. Curl my fingers through the chain-link. Reach out to you, feel the evidence of your existence. I wanted to hold you, envelop you in my arms and weep my regret into your shoulder.”

Whatever emotions you're feeling are so shaken together that they're unrecognizable. They're painful and overwhelming and threatening to spill out of you, too much for your chest to contain.

“Looking at you here before me now, trembling and hiding behind your fingers, I want to kneel at your feet, nuzzle your shaking knee and then kiss each of your knuckles until you pull your fingers away from that beautiful face.”

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You manage to look up at him through your fingers—your eyes are wet.

Gluskin is leaning forward, intense and serious and by all appearances sincere.

You feel sick. And.

Desperate to hear more.

You curl up. Double over against your knees. Hide your face again. Not caring how pathetic it looks.

(He shouldn't be telling you this. He should keep it to himself. He has to know it will likely scare you away. But he's being honest anyway. And it's... it's a relief.)

(Because.)

(You're not the only one. You're not the only one who can't stop thinking about things you shouldn't.)

(You're not the only one who's fucked up.)

(You're not so broken that no one wants to touch you ever again.)

“I want to press my forehead to yours, to look into your eyes, to let you know that I am sorry, communicate that to you with only my gaze and the weight of my hands in yours.” Gluskin's voice is thick, strained, and though you don't dare to confirm it with a look, the man must be close to tears. “I am so worried for you. So worried. I cannot bear to see you hurting like this. Please, look at me, scream at me, just please, do not let yourself hurt anymore.”

Let yourself hurt? Yeah. Yeah that is the definition of your fucking life.

You're just doing this to yourself.

It's all a series of walking yourself right into situations that you aren't fucking cut out for and don't want to be in.

You took the job, you sent the email, you went down into the vocational block, you keep having these fantasies about Gluskin, you chose to meet with him at MMSS. And right at this very moment you're latching on to the only shred of affection you'll probably ever get from another human being ever again.

Someone (Eddie fucking Gluskin) is expressing a desire to offer you affection, comfort, resolution.

And you're delirious with it.

(Powerful.)

Scrubbing your tired eyes one last time, you pull your hands away from your face and sit up straight, looking right at Gluskin, whose demeanor is nothing short of worried sick.

"I am so sorry," Gluskin says abruptly, breaking eye contact and staring up at the ceiling. "I shouldn't have continued saying those things—please, you should go. That was wrong. Inappropriate. We're strangers. That's not how one should want to comfort a stranger. I, I'm afraid I, I am clearly not ready to meet with you. That was awful. I am so ashamed for speaking to you that way—"

So he does know whatever he feels about you is illicit. Inappropriate. Wrong.

It would be sweet revenge to walk out right now, leave him to think that he scared you off with his lapse in containing the intrusive thoughts he knows shouldn't ever be spoken aloud.

Really it's a relief to know you're not the only one struggling. Not the only one ashamed of your own thoughts.

“Ever since the riot, I've been having dreams about you,” the words are harsh, meant to punish yourself, because you'd be ignorant to think that what you're about to say is going to hurt Gluskin. “Dreams where you fuck me on that goddamn buzz-saw table—where I beg you to do it, so that you won't hurt me.”

The shock on Gluskin's face—his stunned silence—it gives you way too much satisfaction.

The air in the room is suddenly suffocating, thick with tension. A quiet truth hangs overhead, a truth that you and Gluskin are both aware of—that these admissions are wrong, against the rules, probably undoing years of therapy for some sick urge to indulge the parts that won't heal.

“That sounds just awful. I'm terribly sorry—that must be very frightening for you.”

You listen for it, but there's no trace of self-satisfaction in his voice. Just pity. Only pity. Maybe horror.

“I think I like it, actually,” your words are dripping with the self-hatred you're deeply accustomed to. “Wake up with cum in my pants, more often than not. Sometimes just an erection—and most of the time I finish myself off.”

Your lack of filter adequately expresses how much you've given up—how little you give a shit anymore. You hope the explicitness of your words offends Gluskin, and judging by the intensity of his frown, he is offended.

Gluskin attempts to speak, and after a few dead syllables, he finally says, “Have you discussed this with your therapist?”

You don't know what you were expecting him to say, what you wanted him to say, but that wasn't it. “Of course I fucking have.”

“And yet these dreams persist?”

“Obviously.”

You left out the part where it's something you actively daydream about. Intentionally. How your mind wanders to it more often than not. How it's not just nightmares, not just some unconscious part of your mind throwing bad thoughts at you. It's more active than that, more intentional.

You comfort yourself with this lust, this fantasy, this power you imagine yourself having over Gluskin. The power to persuade, the power of something desired.

You're leaving out the worst part—you're sugarcoating it. Lying by omission. And still, Gluskin is horrified with this better, softer version of the truth.

Ha.

Hah.

You're laughing quietly. Biting your knuckles. Scrubbing your face. Looking across the room, anywhere but at Gluskin. Trying to breathe.

“Why do you indulge these dreams?” he asks, baffled. “They are clearly a great source of turmoil in your life—and yet you openly admit to indulging in them. Why do that to yourself?”

Why indulge the dreams? Why jump down the elevator shaft and fuck up your leg? Why jump out a two story window? Why do that to yourself?

“I'm not fucking doing this to myself!” You stand abruptly. Gluskin's eyes go wide, and his posture shifts, straightening and leaning away from you, as if you're the one who is a threat. “It's you—it's always been you. You're doing this to me! You asked me for help, to save you from the Engine,” somewhere in the back of your mind you remind yourself that you sent the email before Gluskin banged on the reinforced glass and begged you for help. “You asked me to be your bride, you told me you loved me, you gave me these fantasies, and now you're, you're—”

Well. Gluskin is well. Maybe it's not exactly the truth, maybe it's just they way you feel right now, but Gluskin seems to be doing so much better than you are. He seems much more stable than you feel.

“Mr. Park? Is everything alright?”

An orderly.

Shit. You were screaming. Of course one of the orderly outside would come in to check on you.

“Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, everything is fine.” You glance down at Gluskin, whose brows are knitted with more concern than he has any right feel. “Gluskin didn't do anything wrong, he didn't provoke me. I'm just not feeling well.”

Why do you feel the need to protect him? It's true that he didn't really do anything wrong, but you shouldn't care whether or not he gets punished unjustly.

“I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps you should come back when you're feeling a little better,” the orderly says, more order than suggestion. “I know Eddie really looks forward to these visits from you.”

Is the orderly really trying to guilt-trip you?

No, probably not. You're just, a bit touchy right now.

Still, it hurts that the orderly seems more protective of Gluskin than you.

But of course that's how it should be.

Gluskin is their patient. He's under their care.

You aren't.

You aren't under anyone's care.

Not even your own.

“Sorry for the ruckus,” you say, walking towards the door without another glance at Gluskin.

“No problem,” the orderly says, regarding you with more curiosity than anything else. “Feel better.”

The smile you give the orderly is forced, but it's all you can offer.

Straight out the door, two lefts, into the stairwell, down two flights of stairs, hesitate at the emergency exit door. You don't need to use it. Take a deep breath, exit the stairwell, down the hall on the right, through the lobby, into the parking lot and back to your car.

Safe.

Alone again, but safe.

Chapter Text

After your second meeting with Eddie Gluskin, the thoughts that keep you up at night are different for the first time in three years.

Unsolicited memories of what you witnessed at Mount Massive are typical. They are so expected that they hardly even frighten you anymore, just leave you with a wallowing bitterness and a sickness in your stomach.

The worst is when your mind races with a mixture of guilt and sleep deprivation, when all you can think about is how much you miss your boys, how much of their lives you're choosing to remove yourself from. Time you can never get back.

But they have Lisa. And her new husband.

You'll start visiting them again soon. You keep telling yourself that. Soon.

(It's been six months.)

Soon. If you can trust yourself not to scare them with your distant eyes, the way you jump at every little noise.

You don't want them to see you like this.

(You call your boys on the computer every night over a voice chat program, play games with them online. Online. Where they can't witness your inability to smile. Your nervous energy. It's still spending time with them. Being part of their lives in some small way—but it's not holding them. It's not seeing them every day.)

(It's not enough.)

(It's the best you can manage.)

The guilt involving Lisa has left you sleepless for record amounts of time. Your mind drowns in the depths of how you've hurt her, replays the look in her eyes when you recoiled from her touches, the shock and terror on her face when she surprised you with a hand on your shoulder and you shoved her away.

She forgives you for these things.

She understands that a handful of hours in Mount Massive made you this way.

But the guilt persists. If only, if only you hadn't let your trauma get to you so thoroughly.

Between the guilt and the memories and the hopelessness, sleep is simply not on the menu, more often than not. Hell, the last peaceful night of sleep you can remember having was when Gluskin had gassed you in that locker for, according to the gaps in your camcorder footage, twelve whole hours.

Now you lie awake in bed with the covers around your ankles, eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling, wondering what to make of your more recent interactions with Gluskin. The last visit had ended abruptly, and the more you try to imagine how another visit with him might go, the more you think that it's not a good idea to ever see Eddie Gluskin again. The way he spoke to you that last time... the way he described the gentle, apologetic way he would like to touch you—if it was allowed, appropriate...

It. It's been playing over and over in your head. Your imagination adds to his words, furthers the scenario, your memories from Mount Massive reminding you that you know what it feels like to have his hand running down your exposed thigh.

It's too easy to picture yourself closing the distance between you and him, in the recreation room of MMSS (not the vocational block of Mount Massive—thank god, not there). It's too easy to imagine your thighs straddling his, your mouth closing over his, your hands pinning his wrists down with a strength you do not possess.

In the back of your mind you're sure these thoughts are born of a need to have some semblance of control over your life—over your memories, your ghosts, Eddie Gluskin.

It's just... about control.

About needing control over Gluskin particularly.

(And who can blame you for wanting that control?)

So you should try to forgive yourself for the hardness in your boxers.

(Even if Lisa did blame you.)

(Even if you do blame yourself.)

The need to have Eddie Gluskin speechless and docile beneath you is a frantic one, but your fingers move slowly over your erection.

It's okay, you tell yourself. It's okay for you to think about this. It's okay, because it's not real. It's never going to be real.

(But it's not okay.)

(It's not, and you know it.)

* * *

You don't tell your therapist about the amount of time you've been spending thinking about Eddie Gluskin. The completely voluntary fantasies you've been indulging.

This is new for you, withholding information from your Dr. Everett—lying to her. You feel like you're betraying her, though you know she wouldn't agree with that analysis.

“How much do you know about Gluskin?” you ask, perhaps a little too quickly into the session on Friday. It's been a week and a handful of hours since you've last seen Eddie Gluskin.

“Eddie Gluskin? Just about as much as everyone else, I suppose.”

You fidget, wind a loose string on your sweater around your finger until it hurts, unwind the string when your skin floods purple in protest. “No, I mean, stuff that those shitty documentaries and biographies don't know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Progress report stuff, I guess.”

“You want to know how his therapy is going?” She tilts her head. “You've seen for yourself.”

Is she avoiding the question? Why would she do that?

No, you're just being paranoid.

Of course she can't talk about confidential patient stuff. It's unprofessional.

Casual, you need to be casual. “Just wondering if he's genuine about being sorry, that's all. While I was running for my life, I came across a lot of documents and notes scattered around Mount Massive. Read them while hiding in lockers and under tables. It helped to calm me down.”

God, that sounds pathetic.

“I do recall you mentioning this a few times.”

“Yeah, well, one of them was about Gluskin. A psychiatric report. It said he just told doctors what he thought they wanted to hear.”

“You're worried that he's fooling everyone, presently?”

You shrug, look away. It sounds so silly when she puts it like that.

(And how cruel is it for you to trust the psychiatric reports written by Murkoff's awful, abusive doctors, anyway?)

(Of course Gluskin was resistant to their therapy—they tortured their patients on purpose. Sexually abused them. God knows what else.)

“You mentioned in our last session that you might want to be Gluskin's friend, and that it disturbs you that you're feeling this way.”

You refuse to look at her. Then nod.

“As we've touched on before, forgiveness is a difficult thing, and it can often feel like forgiving someone trivializes what they've done to you.”

You almost want to forgive him just to give yourself another reason to wallow in self-pity.

Because what would Lisa think, what would the world think—to know you've forgiven the likes of Eddie Gluskin?

They would probably think you should be locked up in a mental hospital, too.

“But forgiveness can also be incredibly healing, when the person who perpetrated these wrongs against you is genuinely sorry for what they have done.”

Is that even possible, for a man like Gluskin? To be genuinely sorry? The way he spoke to you during those two visits... there wasn't a trace of deception.

Maybe he's just a good liar.

“You're concerned that his intentions are to manipulate you? What do you think he stands to gain from this?”

It's an honest question, but it makes you see red. “Oh, I don't know—some sick pleasure from screwing with other people's lives? Another chance to grind off my genitals? To make me his wife?”

There's a pause, and then Dr. Everett says, “What else did the Murkoff psychiatric reports you read say about him?”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“Just humor me for a moment.”

You glare at the wall for a second, pretend like you don't have the details memorized. “Something about not admitting to the doctors that he ever killed those women before Mount Massive—even when shown their pictures. Something about fabricating his childhood.”

Dr. Everett frowns. "We're both familiar with Gluskin's history, to some extent. Yes?"

Of course you are. The crimes that landed Gluskin in a mental hospital in the first place were famous, as far as murder cases go. Even though he only murdered two women, the postmortem mutilation involved was gruesome enough that the case gained some amount of notoriety. Not that you were old enough at the time it occurred to hear about it on live news. It's just one of those thing you learn about in passing, eventually: that guy that sewed corpses into lampshades in some small town.

You turn back to Dr. Everett when she leans over to fold her arms on her desk, her knit cardigan bunching around her elbows. "If I remember correctly, Gluskin plead not-guilty by reason insanity at his initial hearing—which legally entails that he admitted that he committed the criminal act."

And of course the law found him not-guilty by reason insanity, or else he would have been confined to a prison and not a mental hospital.

It makes sense that Gluskin would have to admit that the women were dead and he killed them in order to plead that it was the fault of a mental illness.

You feel like a little kid who has just been given what they want after throwing a tantrum. It's not satisfying. "So. You're suggesting that I shouldn't believe what I read in the reports I found in Mount Massive?"

Dr. Everett hums thoughtfully. "We have many of those reports on record here for various patients—but we have never given the word of Murkoff Psychiatric employees, including anything written in their reports, any credibility beyond proof of the abuse they caused their patients."

Ouch.

That stings.

You... you knew, basically—that, that, you shouldn't trust a report you found in Mount Massive.

Why was it difficult to dismiss it?

Why do you want to believe that Gluskin was always a difficult patient?

Dr. Everett's certainty in the insidious and untrustworthy nature of the Murkoff doctors is like a slap in the face—she trusts the Mount Massive patients over the Murkoff doctors, when you were having doubts.

And you actually experienced the abuse of the Murkoff doctors first hand. The man named Andrew hitting you—licking your face. Enjoying himself while doing it.

(If that's what you endured during two minutes of consciousness with the Murkoff's doctors—what did a patient like Gluskin go through daily? For years?)

Shame crashes through you. Colors your face. It's well deserved.

"S-so he admits it, then? Now?"

Why does it matter? He still killed two women before Murkoff ever got their hands on him.

Even if you can blame his actions in Mount Massive on the Morphogenic Engine, the abuse, it doesn't make up for what he did to land him in a mental hospital in the first fucking place.

Dr. Everett sighs, smile rueful. "I can't speak much on the subject due to patient confidentially—but I can tell you that his privilege level here at MMSS would not be so high if he was in denial about the crimes he has committed."

So, that's basically a yes, then. Gluskin. Owns up to his crimes now. Probably already did in whatever mental hospital he was in before he was transferred to Mount Massive, too.

"If you remain in contact with Gluskin, he may be able to answer some of these questions himself. Though, I would suggest you don't probe if there are signs of a negative response."

If you remain in contact with Gluskin.

The words echo in your head, repeat, overlap, disorient you.

She says that as though it would be perfectly normal to keep visiting Gluskin. As if it's not disgusting and illicit. Like she would support your decision if you wanted to see him again.

"God, I feel so bad," you groan, tent your hands over your mouth. Try to breathe, try to let some of the anxiety go. "Why did I believe what the Murkoff doctors wrote about him? About anyone?"

"Barring his crimes against you personally, Gluskin is a murderer. He killed two women. Is it so surprising that it's easy to believe something negative about him?"

"Yeah but—" you gesture at nothing, trying to find the words. "Those Murkoff doctors were criminals too. One of them fucking licked me!"

That last part comes out a bit hysterical, but Dr. Everett only smiles, amused by your enthusiasm.

"It's difficult, with things like this," she says, adjusting her overlarge glasses, which are translucent pink plastic against her dark brown skin. "I've seen you go through it over the years—having difficulty viewing the patients who attacked you as either all good or all bad."

You sink lower in your chair, exhale.

"Do you think it helps you to view Gluskin as either only someone deserving of pity or only someone terrible?"

The answer is so obvious it's basically a rhetorical question. “No.” The short answer feels unhelpful, so you add, “How can I look at all he's done and not hate him?”

(How can you look at all that's been done to him and still hate him?)

(Either way it's difficult.)

You aren't entirely clear on the details of his crimes before Mount Massive, only that he mutilated the women, dressed them in his late mother's clothes, dyed their hair, tried to re-sculpt their faces. Strung their corpses up in his house. Apparently it made him feel safe to have them there.

The crimes were motivated my misogyny his mother and sexually abusive father and uncle had instilled in him; that much is common knowledge.

You have no idea why he did something like this. Hardly anyone who is sexually abused by their relatives goes on to murder someone. There is no correlation. But...

“Just to put things into perspective, you didn't seem to hate Gluskin much last week, after your meeting with him, and you've witnessed him committing more than enough gruesome acts to deserve your hatred.”

She's right. The murders of the two women are terrifying, yes, but he didn't torture those women. Death was instantaneous, and all mutilation occurred postmortem.

In the vocational block of Mount Massive, he'd carved people up alive. So many people.

You witnessed this. Endured it. Were a victim of it.

So why, when you think about the possibility of continuing to stay in contact with Eddie Gluskin, do his crimes before Mount Massive bother you more?

(There was no Morphogenic Engine to cause an other-worldly hysteria when he murdered those women.)

“I'm not suggesting that you should forgive him, Waylon. Or even continue contact. It's up to you where you go from here.”

“It's just all so fucked up. I don't think there is a correct way to think about this. I've tried, I've tried.”

“There often isn't. In situations of common domestic abuse, outsiders often wonder why the abused partner doesn't leave their abuser. And this is why: things are not black and white." She spins her wedding-ring in thought, as she often does. "Life isn't always clear-cut, and even the worst criminals don't live violent lives all of the time. Most of the time they lead lives similar to the rest of the population. This false notion that people who commit crimes are always cruel, can make it difficult for victims to understand that their loved ones are the boogeyman they've been warned about."

"I don't know if it's worth it. To keep seeing him. Do people like that get better?"

Dr. Everett lifts her hands, motions them up and down like a scale. "There have absolutely been successful cases of reformed criminals of all varieties. Even those who have been convicted of comparatively worse crimes than Gluskin. It is more than possible. However, these situations are difficult, and it's up to you to decide whether or not you can accept someone who has committed atrocities, even if they never re-offend."

She's right. Of course she's right.

It's just... you don't know. You don't know what the right answer is.

And it's not like you're going be his friend. Or anything. It's just, the visits with Gluskin are helping you, you think. You don't know.

The visits with Gluskin aren't hurting you, probably. And when everything in your life hurts constantly, all the time, an aching, dull throb of grief...

Anything that doesn't hurt is...

Well, it has to be good? Right? Maybe?

Tentatively, you ask, mouth dry and voice wavering, “Can I go visit Gluskin anytime I want?”

“Without scheduling an appointment? I don't see why not,” she replies, nonplussed by the subject change. “He never gets any visitors, as far as I know.”

'I know you’re lonely like I am. Don’t you want love? A family?'

Those had been Gluskin's gentle, coaxing words as he searched for you through the rows of sewing tables.

Those words hadn't gotten to you, back then.

(You had a family.)

(Lisa. The boys.)

(You couldn't relate to Gluskin's aggressive, all-consuming loneliness.)

But remembering those words now...

Well, things are different now.

Chapter Text

You schedule the next appointment with Eddie rather than show up unprompted, because you know he may not want to see you at all after your second meeting, when you yelled at him, startled him.

But he agrees through his therapist, and he's waiting for you in that empty recreation room again. The orderlies are positioned outside the doors like last time, and you manage a shaky smile as you pass them.

(And then you're alone in the room with Gluskin. Again.)

You can't look at him even as you plop down on the opposite couch. Coffee table in between. You can easily run if you need to.

It's been over a week since your second visit with him.

Gluskin's dressed in casual clothing. Well, as casual as one can be in slacks and a dress shirt. Does he always wear such formal clothing, or is it just a gimmick for your visits? You're inclined to think he probably does dress like this all the time.

After all, he did make himself proper wedding attire during the riot.

With only a handful of hours of freedom from the doctors, the Engine's restraints, his cell—freedom for the first time probably since his young adulthood—Eddie chose to stitch himself up a fitted vest and matching gloves.

Did he sew his outfit before or after he did all the slaughtering? Probably before. Something about that is amusingly predictable; a personality trait that outweighs the violent tendencies. Tailor before murderer.

“I'm really sorry about last time,” you blurt embarrassingly quick without a proper greeting. Just jumping right into the awkward conversation. No use pretending you're capable of having anything other than an awkward conversation with this man. “I shouldn't have shouted at you. I was overwhelmed.”

“Nonsense,” Gluskin replies easily, tone too carefree to settle your nerves. “No need to apologize to me.”

That doesn't make you feel better. Anger flares. Again. So readily. You promised yourself you wouldn't get angry this time.

“Gluskin. I told you I have sexual fantasies about you, it has to be bad for your recovery to hear something like that. Just accept my apology, please.” He's staring at you curiously, silent, so you add, “Or don't accept it. Just, don't act like what I did was okay.”

“You sound so desperate,” he says, all knitted brows and sympathy, hands folded docile on his lap. “It's unbecoming. I won't stand for it. You've done nothing wrong.”

“I yelled at you!” your words are practically growled. Where is your patience? What made you think you'd be able to stay calm around this man?

Gluskin cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders. Patience in excess. “It is hardly wrong to get something so destructive off of your chest. I'm delighted you told me.”

Delighted.

He's delighted you told him about your sexual fantasies involving the trauma he inflicted on you.

Delighted.

“Of course you are.”

“Hm? Oh.” Gluskin frowns through a sheepish sort of surprise. “I assure you I meant I was delighted solely that you confided in me, not by—ah, the subject matter which you confided.”

“Right.”

Gluskin sure is doing a lot of work to dance around the sexual nature of your confession. He was so unabashed during the riot, cooing about filling you up while you cowered under tables, hand clamped over your mouth to staunch your breath. How dare he avoid explicit topics now?

“Truly,” he shifts in discomfort, looking one moment away from rushing forward to punctuate his sincerity by clasping your hand. “I find the nature of your confession rather repulsive.”

Repulsive.

He finds you repulsive.

(Lisa found this repulsive, too.)

(You find it repulsive.)

Gluskin's disgust feels too absurdly like rejection.

What's wrong with you? What would Gluskin even be rejecting? Maybe he's rejecting you. Wholly. As a human being. Everyone else has, or will eventually. Why shouldn't Eddie Gluskin have the right to reject you as well?

Something about it seems unfair. Like he shouldn't be allowed to deny you anything, after what he's done.

(Maybe that's what makes these visit bizarrely alluring—the fact that Eddie Gluskin has no right to judge you.)

(But he is judging you...)

You try to hinder your building anxiety with even breaths.

“It frightens me that you've been feeling this way,” Gluskin continues, probably because you're not speaking. “That you've been caught up on these gruesome imaginings. Of course what you admitted disgusts me.”

What right does he have to be disturbed by your fantasies, after what he put you through—when he's the reason your desire to use lust as a means of reining control exists at all?

He's responsible for the total and utter decimation of your confidence in yourself to control your surroundings, your fate, your autonomy. So how can he be disturbed by the way you've been coping with these losses?

“Thanks,” you say, angry, frozen in place with your arms folded protectively across your body, eyes on your bouncing knee. “Really, just—thanks for that.”

This time, Eddie is the one that sounds desperate. “Waylon Park, I think we may be having communication difficulties, just now. Let me rephrase—what I mean is, simply that...”

Your fingers tighten on your arm until it hurts, bracing yourself for whatever callous thing that's going to come out of his mouth next.

“I have been very glad, these past years, that I didn't...” he pauses and for some god forsaken reason that makes you look at him. He looks positively wracked by nerves. He lowers his voice for his next words, “It's a small blessing to me, that I did not rape you. Or any of the others.”

Your eyes sting with tears until you can't force yourself not to blink anymore and they roll hot down your face.

Rape.

He could very well have raped you. As much as it helps you cope to think you may have been able to control the situation with sex, to control Eddie with his predisposition for lust under the Engine's influence... it...

Even if it had been you initiating, you instigating the sex, it would have been rape.

Absolutely.

Because having one singular maybe-option for surviving that hell (seducing Eddie Gluskin, seducing Eddie Gluskin, seducing Eddie Gluskin) isn't really a choice at all.

No choice, no consent.

Rape.

“For so long, I've been telling myself that I could have had more control over the situation, over you, if I had manipulated you with sex, since that's something you seemed... motivated by.” You wipe at your wet eyes with the back of your hand while Eddie watches you like he's on standby, ready to leap into action and assist you at your command. What could he even assist you with? What could he possibly do to help you? “I've thought about it every single day for the past three years. Thought about what would have happened if I had begged you to have sex with me on that buzz-saw table, if it would have distracted you from the more permanent violence you intended. Because if that other patient hadn't showed up at that exact moment... I'd be...”

Dead. You would be dead. Maybe you should have died there.

It's difficult. So difficult.

To admit to yourself that you would have died that night. For sure.

That there wasn't a single thing you could have done to save yourself.

It was a fluke that another patient showed up to distract Gluskin.

Random chance.

That's why... that's why you've been thinking that... maybe if that patient never showed up to accidentally save you. You could have propositioned Gluskin, loud and factitious over the sound of the saw. Begged him for sex.

Anything. Something.

It's the only thing you can think of that might have distracted him from your murder.

Gluskin bites his lip as he studies you, his breath quick enough to betray a subtle nervousness. "If you had attempted to reason with me or seduce me in some way while I was under the Engine's influence, I may have responded simply by killing you faster. Mutilating you quicker.” He looks right at you as he says this. You don't know how he can.

That's...

What you need to hear, probably. But. It's terrifying. It's fucking terrifying to know that.

That there was really nothing you could have done to save yourself.

As soon as you were caught—tied down to that table, saw whirring between your legs...

You were dead.

You almost died.

You came so close to dying.

It doesn't feel real.

Of course you could have died a million times escaping Mount Massive—but running, hiding, that's not as concrete. Not as. Solid.

Factual.

It's fact that you would have died to Gluskin's saw, if it wasn't for a complete fucking fluke.

“It helps hearing you say that. It does," you tell him, because your whole body is shaking and you need to say something, anything. "But... I liked it, all these years, thinking that you might have been swayed by some sort of begging or love declaration. I liked it a lot. The thought that I might have been able to have some control over you, even if I had to use sex to get that control. I liked it.”

You've literally gotten off on it. You told him as much last visit. You can't say it again.

You're admitting awful, intrusive thoughts that should never see the light of day. And it's easy, so easy to say these things out loud when you don't really care about your own life anymore. When the sting of saying them feels sinfully good in how much it harms you with humiliation.

“Waylon Park, I have to ask you to please believe what I'm about to say, even if you believe nothing else.” He holds your wet gaze with such intensity that you find it hard to function. “If you had attempted to sway me with some manner of seduction... And if I had, in my mania, complied with that scenario... I would not have been able to live with myself these past three years, knowing I had raped you. Without doubt, I would not be here today.”

You look away. Bite your cheek, focus on the pain to staunch the next round of tears.

Gluskin sounds so sure. So sure that he would have killed himself upon recovery form the Morphogenic Engine's effects. You know that particular brand of certainty too well.

“The mania was not me, so much as a ghastly, cartoonish version of me forced into reality by the Engine, as I pray you are aware.” He waits for some indication that you understand, so you nod. “Therefore I cannot say for certain what I would have done if you had attempted seduction. But I can say it would have likely resulted in your death no matter what. I—” he pauses, looks you over for a long time. Lowers his voice. “You saw the gymnasium. It was senseless.”

It was. It makes you sick that he thinks so too. It's laughable. You can almost see the imaginary headline, the click-bait: Actual Serial Killer Disturbed by What He Finds Himself Capable of After Murkoff's Treatment.

Ha.

“But, yes. I cannot bear the thought that I might have raped you, even if what that place turned me into was not exactly myself. I can't bear the thought, Waylon. So forgive me. Yes, your confession disturbs me.”

You feel ashamed for questioning it before, for feeling hurt, for thinking how dare he be disturbed by this.

You're humbled, and suddenly shying away, wishing you hadn't come to visit Gluskin again.

You're just fucking things up. Probably messing with his recovery, to keep coming back to have these stressful conversations with him. You ruin everything you touch.

It's easy to see why Gluskin would blanch at the knowledge that the Engine influenced him to sexually abuse others. (Why wouldn't he be terrorized by knowing his crimes could have easily been worse?) Gluskin himself was severely sexually abused as a child, probably worse than the media knows. His crimes before Mount Massive weren't sexually motivated—they apparently happened under some sort schizophrenic psychosis that a court of law decided made him not guilty by reason of insanity.

The Engine made Gluskin sexually violent when he had not been before.

The Engine made Eddie Gluskin's worst fears a reality.

The Engine made hell a reality for everyone it could reach.

“I understand why you wouldn't want to have done that to someone,” you say eventually, sounding even meeker than you feel. “I know what happened with your father and uncle, I...”

Gluskin takes advantage of your floundering to cut in, “Whatever you know of that, please do your best to forget. I don't want to discuss it with you. I don't want to taint the image you have of me more than it already is. Please, allow me this courtesy.”

Wow. That. You do your best to squelch any desire to be offended by that. The shut-down of that subject was so quick he might as well have snapped it closed in your face.

You want to yell at him. To tell him that knowing about his childhood sexual abuse will never, ever contribute to tainting your image of him. How could it? Other things, yes, but that? Never.

Eddie Gluskin has the right to privacy, even if that right feels absurdly undeserved when he's stripped you naked and bound you to a table. So you can't be angry with him. But you are. A little.

“I'm sorry,” you manage, when you trust your voice to not betray your disgruntlement.

“No need.”

He's claiming to forgive you, but he's not offering any more conversation, so what you brought up must really be bad. Shit. He's disassociating, maybe, no longer looking at you, his eyes instead glued to his fingers in his lap.

“Thanks, uh, for meeting with me again,” you try. “I thought maybe you wouldn't want to after I got upset last time.”

You can't believe you care.

(You worry he might not want to see you again after today, either.)

What would you even talk about with him, now that this horrid baggage is off the table? What's left?

“To be frank, I was awfully distraught when you failed to return for a whole week. I was quite literally pacing over it, wondering what I should do, wondering if you needed assurance that I wasn't bothered by your shouting.”

Your lips quirk involuntarily at that. Sick relief. “What would you have done to reassure me?”

“I wrote you a letter, actually. To be delivered to your therapist, of course, and passed over at their discretion.” He sounds almost embarrassed.

You raise your eyebrows.

“Never worked up the nerve to hand it over, I'm afraid. Thought it might be unwelcome.”

At least he's in touch with reality enough to know that unprompted contact from him might alarm you. “Can I read it?”

He blinks. “I have it with me, today, actually.”

“Gimme.”

He snorts at that, somehow, probably because of the informality. You feel proud of yourself.

“Here we are,” he shifts to pull the sealed letter from the pocket of his slacks. He slides it across the coffee table instead of handing it to you, and you reach for it, thankful for the small mercy of not having to risk brushing fingers during the exchange.

You open it, and it reads:

Waylon Park,

Visit anytime. I understand aggression, frustration.
I know what it's like to not have anyone to confide in.
I am here for that, for you. If you would like that.
I would take our last encounter tenfold.

No worries,
Eddie.

It's... concise. And.

Traumatic.

You read it again. Fingers shaking. Body shaking.

You should probably leave.

“Waylon?”

Lisa told you she couldn't do it.

She couldn't take care of you.

She wasn't equipped to deal with the emotional outbursts. The anger. The frustration. You would find someone who was equipped to deal with your fragile emotional state, your broken existence, she assured you of that. It just wasn't her, she said, unfortunately, it wasn't her.

Something tells you Lisa didn't have Eddie fucking Gluskin in mind when she said you would find someone willing to be there for you. Willing to be your emotional crutch. Your support system.

But Eddie's the only one who has ever offered themselves up as a sacrifice to your self-destructive post Mount Massive wake.

Eddie Gluskin.

(Not Lisa, not Lisa.)

“Thank you,” you say, voice barely there. You should tell him that the letter means something to you. But maybe it doesn't. Maybe it just disturbs you to know that this man is claiming to be here for you in a way your wife—ex-wife, couldn't be. After nine years of marriage. “Thank you for showing me that—I, need to go.”

And you do go, standing abruptly, leaving abruptly. Again. Abandoning Gluskin to confusion and worry.

(And he's probably lying about even possessing emotions at all so what should you care?)

What should you care, what should he care, what should Lisa care?

You're responsible for yourself. Lisa wasn't responsible for you. Couldn't be. Didn't want to be. You thought—you were partners, you were married, but, in the end, both you and she were individuals and. And individuals are only responsible for themselves.

And you don't care much for yourself at all.

Chapter Text

Here's where the shame starts:

Armed with the knowledge that the gore splattering the basement is some sick, swollen cacophony of internalized homophobia, you...

Well.

You seduce Eddie Gluskin into self-acceptance.

He doesn't pull your groin towards a buzz saw.

He doesn't hit you.

You don't laugh at his dying form.

He fucks you, he likes you.

He doesn't hurt you.

Doesn't kill you.

Except it wouldn't have worked.

Gluskin himself told you so just yesterday.

Playing into his delusion in Mount Massive wouldn't have spared your life and even if it had you wouldn't feel any better about it than what actually happened.

(You debug the code that starts the machine that Eddie is dragged to, kicking and screaming the word rape – Eddie bleeds down the beam, presumed dead – you laugh, sweet relief).

But you still feel the shame of wishing it had happened the way you've been fantasizing.

(It's terror to know that you had absolutely no control over your fate.)

(You came so close to dying at the hands of Murkoff, at their hands guiding Eddie Gluskin's hands.)

(You still get off on these fantasies even after your last conversation with Gluskin.)

In the morning, when you spill your shame into your fingers, for the first time you don't curl up and cry. Instead, you get out of bed and wash the cum from your hand in the bathroom sink.

'You don't deserve to feel guilty, Waylon. Not for any of this. That man deserved to die.'

Surely Lisa was right. You've known that, all these years, but—you don't feel it. You feel like you should have done something else (seduce Eddie Gluskin into self-acceptance, seduce Eddie Gluskin into self-acceptance, seduce Eddie Gluskin into self-acceptance).

But apart from the menagerie of guilt involving your participation in maintaining the Morphogenic Engine—what's really been bothering you is an entirely different beast.

You've been in denial about how little agency you had that night.

It's denial of the highest order, to think that seducing Eddie Gluskin would have saved you.

After emotionally processing all of your visits with Eddie Gluskin, you can't help but feel like apologizing to him—admitting to him your responsibility for the role you played in his torture at the hands of Murkoff.

It's the least you can do.
Gluskin has helped you come to terms with your denial about how close you came to dying that night in the vocational block.

Your employment at Murkoff inadvertently harmed all of the patients at Mount Massive. That was easy to come to terms with. To forgive yourself for.

But Eddie. Eddie personally begged you for help and instead you ran the code that started his torture device. (You laughed at his unconscious, bleeding body.)

For years you told yourself (and let others tell you) that Gluskin doesn't deserve pity. He was a murderer before he ended up in Mount Massive, after all. But you know better. You knew better. You saw his state both before and during the riot. The difference was night and day.

The Morphogenic Engine was influencing him heavily that night. No doubt about it.

You've wasted so much time telling yourself that he deserved worse than he got, while at the same time fantasizing about your encounter with him running much more smoothly—leaving you less guilty.

Less guilty. But.

Gluskin made it clear yesterday that you wouldn't have been left undamaged in your fantasy version of events. At best you would have exited Mount Massive raped in addition to everything else.

Less guilty, more damaged.

Less guilty, more damaged.

(But also alive. And by your own doing.)

You don't deserve to have left the riot damaged any further. That's what Lisa, Dr. Everett, (Eddie Gluskin) will tell you.

But you didn't deserve to leave with the guilt either (you enter the code; you laugh).

The terror (there was nothing you could have done to save your own life).

You scrub your face with palms full of sink-water, stare into the mirror at the sleepless nights painted under your puffy eyes.

You should apologize to Eddie Gluskin for the role you played as a Mount Massive employee. Eventually.

The Eddie Gluskin at MMSS resembles the Eddie Gluskin that banged on the glass and begged you for help... and it's been revealing a clearer picture of what happened to you in Mount Massive. He was lucid when he begged you for help. He was deep in psychosis and delusion during the riot.

Why had you been so sure (why had Lisa been so sure) that the monsters you met during the riot existed before the Morphogenic Engine's influence?

So many years have been wasted in a mist of cognitive dissonance, unable to reconcile the difference between the man who begged for help and the man who tried to mutilate you.

It had been so easy to listen to everyone's advice, to believe Eddie Gluskin was the same monster from start to finish—that screaming rape in the Morphogenic Engine Chamber had just been an elaborate ruse to manipulate you.

How selfish are you, to believe that?

Selfish enough to not want to be sorry for entering that code.

(But you are sorry.)

What Gluskin did to you in that basement was cruel. What you did to him in that Morphogenic Engine monitoring room was cruel.

Maybe it wasn't the same cruelty. You don't know. You were a victim of Murkoff. So was he.

What's left for you now that you've all but apologized to Gluskin? Is that all you need, one more visit to tell him you regret having worked for Murkoff, even if they did metaphorically have a gun to your head?

One more visit, an apology from you this time—and that's it, you never have to see Gluskin again.

Gluskin knows your experience in Mount Massive intimately. That's undeniable. Even Dr. Everett, who has read all of the files and overseen the cases of every patient at MMSS, doesn't know what you went through as well as Gluskin does. Is that why you want to see him again? Some unsightly connection to the other man—a disturbing debt you both feel you owe to one another?

Eddie Gluskin is surely different than he was during the riot, but that doesn't mean he's a good or honest person now. It doesn't mean he was a good person before the Morphogenic Engine temporarily made him a real monster, either.

Still.

You get dressed and leave the house to go see him.

* * *

You don't have an appointment.

It only takes an awkward conversation with a receptionist before you're making your way to a recreation room in one of the patient wards, a visitor badge pinned to your chest. You've never been very spontaneous, and visiting Gluskin unprompted is certainly adventurous by your measure.

The halls of MMSS are closer to that of a hospital than those of Mount Massive, and the modern clinical feel is comforting. You never want to see a dilapidated building ever again.

You find the recreation room easily enough; there are no orderlies at the doors, they must be inside. A large horizontal picture window lends visibility inside the room, so you stop and observe.

(Maybe this is better, just watching through the window. You don't have to go inside.)

The room is filled with patients crowding around a television set, playing card games, reading, socializing. It doesn't take long to spot Gluskin, alone in a corner, fingers tangled in a ball of yarn.

There is no one else around him, which is a stark contrast to the rest of the patients, who are in groups or pairs. There are even two men huddled up on one of the couches, reading the same book. Companionship must be something valued here, when Mount Massive and the Engine had kept everyone so isolated.

And then there's Eddie Gluskin, alone in an armchair, looking positively cozy with a blanket around his shoulders, yarn pooling at his feet.

The yarn isn't even the worst part. He appears to be wearing socks and slippers with his dark trousers, sweater vest and dress shirt.

Socks and slippers.

(Socks and slippers!)

Where are the patients you saw Gluskin with a few weeks ago in the yard?

The fucker is probably too snobby to interact with most of the other patients. Either that, or he's too damn intimidating. But maybe not. You have seen the man act amicably towards others—smile warmly and treat conversation partners like they're the only ones in the room.

(You've only seen him act that way towards you.)

(It might just be you he treats so hospitably.)

(Only you.)

(Is it only you?)

Gluskin seems so serious, so dangerous, even covered in brightly colored yarn.

Should you go talk to him? Sit on the floor by his armchair and look up at him expectantly? Surprise him with your presence—gauge his reaction?

It had been fine meeting with Gluskin alone, but there are so many people around now.

(Will he be embarrassed to be seen with you, in front of the other patients?)

You tear your eyes away from Gluskin. It's much too awkward. You can't go in there.

That's when you see him.

Frank Manera.

The Cook.

Playing chess of all things with another patient.

No matter how hard you squint across the recreation room from your vantage point on the other side of the window, the chess board looks completely intact. In Mount Massive nothing was whole, only broken remains of scuffed furniture, clutter and debris.

Are you allowed to be in the same room with Frank? Will he even recognize you?

Surprisingly you find you're not really afraid of him, not without his hand-held buzz saw. Which surprises you, considering the large scars you have from the times you had to push past him down narrow hallways. Besides, it's not like there are any ovens around here, open and waiting.

Was it just a clerical error, that you were permitted to visit the same area Frank happened to be in—or had the staff that issued the visitor's badge known that Frank would be here as well?

With how thorough the staff at MMSS tend to be (have to be), you can only assume that Frank is harmless now.

Without a plan and entirely unsure of what you want to get out of the interaction, you steel yourself and open the door to the recreation room.

There are a few whispers from the patients that turn to look at you, and you swear you hear 'The Bride' and 'The Whistleblower' hissed excitedly from some of the patients gathered around the television. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Eddie Gluskin look up from his yarn, expression priceless.

You get way too much pleasure from studiously ignoring him, instead making your way to the two men across the room playing chess.

You approach from behind; Frank's chess opponent is the first to see you. The bespectacled man looks up, double takes, and then quickly hides a grin behind his hand. He clearly knows who you are—which you guess isn't surprising considering your fame among the patients and their families.

The name-tag sewn onto the man's patient uniform reads: Trager.

"What?" Frank grunts in his opponent's direction, voice gruff in a way that takes you right back to the winding halls of Mount Massive. The shrill whir of the saw echoing down the narrow hallways, the sound following you, crashing around you like a flood of rushing water.

"Nothing!" Trager's voice betrays his attempt to hide his amusement behind his fingers.

Frank still hasn't noticed you hovering behind him.

You raise an eyebrow when Trager's gaze flicks up to you. The man thinks your presence is funny—and you're not sure if he's laughing at your impending misfortune or Frank's—either way, it's making you nervous.

Maybe this isn't such a good idea.

"Seriously, what the hell is your problem, Rick?" Frank demands.

"Whoa there, no need for the hostility, buddy." Trager laces his fingers together on the table. His grin is wide with child-like amusement. "I'm not laughing at you."

Frank scoffs. "You expect me to believe that? Who else would put that cocky grin on your face?"

A sense of foreboding falls over you as Trager seems to chuckle to himself before his eyes snap up to you.

"Just a word of advice—you might wanna step back, sweetheart."

It takes you a moment to realize Trager is talking to you. Before you have time to react, Frank whips around in his chair and stares, his eyes skimming over you frantically from head to toe.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

That is not a look of guilt, or remorse—though it is certainly a look of recognition.

(It's most similar to the hunger you saw in his eyes back in Mount Massive.)

Shit shit shit.

Trager laughs wildly, not an insane laugh, but the kind that results from amusement at one's own joke.

You remember Trager's advice to step back right as Frank begins to rise from his chair, eyes locked on your face.

You've miscalculated. Frank doesn't need his buzz-saw. He has fingernails and teeth and he's going to rip out your jugular and drain your blood into a boiling pot. He's going to kill you right here and now.

Frank is so much taller than you, even with his shoulders hunched slightly with bad posture. He's gripping the back of his chair with white knuckles, eyes intense and gaze frantic above his trimmed beard.

His pallor is draining right before your eyes.

Whatever reaction he's having to you, it's strong.

Heart pounding and breath coming in short gasps, you jump away, pressing yourself up against the wall, eyes darting around for a place to hide.

The couch, the desk—there are so many obstacles between you and the door. You didn't think this through. Across the room, Gluskin has gotten to his feet, though he is only hovering nervously a distance away.

Gluskin. Gluskin will protect you. He's sorry. He owes you. Even if he's not genuine about his regret—he'll save you just to manipulate you into some sort of fucked up friendship. He'll do it. He'll help. Just like he helps in your fantasies, protects you in exchange for your devotion.

When Frank pushes past you, your shriek is instinctual. "Gluskin!"

It only takes a few seconds to realize that your embarrassing call for help is unwarranted: Frank rushes right past you, ignoring you completely, stumbling all the way across the room until he crashes into a trash bin, burying his face in it and retching.

"Perhaps you should invest in a paper bag for that face of yours, it's makin' people sick," Trager says, conversationally.

You tear your eyes away from Frank and try to unglue yourself from the wall.

(You can't move.)

When you only stare at him, chest heaving, Trager laughs, "Oh come on, I'm just joshin' with ya. Can't take a joke? Fineeee."

Who the hell is this Trager guy? He doesn't seem the least bit concerned with Frank's bizarre reaction, with your obvious distress.

The orderlies aren't concerned either, from the looks of it, they are only watching curiously from their positions by the doors.

"Don't mind Frank," Trager continues. "That's just a side-effect of the aversion therapy."

Frank is still hunched over the trashcan across the room, puking his guts out.

"Aversion therapy?" you ask, voice weak.

"Yeah! The only thing that worked in regards to his, uh, cuisine preferences," Trager looks positively overjoyed to be reciting his knowledge about another patient's therapy. Are he and Frank friends, or is he only spouting common knowledge? "They use the same type of therapy on kiddos who suck their thumbs—or people who want to rid themselves of bad habits like nail-biting. Interesting stuff, huh?"

You've heard of that—habits like thumb-sucking can be broken by putting something that tastes terrible on a child's thumb; after a while they'll begin to associate the bad taste with the action. Is Trager saying they did something similar to quell Frank's cannibalistic urges?

"How does that work, exactly?" you ask.

"The docs showed Frankie pictures of his victims and gave him some sort of rancid tasting chew-able pills bad enough to induce vomiting, if I'm not mistaken. Had to carry around his own supply of the pills for months, he was directed to pop one whenever the thought someone looked tasty."

"...Pictures of his victims?"

"Yeah—you included, probably, judging by the way the sight of you makes him sick."

It almost sounds inhumane, but it seems like Frank had been willing, if he administered the treatment himself. Is that really the lengths they had to go to in order to stop his cannibalism?

In Mount Massive the man had seemed almost addicted to the process of cannibalism—like he enjoyed the hunt as much as the consumption itself.

It gives you the fucking creeps.

And so does this Trager character.

Something tells you that you don't want to know how he spent his time during the riot. He's more scarred than most patients, and that's saying something. His scalp is crawling with scars, patches of long mousy hair threading through the ridges of roughly healed flesh. The skin that trails from his jaw to beneath his shirt appears to be entirely scar tissue, and there's a patch covering his left eye.

"But yeah, don't fret, you're not that ugly," Trager laughs, before extending his hand across the chess board. "Trager. Doctor Richard Trager."

With a lot of hesitation and great deal of self-convincing, you take the man's hand, shaking it. "Waylon Park."

"The legend himself," Trager says, before dropping your hand grinning. You watch as he wipes the hand you just shook on his leg, as if to clean it. "How's it feel to go from lackey software engineer to hero of the loony bin?"

…What are you supposed to say to that?

It's unsettling to hear this stranger be so forward about personal details of your life.

(How does he even know about your software engineer job? The news, probably... Everyone here was involved in the same scandal, so it's not unheard of that these people would be familiar with your background.)

"I used to be on Murkoff's payroll too, you know," Trager continues, unfazed by your lack of response, the slight knit of your brow. "Screwed over by bureaucracy, the both of us. It seems like we've got a lot in common, eh, sweetheart?"

(Why does he keep calling you that?)

Richard Trager...

The name seems a little familiar, though you could never remember all of Murkoff's many higher ranking employees. Where have you heard it before? Maybe you read it somewhere...

But, if it's true that his man used to work for Murkoff too, why is he here as a patient?

(You used to work for Murkoff, and you would be more than welcome to admit yourself here at MMSS as an in-patient. Dr. Everett has made that clear.)

Trager nods to something over your shoulder. "I've taken up enough of your time—your groom awaits."

A quick glance behind you reveals Eddie Gluskin, still watching you like a hawk from across the room.

This Trager person must know how callous it is to call Gluskin your groom, and yet he had no qualms saying it to your face.

"Yeah, I better go," you mutter, eyes flashing with anger. Thankful for the excuse to get away from Trager, who somehow creeps you out so much more than a recovering Eddie Gluskin.

"Yep, skedaddle, kid." Trager shoos you with a dismissive wave of his hand, rising and pushing past in a way that intentionally invades your personal space, his thin-fingered hand patting your arm once in farewell.

You tense under the touch, shaken and frozen in place, watching as Trager walks over to where Frank is panting above the trashcan.

Frank straightens as Trager pushes close to him.

Trager snakes an arm around Frank while his other hand pushes into the top of Frank's flannel shirt to rub circles into the swath of thick chest hair there.

You stare, struck by the way Frank seems to respond positively to Trager's petting. The orderlies nearby glance at the two men only briefly, not reacting to the exchange.

(The patients here are allowed to... touch each other like that? Are these two men in a relationship? Is that something allowed between patients?)

Apart from the intimacy, another thing that strikes you is the difference in what the two men are wearing—Trager is adorned in the standard patient uniform, a dull, dusty-rose and beige shirt and pants with a sewn-in name-tag. But Frank is wearing normal clothes, red plaid and worn jeans.

It must mean something, that some patients (like Gluskin, like Frank) are permitted to wear casual clothing while others only wear plain, baggy uniforms.

(Feeling unsettled by Trager was probably not just a product of your general paranoia—if his privilege level is low enough that he has to wear the facility's uniform, then it's likely that his behavior is less than upstanding.)

When Trager ushers Frank out of the recreation room, you realize you've been staring for too long and shake yourself out of your daze.

(Gluskin is still watching you with trepidation from across the room.)

Briefly, you consider making a beeline for the door instead of greeting Gluskin, but that feels too mean, like bullying a kid in front of the whole classroom.

So instead you walk over, stopping next to him at a normal, conversational distance. It feels empowering, somehow, to let everyone in the room know that you are so unafraid of The Groom now that you are able to stand before him at an arm's length.

(It's easy to be brave when there are orderlies in the room, ready to assist if anything unsightly happens.)

(It's easy to be brave when you've already met with Gluskin several times, each visit reassuring you that this man isn't a danger to you anymore.)

"Hey, Gluskin," you say, feeling utterly ridiculous.

This is the first time you're in a casual, public setting with Gluskin. What is he like outside of those emotionally fraught private visits with you? Is it even possible for either you or Eddie to keep interaction light-hearted and appropriate for a room full of people?

Should you address the elephant in the room—that you had called out to him for help when you thought Frank was going to attack you, just now? Fuck. Why the hell did you do that?

"Eddie, please, call me Eddie," Gluskin—Eddie—says, distracted by glancing between you, and the door Frank and Trager just exited. His gaze finally settles on you, glaring with intensity not meant for you. "That man is not a doctor."

"Trager?"

"Yes. He is not a doctor. "

"Yeah, I figured, he's wearing a patient uniform—speaking of which, why aren't you wearing one?"

Gluskin glances down at his slacks, dress shirt and sweater vest. "My privileges are higher, darling," his last syllable stutters as he catches himself saying something he knows he shouldn't, and he glances at you purposefully, cringing.

The endearment makes you twitch, but you say nothing. There are so many people around, so many other patients. Gluskin doesn't need to be scolded in front of his peers.

"What's all that?" you ask instead, gesturing at the yarn, twisted and forgotten on the armchair.

"Oh—this is going to sound absurd, but I was finger-knitting."

What the hell? "You mean like, knitting without needles?" It's the kind of knitting children get taught at camp.

"Yes, that is an accurate description."

You struggle to turn your amusement into a frown.

"Oh, quit that," there is no real venom in his voice. "It's relaxing. And I'm not allowed knitting needles or crochet hooks outside of my room."

"Shit, sorry, I didn't—"

"Now, now, there is no need to worry. I am not ashamed. It's more of a facility rule than a personal one. Only felt-tipped markers are allowed as well. That kind of thing."

"Ah."

"So I see you've come to visit Frank Manera."

The question is innocent enough, but the jealousy is evident in the way Eddie's posture shifts to feigned nonchalance.

You roll your eyes. "I didn't actually—I came to see you."

Eddie flounders and you don't even try to contain your smirk. He's so transparent. So... affected by your attention. It feels good, to know you're responsible for someone else's joy.

"But when I saw Frank, well, I thought I might as well go say hi."

Eddie clears his throat, an unmistakable blush creeping across his face. "Quite an ordeal you caused."

"I just have that effect on people." You manage to deliver the joke with a serious tone, though you almost smile at the guilt on Eddie's face. "Seriously though, it's good to see Frank, he looks so much better, not as underweight as he was in Mount Massive."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, I think he had an eating disorder—wouldn't eat anything but human flesh." Eddie gives you an odd look at how casually you say this. "But he looks a lot better now."

"I cannot say the same about you."

"...Excuse me?"

"I hope you don't take offense at my observation, but you don't look so good," his voice is gentle but insistent. "You are a bit thinner than I remember you being three years ago."

Ouch. Well, it's an accurate observation. Eating has felt like a chore ever since your stint at Murkoff. It's hard to keep an appetite when you've seen human limbs boiling on stoves and almost got cooked alive yourself. Plus, when you were married you did housework, vacuuming, laundry, dishes—Lisa was the one who cooked. Without her you eat like a poor college student.

Eddie looks so concerned, but then again, he looked concerned when you fell down that elevator shaft, too.

You can't help it. Looking him right in the eye, you say: "You're the one who told me you'd hate to see how much I weighed on our anniversary."

Somewhere in the back of your mind you wonder if it's morally wrong to be taunting someone who is recovering from their torture-induced psychosis. The look on Eddie's face makes you quickly disregard any notion that this could be wrong. His expression is hilariously aghast.

"...You must be joking—please tell me you're joking. Please tell me you didn't take stock in those asinine comments—"

"Yeah, I'm just fucking with you." Though, who could blame you if his insults about your weight had actually gotten to you?

(At the time, the rope around your neck seemed more pressing.)

"Well, must you look quite so smug about it?”

At that, you laugh.

"Though, it is quite nice to see you smiling for a change."

Fuck, are you smiling?

Better remedy that.

Eddie rolls his eyes. "You really are quite the little minx," he mutters, under his breath.

But you hear it, oh boy, do you hear it.

You can feel your cheeks radiating shame at the spark of confusing interest that word ignites. Eddie must notice your heated face, but, ever the gentleman, he refrains from drawing attention to it.

"In all seriousness, I do hope you’re taking care of yourself, darling."

Again with the darling. Is he just doing it to push your buttons? He must know you're only allowing it to avoid causing a scene.

"I..." You want to say you are taking care of yourself. But it's a lie. You can't bring yourself to finish.

"Have you been eating properly? Three square meals? Nutritionally balanced? The orderlies take care of that here, so it's easy for me to eat properly. Though I do enjoy cooking myself—the aroma of sauteing vegetables, the sound of boiling soup."

His descriptions bring memories of limbs bubbling in a pot of blood, tiled floors slick with human remains.

“There is the occasional life skills course here at the facility—I've learned to cook a variety of dishes through that. It's always a pleasure to partake in that brand of therapy,” Gluskin's smiling pleasantly as he speaks, rocking slightly on his heels. Almost too enthused for your taste. “Forgive my babbling—do you cook?”

Gluskin is... quite the chatterbox when forced to make small talk, forced to find conversation outside of the trauma. You don't know what to think about that.

"I. No, not really. I just eat whatever."

"You don't cook, my dear?"

Again with the endearments. "I microwave."

For the first time since Mount Massive, Eddie Gluskin looks positively disgusted with you.

Even when you told him about your fantasies, he didn't look this disturbed.

You half expect him to toss some slurs your way—whore, slut... nobody's mother.

But he doesn't. He just sighs and searches your face.

"I do hope you'll keep this conversation in mind, next time you're at the grocery store. A man needs to nourish himself. A lack of proper nutrition deteriorates more than just the body."

It sounds like one of his delusions, but you know that factually, he's completely right.

You look away. Shrug.

His voice softens. "I would fill your fridge and prepare your meals myself, if I were able."

As much as you want to be angry that he's spouting nonsense about inserting himself into your life...

At least someone wants to look after you.

"You'd do that, really?" you shoot back, skeptical. "Not try to force me to learn how to cook out of some mindless notion that a woman's place is in the kitchen?"

"You are not a woman," Eddie points out. Well at least he's got that straight now. "And even if you were—I..." he sighs, "I've always wanted to be the kind of man to shoulder the weight their wife's work. A woman's job is difficult. I witnessed as much with my late mother. A woman's work is never done."

He's actually bringing up his mother on his own? That's a surprise, especially after you hit a wall with that subject yesterday.

He laughs, bitterly. "The woman seldom allowed me to help around the kitchen, or with the housework—she took pride in her duties. And when she did let me help, well, it came with a lot of self-loathing on her part, and frequent harsh words directed at me."

"You still tried to help her out though?"

"I did."

It's difficult to hear, when you know his mother was fiercely abusive.

Gluskin must be aware that you know more about his past than he's ever revealed to you—that his history is public knowledge. Still, you feel guilty, like you've been spying on something private.

"Gluskin—"

"Eddie," he corrects.

"Eddie, I'm..." What, sorry? Sure, but that isn't going to make him feel better. "I know some of what you went through, as a kid, from the news and stuff. I understand."

Eddie is quiet for a long moment, and then, "It's so odd, hearing that outside of a therapy session."

Have his therapists empathized with him in regards to his crimes and what led up to them? Is that what it takes to heal a murderer that's willing to get better? To empathize with them, and teach them empathy in the process?

"Sorry," you say, lost.

"No—I'm happy to hear that you feel that way. I never thought, after..."

"Yeah. Me neither."

Avoiding Eddie's gaze has you glancing around the room. Shit. You forgot that you are in a room filled with people. If you had remembered, you wouldn't have allowed the conversation to delve into such sensitive topics. At least Eddie doesn't seem to mind. It's his fault anyway—he makes you feel like you're the only one in the room. The only one in the world.

You came here to apologize to him for starting the Engine even after he begged you for help, but... you don't think you can, not in a room full of other patients. It's strange, being forced to play nice with Gluskin right now by the public setting. Have what passes for a normal conversation.

"Do promise me you'll try to eat better though, for my sake." Reprimanding, he almost sounds reprimanding. Exasperated, even.

As if your deteriorating health pains him.

(Maybe it does.)

"Do you think they'll let me steal you from here—so I can hire you as my own personal cook?" The moment the word cook leaves your mouth you hesitate, before you remember that Frank's not in the room anymore.

"It's possible, many of the patients here with my privilege level are allowed to leave the facility on day-trips if they have an approved relative to care for them. Orderly supervised outings, that sort of thing—"

You glance back at him, warily. "I was joking, Eddie."

"Oh—Eddie, you doofus," he smacks himself lightly on the head, not an uncommon mannerism of self-reprimand, but it alarms you nonetheless. "Forgive me—I mentioned to you before that I am still experiencing many delusions involving you and our imagined future. I let myself get carried away. It won't happen again—I'll make certain of it."

He's so out of his element, so inept in the area of self-awareness. It's almost sad.

"Don't worry about it," you say, and before you can consider whether not it's a good idea, "I don't think it's bad, to imagine your future with someone. Not abnormal, at least."

"Waylon," Eddie interjects, stepping forward. Nervous. He's nervous. "While what you're saying may be true, when affections are unwanted—the fantasizing becomes dangerous, delusional."

He is right. What are you thinking? “Can't you tone it down a bit, then? Look forward to our conversations without expectations?”

“I can try, but... oh, darling,” Eddie takes another step closer and your shoulders stiffen. You have to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact. “Don't you know how difficult that is, when I see my future in you? You're not good for me, I'm afraid.”

You should feel angry at the accusation—angry that he believes your presence is hindering his recovery in any way, you should scoff, laugh at how absurd it is that he thinks you're the problem.

(He's right, you know he's right.)

(But you want so badly to not be the problem.)

You want... what do you want?

“I want to help with that.”

“Hm?” Gluskin practically purrs, his eyes half-lidded, like being so close to you sends him into a euphoric state. “And how do you plan to do that?”

How? Uh.

Confidence aside, you really don't have a plan.

“I could, uh, provide you with reasonable expectations?”

“Are you asking or telling, darling?”

Is he teasing you? Seriously?

“Telling,” you almost snap, petulant. “If I set boundaries, if I explicitly state what I want out of our interactions, maybe you can try to focus on that—aim for realistic goals instead of some fantasy future.”

“Explicitly,” he reiterates, as if your word choice makes him the happiest man alive.

All you can do is glare.

“So sorry,” he says, grinning in a way that is more mischievous than sheepish. What happened to you're not good for me? “That sounds... quite nice, actually. Perhaps if I focus on the immediate future, smaller goals, I can be satisfied with the present instead of getting hung up on expectations.”

“Do you think you can handle that?” It's an honest question, but it comes out as a quip. A smile tugs unwanted at your lips.

Why? Why do you find this so enjoyable?

(Why aren't you unsettled by how close he's standing?)

(He's so close you can smell him—his clothes, the soap he uses. Aftershave? You can't quite place the scent—it's uniquely him, uniquely human.)

The ease at which you're conversing with Eddie Gluskin should be criminal, but it's so nice, so so nice to finally feel like you're getting somewhere. Like you can be helpful to someone, instead of a burden.

And he's helped you so much already with working through your denial about your mortality in Mount Massive.

You shouldn't feel like you need to repay him.

You don't, really.

You don't owe him anything.

But. You want to. You want to make up for entering that code even after he begged you to save his life.

(For laughing at his hanging body, open and red.)

“I am not entirely sure that I have ever been able to handle anything involving you,” Eddie murmurs, weary.

It's more satisfying than it should be, knowing that you bother Eddie Gluskin, that you haunt him, too.

(You and he both haunt each other, and that feels so much better than the unrequited mess you believed you were in before you decided to visit him that first time.)

It's probably beyond illogical, considering how much stronger than you he is, how much more violent he can be, but you feel like the one in control here.

“Do you think they're going to kiss?” a man's voice rumbles from somewhere to your left.

What? You head snaps to the sound of the vaguely familiar, drawling voice.

“I don't know, brother. Would you like them to?”

There, on the couch in the middle of the room, are the two patients you saw earlier, the ones huddled together reading the same book. They've twisted around to stare at you and Eddie unabashedly, over the back of the couch.

They don't look too familiar—but you haven't forgotten their voices.

“Hm, still deciding.”

“He doesn't look as afraid as he did in the basketball court.”

“Not nearly.”

The basketball court? That's right—no wonder you don't remember their faces, it was so fucking foggy in that little courtyard. You had only encountered them for a moment, but god, the way they mulled over the prospect of killing you... fuck.
Breathe. Remember to breathe.

Back in that recreation area in Mount Massive, your breathing had been so unstable that the silence was quickly filled with your own sharp inhales and small keens. It was the damn visibility, you couldn't take not knowing what creepy fuckers were obscured by the fog.

These guys sitting on the couch—they were the worst thing you could have imagined hiding in the fog, and more.

“They look like they're planning something,” one of the brothers continues.

God, that voice.

“Yes. A wedding?”

“Must be.”

“Will we be invited?”

“I would be elated.”

“Not me.”

“Oh?”

“Would have to wear a suit. Uncomfortable.”

“Right. Gluskin is anal about proper attire.”

“And weddings.”

“Yes. Keeps a scrapbook, I think.”

“How quaint.”

“Precious.”

Just like in the recreation area back at Mount Massive, the brothers seem more interested in each other than actually interacting with you.

A glace back at Gluskin reveals him to be exasperated. And... flushed.

Gluskin's next words are a hiss, an attempt to prevent the brothers from hearing, “I do not keep a scrapbook.”

That's what concerns him about this situation?

“It's okay if you do,” you reply, mostly serious, partly teasing.

Having Gluskin close removes some of the anxiety you feel over the brother's scrutiny. It's pathetic, but you really do trust Gluskin to intervene if anyone tries to hurt you. That's about the only thing regarding Gluskin that you're certain of—his desire to keep you whole.

God, that sounds absurd, given what he tried to do to you. And it's not necessarily a good thing—his current desire to keep you alive and well is surely entirely selfish. But that's something that can be used to your advantage, something you still wish you had tried used to your advantage in the vocational block, even after all of your recent conversations with Gluskin telling you it would have never worked out.

“And it's quite alright if you want to wear the dresses I made,” Gluskin fires back, unexpectedly.

Shit.

It's healing for you, to make light of traumatic situations, but it doesn't feel right to have Eddie making light of them too. You're allowed to joke about the shitty stuff you went through and he's... he's not.

Maybe you'd take the joke better, if you weren't so bitter. Gluskin isn't the only one whose face is red now.

Gluskin must notice your frown because any hint of levity drops from his expression. “That was uncalled for, I—“

“What's this now?”

“A lover's spat.”

“That was quick.”

“He's had so many brides. So much practice.”

“And yet he is as inept as ever.”

Fuck, is this really happening? The fact that you are conversing with Eddie in a public space has been nagging in the back of your mind this entire time, but at least no one was obviously eavesdropping before. These brothers have no sense of shame.

“Don't worry about it,” you tell Gluskin, more because of your little audience, rather than because you actually forgive him.

But you do try to cut him some slack—he's probably struggling to figure out how to interact with you in a casual setting. Perhaps he's used to joking around with his friends.

Before he can argue, you add, quieter, “What's up with those two?”

Eddie starts to lean in, as if to whisper to you, but then he hesitates. “May I?”

You're not quite sure what he's asking, but you nod.

Your consent prompts him to lean in conspiratorially, lips close to your ear.

He has to hunch to whisper into your ear, making your height difference, the sheer size in broad muscle he has over you, all too clear.

And.

Your body's reaction is instantaneous. Accelerated heartbeat. Perspiration. A surge of arousal at knowing he is so close. Towering over you by nature rather than intent—you're more than a foot shorter than him. He can't help but tower.

For the first time you have no excuse. No small rebuttal to everything Lisa ever accused you of after you told her about the fantasies you harbored for this man.

It was just coping. It was just trying to convince yourself that you could have have seduced him into submission—because overpowering him any other way was physically impossible. And that's okay—it's okay to tell yourself it would have worked. It's okay because you almost died and. It's okay to try and forgive yourself for these intrusive thoughts.

But. There's nothing okay about this—there hasn't ever been. Because Gluskin is leaning down to whisper in your ear and your body is lighting up with interest. And. That validates every look of disgust Lisa ever gave you.

Does this prove that allowing yourself to sexualize your trauma was always self-destructive? That it was self-harm to ever indulge yourself?

It did hurt you.

(But it also helped you. Helped cope with what happened to you.)

(You don't know. You don't know what's right and wrong anymore.)

(You have no fucking idea.)

Shame courses through your veins like its an essential fluid your body runs on now.

Gluskin has no idea. No idea what effect he has.

“The twins are little more than an annoyance. But a large annoyance at that, I'm afraid.” His breath is hot on your ear—it makes your skin crawl in the most delightfully pleasant way. “They keep to themselves, as much as one can while butting their heads into everyone else's business. They're glorified gossips, really. I've never seen them speak to or respond to another patient. Besides each other, of course.”

You close your eyes.

Focus on the warmth Eddie's proximity brings. Try not to focus on the warmth Eddie's proximity brings.

Try, try really fucking hard not to live too engrossed in this moment. Your body is alight with static energy at the hyper-awareness of his body so close.

(Why? Why?)

(You know why.)

(It's your own fault.)

(You trained yourself to have this reaction to him.)

...Shit. What did Eddie say? It was about the twins, probably important information if you're going to be visiting again. But it is so hard to focus. So hard.

“Waylon?”

Your name on Eddie's lips, his breath ghosting over your skin—it's, it's too much. Too much like every wet dream you've had for the past three years.

Shit, shit shit. You're supposed to be replying.

“Mn,” is all you can manage.

The pooling heat of arousal in your groin, the growing hardness, is shame and humiliation and everything you have ever done wrong in your life. It's the riot and Lisa leaving you, it's the nightmares and sleepless desperation, the pained devastation of not being able to get those gore smeared halls out of your mind. Even your sexual fantasies can't escape that place.

Eddie steps away, eyeing you with concern. It takes everything in you not to whine at the loss of proximity.

“Is this how courtship works, brother?”

Fuck, not them again.

“Can't tell. Much different from how it was at the asylum.”

“It's disgusting.”

“I think it's sweet.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Like a train wreck.”

“Ah. I see what you mean. It is sweet.”

What the fuck?

What the fuck?

“Perhaps you should go, Waylon,” Eddie says, glancing pointedly at the brothers, who are still a harmless distance away, observing.

For a moment you worry that Eddie is uncomfortable because of your odd behavior, but you quickly push the worry aside. No. He's probably too annoyed by the brothers to notice.

“Yeah, I should.” You want to high-tail it out of there, between the creepy twins and your own shameful reaction to Eddie's closeness. But you force yourself to maintain the little dignity you have. “I'll come see you again? To work on the whole setting realistic expectations thing? Is that okay?”

You can't believe you're asking for permission to come see him again. More than that, you can't believe you're worried he'll say no.

“Of course,” Eddie says, as if the question is absurd.

“Okay,” you say, fidgeting. “Right. I'll see you then. Soon.”

“I look forward to it.”

Your lips twitch into a momentary smile, and you nod, not really trusting yourself to say anything else. "Bye, Eddie."

As you make your way to the door, the brother's voices follow you.

“They didn't kiss.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Disappointing.”

“Yes, if they did, I'm sure blood would be involved.”

“So much blood.”

“And teeth.”

“Yes, teeth.”

The door shuts behind you, and you laugh, not sure yourself whether it's nervous laughter or genuine amusement or just all of your anxiety spilling out of you at once.

It's not until you're halfway back to your car, navigating the halls of the facility, that you realize that for the first time in years, you actually feel okay. Happy, even. Something other than self-loathing and a constant need to over-analyze your memories as well as your surroundings.

Your head is. Quiet. Mostly.

Blank.

Free of the bulk of usual racing, vibrating thought.

What the fuck is wrong with you? What makes interacting with people who tried to maim or eat you such a fucking light-hearted event? Is this what facing fears is supposed to feel like? The laugh of relief at flipping on the light-switch to find that the monster in the closet is only your old sweater draped across a hanger?

These visits. Are they the same brand of self-destruction as indulging your fantasies about Gluskin have been for the past three years?

Maybe. Maybe they started that way.

Maybe you want them to be.

Maybe you want these visits to hurt you.

But they don't hurt. Not in the way they should, not like a blade playing mortar and pestle with your gut. Instead they hurt like a suture, like pulling thread through wounds until broken skin can weave itself anew.

Before this, your wounds were gaping, held together sloppily with the constant, desperate press of your own fingers. You had too many wounds. Not enough hands.

These visits have been surprising you with how much they haven't hurt. Like a blow you brace for but never comes. And when you peel your flinched eyelids open, you find whatever you were bracing for was never going to hurt in the first place.

It's refreshing—undeniably so—to see that the ghosts that haunt you aren't quite as terrifying in the daylight.

Taking a deep breath, you push all of the self-loathing aside. Allow yourself to feel okay for the first time in a long time.

Chapter Text

"Before I say this, I'll have you know that I won’t be letting you get out of it this time," Gluskin warns during your fifth visit, which is in the facility's small library, one reminiscent of those found in high schools. It's devoid of life, probably because of the early morning hour.

The tables in the room are square, two seats on each side. You share a corner with Gluskin. The choice of seating alone is daring enough (next to him, not across!) to make you feel like you're ready to make this visit count. Make some progress. Deal with some issues.

(You're sitting close to him to prove to yourself that you don't have to be afraid of your past anymore—not because the proximity sends an odd buzz of excitement through your body.)

"You promised structure, so I'll set some of my own,” Gluskin's voice is stern, his smile friendly. “My goal is to come out of this visit knowing more about you."

About you? What is there to know about you? You already got the most fucked up, most embarrassing thing about yourself off the table when you told him you have unbidden, and sometimes enjoyed, sexual fantasies about him—a man who tried to kill you.

"Now that I have made my intentions clear, perhaps sharing yours will also aid in helping me to get to know you better."

It's the Mount Massive software engineer job interview all over again: the slog of attempting to wade through probing, personal questions.

You sigh. Focus on his request. Start small. "Do you want to know what I want out of visiting you in general, or in this visit in particular?"

Eddie leans back in the uncomfortable plastic library chair, his leg almost brushing yours under the table. Almost. He crosses his arms over his wide chest, as though settling in for the long haul. "Either will suffice, both is preferred."

"Well, in general, what I want is—” Understanding? Reassurance that the horrible things you witnessed in Mount Massive have been scrubbed away by clinical structure and prescription medication? “To appreciate you as a human being, rather than regard you as some sort of monster.”

“Please don't think I blame you for this dreary outlook on things, it is well deserved. I know it is.” His concern manifests itself in his fingers absently smoothing the fabric of his rolled sleeve. “Many would say it is the outlook one should have about such events. Regardless, I was no gentlemen.”

“That's an understatement,” you say around an exhale. You're relaxing, despite the verbal protest.

“It is, though it was not my intention to understate things, simply to point out the contradiction between reality versus what I believed myself to be, in my delusion.”

“You're a lot different now.” It's a reluctant admission, cold, almost.

“Am I?”

“Less confident. Less impulsive.” (Less filled with euphoric joy at the sight of you.)

“Yes, that was the mania you witnessed back then, darling. And a great deal of psychosis.”

The darling doesn't bother you much anymore; the more you hear it, the more you start to think it's just habit for him, impersonal, a word he uses on everyone. Not just you.

(You weren't his only darling, after all. The others hung lifeless from the ceiling, sprawled in pieces throughout the vocational block.)

“Mania isn't normal for you?”

“Not at all. Only during psychosis. It was primarily a product of the Engine. Myself as well as many other patients exposed to it—as I'm sure you saw—grew unnaturally frantic under its influence. The mania would wear off in our cells after the so-called morphogenic therapy. The day of the riot, something was different. The effects were more potent, longer-lasting, radiating throughout the building, infecting everyone."

That makes sense. All of the patients who gave you any trouble back in Mount Massive seemed to be in a manic, hyper-involved state of delusion. “And the psychosis?”

“I'm afraid that is predisposed, because of the schizophrenia. The medication all but cures it.” He's not imploring you to believe him, just reciting information with bored indifference. “If I were to stop taking the anti-psychotics my doctors have prescribed, I must admit the results are not likely to be pretty.”

There are some things therapy alone can't help. After all his therapy, all of the morality he's adorned like a merit badge, would he still be violent during his unmedicated delusions? Best not to ask. Eddie himself probably doesn't know. It's a question that even his doctors can't answer, not without cutting off his medication and observing.

“What about the lack of empathy?” Your tone grows accusing here—that's what disturbs you the most, remembering the casual way he was able to wound, hurt, kill others. Like it was nothing. He had said he would have killed himself over the grief of having raped another person—but the bodies strung up in that gymnasium seem just as horrific as the prospect of rape.

“Anti-Social Personality Disorder, are you familiar with it?”

“Sociopathy?”

He tears his eyes away from where they are—always are—glued to you. They rove over the blank faux wooden table, and then down to where he's picking at a thread on his sleeve. Finally, he says, “Yes, people might call it that. Though it was part of my original diagnosis list when I was first evaluated for my trial, my doctors here say they consider it a misdiagnosis. I'm not certain of anything myself.”

His hesitance gives you pause. Is he affected by the stigma of the diagnosis? Is that even possible, for a guy who tips the scales in fucked up crimes?

Cutting him some slack, you say, “I know that the severity of that disorder varies, like just about any other personality disorder. I know that, despite popular belief, it doesn't mean that the affected isn't capable emotions at all.”

He shifts, sitting up straighter, eyes snapping back to yours. “How do you know that? It's not commonly sought after knowledge.”

“You learn a lot of psychology things when you visit a therapist three days a week for several years.”

Eddie assesses your stoic tone against the amusement he must derive from relating to the sentiment.

Eventually, he decides it's okay to chuckle. “That is also something I've come to realize. But why would you be discussing a disorder you don't have?”

You stare in answer.

“Because of me?” The realization is full of wonder, too child-like for a grown man. Besides, he should realize that talking about him with your therapist isn't necessarily a good thing. “Why, Waylon Park, I am flattered to be a topic of gossip in your personal life.”

That strikes a nerve—you know that he's simply trying to tease you, that he isn't referring to the way your encounter with him at Mount Massive haunts you to this day, but it hurts nonetheless. It still doesn't feel right, Eddie Gluskin trying to make light of the darkness he's caused you.

You stiffen, cringe, try to smooth those reactions away.

“Funny, you weren't flattered about being a subject of sexual fantasy in my life. And here I thought that's all I was good for.” Like most things that come out of your mouth these days, the statement is half jest and half cold, hard truth.

(You're not being fair. He's already combed over this subject with you. You know exactly why he isn't flattered. But you're still miffed.)

Eddie's previous expression, the slight quirk of his full lips (a product of his own joke), drops from his face. His demeanor shifts to something less confident, tentative, and you can tell he's weaving his words inside his head before he speaks.

“Waylon, I am at a loss. Tell me what you want, should I address the very serious matter which you just brought up again, or are you only venting with the expectation that I'll let it slide?”

Dr. Everett would know how to deal with a situation like this, she would be able to read the mood without having to inquire. She's a professional though, and it's ridiculous to expect the same adeptness from Gluskin. Really though, you don't know the answer to his question.

It's a discussion you don't know if you're ready to have again, but ignoring it won't stifle the impulses to bring the subject up unfairly, with passive aggressive, self-depreciating humor. “Up to you.”

“I will touch on it then,” he decides, assessing your every move, the shift as you cross your arms over your chest and shove your gaze away from him, towards the wall, the shelves upon shelves of books. “You're correct in saying that I wasn't flattered. I attempted to express this before, but maybe the meaning was lost. The information about your fantasies worries me, but what worries me more is that you're willing to tell me about it.”

You say nothing, because what is there to do besides demand he take it back, tell him to take his fake worry and shove it down his throat. Is he implying that you're delicate, unstable? That he's the superior one, for being more calm about the subject, more logical?

“I can't decipher what you mean to gain from sharing this information, since, oh darling, I can see how very painful it is for you.”

The gentle, empathetic way his voice resounds, as if he's hurting for you, is all too reminiscent of the way he fussed over your safety when you fell down that elevator shaft. The concern wasn't real then... or was it? Perhaps the concern was real to him in his delusional state. Even if unfounded and intensified by the side-effects of the Engine.

“This self-depreciation, this clear as day self-loathing, it pains me to see you suffering it.”

You don't fucking care. Really, you don't. Your indifference displays in an unbroken glare at the rows of uneven books.

“I want you to know that I don't think less of you upon learning of your sin.”

Is he fucking serious—the sin stuff again? Even in his apparently more empathetic and moral state after all the therapy, he's still self-centered as fuck. It's like he believes that this assertion that he still thinks well of you will make you swell with elation—like, thank fucking god the great Eddie Gluskin doesn't think less of you!

You scoff, glare at him out of the corner of your eye. “You really think that? That it's a sin?”

“It's a figure of speech,” he says easily, with a wave of his hand. As if such a heavy word can be brushed away so casually.

“No, you really think that, don't you? Tell me, what's the sin you're referring to? That I want to fuck another man, or that the other man tried to fucking kill me?”

The metal legs of the library chair manage to make a disruptive scraping noise against the carpeted floor as Eddie pushes away from the table to stand. This breaks your glare into something more guilt-riddled.

Is, is he actually going to walk away? Did you push him too far? Why the fuck do you care if you did, if he leaves? Fuck. You did the same thing to Lisa, pushed her away with all the fucking blunt, callous cynicism.

Eddie doesn't head for the door like you expect him to.

(God—you actually expected him to walk out. Like Lisa, like Lisa.)

(And—fuck, it actually means something to you that he didn't.)

Gluskin shuffles a bit, as if his legs are urging him to pace the nerves away. He walks to a nearby bookshelf, his back to you, and fidgets with one of the worn, fraying spines of a thick hardcover.

“The latter, Waylon. The latter.” Quiet, he's so quiet that the silence buzzing around you resounds louder than his words. “I told you, I am comfortable with myself now. I don't know if my sexuality is truly a sin, truly wrong—but I am done tearing myself apart over it.”

Swallowing is difficult, your throat feels sticky and swollen and any words you try to coax out of your mouth catch on your tongue.

“But I digress. Need I remind you that the goal today was to talk about you, and here I am, stealing all the spotlight.”

The digression is wrong, and it feels like something important is slipping through your fingers with every passing second.

You stand, shaken by the urgency racking through you in waves. “No, Eddie, I, fuck...”

You don't know what to say. What can you say to that? It is beyond important that Eddie is reassured about his comfort regarding his sexuality—that is the one thing you know he's being genuine about. Too many people, ones without pasts as abusive as his, are torn up over the sin of preferring the same gender, and yet Eddie has somehow managed to dispel the delusion that it's wrong—a delusion not caused by predisposed brain chemistry or the Morphogenic Engine, but by society at large.

“Your concern is noted, but I assure you that you need not say anything. All is forgiven.”

You're relieved for a second, before you realize that there is nothing to be forgiven, you didn't do anything wrong. What the fuck? You bury your disgruntlement, try to ignore it.

“Eddie, I really... I'm proud of you for...” What, admitting that he likes men? Coming out of the closet? Rejecting bigoted, religion-implored shaming? “Being yourself, in regards to your sexuality.”

He half turns, his smile self-depreciating for a change. “Oh yes, because myself is such a wonderful thing to be.”

There it is for the first time, a sign that not all is well with Eddie Gluskin, that all of his apologies don't relieve his own guilt.

“Now, please quit your dithering—I would like to focus the conversation on you for a change, Waylon Park.”

Your name in his mouth feels invasive, stolen, like he's plucked your mental health file from your therapist's desk and is turning it over in his fingers.

“What do you want to know?” It's a struggle to keep your voice steady.

It's not Gluskin's height, his taut broad shoulders that make you feel small: it's the way he carries himself, the way he can command a conversation with an appraising glance over his shoulder. It's not fear you feel, not emasculation even, it's the grotesque, impulsive desire to wrap your arms around him tight, dig your fingers into his middle and press your face between his shoulder blades.

(Like you are small, and want to make yourself small against his solid form, hide yourself there, let his body shield you from the world.)

(It's your fantasies talking.)

(You know it's your fantasies talking.)

Shit.

You need to stop staring at him.

...But winding your arms around him would throw him off kilter in such a delectable way, riddle him with discomfort. You want him to be bothered. Affected by you, wholly. At your mercy.

The impulse is shameful and forbidden and too strong—it comes from someplace outside reality, a word which you've been ruinously coping inside of for too long.

Where has the fear gone? You want it back, you have never wanted the fear back so badly.

(You should want to run from the room at the sight of Eddie Gluskin—not intimidate him with the intensity of your desire, how unafraid you are, how willing to touch...)

“Anything simple, nothing to get in a tizzy over.” He turns back to you, raising an eyebrow because he's amused by whatever expression he finds on your face. He stops at the edge of the table, allowing the faux wooden surface to stretch between his body and your body.

Your eyes drop to the table, at least you hope he thinks you're staring at the table, because really you're looking at his thighs. The pants he's wearing must be tailored, if he didn't make them himself. They fit him too well.

“My favorite color is orange,” you offer, finally flicking your gaze back up to his face. Your own body language is insistently present in your thoughts, subconscious acts like blinking suddenly feel careful and measured.

(Gluskin is looking at you, and you want him to like what he sees.)

“And mine is violet,” he says, though you half expect him to say something absurd like, the color of your hair, darling. It's almost disappointing when he doesn't.

You brace your knuckles on the table, lean in, make it look casual. “My favorite movie is Jim Henson's Labyrinth.” It's a movie from the eighties, maybe he'll know it.

“I'm afraid I don't know that one. My family—they didn't own a television. I can only recall visiting the cinema a few times. Access to media was limited in the institutions I've been in. Mostly they just let us watch re-runs of old sitcoms.”

“Favorite book, then?” It's a shot in the dark, but Gluskin seems educated. If he didn't use television as a pastime, then he probably read books.

“Though I did my lion's share of reading, it was mostly medical textbooks and historical works. Though...” He bites his lip in thought—god—and tilts his head several times in consideration, before humming out his exasperation and tossing you a hurried, “Well, never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

The demand, your gaze, the way you lean over the table further, must be intense enough to force his reply: “If you insist, but don't laugh—I also devoured many of my mother's self-help books, all of which were focused around staunchly conservative child rearing methods and domestic womanhood.”

You laugh despite his request not to. “At what age did you read these?”

He frowns, defensive. “When I was a boy.”

The image of a much younger Eddie in a plush armchair curled around a book about motherhood is adorable in a foreboding sort of way—you're not sure whether you want to pat imaginary Gluskin on the head, or snatch the book from his grasp to save him from the delusions it would later fuel.

“Sounds precious,” you're sincere, but the words come out more stoic than you intend. “One of my s—” you hesitate, because this is one subject you've managed to avoid around Gluskin. Your family.

It doesn't feel right, to talk about them. Especially not your sons. Maybe if you fidget with the hem of your sleeve long enough, Gluskin will get the hint and change the subject.

But no, Eddie clears his throat and guesses, “Your sons?”

That snaps your attention back to him. How does he know? How does he know about your family?

Your eyes must be wide with question, because he explains, “The news reports, after you released that footage. They always provided basic information about you and your family. I hope you don't blame me for absorbing such information.”

It's violating, but it's not his fault. It was your own choice to go public with the details about what happened to you in Mount Massive. You knew too well that your family life would be dragged into the fiasco of media coverage and newspaper interviews. It seemed worth it at the time. The morality of the issue was so much bigger than you, and the footage, the sensationalization of your underdog story was the only thing that could—and did—take Murkoff down.

“I didn't know you knew that I had a family,” you say, voice quiet. “It makes sense that you do know. I guess I just didn't want to think about it.”

“I'm truly sorry about how public your private life became. I can relate, though you have it much worse, as the scrutiny surrounding you is undeserved.”

That's right. It's probably hard on Gluskin, with most of the patients and doctors knowing every gory detail about his well-studied life before his home became a series of mental hospitals. You don't feel sorry for him, though. At all. Well, not for the scrutiny involving the murders. There are things you do feel sorry, angry, about.

(The blurred photographs that his father and uncle took of him, depicting the violent sexual abuse inflicted on a too-young Eddie Gluskin, those photographs should have never been seen by the public for the sake of making a documentary or news article more fascinating for the masses.)

“It's not so bad anymore, really, not since the divorce,” you offer, trying to shake the pity from your voice. Whether the pity is for yourself or Gluskin, you're unsure. “I don't get recognized by strangers on the street much, these days. People forget.” They move on to the next person's unfortunate reality to absorb like fiction.

“God, the divorce.” Eddie groans. “That simply enraged me. I threw the newspaper across the room so hard that I nearly put Dennis's eye out. The staff wrote me up for disorderly conduct—which is the only time I've been written up since the first few months I arrived here, mind you.”

Hearing about your divorce in the newspaper made him angry? “Wait, what? Weren't you happy about the divorce?” Eddie has admitted openly that he's been obsessed with your memory ever since Mount Massive. You and only you. “Didn't it give you hope that I could be yours or something?”

“Heavens no—I pray you didn't read that article yourself, the writer treated the matter like one would expect a lowly tabloid to—all gossip and invasive assumptions. It boils my blood to think about, even now.” His fingers are digging into his shirt sleeve, his teeth clenched. If he's faking the empathy, he's faking it well. “You didn't deserve that, to have your private life treated like it was public property.”

You remember those articles, the public opinion. Too fucking well. If you weren't being demonized, being deemed a lost cause or a poor victim of circumstance, it was Lisa being regarded with scorn for leaving you. Character assaults on you were easy to overlook, but it tore you up to see Lisa being treated that way, as if she had just abandoned you, not fought at your side for months on end. No one had the right to criticize anything about Lisa's choices, least of all strangers reading about your life in a six-inch article.

“You're telling me you didn't feel the least bit happy about my divorce?” It's too hard to believe. He's lying—he's definitely lying.

If he responds with a lie, you're going to walk out. He's not allowed to admit his appropriate, empathetic feelings while omitting the rest of the truth, the things more difficult to talk about.

Fuck. Why are you asking him to clarify? He's just going to lie. He's already omitted his elation at the prospect of you spouse-less, you fitting more neatly into his fantasies. He has to be lying. There's no way in hell that he didn't feel overjoyed when he heard about the divorce. He may have felt anger, empathy, like he's saying, but that doesn't mean he didn't feel happy, too.

You shouldn't even wait for his answer. You should just walk out now. Why bother sticking around for disappointment, for a response that will only piss you off?

(You're already pissed off.)

Eddie looks away, his posture slumping. “Perhaps I was happy about it, later, in the back of my mind. Though I tried my damnedest to rid myself of such a selfish thought.”

This floors you.

He—Eddie Gluskin—actually fucking told you the truth. A truth you didn't think him capable of telling. In his mind, telling you the truth had to be a surefire way to drive you away, which is the last thing he wants.

How? How the fuck was he able to tell you despite the perceived risk?

There's still doubt, still room for suspicion. He's probably downplaying how good the news made him feel, sugarcoating it. But you'll let him, for now. That he was able to admit any wrongdoing at all is amazing to you. Magic.

How?

Fucking how?

Eddie exhales a long, erratic breath, shuffles his feet. Looks around like he wants to pace again. “Well, there I go, destroying everything I touch. Telling you that was a mistake. It's an awful thing to feel—joy at another person's suffering simply because it may one day benefit myself.”

Why? Why is he being honest with you?

“I knew you would react this way,” he continues, actually pacing this time. “I knew it. Eddie, you idiot.”

He's visibility withdrawing, refusing to look at you. Does he even know you're here? He's basically talking to himself.

“If I had just kept my mouth shut, insisted that I felt nothing of the sort—”

You take a step back for good measure. Remind yourself that the exit is behind you.

“—Waylon couldn't have known, couldn't have known what I really felt—“

You take a deep breath. Then, tentatively, “Eddie?”

He stops pacing, head in his hands. The man you've been visiting for the past few weeks—he didn't seem capable of a breakdown like this, he seemed so far above such inferior reactions.

(So far above you.)

(But this is you—the pacing, the retreat into his own head, the complete submersion into his own stress and anxiety. It's you. A mirror. It's been you so many nights since Mount Massive. It's what took the hardest toll on Lisa. It's ultimately why she left you.)

Gluskin's eerily still, but his breath is harsh, panting. He has to be listening.

“Eddie, if you had lied to me just now, I was going to walk out of here and probably never look back. But you didn't lie, and I'm still here.” What are you doing? You're not equipped to handle your own emotional stability, let alone someone else's. You should leave, go find an orderly, have a professional take care of Gluskin.

You've attempted to diffuse the bomb, and now you're waiting for the timer to stop counting down, to find out whether or not it's going to explode.

Your fingers are numb, your skin breaking into a cold sweat.

After several long moments, Eddie finally speaks, and his voice is low, dangerous, and oddly—pleading. “How could you have known if I was lying?”

You almost laugh.

“I know you.” Do you really though? If Gluskin had lied, you may have walked out of there pissed off, but you probably would have doubted yourself too, because he's right, you couldn't have known what he was really thinking. “I know you well enough. That's all I really have to go on—my gut, whatever seems most logical. And it doesn't seem logical that you wouldn't be happy about my divorce, somewhere in the back of your mind.”

He seems to consider this, and the length of his silence makes you sure he's going to argue. He doesn't. Instead, he asks, voice barely above a whisper, “You're not angry?”

Angry?

It's a valid question, but... no. You aren't, are you?

You do laugh this time, and it startles Gluskin enough to make him take his face out of his hands and stare at you in disbelief.

“You know, it's funny, I should be mad that you—that anyone—was happy about my divorce. But I'm not angry at all.”

“You looked positively mortified as soon as the words left my mouth,” he accuses.

Sounds about right. “I was surprised. Surprised that you told me the truth. I really, really didn't fucking expect you to. Like I said, I was planning to bail as soon as you tried to deny it. I was panicking internally, knowing I wouldn't believe you if you said you weren't happy about the divorce. I was sure you would lie.”

Gluskin assesses you like you're the explosive thing.

Eventually, he seems to accept what you've said. The tension drains from his posture. He laughs, quiet, nervous—so nervous. “I suppose I've embarrassed myself with that little outburst.”

You don't know how to tell him that this is about the least embarrassing thing in the world, that you don't think any less of him for the outburst, the panic—you've been there a thousand times, and not just since you took the job at Mount Massive.

“No, you haven't embarrassed yourself.” The words, however sincere and gentle and firm, aren't enough. You see it in his face.

There's a moment in which you fidget in place before letting your impulse lead you around the table, to where Gluskin is hovering anxiously. You could reach out to him, display your sincerity in a hand on his shoulder, but something tells you that a sudden movement might trigger him.

“Can I...” God, it's going to sound so ridiculous. “Can I touch you? Like, put my hand on your shoulder?”

The red blush of shame already burning on Eddie's face intensifies. And he nods, clearly not trusting himself to speak. The intensity of his eyes locked on your every movement is frightening.

(And exciting.)

At least he didn't give you an odd look for asking him for permission. Casual touches aren't something people normally ask permission for, but maybe they should be.

“Eddie, please believe me when I say that it's okay. I don't mind that you lost control just now—really.” You reach out, tentative despite having his permission, and slide your fingers over his shoulder. Squeeze, in a futile attempt to relieve his tension, to assert yourself as sincere. “Fuck, this sounds really silly, but it feels good to know that I was able to calm you down.”

(To know that you're not useless; that both you and Gluskin aren't completely broken.)

Calming someone down from a panic attack or a manic episode is not an easy thing to do, no matter who it is. You've been on the other side of things, you've been the manic, inconsolable mess. Even the best intentions of friends and loved ones often stand no match to such frantic anxiety. It feels good to know that you were able to help bring him out of that downward spiral of self-doubt.

“Coming out of that state is not an easy thing for me,” Eddie admits. “It's a surprise I was able to.” His speech is slow, his mind somewhere else.

“Why do you think you were able to, then?” Your hand is still on his shoulder, his skin warm beneath the layer of clothes. With it, you can feel the rise and fall of his chest, his deep, measured breaths and the throb of his pulse against your thumb, which rests unscrupulously against his neck. You can't help yourself.

(It's such a wholly relieving feeling—facing your fears in such a tangible way, getting close enough to literally touch. It feels so good you could weep.)

“In all honesty?” His gaze falls half-lidded to your arm, where it connects with his shoulder. “Fear that you would leave if I didn't.”

You snort, let your hand fall away from his shoulder, skirting dangerously down before dropping back to your side, full of lead. “I wish I didn't know exactly how that feels.”

It had been the same for you, with Lisa. You could improve temporarily by sheer force of will, make yourself snap out of anxious episodes purely out of desire to prove to Lisa that you were capable of getting better. It only led to a lot of unresolved issues. When you were with Lisa, you didn't want to feel better for yourself, you wanted to feel better for her. You couldn't have cared less about yourself.

Maybe that's why these visits to MMSS are helping—because they're making you realize for the first time that you can get better, and that you want to. Not for someone else. Not for society or for Lisa and the kids, but for yourself. Privately. Personally.

The pressure of needing to get better for Lisa's sake, for the sake of being a functional member of society—its weight was too heavy, you couldn't survive, frozen by the looming threat of do this or else. You couldn't recover under that suffocating pressure, couldn't move an inch.

Here, in your conversations with Eddie, it feels... somehow, it feels like you don't need to worry about Lisa or society or any of that. Because Eddie Gluskin is treating you like you belong. Right now. As you are. Without the recovery.

With Gluskin, getting better isn't a requirement for being treated like you're worth something.

And that.

That means so much.

He accepts you as you are.

He'll accept you if you never recover.

He'll accept you if you do recover.

He'll accept you no matter what—that's how it feels.

(He has to, after all he's done—he owes you that debt.)

“I'm sorry,” Eddie says, and this time it doesn't infuriate you.

You shrug. “Maybe next time I can calm you down in a real way, where you can voice your concerns without fear of me walking out.” It's a lot to promise, and you don't know if you're really capable of spending hours with Gluskin, working out the kinks in his frantic paranoia. Your flight instinct is touchy, after all.

He's shocked, at a loss for words, and you know why. He can't believe you're willing to come back and talk to him with the understanding that he may unhinge again.

You sure as hell were shocked the first time you realized that Lisa was still willing to look at you after how upset, how out of control you'd sometimes get after Mount Massive. You would panic at a noise outside the house and become irritable and angry at her attempts to soothe you. She would ask you to go shopping or take the kids to the park and you would break down at the thought of leaving the house, accuse her of not caring when she couldn't understand your reaction.

“You, Waylon Park, have no idea how much that means to me.”

You do know. God, you do. He's the one who has no idea, no idea how flimsy your promise is. How hard that sort of promise is to keep.

Your next words are weary, but firm: “Just, please don't walk away from this believing that the best course of action is to avoid showing that side of you, or avoid acknowledging that side of you is real.” It's a reaction born of guilt, of the desperation that surrounds not wanting to repeat something so shameful. Because, god, just being forgiven for it once feels like a miracle, and to repeat the same behavior again feels like the ultimate betrayal of that forgiveness. “I did that, with my wife, and... well.”

Gluskin knows how that turned out. He read the newspapers.

“Just now, I was feeling like I had gotten away with something. Feeling ignorantly like I would just magically prevent another breakdown from happening again, because I cannot allow it to happen again, not in your presence,” Eddie says, looking more tired than you've ever seen him. “Thank you for telling me you know that it might—will—happen again. That—that really puts things into perspective.”

It's all the therapy and a lot of knowing your own needs that makes you so thorough. “Yeah. No problem.”

“Waylon,” he steps forward suddenly but pauses as soon as you scurry backwards at the abruptness of his movements. “Thank you for coming here to visit me. Thank you for your understanding. I have seldom received such kindness.” His voice waivers, his blue—so blue—eyes rimmed red with grief. What he's grieving, you don't know. “I cannot say I deserve it.”

You're past caring about whether or not he deserves any kindness, all you know is that you're able to provide it, and that doing so is helping, not hurting.

The urge to offer the man a hug is strong; you've always been the hugging sort. But you're afraid. Not because he's terrorized you, or because he may have some sort of makeshift blade tucked away in his tailored clothes and has been waiting for you to get close enough to thrust it into your gut. No, you're afraid that he will squeeze too tightly, that he, as composed and solid that he is, will dissolve into a sobbing mess, and your heart will swell with sympathy, with forgiveness.

(And you're not allowed to forgive him—the sympathy is bad enough. The kindness.)

(Forgiving him—that's too shameful. No one would understand. They would think that you're crazy to forgive this man—you are crazy, probably.)

He's looking at you with such sorrow, such all-consuming devotion that you have to avert your gaze. Your heart does swell, unbidden, with pity, with fondness.

(What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you?)

Where is the hatred you feel for this man? Where? Where where where? It was just there, a while ago, when you thought he was going to lie to you. Where is it now, when you need it? When you need to hate him, so that you don't want to comfort him instead?

You need to say something, anything, because your silence is probably killing him.

“There are a lot of things that have happened to you that you didn't deserve, Eddie.” The sick, childhood sexual abuse at the hands of his father and uncle; the continued abuse at the hands of Murkoff. “And because of those things, you at least deserve some understanding from me.”

Eddie Gluskin looks at you like you're the only person in the world, and somehow, it's different from the way he looked at you in the vocational block of Mount Massive.

The way he's so affected by your words makes you feel powerful, in control, and you know how fucked up that probably is.

Hugging Eddie Gluskin still seems like a reasonable option—you're not in the right state of mind, you need to leave, escape.

“I should go,” you say, watching closely for any sign that this offends him. Just to be safe, you try to make your attempt to flee sound more casual, “I'm hungry, it's probably almost lunch time by now. Like you said before, I should really try to eat better.”

He can't hide his disappointment, and he looks absolutely miserable—but then something shifts, and his entire demeanor brightens, as if by the flip of a switch. “You could eat here, at the facility, with me.”

Uh-oh.

“I'm sure I could convince the orderlies in the cafeteria to let you eat with us, there's always extra food.”

Some of the tension is gone, now that the somber mood is left only in traces of red around Gluskin's eyes.

“I am positive the meals served in the cafeteria here are much more nutritious than whatever drivel you were planning to eat at home.”

“Hey,” you complain with no real enthusiasm. “We've already established that I'm bad at meal planning, you don't have to rub it in.”

“So you'll join me in the cafeteria, then?”

You accept his offer, reluctantly, because it's hard to say no to someone who is hanging on your every word.

* * *

It's not too bad—once outside the empty library, the bustle of the rest of the facility helps to relieve any excess anxiety left over from the tense conversation with Gluskin.

Gluskin asks the orderly at the door for permission to lead you inside the cafeteria, and you're grateful for not having to deal with the staff yourself. It feels almost like you're hiding behind Gluskin's bulk as he explains the situation—and you're okay with that, letting him do the talking so that your anxiety stays docile.

Inside, the cafeteria is brimming with patients of all different dependency levels, judging by the mix of asylum uniforms and casual clothing. Orderlies in their white uniforms are sprinkled throughout, conversing with patients and appearing to be socializing rather than simply monitoring.

The line for food is long and the crowd is too large to inspire anything but panic. There are too many people, it's all too unpredictable. Not safe.

“Would you like to join me in line, or would you be more comfortable if I dropped you off at an empty table?” Eddie asks, hovering in an empty space just inside the double-doors. He's so tall that he seems to loom over you whenever standing near.

Patients at nearby tables glance in your direction inconspicuously as they chew their food. Do they know who you are, who Eddie is? Do they understand the absurdity of the proximity between you and him?

“Uh. I think I should follow you into the line.” Having Gluskin by your side dulls some of the paranoia. Eddie won't let anything happen to you. Perhaps it's your fantasies bleeding into reality that makes you feel like he'll protect you. “But. Do you think you could maybe talk to the cafeteria staff for me? They're going to question why I'm here, right?”

“They might, though I will absolutely redirect any inquires for you,” he says, rocking on his heels and surveying you with interest. His hands are clasped harmlessly behind his back. He's too chipper after the emotionally charged conversation you just had with him in the library. Is he just happy that you accepted his lunch invitation, or is it more? Could he be bolstered by showing you off to the rest of the facility, rejoicing in being seen with you?

(At least he's not embarrassed by you.)

(Lisa had been embarrassed, whenever she dragged you into public with your newly born trauma obvious in your flighty demeanor, your purpled eyelids. She would frown and worry over your jumpy state, your refusal to talk to strangers, even if they were only inconspicuous cashiers.)

“Thank you.” Your exhale of relief garners a raised eyebrow from Eddie. “Sorry. I was never great at social situations even before Mount Massive, and now...”

Now you severely disassociate with how much you worry about simple impending interactions with store clerks or orderlies or strangers in public. In one generic social exchange you're sure they can see how inappropriately nervous you are, how bumbling. It's humiliating. You wish they wouldn't look at you.

(Lisa had never understood what was so hard for you about common social interactions.)

(But you were functioning before Mount Massive. Afterwards, not at all. You couldn't even fake normality. Still can't.)

(Lisa was the biggest believer in stepping out of comfort zones to overcome fears and anxieties.)

(Just get another job.)

(Do your own shopping.)

(Attend the party.)

(Walk to the end of the yard to check the mailbox.)

(Forcing yourself doesn't work. Not for you. It leaves you feeling broken and ostracized and only shoves it in your face how much you don't belong in the world.)

“That's quite alright. If there is anything else I can do to ease your nerves, please let me know.” Eddie's tone is smooth and reassuring and his words should come with a hand squeezing yours, but that doesn't happen. Obviously that doesn't happen. Because he isn't Lisa. And Lisa never did that, anyway, even though you wished she would. "Are you ready to join the line?”

You nod and Eddie smiles and leads the way—you try your best to walk beside him instead of trailing behind like a child. Once in line you have to pinch at your forearm to keep yourself somewhat grounded in reality as you gaze around the large open room while steadily avoiding eye-contact with every stranger.

“What are those lights, up on the walls?” Periodic bulbs behind plastic casings line the walls, high up by the ceiling. They're not just in the cafeteria but every room and hallway in the building. You've never seen them light up.

“Those are for minor emergencies, they blink to alert orderlies of ordeals, such as distressed patients causing a ruckus,” Eddie says as the line inches forward. “Nothing to worry about, all of the patients here are used to it and largely just ignore such events. No need to be alarmed if they go off while you're here—the bell that sounds is likely more upsetting than whatever riffraff the patients are getting up to.”

“So... people here aren't violent, usually?”

Eddie laughs, perhaps inappropriately. “Orderlies get screamed at, walls get punched in, patients struggle as they're forcibly restrained. Predictable, really. Disorderly patients are most likely threatening to hurt themselves or refusing medication. Orderlies only get hurt when attempting to subdue a struggling patient. Again, nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about.

As you approach the partially enclosed area where food is being served, Eddie says, “The meals are entirely planned daily with little selection, is there anything in particular...”

“Whatever you're having is fine. I'll have the same.”

The staff handing out trays and serving food look at you expectantly, but true to his word, Eddie intercepts them, cordially explaining the situation and speaking on your behalf. The staff is too busy to protest or comment, especially when distracted by compliments and brief small talk from Eddie.

Is he always this chatty with the staff, or is he just trying to divert attention from your meek existence, your flushed face? There are no outward signs that the staff is judging you for needing help getting through a cafeteria line—and you aren't humiliated by Eddie's assistance—he's helping in just the right way.

The amount of relief you're feeling is alien. You're used to having to navigate the world alone, to take the brunt of the stares and the whispers and the scrutiny as you stutter your way through basic human functions.

(Lisa wouldn't help. And you don't blame her for refusing. She thought it would make you worse if she helped you navigate social situations—she didn't want to see you stay the dependent mess you are.)

(And besides, it wasn't her responsibility to be your emotional crutch.)

('You're a grown man, Waylon. Just do it yourself.')

Memories of Lisa fog up your vision. Before you know it you're out of the cafeteria line, barely registering having walked through it.

“Here you are,” Eddie says hospitably as he turns on his heel and offers you one of the two trays of food with a slight bow, as though he's a waiter at a fancy restaurant.

Your own smile catches you off guard as you accept the tray and fight off showing any outward signs that you find his behavior endearing. He caught you by surprise because you were disassociating. That's all. Your amusement must be an automatic response. Compulsive courtesy.

Eddie leads you through the crowd. “There are some tables by the wall that are perpetually empty.”

As you trail behind him, Eddie raises his hand to wave at someone, but the cafeteria is too full and too many people look up as you walk by. You can't tell who he was waving at. Not that you would know them, anyway.

“There we go.” Eddie stops at one of the empty tables and slips into a seat, which is attached to the table by design. They must not want patients throwing chairs at each other.

Nothing to worry about.

You sit directly beside Gluskin, telling yourself it's only because he took the side against the wall, and having your back facing the wall is safer than having it face the entire cafeteria full of strangers. But you leave a good amount of space on the bench between you and him. So it's okay. It's fine.

“The meals here are much better than the ones at all my previous facilities,” Eddie remarks as he watches you poke at a pot-pie with your fork.

“How many different facilities have you been in?”

“Hm. Long term? Including this one, three.”

The bite of food you attempt is too hot and you struggle to swallow it regardless. Eddie is amused rather than concerned and you shoot him a glare that's more playful than anything.

“Three, huh?”

“Yes. It's lucky I haven't been transferred more, since I was only a boy when first committed.”

“How old, exactly?” You're surprised to realize you don't know.

“Sixteen, almost seventeen by the time they finally sentenced me.” He's not avoiding the topic, which is unexpected. Though there's no trace of remorse coating the sensitive subject matter, either. “I was arrested at fourteen. Tried as an adult.”

Fourteen. How had you not known that? He'd only been fourteen years old when he killed two people? And it took the justice system two years to even reach a sentence in his case?

He's been confined in mental institutions for a huge chunk of his life...

“How old are you now?” It's probably bad that you have to ask.

His smile is lop-sided and humorless. “Forty-eight.”

“I'm thirty-two,” you contribute awkwardly, just to maintain some semblance of a normal conversation.

“Yes,” he agrees.

So he already knew. Of course he already knew.

Forty-eight. That means Gluskin has spent over half of his life locked away. You basically knew as much. But. Thirty-four years. Wow. That's... a long time. A lifetime. Longer than you've existed.

“How long would your sentence have been if you had been sent to a prison instead of a mental institution?”

“I believe eight to forty-eight years is the typical sentencing for second-degree in this state,” his explanation is so matter-of-fact, and you don't miss the way he doesn't tact the word murder onto the end of second-degree. “Though in my case it was double the offense and due to my unusually young age there is no telling how lenient they may have been.”

“So. It could have been anywhere from sixteen years to life?” A fourteen year old boy murdering and mutilating two adult women. You can't imagine. But if they had given him a light sentence, he would already be out of jail by now—so why is he still in the mental hospital, if a prison sentence may have very well been much shorter? Can a 'not-guilty by reason of insanity' verdict be worse than just a plain old 'guilty'? Seems like it, somehow, if he's been committed for over thirty years, compared to a potentially sixteen year prison sentence.

“Or death penalty,” he adds, growing more stoic by the second. “Are you sure you wish to discuss such macabre happenings at the dinner-table?”

“It's lunchtime.”

“So it is.”

The topic must be affecting him more than he's letting on, if he's trying to avoid it. “I'm sorry. Am I upsetting you with the questions?”

Eddie's eyes snap up to you. The intensity is terrifying, but he almost looks guilty. “Not necessarily. Though, I'm not sure what your intentions are just now, and that is causing some...”

“Discomfort?”

Eddie gestures assent with his free hand.

“My intentions are to get to know you better.” You're not sure he'll believe that. “Are you okay with talking about this stuff?”

“I am able to talk about it, yes. This is a tired topic with my therapists and in group therapy with other patients as well.” He hesitates. “Though I am finding it difficult to discuss this with you. I wonder what you must think of me.”

It doesn't seem fair of Eddie Gluskin to omit certain subjects because it might color your opinion of him. It feels like lying. It feels like control. But he's tentative, almost-willing.

“You want to know what I think about all this? I think...” How honest can you be? Do you even have an honesty filter when it comes to anyone, let alone this man? “I think: what could have been said to a fourteen-year-old Eddie Gluskin to stop him from doing what he did? What could have been done to change the course of his life?”

Eddie is taken aback, he blinks, gaze stuttering between you and his food. He's at a loss for words.

“Sorry, just. I remember what I was like at fourteen. My oldest son is going on ten years old now, which is right around the corner from being a teenager.” You cringe internally, mentioning your son in Gluskin's presence. Then pause, bracing for broaching a difficult topic. “I know you don't want me to talk about your childhood abuse. But I have to say, it just makes me wonder what could have been done to intervene—what would have had to take place for you to not go down the path you did.”

Eddie smiles bitterly down at his tray, refusing to look at you. “You are very persistent in your desire to save me.”

Your face heats at that. “Yeah. I guess I have a history of having a savior complex, huh?” Look at what being a whistleblower got you.

“I doubt you even realize,” Eddie mutters to himself. “You have no idea.”

“What?”

He looks up at you, expression odd. “You need not save me from the Engine. Nor save me from what I did to you in the vocational block. Or save me from my warped childhood. You have already saved me. You saved us all from those corporate Murkoff fucks,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the sea of patients eating peacefully in the cafeteria. “You allowed us to save ourselves, in this place, with the help of the doctors here.”

The sentiment about you being a hero is so frequent that Eddie's proclamation shouldn't get to you. But it does. You had no idea Eddie personally felt that you had saved him.

“My life is changed for the better since leaving the hellscape of Mount Massive,” he continues firmly. “Better than you can imagine.”

Something tells you that he's not only referring to you ratting out Murkoff. Something tells you he's referring to your visits to him, your presence in his life right at this very moment.

In the end, you break under mixed emotions. “You know, that's the first time I've heard you curse since I started visiting you here.”

The sudden change of subject gives Eddie pause, but he quickly recovers. “Forgive me, I still harbor a lot of anger about what those monsters did to me and the other patients there.”

He cares about the other patient's suffering too? “I know it was bad, but I don't think I'll ever fully understand just what you all went through daily.”

“It was worse than anything. Hell on earth. Perhaps I deserved it, but many of the others did not.” His expression shifts again to anger as he recalls his time in Mount Massive, and somehow the vitriol doesn't scare you. “Their goal was our superfluous suffering. They used any means necessary to reenact any trauma or fear we may have had. Daily. Without end.”

A patient named Eddie Gluskin bangs on the glass partition and begs you to help him; he screams they're going to rape me, rape, rape!

A doctor named Andrew licks you on the face as you fade in and out of consciousness.

“Yeah. I know. I mean, I don't really know. But. I'm so sorry.”

Eddie's breathing is visible in deep rises of his chest. He must notice your hesitance to talk about what the Murkoff doctors did. (What you helped them do by typing in commands on a computer.)

(>Start MorphogeniCEngine/RootSystem/MorphoggenicEngineV5.exe)

(>Start Walrider.exe)

“No need for apologies. And I digress—did you have any more questions about the crimes I committed? I do not want to come across unwilling to discuss certain subjects with you.”

“Oh. Uh.” There is a lot you want to know, of course there is. “Why did you end up with the not guilty by reason of insanity verdict?”

He would have had to have gotten that verdict, otherwise he would be in prison and not a mental institution.

Eddie snorts. “At the time I was very delusional and experiencing psychosis persistently. I thought my dead uncle and father were alive and conspiring against me. I was not deemed fit to stand trial for a long while.”

Why had you been thinking of psychosis as just a state of being really really angry with maybe a side of reduced impulse control, rather than what it really is—a state of delusional thinking? Unreality.

“So you were completely out of touch with reality?”

“Predisposition for schizophrenia—ran in the family.” He seems almost bored as he finishes his food and dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “Abusive home life and extreme sheltering only warped things further.”

“And, what exactly is schizophrenia?” You feel awful for having to ask. You feel awful that the only thing that comes to mind when you try to define the diagnosis is the image of homeless people talking to themselves in broad daylight.

“A delightful mixture of intrusive thoughts, visual and auditory hallucinations, delusion, paranoia, the list goes on.”

“And you killed those two women because?”

Gluskin stares at you, inhales deeply, doesn't falter. “At the time I was under the delusion that they were conspiring with my dead uncle, who I believed was still alive, to molest me and publish photos of this to the newspaper. Looking back, the victims were just friendly middle aged women trying to be kind to me. I was the odd, recently orphaned child who they had watched grow up in our small town.”

You had no idea. No idea that was the nature of his crime. That he was so young. Is it really possible that someone could be convinced of such ridiculous things? If that's really true... you feel sick. You feel disgusted that you had been thinking that Eddie Gluskin was a clear-cut, stone cold monster, both before and after his arrest. There is nothing that feels clear-cut about what you are hearing.

“What,” you have to swallow your nerves, give your dry mouth a moment to function. “What do you mean, the women were trying to be kind to...?”

“Oh, they would call me handsome, compliment my hand-made clothes, tell me the girls in town would jump at the chance to date me. I perceived it as flirting at the time and was very alarmed and upset by it. In hindsight, they were likely pitying me and wanting to offer motherly words to a young boy with no mother, as my own mother had passed away recently. Regardless, they did not deserve to be hurt.”

You can certainly see why that situation triggered his delusions. “I thought the documentaries always said you had claimed to kill them over some convoluted notion that they didn't deserve to live if your mother was dead.”

“That was one of the many intrusive thoughts that lead me to do what I did, yes,” he's watching you carefully, still so unaffected by the topic. “I know it all must sound so contrived to you, but it was very real and sensical to me at the time.”

You suck in a breath. "And the mutilation?"

Gluskin doesn't even blink. "I was a very disturbed child. Fascinated with death. As I mentioned, I had been reading medical textbooks from an early age. It's telling that I was able to dissect them like it was a perfectly normal thing to do—even considering the psychosis and hallucinations supporting the endeavor. There was a very real lack of empathy there. They were objects to me. I think I would have felt similarly about any human being, at the time."

“You don't seem very bothered by any of this now.” It's probably wrong of you to point that out, especially when you were the one who asked him to share.

“It was a long time ago,” he says, directing a pitying smile your way, as if he knows he won't be able to make you understand. “And I have had many years to reflect.”

“Do you regret it?” You hate how small your voice is.

“Of course.” His expression is still bittersweet, as though he's not sure what to do with a man like you, who has listened to all of this and is still here, still asking questions.

“Because you threw your life away?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Heavens, no. I regret it because those women should be alive, and they are not, because of me. I do not mourn my loss of freedom, I'm not sure I ever have until I was transferred to Mount Massive.”

It's plausible he's lying. Is he lying? He sounds so sincere.

If it's true that he didn't wish for freedom until he endured the torture of Mount Massive... something about that tugs your heartstrings. He didn't miss his freedom until enduring Murkoff's torture.

“Institutionalization seems necessary for me no matter how I look at it. Even if I had not killed those women, I cannot see a good outcome for my life that does not involve me being institutionalized. Even if I had never hurt anyone, I would have lived a miserable existence with a very warped perception of reality. I had no one, absolutely no one to help me understand my disorders or help me know how wrong my thinking was. No basis for comparison." He stares downcast at his tray, avoiding your scrutiny. He seems sad, but not nervous. Not anxious to convince you of anything. Just stating upsetting facts. "Because I had no kindness, no support system. Professional help was the only option, and of course I had no one to suggest it, and at that age I was unaware it was a resource potentially available to me. I didn't even know it was an option, as young, as ignorant about the world as I was.”

Your heart hurts even worse. God. What's wrong with you? This is the last man you should be feeling sorry for. “But if you had gotten help before you hurt anyone, surely you wouldn't have ended up in institutionalized for as long as you have been today.”

Eddie sighs, eyes you warily. “You're at it again.”

You drop your gaze to your picked-at tray of food. “What?”

“Trying to save me,” Eddie admonishes. “It's over and done with, darling. We can't change the past.”

There's nothing you can say to that, so you just continue to pick at your food miserably. You can't even bring yourself to reprimand him for the endearment.

A short, melodic bell rings twice in short succession and patients begin leisurely tossing their trays and filing out of the cafeteria. Lunch must be over. You barely touched your food. Eddie doesn't pester you about how little you ate, and you're grateful for it.

“Unfortunately I really do have to let you go now.” Eddie stands, gathering his tray. “They won't let you follow me into group therapy, I'm afraid.”

“Yeah. That's okay,” It's not okay, because suddenly you're going to be thrust back into your own life, your own loneliness. What is there for you besides your empty apartment? Nothing. Lisa would point out that it's your own fault for hiding yourself away. “Hey—uh, thanks for talking to the orderlies for me, and cafeteria staff. I'm not really good at that stuff. No matter how much I go to therapy, I can't seem to act like a normal human being.”

Eddie's brows knit—he looks absolutely concerned for your well-being. It's a surprise that he doesn't place a hand on your forehead to check for fever, with how bewildered he is. “Waylon Park, nonsense—utter nonsense. The goal of therapy and overcoming mental illness is not to become normal. The goal is to survive and then eventually, to survive happily. Being well has nothing to do with being normal.”

You can't. Your chest swells with grief, sinuses suddenly buzzing, you can feel the oncoming tears in the tightness of your throat before your eyes start to sting. That...

Eddie hovers, clearly not sure what to do with himself. At least he can read emotion well enough to tell you're suddenly distraught. He's not completely barren of empathy.

“Thank you,” you manage between attempts to staunch the flow of emotion. “I needed to hear that, I think.”

“I hope you can come to believe it,” Eddie says gently. “Many of the patients here struggle to understand that—but when they do, things change for them.”

You sniff, wipe at your eyes with the fabric of your shoulder before urging yourself up from the table.

“This might seem like an odd question—” Eddie says, suddenly. “But may I have that cookie?”

There's a perfectly normal cookie still wrapped in clear plastic on your tray—you hand it to Gluskin. “Sure?”

“Thank you,” he pockets it. “My good friend Dennis really loves these.”

You notice he saved his own cookie as well. “No problem.”

That wasn't so bad—eating lunch with Eddie Gluskin. And as he walks you out of the cafeteria... despite all of the other patients, the staff around to dispel the delusion, to debunk the reality of it, Eddie still looks at you like you're the only person in the world.

Chapter Text

You try to wait a whole week before visiting Eddie Gluskin again.

You last about half that time.

When you arrive on third floor patient ward, Eddie is waiting for you by the elevators. Except, maybe he's not, because he doesn't even look up as the stairwell door swings closed behind you (the stairs are—well, feel—safer than the elevators).

No, Eddie doesn't even spare your arrival a glance—he seems completely content with devoting every ounce of his attention to a woman cradling her swollen belly.

The woman's light brown skin is glowing with the picture of health; her clothing is business-casual, red-framed glasses joining forces with her thick shoulder-length hair to lend her a frazzled scientist sort of vibe. The only thing out of place are her shoes—soft sheepskin boots.

It takes you a moment to recognize her, and when you do, it's from the photographs on Dr. Everett's desk, not the times you were briefly introduced to her outside Dr. Everett's office, where she waited with a boxed lunch. Sarah, her name is Sarah and she is your therapist's wife. And she is very, very pregnant.

Your psychiatrist doesn't talk about her personal life without prompting from you, but you ask about her life often enough to know that her wife works at MMSS as a social worker who specializes in abuse cases. You haven't put much thought into it before, but now that you think about it, it makes sense that Sarah would know most patients at MMSS, particularly Eddie. So many of the patients had not just been physically abused by the doctors and staff at Mount Massive, but also sexually abused.

Hell, even you had been subjected to sexual harassment at the hands of a doctor at Mount Massive, and you had only been committed forcibly as a patient there for a few hours.

(You fade into consciousness and a man in scrubs licks a thick, senseless line up your face.)

You don't even want to imagine what the long-term patients—what Eddie—had to go through at the hands of Murkoff employees.

Eddie has yet to acknowledge you with more than a brief glance, his wide smile trained faithfully on Sarah as she prattles on about something to do with midwives.

You hover awkwardly a good distance away, lean against the wall to make the blatant eavesdropping more casual. Eddie is doting on the woman so thoroughly, his replies quick and oh-so invested in extracting more conversation from her. Is this how he looks when he talks to you? No, you don't think so. He's never smiled at you quite so freely, faithfully, with stars in his eyes. Not since Mount Massive.

You tell yourself that the mixture of jealousy and annoyance washing through you is a result of bearing witness to Dr. Everett's happy life, her loving wife and her soon-to-be first child—not because Eddie is looking at Sarah like you expect him to be looking at you.

When Sarah circles her fingers around Eddie's wrist and draws his hand to her belly, you have to look away from Eddie's lapse in composure, his flushed face. It's too much.

Still, you can't keep their words from reaching you.

"Gosh, it's gotta be any second, I swear she's been at it all day."

Eddie only hums in response and you can tell by how strained it is that it's all he can manage. When you look back, Sarah is guiding Eddie's hand around to various parts of her belly like his palm is a stethoscope. Gluskin's attention is so engrossed on her hand guiding his that it's almost frightening.

You can remember the sweet anticipation of a baby's kick, the way the air would stick in your lungs as you waited for it; Lisa's hand pressing yours to her stomach much more firmly than you would have dared on your own.

(Gluskin's hands on your bare thighs, promising a painful but fruitful conception. Don't you want children? A family?)

The moment the baby decides to preform is marked by Gluskin's gasp. His eyes snap up to Sarah's, as wide as his grin.

"Ha! There it is," Sarah says, so proud, like the baby's movement is her own personal crowning achievement. "Strong little thing, isn't she?"

"I can hardly believe such a thing is possible," Eddie replies, breathless, "A miracle—actual magic here on earth. You amaze me, my dear." He makes expecting fathers everywhere look bad with the level of wonder in his voice. His attentiveness is endearing in a gruesome sort of way, akin to a baby vampire bat having its first meal.

Sarah laughs, soaking up the attention like nourishment. "You can listen too, if you want."

The delight that sparks in Eddie's features is infectious—it reminds you too much of his manic state back in the basement of Mount Massive. "Can I, truly?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" she jokes, stepping back to give him room to kneel before her.

How can she be so casual about this? So friendly towards Eddie Gluskin, of all people? Somewhere in the back of your mind you know you could ask yourself the same question. You are also guilty of forgetting what he's done, if only for a moment, to interact with him as if he has never wronged anyone.

(The worst is when you don't forget, when the reality of who he is and what he's done is vivid in your thoughts and still, still, you enjoy his company.)

Sarah's probably been working with Eddie for his entire duration at MMSS—almost three years. Is that what gives her the ability to trust him? How? How is it possible to know Eddie Gluskin so well and stand before him unafraid and amicable?

Watching Eddie on his knees at Sarah's feet, palms and face pressed against her belly, makes you feel like an intruder. If you didn't know the truth, if they were strangers, you might mistake them for a couple in love.

(I want you to have my baby.)

(Try to... endure.)

(For my sake.)

(For the sake of our children.)

(A soft place to welcome my seed.)

(To grow our family.)

You can't give him a family. Won't give him a family. Don't want to give him a family.

(Does he still want you to give him a family?)

You have a family of your own—your boys, and you can't imagine ever wanting to bring them within a few miles of Eddie Gluskin.

And yet the unwarranted churning in your gut persists.

"I am so impressed," Gluskin gushes, ear still pressed to Sarah's bulging belly. "The baby is coming along so well. You are already an excellent mother."

"That's what the wife says, though it's really nothing special. I just eat and read parenting books."

Eddie finally pulls away, springing back to his feet. "Oh, but you are doing so much already, can't you see? Even a man like myself can tell that you already hold so much love for this child. She will be safe and happy, I am sure," he chokes out his last words. "Sorry."

He wipes implied tears away on his sleeve, tears you can't see because of the distance.

"Aw, thanks Eddie," Sarah's smile doesn't falter despite Eddie's emotional display.

It's then that Sarah notices you watching them unabashedly from across the room. She squints at you for a moment, confused, and then waves you over, "Waylon? Waylon Park? Is that you?"

Oh god. "Yeah, hi, Sarah—right?"

She beams. "You remember me!"

You push off the wall and walk over to them, every step measured. Eddie isn't looking at you, he's still busy dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve.

"How could I forget?" you say, regarding her with some manner of hesitance, because it's difficult to believe that she's okay with you witnessing the intimate way she was just conversing with Eddie Gluskin. Shouldn't she be ashamed?

(You don't deserve my children.)

(You don't deserve to live.)

"You are such a sweetheart. I mean, Sam—er, Dr. Everett, tells me as much, but it's nice to see it for myself, too." She reaches out to hug you, and you force yourself to refrain from flinching away. It's over with quickly, and kind of nice despite not being much of a hug with her stomach closing the distance before anything else.

God, she is a ball of energy. Just being at arm's length of her makes you feel tired. It's almost laughable, knowing how reserved Dr. Everett is in comparison.

"You two know each other?" Eddie asks, his excitement waning since your arrival.

(Sarah lavishing you with attention doesn't make up for Eddie's indifference.)

Sarah, in a display of professionalism, looks to you to answer Eddie's question. She's letting you decide what you want to tell him.

"She's my therapist's wife. Though I mostly only know her from the lovely pictures all over my therapist's office."

“Aw, I make her put those there,” Sarah assures.

Eddie nods. "I see. I suppose it isn't so grand a coincidence, considering Dr. Sarah works with many of the patients here."

Something dawns on you for the first time, and perhaps the same realization is the cause for Eddie's sudden change in demeanor—seeing as how both you and Eddie are a married couple's patients, is your newfound not-quite-friendship with Eddie a topic of dinner conversation for them?

What does Eddie say about you in his therapy sessions these days, anyway?

"It's really nice seeing you, Waylon, but I'm afraid I have to run—Eddie's already made me late for my doctor's appointment." Though she's blaming Eddie, she doesn't seem at all upset about it.

"Guilty as charged," Eddie offers kindly, his smile returning.

What in the world? How can the banter between Eddie and anyone be this easy? You thought yourself an anomaly for being able to have an enjoyable conversation with him. You're not sure if Sarah's ease around him makes you feel better or worse about your own growing deference for the man.

"I hope to see you again soon, Waylon," Sarah says as she presses the button to call the elevator. "And Eddie, I'll see you tomorrow."

"I look forward to it," Eddie says as she steps into the open elevator, and with one last wave, is gone.

The anxiety swirling beneath your ribcage grows more insistent with Sarah gone.

(I know you must be just as eager as I am to consummate our love.)

(But try to enjoy the anticipation.)

(Here, darling. This will help you relax.)

"I'm awfully sorry for making you wait," Gluskin says, staring at the closed elevator door for a moment before pivoting his attention back to you. Attention that isn't anywhere near as excitable as it was when directed at the pregnant woman. "I ran into her unexpectedly while awaiting your arrival."

"Seems like you made her late," you offer, not really knowing what to say.

"Yes, well, we are both talkers, I'm afraid." His smile is small, and it's not for you, it belongs to the memory of his interaction with Sarah. "Who am I to resist the offered conversation? Furthermore, pregnancy is a very fascinating thing—can you believe how much a person's body can endure?"

(A woman... has to suffer some things.)

(It's not pleasant, I know.)

You're not sure what makes you sick—your unmistakable jealously or the memory of just how fascinated Gluskin is by pregnancy. The decomposing shrines he'd made to mimic it...

The Engine. The Engine made him do those things. You have to remember that. Yes, his actions in Mount Massive were based on preexisting desires, but they were intensified, misconstrued and twisted by the Engine. He can't be held accountable for that.

"Yeah, I was there for the birth of both of my sons," you say this before you can staunch the flow of words. You have no desire to talk to him about your family; it feels wrong to bring any part of your old life into this new part that involves Eddie Gluskin. But it feels good to rub it in his face that you have a family—experiences that he has never had, will never have. It's so fucked up, but you feel like he deserves it after the odd jealousy his interactions with Sarah inspired in you. "It was the greatest feeling I'll ever experience. I knew how pregnancy worked, I knew, but still I couldn't believe what I was seeing."

You expect him to change the subject, to have nothing to say, to be at a complete loss for words under the discomfort he's sure to feel at the mention that you have a life outside of your conversations with him.

But instead Eddie just smiles at you, and says, voice tender, sincere, "That sounds absolutely wonderful. I am so happy for you."

The gentleness, the honesty, the tilt of his head as he regards you—it is so much better than any onslaught of excited lavishing he just displayed over a pregnant woman.

"Oh," the tenderness is gone, a grin replacing it. "I have prepared a bit of a surprise for you, come with me."

He motions and you follow him, and it's not until you're being led down various hallways in the patient ward that you realize any awkwardness you expected to reside after your last encounter with him is non-existent. He broke down in front of you and the world hadn't ended. Here he is, intact and happy, and here you are, bearing no ill will.

That seems like a miracle, too.

"Where are we going?"

"Why, my room of course."

You stop. Stuff your hands in your pockets to avoid fidgeting. How do you tell him that you don't want to be alone with him in his room?

Gluskin turns, eyebrow raised. It only takes a beat before realization dawns on his face. "Ah. We're close, just wait here. I'll be right back."

Well, that was easy. Gluskin is around a corner before you can reply.

He's gone for a full minute before the vacant stretch of hallway makes you feel uneasy. The feeling doesn't last long however, because Gluskin is back—except—it's not Gluskin.

Someone else is coming down the hallway. The first thing that registers is that the person isn't Gluskin, isn't an orderly, isn't a guard, isn't on staff.

The man stops in front of you and you're surprised to find you recognize him.

Richard Trager—the man who had been played chess with Frank the other day.

"Oh hey, it's you," Trager says, much too friendly, like you're an old classmate encountered accidentally at the grocery store. "Where's the lover boy?"

Does he mean Eddie?

When you don't answer immediately he continues, "How's the wedding planning going, by the way? I expect it will be a facility-wide affair. Ol' Ed sure has a knack for those things."

Is he joking? He has to be joking. Eddie doesn't indulge in this kind of gossip when you're not around, does he?

"Aw, come on, I'm just kidding with you." Apparently the man's voice only has one tone: pleasantly surprised. "Sheesh, you are the exact opposite of a blushing bride—I don't think I've ever encountered anyone with such a stoic expression! Besides the twins, maybe. Okay, yeah, the twins definitely take the cake."

Mention of the twins only makes you glad Trager is the one with you now. Things could be worse.

"Been getting more sleep there, friend? You look a lot better than the last time I saw you."

The observation is unwelcome, invasive. Is he trying to make you uncomfortable through the farce of friendly, overly intimate conversation? Is it even possible that what he's saying is true—that you look healthier than you did a few weeks ago? You probably wouldn't have noticed, even if you had looked in the mirror today.

"Your hair could use some work though—looks like you cut it yourself with a dull knife."

It looks like that because you did cut it yourself. Without Lisa to do it, a haphazard self-haircut is the only option you have. A barber is out of the question—you could barely stand a barber's invasive small-talk before you formed an intense suspicion of strangers after Mount Massive. Plus, a stranger wielding a pair of shears so close to your neck is not a situation you want to put yourself in—nevermind that the buzzing breath of hair clippers is likely to make you jump and run from the shop like a spooked cat.

"Ya might wanna consider seeing a professional about it—it looks a whole lot of awful. No offense." He smiles at you all the while, not a care in the world, not noticing the fact that you haven't spoken one word to him yet. "I'm surprised Ed hasn't said anything about it—y'know, pulled you aside and given you a little heart to heart about the whole bad hair day situation. He's kinda a stickler for those things. Prim and proper and all that. I never cared much for such things myself."

Trager is one to talk; whether the man's excessively receding hairline is a a product of age or the scarring that runs up most of his face and across the top of his head, you don't know.

"See, take this strand of hair here, for example," He reaches out to touch your hair and you scramble backwards—he holds his hands up innocently in a show of surrender, that he's backing off, but otherwise doesn't miss a beat. "Oh hey, sorry. I forget that some of you folks are touchy about the whole personal bubble thing. Silly me, I do apologize—I can be handsy sometimes."

What the fuck? Trager is such a lanky man, the spectacles and calm, perpetually intrigued and overly engaged demeanor make him seem like even less of a threat—but your heart is beating wildly, breath quick.

From the way he tilts his head and smiles, you get the feeling that your physical reaction of fear is all too apparent.

Fuck—you're not just imagining this, this guy is trying to get a reaction out of you—he's enjoying it. It can't be in your head.

You're so focused on Trager, on weighing the pros and cons of bolting down the hall away from the man right then and there, that you don't notice Gluskin's arrival until he steps in front of you, his body a solid barrier between you and Trager.

It's instantly comforting and you feel, absurdly, the primitive need to shuffle closer to his back and cling to his vest, ground yourself against him, like your boys often do, encircling their small arms around the leg of their parents to peek shyly at a stranger.

You refrain of course, because you are a grown man—but not quite grown enough to step away from Gluskin's offered shelter. You don't feel weak for accepting his physical display of protection, just... cared for, the same glow of relief and appreciation that comes with a friend sticking up for you in an argument. You're more than content to allow it to happen.

"Trager—leave." Gluskin's words so are terse that, though you can't see his expression, you know he's looking at Trager like one might regard the remnants of a bug on the bottom of their shoe.

"That's not any way to greet a friend, now is it?" The added amusement in Trager's voice startles you—Gluskin is intimidating by anyone's standards, yet Trager doesn't seem the least bit concerned about the other man's scrutiny. And that, that frightens you more than anything else about Trager. "Come on, don't treat the lady like a damsel in distress—she seems perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

The intentional flip of pronouns is infuriating—not because you really mind it, not because it emasculates you, but because it's all too clear that Trager is aiming to provoke.

Who is Richard Trager and how did he spend his time during the riot? Do you even want to know?

Eddie doesn't budge, his position still blocking Trager's view of you. "Don't you have something better to do than lurk about the halls and prey on anyone polite enough to give you the time of day? Oh, but of course you don't, not since you reduced poor Becca to tears. Couldn't help yourself, could you? Now even the staff won't humor you." Gluskin's all but laughing at the man. "Feeling lonely, Trager?"

Trager does laugh. Genuine fucking mirth. "Well, not everyone has a merry little band of misfits to tote around."

Whatever that means, Gluskin ignores it. "I hear even poor Frank isn't speaking to you."

"Ya can't please everybody, y'know? Sometimes ya just gotta give people space—like your little friend there." He leans around Gluskin, hands folded innocently behind his back, to stare at you.

Gluskin shifts to block Trager's view again. Thank god.

"Poor thing looks positively mortified by your primitive display of chivalry. Let the lad take care of himself, least he become fearful of that awful possessive nature of yours."

Nothing about Gluskin's actions upset you—but you wonder if Gluskin is falling for the man's attempt at manipulation.

Maybe Trager does succeed in getting under Gluskin's skin, because Eddie's next words are hissed:

"Go. Away."

Trager laughs again, obliging by slinking past Gluskin, but not before clapping the man on the shoulder with a cheerful, "See you around, big guy."

And Eddie doesn't punch the guy. He just glares after Trager until the other man is out of sight.

You can't believe Eddie didn't punch him.

"I can't believe you didn't punch him."

Eddie shrugs, hands going into his pockets as he backs an informal distance away from you. Nonthreatening—he's trying to be nonthreatening. Did Trager really get to him—hit where it hurts most? Does Gluskin really believe his display of protection made you feel anything but safe?

Ah. But you just told him that you're surprised he didn't resort to violence. If Trager's seed of doubt wasn't planted firmly enough before, it certainly is now.

"The guy seems like a creep," you offer, hoping it adds some context to your previous statement. Eddie's still preoccupied, non-responsive, so you step closer for good measure, a physical display of how unafraid you are. "Thanks for intervening. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't shown up." Probably ran away to find a locker to hide in until an orderly stumbled upon you.

"I hate that man," Gluskin says, still distant. "I have hated him since the moment I first saw him."

"Funny, he talks about you like you're good friends."

"Could not be further from the truth. All of his platitudes and niceties are an act. He is a smart man—one very good at playing the role of a scatter-brained fool." You don't dare say it, but many people are of the same opinion about Gluskin himself—that he's just a smart, manipulative man playing the role of a charming one. Maybe they're right. You used to think so. Now you're not so sure. "He reduced a poor girl on staff to tears last week, asking her, with all the politeness in the world, questions about her husband, whom he had found out through the grapevine had passed away last month."

Yikes. "What does he get out of it?"

Gluskin grimaces. "How am I to know? I can only assume he enjoys the attention, to have impacted the life of another in any way. He believes himself more important than he is. Superior to us all."

"There are a lot of people like him out in the world. I almost feel sorry for them. They probably can't form any meaningful relationships."

At that, Eddie's expression softens. "Oh, darling, do not waste a drop of sympathy on the likes of him. You are too kind."

You look at Eddie, the tender, worried knit of his brow, the sad quirk of his lips, and think yeah—yeah, you are too kind, because you shouldn't be able to look at Eddie Gluskin and see anything other than a monster. Shouldn't be able to feel anything but sick to your stomach.

You want to, and god, it feels good sometimes, to hate others for what they've done—but it's not a feeling that comes naturally to you. Self-righteous is usually the extent of your anger, it's what led you to send that email to rat Murkoff out; it's what made you leak the footage. Hell, even when you were being knocked into walls and threatened to be buzz-sawed to bits, the only weapon you ever held in your hands was that useless camcorder.

Not once, not once did picking up a makeshift weapon—a solid piece of debris or a discarded blade—cross your mind. You didn't want to hurt anyone. It's just not in you.

Lisa had been so angry watching the footage that she'd come storming into the other room where you waited, unable to watch at her side, and demanded to know why the hell you hadn't punched or kicked or bit—she couldn't fathom why you had just ran, why recording the footage was the extent of the violence you could inflict.

It almost makes you smile, thinking about Lisa's reaction now, though it had startled you back then. Lisa's a fighter; she would have blazed her way through that place, makeshift blade in hand, ready to cut any fuckers that tried to mess with her. It's something you had loved about her, something you still admire.

"Oh, I nearly forgot—" Gluskin turns, and you watch as he walks down the hall to pick up a wrapped item that had apparently been dropped in his haste to wedge himself between you and Trager. "This is for you," he says, offering the colorfully wrapped gift.

You take it, eyebrows raised. "What is it?"

"A gift."

"No shit—what's inside it?"

Eddie frowns, presumably at the language. "Need I explain to you the purpose of wrapping paper? It's meant to conceal the gift's identity until opened."

You roll your eyes at the unnecessary explanation. "You want me to open it now?"

"If you'd like."

You oblige, carefully peeling at the tape to keep the wrapping paper intact. The gift is soft, the paper crinkling from the lack of support the contents offer. Inside is a thick, sherbet orange knit hat, complete with one of those absurd fluffy pom-poms on the top.

"You actually made me a hat?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I? You asked, didn't you?"

A smile starts to fight its way onto your lips but you try your damnedest to prevent it, because it's too embarrassing, way too embarrassing that this makes you happy.

"You're welcome," Eddie says, overjoyed—apparently your attempt to conceal your reaction is a miserable failure.

It's a cute hat, and maybe it'll do well to cover your admittedly butchered haircut in the chilly fall weather. You wonder if perhaps the style of the hat is too juvenile for a man your age, but your perceived maturity isn't something that has ever bothered you much in the first place, considering your interest in video games and science-fiction novels.

Your heart flies off the handle staring at the hat. The cause of your quickened pulse isn't easily deciphered—is it because of the unexpected thoughtfulness of the gift—or does it remind you too much of your sons and their drawings, the little cotton-ball and popsicle-stick crafts they send you in the mail or are pleased to present you with during a well-anticipated, rare visit? Mostly, you think it's the style of the hat that you find so heart-wrenching. Lisa used to dress the boys in similar little hats, the spiked puffballs on top bobbing enthusiastically as the boys ambled through the cold weather in their heavy snow-boots.

Fuck.

Fuck. You can't do this. Not right now.

"Waylon...?"

You manage to bring your sleeve up to your eyes before the tears come—but it does nothing, absolutely nothing to conceal the wave of sudden, heavy sobs that wrack through your entire body.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Waylon, I'm sorry, have I done something to—"

"No," you choke out the response to try and retain some dignity. Then turn away from him blindly, bow your head to prevent him from seeing your face. The hat and the wrapping paper are strangled by your fist, as though if you only wished for it hard enough, you could force life back into the memories of the boy's red noses and Lisa gazing at you lovingly, knowingly. "You didn't, didn't do anything, it's—my kids, the hat, shit, it—" The sobs devour your words as well as your train of thought. You can't do this. You can't. You shouldn't even be mentioning your kids to Eddie Gluskin. You need to sit down. To curl up in your bed back home. To be alone.

"I can see that you care deeply for your family," Eddie offers, concerned, so concerned.

This makes you sob harder, because it's not true, you don't care about them. You call your boys every night, play games online with them, but you're not there, not in person, you're not a real part of their lives. You're too selfish, too selfish to be there for them.

"Does your—does their mother allow you to see them?" Eddie asks experimentally. Your lack of response is forcing him to guess where the rush of emotion is coming from.

"Yes, she does, she does but I hardly ever visit—I haven't seen them in months. Months! God, I'm—fuck."

"You do not strike me as a careless man. I am sure you have very good reasons for the minimal contact."

He's giving you the benefit of the doubt—you don't deserve it. You can see it in Lisa's eyes every time you do conjure the courage to visit the boys, that what you're doing isn't enough.

"I don't want them to worry—they're getting too old, too smart." You had taken the job at Mount Massive to pay the bills, so the kids wouldn't grow up with the weight of their parent's financial worries on their shoulders. And now they're all fearful, worried little looks at your odd behavior. "They don't deserve to be put through this. But—they don't deserve to be abandoned either."

"You haven't abandoned them," Gluskin takes a fretful step forward. "Can't you see? The way you're reacting now, it's clear that you haven't abandoned them. This is not a reaction of a man who doesn't care."

The bite of an argument catches behind your teeth—because it's empty, a reiteration. The truth is that you can't argue with his logic, because it's sound, because it's true. You do care, you care, but you don't know what to do.

"I... loved my mother dearly, but she was not a stable woman. Religious to a fault. Unkind." You are lost at sea and Eddie's voice is the shore—why? Why is he willing to share what must be such painful memories? The weight of what that means distracts you, gives you something to focus on long enough to dwindle your sobs. "She abandoned me so frequently, in violent, irrevocable ways. She abandoned me with silence, with mistrust. She abandoned me, she refused to care for me, though she was always physically within reach."

You wipe the remainder of your sobs away with your shaking palm. Compose yourself enough to give him your attention, to look at Eddie despite your bleary vision. He's staring off to the side, eyes on the wall.

"Perhaps it is not my place to say, but I believe you are regarding yourself too harshly. There are much worse ways to cope with your trauma. Your children will understand, when they are old enough." He turns, soaking in the sight of you defeated and sodden, your face damp and eyes wrung dry. "This choice to self-alienate is not forever, and your reaction now is reason enough to believe that it won't be forever."

You snort in derision, except it comes out as something closer to a whine. "It feels like I'll never get better. Like I'll never stop feeling like my presence will damage them."

"I know," Eddie coos, gentle, so gentle. "I know."

The implication is that he understands, and right now, you believe him.

"I should probably go," you say, but your eyes bore into his and you feel as vulnerable as you do pathetic. It feels wrong, so wrong, to end the emotional exchange you just had with Eddie without a hug, a handshake, some sort of physical contact. Anything, you'll take anything, but god, you can't ask him for it. You can't.

"May I at least see you wear the hat before you go?" It's a hesitant sort of teasing, he wants to lighten the mood but he's walking on eggshells to do it. "So that I can rest easy, knowing that it fits."

Of course. Of course that's why he wants you to try it on—to see if it fits. Yeah fucking right.

You untangle the hat from the wrapping paper and shove it on begrudgingly, bitter that Eddie can't just admit that he wants to savor the image of you wearing something he made. You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest, and make no effort to look the least bit pleased.

(You hope you look fucking adorable.)

You can't deny how rewarding it is to see Eddie shift his eyes away, guilty, so fucking guilty. "I am pleased that it fits. Feel no obligation to wear it, of course."

"I like it," you assert with more force than necessary. "I think I'll wear it whenever I leave the house."

Eddie just hums in response, as if the information means nothing to him, but his face is flushed.

"That Trager guy told me my haircut is bad, anyway."

Eddie snaps his attention back to you, positively mortified. "He actually told you about that?"

...Wow.

Eddie seems to realize his own mistake while you're still in shock, and tries to cover it up with a, "Wait, that's not what I meant—it is not the worst haircut I've ever seen—just a little bit choppy—"

Wow. "Stop. Just stop." Gluskin's floundering is comical enough to drain any of the anger you might otherwise feel, and after that crying session you can't even bring yourself to be embarrassed about something as insignificant as a haircut. "I get it, everyone and their mother hates my hair. Like I said, I have the hat to cover it up now."

"No, really, I find your hair very endearing, truly—"

"Seriously, it's fine. I don't care."

Eddie's frown is so close to a pout. It's too easy to imagine your lips on his, ruining the little expression. Fuck. Why do you always do this?

"I really should go though, I'm sorry for the waterworks."

"No, no, don't worry yourself over it. I'm glad I was able to be here to ease some of the pain."

It irks you that he's patting himself on the back without express permission, but you can't deny the truth of it.

"Me too." You make the mistake of meeting his eyes and the rush of longing that shoots through you is too much. You're running on pure impulse, shaky adrenaline. "I'm going to hug you, okay? Stop me if you don't want me to."

It's not exactly asking for permission, and that feels a little dangerous, but Eddie doesn't recoil or protest, so you close the distance and crush yourself against him.

His arms encircle you with measured amounts of hesitance, too limp, too careful, like someone reaching for something intangible in disbelief, knowing their fingers will pass through its hologram. So you press harder against him, standing on your toes to throw an arm over his shoulder, the other around his middle. He leans down into it, his scarce breath on your neck spreading like fire through your entire body—it's so intense, so good, that you fear you'll never be able to shake the memory of the embrace.

You pull away with the same impulsivity that you initiated the hug with, and when you are again at a respectable distance, you shoot him your best everything's fine smile, which is usually reserved for Lisa and strangers at the grocery store.

"Seriously Eddie, thanks for talking me down, there. Oh, and for intervening with Trager... And for the hat."

Eddie's attempt at speech is so tenuous that you laugh it off.

"I'll see you around," you assure, and with that you turn on your heel and leave Eddie speechless in your wake. Perhaps it's a little mean to leave him there like that, but you've taken too many baby-steps for one day. You just want to go back home and sleep.

When you make it to your car, you catch your reflection in the window by accident, and maybe it's just the hat, but Trager was right—you do look a little better.

Chapter Text

You never come home expecting to see Lisa sitting at the kitchen table or hunched over the computer. It's hard to imagine her in your life now, hard to imagine the kids chasing each other through your small living space or jumping on the bed. Even if you try, and god, you've tried to imagine them in your life as if they had never left, you can't picture it.

Though you call the boys almost every night, you haven't seen them in months—and you haven't heard Lisa's voice in just as long, not directed at you at least. Often you hear her in the background, muffled by the phone or microphone smushed haphazardly against your son's faces.

It's better this way. Safer for them, because of Murkoff's grudge and because you wake up screaming most nights and flinch away from any sudden movement. You had worn Lisa down too much with the emotional turmoil you put her through, the constant care you needed in those first few months after the incident. And she had already been worn out long before that by the distance Murkoff forced into the relationship by refusing to let you have contact with her during your stint working for them.

A divorce was the right decision because three years later you still wake up sobbing, fists clenched so tight in your sleep that your fingernails break the skin of your palms. You still can't walk down a hallway without the air feeling too thick, the walls threatening to shift into something dark and ruined.

Lisa hasn't set foot inside your apartment since she helped you move, and you haven't seen the home you used to share with her in over half a year. Maybe that's why you can't imagine her in your life now.

All you can see are memories, no future. Only past. Only loss.

Dr. Everett tells you it's because your life before and after the divorce (and Mount Massive—since the two seem quintessentially bound together in your mind), are so different that you've been keeping them separated in your thoughts, compartmentalizing.

(If it's difficult for you to imagine Lisa and the kids fitting into your life now, then why are you able to stare at your empty kitchen sink and picture Eddie Gluskin elbows deep in suds, scrubbing away at a plate with ridiculous yellow dish-washing gloves on? Why can you picture him turning to look at you over his shoulder, smiling warmly and beckoning you over with a jerk of his head?)

(Why is the idea of having him here with you in your quiet apartment dangerously inviting?)

You don't want Lisa to see you, to see how empty your life is. How boring you are, how shaky, how every thought and movement and breath of air in your lungs is tentative and odd.

You don't want anyone to see you. Don't want the attention and the judgment that comes with socialization. Don't want the pity. You want to hide away forever so that no one can harm you with their inevitable opinions on how you should be coping or what you should be doing.

You just want to be alone. Where you're safe.

But you're not safe, you're under the constant press of knowing your little box of an apartment is just one undetectable spot in a world that is always outside, existing, judging. Refusing to understand someone like you, because they've never been someone like you.

These thoughts regarding Gluskin are a new development—sure, you sometimes get strange, out of the blue feelings that he might be behind a corner ready to chase you down the hall, but you get those feelings about Frank Manera too, not to mention random strangers on the street.

You are used to the flashes of unsolicited memories coming back to haunt you.

But you aren't used to this.

Never, never before have you found yourself longing so desperately for such domestic interactions with anyone. Not since the beginnings of your relationship with Lisa, anyway.

And certainly not Eddie Gluskin.

Every domestic daydream you've had about Gluskin before involved bloody wedding dresses and the vocational block of Mount Massive. Never your apartment. Never real life.

The thoughts start as innocent musings—born from a dark sense of humor that you've had no choice but to acquire over the last two years. It's funny at first in a sick kind of way, to wonder exactly what kind of relationship Gluskin wishes would develop with you, now that you're humoring him with a strange friendship.

(Is it friendship? The talking, the listening, the comforting, the reassuring, the gifts—it must be teetering on the brink of something close to friendship.)

Gluskin says the current goal of his therapy is to stop fantasizing about having a future with you. Eddie Gluskin. The man who terrorized you. The man whose too-wide smile and frantically pursuing form you can still see blotching across your vision sometimes if the room is too dark.

(The man who has been giving you a reason to get out of bed sometimes. The man who listens to you when you're angry, when you're upset, when you're spiraling down, down, down. The man whose conversations make you forget, if only for a few hours, how fucked up your life really is. How unacceptable your entire existence is anywhere outside of MMSS. Outside of your visits with Eddie.)

At first it is hilarious to imagine Eddie Gluskin living a normal life, the kind of life you know he wants. But now you just want him to get out of your head.

Despite your unspoken obligation to him, you decide that you shouldn't—that you can't visit him again.

(And you hugged him last time—you fucking hugged him. Why did you do that? You shouldn't have done it, it was impulsive and probably made him wildly uncomfortable afterwards—you shouldn't have done it.)

(You can't think about the hug without feeling overwhelmingly conflicted and guilty and confused—and you think, you think you liked the effect you had on him. Rendering him bumbling and speechless. It made you feel wanted and in control and worth something and god—how can you ever face him again after what you've done? It was inappropriate, undoubtedly bad for his recovery.)

(Because who knows how long you can keep visiting him, staying on friendly terms?)

(A hug is the beginnings of a bond you don't know if you even want. The start of the kind of close friendship you shouldn't want, not with this person.)

(Not with this fucking person.)

You shouldn't visit him again.

(But you're going to, again, aren't you?)

Because he visits you, unbidden, in your imagination.

In the shower, his arms wrap around you from behind, his body slick with water, not blood.

When you eat dinner he is at the table, his hand reaching for yours across the checkered cloth.

You go to do laundry and he is already there, whistling to himself and ironing your old work shirts.

And when you sleep, when you sleep he is the pillow you clutch to your chest.

You're not hallucinating—god, you have never wanted to be hallucinating so badly.

You're just desperate.

Why him? Why is it his company you want?

Not Lisa. Not the kids.

Eddie Gluskin.

* * *

One of the worst kinds of waking is waking with a head full of migraine, body fatigued with the ache of having slept in much longer than intended. But at least your eyes aren't flying open on the coattails of a nightmare, body drenched in sweat and heart pounding in time with an inexplicable terror that feels deeply appropriate despite your safe location in your safe bedroom in your unharmed skin.

It's late in the afternoon and what little light is left in the sky is unable to penetrate the blackout curtains obscuring the single window in your small room. You manage to force yourself to sit up and swing your legs to the floor.

It'll be a while before you can mentally prepare yourself to move any further than sitting on the edge of the bed. So you double over, rest your head against your bare knees, wrap your arms around your body and wait until you can coax yourself to maybe shower or get dressed or do something other than lie back down, burrow under the covers and let your thoughts wreak havoc, immobilizing you.

You slept in too late.

Which normally doesn't mean anything because you don't have a life. The payout from the lawsuit against Murkoff means you'll never have to work another day in your life, if you don't want to.

And you don't want to, because the thought of having strangers on the street look in your direction is awful and humiliating enough, so you would never be able to handle seeing co-workers day after day, unable to hide from the knowledge that they must be forming some opinion of you. And there's nothing about your rumpled form, your shaky pleasantries and jumpy demeanor that anyone could look at and not judge, judge, judge.

Is it the media attention post-footage-leak that makes you so terrified of people inevitably looking down on you?

It's a form of self-protection to hide yourself away. It feels safe to conceal your existence from those who may not approve. And no one approves. Not even Lisa. And she liked you more than anyone else in the world has ever liked you.

And. She thinks you're making bad choices because if you were making good choices you wouldn't still be so shaken by something that happened three years ago.

Mount Massive changed you, it changed how you look at the world, look at other people. How you look at yourself.

Lisa's agree-to-disagree attitude about how you should be coping and should be moving on and should be seeing things... that changed you, too.

You're too smart for this, she had accused more than once, at the end of her rope, worn thin by all her failed suggestions. She would be so well intended, suggesting that you walk outside to check the mail this time, or you do the grocery shopping and run the errands this time, or you drive the kids to school this time, as if it was a normal day before Mount Massive. As if you were a normal husband, a normal father, a normal person, a person who could do the very simple and extremely ordinary tasks she was asking.

(The mere thought of those tasks washed you raw with anxiety and avoidance.)

And she would be so perplexed and so mildly accusing when you broke down, when you begged her to please not make you leave the house, how you pleaded with her, reasoned with her that you do all of the housework, all of the childcare, everything you can within the home to make yourself useful, but please, don't make you leave the house to be paranoid that every passerby is a goon hired by Murkoff to kill you. Or worse: a random stranger who takes one look at you and knows you aren't doing well.

And.

You had a visit scheduled with Eddie at 11am. It's after 6pm now. Ha.

(Maybe this is a sign that you should have stuck to your resolve not to see him again.)

There's an ache that blooms in your chest as you wonder what Eddie must have thought when you missed your visit with him. There's a sense of loss, the pang of life having slipped through your fingers.

(It's the same thing you feel when you think about how much time you're missing with your kids.)

The regret of missing the visit is enough to shove you to your feet, get you into the shower to scrub at your unruly hair, wash your marred skin. This time you don't sit on the shower floor, knees pulled up to your face and disassociate to the persistent sting of the water spray. You have somewhere to be, so you make it quick.

Standing in front of the dresser you try to will yourself to care for the first time in years what clothes you put on. Nothing seems to matter. Absurdly, you wonder what Eddie would approve of. Even in a mental hospital he manages to dress like something out of an uppity men's clothing magazine. Would he like it if you dressed more formally? All you really have in that department are your old dress shirts from attending all the court proceedings after the riot.

People always said you and Lisa looked odd together. You with your jeans and capris and hoodies and sweaters and cardigans and flannels. And Lisa with her gauges and piercings and undercut and her wardrobe nothing but black, black, and more black.

Lisa's friends always joked that you dressed like a middle-class suburban disaster. Maybe it was the boat shoes. Or the brightly colored converse.

You met Lisa online, on a video game. You can still remember the first time Lisa sent you a picture of herself—the first time she was more than just a screen-name. More than just a smooth, apathetic, wit-delivering voice over the video game's voice chat.

One photograph uploaded into the group chat is all it took. You had never seen anyone so out of your league—most of her features punctuated with metal rings, tattoos crawling up the side of her neck. Her light brown skin. Sleek black hair chin-length on one side and buzzed short on the other. In the picture she scowled, staring stoically right into the camera even as she threw up a peace sign with her fingers.

That is probably what made you fall in love with her. What made you pack up your suburban Californian existence to move to her home state of Colorado as soon as you could manage.

Some of her well-worn, oversized band shirts are still tucked away in your closet, worn by you occasionally when you're feeling extra sentimental and weepy.

Today's not the day to fuss over your clothes, anyway. Eddie has no idea why you stood him up today, and you need to go tell him that it wasn't anything personal, just a matter of you failing to function like a normal person and wake up on time.

You toss whatever on and head straight to MMSS.

* * *

There's an orderly you haven't seen before stationed at the front reception desk when you arrive at MMSS. He's a lanky, bespectacled Latino man in a cardigan bearing a name-tag that reads Toby. He double takes when he sees you. You've never met him before but his face lights up with recognition. Of course anyone who works at the sanctuary for survivors of Mount Massive knows your face.

You're practically the mascot for the whole Mount Massive fiasco.

“Hi,” you're not sure where to begin. “I missed a scheduled visitation with a patient here, earlier, and was wondering if I could see him now?”

“Sure thing,” the man, Toby, replies easily, but there's a curious tilt to his head. “Visitation is encouraged at the Sanctuary at all hours excluding sleep hours. Assuming the patient is above privilege level five and you're on the approved visitor list, of course.”

You're not honestly sure what Eddie's privilege level is, but from what you've seen he's allowed to walk freely through his patient ward. And he doesn't have to wear the MMSS uniform. You've visited him unprompted without a scheduled meeting before, anyway, so it's not an issue.

“What do the highest level of privilege allow patients do?” you ask, curious.

Toby watches you for a moment before smiling uncertainly. “The highest level inpatients here are allowed home visits—daily or overnight stays with family, which vary in duration. Grounds privileges. The opportunity to leave the facility with faculty for visits to the town—going out for ice cream or light shopping. That sort of thing.”

“I didn't know anyone here was allowed outside the facility until they were discharged officially. But I guess it makes sense.”

His smile grows more uncertain. “Our goal here is to reintroduce the patients into society. Supervised public outings are an important part of helping to acclimate patients to the outside world again.”

The orderly seems nervous. Is he worried you'll be angry to hear that the patients of Mount Massive who put you through hell you are allowed to venture out into the public for glorified field trips?

“What about the people that were admitted because they committed a crime?” Not all of the men in Mount Massive were criminals, many were just unfortunate souls committed voluntarily or by their probably well-intended families. But some were criminals. Definitely. Like Gluskin.

“If they're at a mental health treatment facility and not in prison, it means they were convicted with a NGBRI—not guilty by reason of insanity,” he explains, though you already know this. “Honestly I'm just a psych student doing clerical work here so I'm not an expert yet, but basically the goal of dealing with an NGBRI is to make them well enough to be safely reintroduced into society.”

Okay. That makes sense. “So those patients would still be allowed out of the facility under certain circumstances, even without being officially discharged?”

Toby nods. “Yeah, though NGBRI patients always require approval from a judge to leave the facility even for temporary supervised outings. And a lot of NGBRIs end up serving longer sentences of confinement than they would if they had been sent to prison with a normal guilty verdict.” The man shrugs. “Even if the psychiatrists working with the patient are sure they're sane and unlikely to re-offend, judges still have to sign off on the freedom of an NGBRI, and most judges don't want to do that in high-profile cases due to potential public backlash.”

Your brows knit. That doesn't seem fair at all. “Is that why there are still so many patients here at MMSS?”

The man's expression is sad. “Yeah. Though, many of these men weren't committed initially to Mount Massive because of an NGBRI. They were relinquished by family members or were committed voluntarily. So we hope to see more discharges as the patients and doctors become confident there are no lasting effects from the torture they endured at Mount Massive.”

The Morphogenic Engine. It was one of a kind. You felt the gross shift in your own perception after just several hours strapped into a lesser appendage of that horrid machine. It's no surprise that the MMSS doctors and patients alike worry that there might be prolonged side-effects.

“Sorry for all the questions.” The interaction with this MMSS employee feels safe, but you're still nervous, twisting your fingers together.

“No problem, really.” He seems genuine as he hands you a clipboard with a sign-in sheet. “Like I said I'm definitely not the best person to ask, but all the employees here are personally invested in helping the victims of Mount Massive. So most of us know the basics and would be more than happy to answer your questions, Mr. Park.”

How many of the employees that work at MMSS are here simply because they're fascinated by the events that happened at Mount Massive? It's probably a given that most people in the psychiatric field would jump at the chance to study the patients of such an infamous event, let alone have access to insider knowledge about the technology behind the Morphogenic Engine.

At least all the staff you've met so far appear to be genuine in their want of improving the patient's lives. And god knows the victims of Mount Massive need that.

You manage a, “Thanks,” and fill out the sign in sheet.

“So, you're here to see...?” Toby asks.

“Eddie Gluskin.” It never gets any easier to say his name. Especially when all of the staff here know exactly who you are and what he did to you. “Do... you think he'll mind me visiting him?”

“Eddie?” Toby stares at you, incredulity building to laughter. “No, no, of course not! God, no, he won't mind. You're all he ever talks about.”

That's... embarrassing. You're frowning hard in your effort to keep everything more muddled out of your expression.

Toby notices this and backpedals, “Not, like, in a bad way. I mean, two years ago during the whole Murkoff lawsuit thing when you were in the news every day, you were all he talked about and that seemed... weird and not good. But he stopped mentioning you for a long time and, since you started visiting him recently, he started again but. It's different.”

“Different?”

Toby obviously notices how quiet your voice is, how careful your demeanor, and he radiates apologetic energy. “Yeah. When he talks about you now, it's... normal. Like how someone would talk about a new friend?” he cringes at the last word, looking at you questioningly, asking you silently if he fucked up with that analysis.

Friend. Yeah. That's. Probably. Yeah.

“We... are friends,” you assure too tentatively to be convincing.

Toby looks relieved, but says, “I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't be gossiping. That was out of line.”

“It's okay.”

“I just—well, some of the staff here are really excited to see Eddie getting along with you, is all. I think it's like, physical evidence that we're doing the right thing here. You know?”

Some of the staff. Some of the staff is excited to see you and Eddie getting along. Some of them. So, not all of them. Are there people amongst the staff that doubt Eddie's recovery? Are... there people that doubt your intentions, doubt whether or not you're a good thing in Eddie's life? Shit.

“No pressure to keep contact with him, though, obviously,” Toby continues when you fail to respond. “We all want what's best for you. If you need anything at all, Mr. Park, please let us know.”

“Thanks. Really,” you say, forcing a smile, not because you don't mean it but because these days your physical responses don't always match what's inside. “It helps to hear what other people think of... us.”

It does help because otherwise you just assume and when you assume you assume the worst, always. That other people hate you and don't want you visiting Gluskin, don't want you destroying his recovery.

(And you are destroying it, aren't you? Probably.)

“Looks like Eddie's currently in recreation room three in his ward. It's free time, so there will be other patients present.” Toby hands you the visitor's badge. “Do you need someone to escort you there, or...?”

“No, I'll be fine.”

* * *

In recreation room three Eddie's seated at a circular table playing cards with two other men—the bald man and dark-haired man you saw Eddie with in the yard before.

The various other patients throughout the room pause in their activities to look up as you weave through the room a bit too quickly to reach Eddie's side as soon as possible.

He hasn't noticed you, back turned away from your approach, so you tap him on the shoulder.

Eddie immediately tenses, his broad shoulders visibly stiffening under your small prod. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to touch him without fair warning. But he turns sharply to look at you and his hard expression immediately softens to surprise, fleeting worry, and then wonder as he stands from his seat as if compelled by some unseen force, looking like he wants to grasp you by the hands as he speaks.

“Waylon,” he's searching your face frantically. “You're here.”

“I missed our scheduled visitation time.”

Gluskin is standing close, towering over you, he has to tip his head down to look you in the eyes.

(The two patients he was playing cards with are watching you.)

(A good portion of the room is watching you.)

“You did,” Gluskin affirms, eyes still prying. He's checking you over for signs of damage, signs of why you stood him up. Is he afraid to ask?

“I overslept.” It's hard to speak when you're aware that most of the room is probably eavesdropping because Waylon Park is talking to Eddie Gluskin again, publicly, illogically. They don't know why you want to be here with him. Their guess is as good as yours.

“Oh,” he breathes, gaze washing to relief and then fondness. “Oh, darling, you must take better care of yourself. Sleeping in past eleven? I can't imagine.”

“You could have called Eddie,” one of the patients at the card table says—his dark hair is thick and his visible skin is streaked with scarring different from most of the patients at mount massive—burn scars, definitely burn scars. His right eye is damaged to disuse by whatever caused the burns that wrap down that side of his face. He's staring right at you as he scratches his dark stubble. “Y'know. Let him know you weren't dead or something. He's been a wreck all day.”

You blink at the man with his waxy scars and judgmental frown, can't manage to form a reply. Because that sounds right. You should have called. But...

“Now, now, it's not—“ Eddie starts to protest.

You cut him off. “It didn't cross my mind to call. I just headed over here as soon as I woke up.”

The confrontational man's single remaining eyebrow knits in concern. Next to you, Eddie visibly falters.

“Waylon—” Eddie breathes, at a loss for words. He pushes his sleeve up to look at his wrist-watch. “It's nearly seven-thirty in the evening.”

“Yeah. I woke up at six-something. Took a shower, came right over.”

Gluskin looks positively incredulous. “Six in the evening?”

“Yep.” You shove your hands in your pockets, bounce slightly in place, starting to get used to having more than just Eddie's eyes on you. Most of the patients in the room seem to have gone back to whatever they were doing before you walked in, besides the two at the card table.

Eddie seems to be having some sort of internal struggle, because he pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “Overslept. Until six in the evening. I cannot imagine...”

“Eddie gets up at six in the morning, every morning. On the dot,” the scarred man says, some amusement seeping into his cynical tone.

“Six in the morning?” you ask, made redundant by vague horror.

“Yeah,” the man laughs. “He's a goddamn dollop of sunshine, too, even at six in the goddamn morning. Lord have mercy on anyone that crosses his path at such an ungodly hour. Gives me a migraine and makes me long for a quick death, personally.”

Melodramatic, perhaps, but you can relate. “I can't imagine willingly getting up before noon.”

Eddie scoffs. “Please tell me rising so late in the afternoon is not typical for you.”

You shrug.

“Has it always been that way for you, or only since...” Eddie trails off, leaving off the question of whether or not your ruined sleep is a product of Mount Massive.

You shrug again.

Eddie tilts his head, smiles kindly. “A routine sleep schedule is healthy. You would do well to try maintaining one.”

“I don't sleep well,” you say, noncommittal. There's no helping your sleep schedule. It's tattered beyond legibility. “Which is kinda funny because I don't wake up well either. Have a hard time getting out of bed, generally.”

The two men at the card table are still unabashedly observing your conversation with Gluskin; they frown in unison with Eddie. Is that empathy? They must know what you're describing sounds symptomatic of depression. Shit.

“Me too, man, me too,” the cynical man says. “They make us get up by nine here, though. Eddie's an anomaly, I swear.”

“If you're having trouble getting out of bed,” Eddie says to you, gently, ignoring the other man. “I suggest opening any curtains in the room. Sunlight can do wonders for helping your body know it's time to rise and shine,” his last words are sing-song.

Ha. That sounds exactly like the sort of fanatical thing Gluskin would have spouted while searching for you in the vocational block.

Rise and shine, you imagine Eddie saying as he pulls your limp body out from the locker he trapped you in, hoisting you onto that rancid wood-shop table.

(Rise and shine, imaginary Eddie says again, throwing back the curtains in your apartment, fully dressed for the day, smiling down at your groggy form half covered in clean sheets and clad only in boxer-briefs. Rise and shine.)

The cynical man sighs and drapes his head and arms on the tabletop to stare up at Eddie as if exhausted. “Eddie, I am actually going to drop dead if another ridiculous thing comes out of your mouth.” He pauses, shifts to look up at you, face sideways against the table. “At least introduce us to your new best friend...”

“Ah, where are my manners? Waylon, this is my dear friend Pyro,” Eddie says, sweeping his hand to gesture at the burned man. “His real name is—”

“Pyro's fine,” the man, Pyro, says. “I had to fight for the orderlies to let me use this name. So let me have it.”

A little strange, but okay.

“Pyro. Okay. Got it,” you assure, awkward and unable to remember the last time you exchanged introductions with the implication of continued contact. Are these really Eddie's friends? Eddie has friends?

“And this is Dennis,” Eddie gestures to the so-far-silent bald man at the card table.

The man's head is shaved completely and his pale skin seems to bear less scars than most patients.

“We've met,” Dennis says, with a heavy stutter. His voice rife with soft curiosity that doesn't match his sharp, adult features. “In the vocational block.”

“Oh. Uh.” You recognize his voice before his face. There was a man in the maze that led to the stairs that led to Gluskin. A man who you had initially thought was multiple men, but upon closer, sneaking inspection was just one man speaking in several voices. “I remember, actually. Does Eddie know you tried to deliver me to him?”

The question is out before you can think better of it.

“We're sorry for that,” Dennis says, voice notably higher pitched now, more innocent, but just as gentle. The stutter is gone. “Dennis and I, I mean. Not Pa or Pops. They're never sorry 'bout anything. I'm Timmy, by the way.”

Dennis—Timmy, stretches his hand across the card table and you will the hesitation from your limbs enough to reach over the table and shake the man's hand. He does the handshake thing literally, like a child, tugging your arm up and down dramatically. But he lets go quickly, thank god. You hesitate again, looking briefly at Pyro, wondering if you should offer to shake his hand too.

Pyro folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head. “Nah, I'm good.”

“Okay,” you breathe, withdrawing. Not sure whether or not you should be offended.

“To answer your question, yes. I do know,” Eddie says, cautious eyes on you. “I remember Dennis from the riot. Group therapy filled in many blanks from that time as well. We are good friends now, but please do not think for an instant that it's because...”

“Because he chased me into your lair?” you finish for him.

“Yes,” Gluskin answers with a grave note of apology in his voice. “That is not the reason we are companionable now, not at all, we are in the same ward and have group therapy together—“

“I believe you,” you say, because why not?

Eddie looks like he wants to convince you more thoroughly, but instead he just says, “Thank you.”

“So you came all this way to, what? Steal Eddie away from our card game?” Pyro asks, slumping further in his seat and glowering at you. “Figures. On today of all days. I was going to win and I never win.”

“I...” why did you come? You should have just called the facility. Told them to relay a message to Gluskin. “I don't know. I just realized I missed our visit and came as soon as I could.”

Eddie's looking at you with an expression you can't place.

“What?” you ask him.

“Nothing,” he says, masking his previous fleeting emotion with a serious expression that somehow manages to be soft. He tilts his head as he regards you. “It's just, that's very sweet of you. That's all.”

“Dennis,” Pyro says, “Start digging my grave, I need eternal peace from this hell.”

“Dig your own grave, boy,” Dennis (not Dennis? What's the other name they mentioned—Pa? Pops?) spits, all deep voice and gruff scowl, southern accent suddenly thick. “We ain't your keeper.”

“This is Pa, by the way,” Pyro tells you. “He's an asshole.”

Pa sneers at Pyro—who sticks his tongue out in response, prompting Pa to threaten to cut it off in a tone that is bizarrely playful.

“Uh.” You turn to Eddie, trying to plead for help with a look. You don't know why you showed up or what you expected and you're honestly starting to feel bad for interrupting their game.

“No worries, Waylon. I am so glad that you wanted to stop by to explain what happened,” Eddie assures, as if reading your mind. Some of your anxiety dissipates. “Now that you're here, do you want to stay for a while, perhaps? I'm sure I can find something for us to do—“

“Pictionary!” Dennis (you think it's Dennis again) stutters excitedly, standing abruptly. “We never get to play Pictionary because Val's not in our ward! But with Mr. Park, we'll have enough players! Oh—I'll go get the game.”

With that he scurries across the room to a shelf full of board game boxes.

Oh no.

Pyro tosses you a tired look and explains, “Dennis's alters have to play on the same team, because otherwise Pa and Timmy cheat. Pops is banned from game nights altogether—so you won't be meeting him.”

“Ah,” you say, genuinely interested in these people—but also extremely nervous about being suddenly thrust into this so-called game night.

Eddie tosses you an apologetic look. “Sorry, Dennis is quite an exuberant person. You are under no obligation to play. I'll make up an excuse for him, if you'd like. I'll take care of it. No worries.”

Lisa's words ring in your head:

'Just do it yourself. '

'You've ordered your own food a hundred times before. You can do it.'

'No, you don't need me to do it for you—I'm not going to do it, Waylon. You have to start doing these things yourself again.'

Why wouldn't she, though? Why wouldn't she just help you out, speak to the waiter, the store clerk, call the place for you?

Why not? And if not, you'll just do without. Not a big deal.

'They're our friends, you know them. You know everyone there. It's just a small Christmas party.'

Why do you have to go? The thought of being at the party with everyone is overwhelming. They all know, they all know what happened to you. There isn't a person with an internet connection that didn't watch your Mount Massive footage. No one asked for your blessing first.

(Why does it feel like your friends should have?)

It isn't the same anymore. You don't want to be there, you don't want to pretend things are back to the way they were. They aren't. Not for you. Never for you. Never again.

'This is getting ridiculous. Just do it yourself.'

Why won't she just talk to the employee at the checkout line? Pay for groceries? Let you stand nervously in her shadow. Safe. Anxiety quelled.

'Because! I won't enable you. You're a grown man, Waylon.'

That last part was just mean, just months of frustration pent up. You both knew it.

“Waylon?” Eddie whispers.

Eddie. That's Eddie talking to you. You're here with him. Not Lisa. That's over with. That's gone. You can't change it. It's over.

“Um,” you try to focus on his expectant face. Try to block out the flood of memory. “Thanks for giving me a way out. That. That really helps me. But I think I'll be fine. We can play. If you want. I don't mind.”

“Oh goodie,” Pyro drawls, flicking a card across the table in an act of finality and rebellion, ruining their in-progress card game. “I call Dennis for my partner. Eddie is balls at Pictionary.”

“Are you sure you don't mind playing?” Eddie asks you, ignoring Pyro.

('Are you sure? Are you sure you're going to make me go alone? Really? I'm going to have to tell our friends that you just, what, didn't want to come? You're going to make me do that? Do you know how embarrassing that is? I already told them we'd be there. Just... I thought we were past this, Waylon. I don't understand.')

“I think so,” you say, remembering to respond. “I think I'll be fine. But if I'm not...”

If you're not... what? What does it even matter? Can't you play a simple game with some people? It's not a big deal. It's not. It's really not.

“If you want to stop for any reason—any reason at all, please, just let me know,” Eddie says, so serious. Serious like the reassuring squeeze of your fingers on your son's tiny hand before his first day of school. “No one will be upset, I promise. Just say the word.”

Your throat feels sticky and full of lumps. You can't speak. You nod.

Dennis returns with the game box under one arm and a spare chair in the other. He drops the chair very close to Eddie's.

You pull the chair out, shifting it further away from the other empty chair—Eddie's chair—as inconspicuously as possible. A glance at Eddie shows he's watching you curiously. But not angrily. Not disappointed. He seems rather pleased, actually, as he takes his seat, pulling his chair to the other side as he does, putting even more space between you and him.

Your breathing starts to come easier. You don't know why it wasn't before. Remembering the things Lisa said, probably.

With everyone seated, Pyro lays out the game board and passes out the drawing pads and writing utensils, which consist of an assortment of felt-tip markers and crayons.

“We should be cordial, let Eddie and Mr. Park go first,” Dennis says. You can recognize Dennis easily by his stutter and polite tone.

“Don't see no need for that,” Pa, vehemently disagrees with Dennis.

“I wanna go first!” Timmy screeches, on the verge of tantrum. Timmy definitely seems a lot younger than Dennis and Pa.

“We're a team, guys,” Pyro says as he sets the game's plastic hourglass timer in the middle of the table. “Don't forget about me.”

“Exactly—and don't you think we should allow Eddie's team to go first, since he has a guest?” Dennis asks.

“We go first or I ain't playing,” Pa says with finality.

Pyro shrugs and looks to Eddie.

“I am fine with going second,” Eddie says, and you agree with a nod.

“Right, right!” Timmy cuts in, “I'm not playing if I don't get to go first.”

Pyro groans and takes initiative by rolling the colored dice cube. "Sorry about Dennis and his alters, Waylon. They're a handful on free days. Usually it's just one of them fronting for the rest, but he lets them all have free reign on game night."

Dennis smiles sheepishly, runs a hand over his smoothly shaved head. "Yeah, usually it's just me. I would take over so it's less confusing for you, but the others would be pretty upset if I change the schedule."

"That's okay. I don't mind at all." You're not entirely familiar with what it's like to live with multiple personalities, but there's no reason for him to make his alternate personalities go away just for your sake. "What are all of their names...?"

Dennis lights up at the question. "Pops is the only one you won't meet today—I banned him from game nights because he's just too competitive. Timmy is the one that shook your hand, and the other is Pa."

"Nice to meet the three of you."

Dennis ducks his head and blushes slightly at that. "Gee, you're so polite, Mr. Park. Usually people are really weird about the alter thing."

You're not sure how to respond to that, but Pyro saves you with his impatience.

“Do you guys wanna draw or guess first?” he asks Dennis.

Right. If you remember correctly, this game is played by one member of the team drawing a prompt and the other member of the team guessing what the drawing is. If you guess correctly your team gets to go again with roles reversed.

“Guess,” Pa says. “Ain't neither of these boys can draw worth a damn.”

“Dennis and Tim both draw better than I do, but okay.” Pyro draws a card and flashes you and Eddie the drawing prompt while hiding it from Dennis: Lung.

Not the greatest prompt for a table of people that have probably all seen real human lungs ripped from live bodies and lying wet and abandoned in deteriorating hallways.

Accordingly, Pyro's attempt to draw lungs is not half bad.

“Balloon?” Dennis guesses calmly, followed by the more frantic, bouncing chant from Timmy: “Balloon! Balloon!”

Pyro sighs, sketching faster to complete the simple drawing. Dennis and Timmy keep guessing balloon, and with the timer still draining Pyro is stuck gesturing silently at the completed drawing with his marker.

“You two numskulls are dead wrong,” Pa growls. “That there's a turkey's snood. No way it ain't.”

You have no idea what a snood is, but Eddie is leaning in slightly to watch the turn unfold, attention fully invested in the game. His hands are beneath the table. Probably clasped together. Or resting on his knees. The cardigan he's wearing clings to his broad shoulders, his strong arms. In Mount Massive, he tossed you around like it was nothing. You aren't scrawny now despite your abysmal eating habits, and you certainly weren't scrawny back then.

He's so much taller than you, though, the top of your head barely reaches his shoulders. Even sitting beside him makes it clear how massive the other man is.

Pyro and Dennis' turn is still going, so that's some reassurance that you haven't been surreptitiously staring at Eddie for as long as it feels like you have. Still, you tear your attention back to the game.

Using pink crayon, Pyro frantically colors the drawing in a last-ditch effort. This makes Dennis go from guessing balloon to Timmy guessing pig.

In the end, Pa manages to shout, “It's lungs, you fools!” just before the sand-filled timer drains.

Pyro sits back in a huff, both relieved and smug.

Eddie claps his hands softly, smiling at the other men, “Good work, fellas.”

You snort, and Eddie tosses you a curious glance. Under the table, you wring your hands almost painfully, exhilarated beyond explanation by Eddie's small attention, and you do your best to keep your eyes locked on Dennis as he rolls the cube again, continuing their turn.

It's Dennis's turn to draw, he pulls a random card from the box and frowns deeply before showing it to you and Eddie. The word is Barber.

“How in the world am I supposed to draw that?” Dennis asks.

“You'll manage, I'm sure,” Eddie says.

You shrug, smiling at Dennis in a way you hope is encouraging.

Dennis smiles back, lopsided and worried.

You can't believe you're actually interacting socially in a group setting and no one is looking at you like you're a time bomb. It's just... easy. The way everyone at the table has casually accepted you makes your heart speed up. You feel so awkward, and moved.

Pyro flicks Dennis on the earlobe before crossing his arms over his chest and slumping in his chair again. “Just get it over with, Denni.”

Dennis glances at the other many shyly. He nods and flips over the timer.

The drawing attempt is shaky and consists first of a stick figure.

“God?” Pyro guesses. “Jesus? Dr. Sarah? Eddie?”

Dennis looks pained as Pyro fires off more names that couldn't possibly have been written on the game card. Carefully, Dennis draws a tiny pair of scissors in the stick figures shaky arm.

“Uh. Flower? Flower bearer? Person holding a flower?”

Eddie makes a small noise of disapproval, letting the other man know his guesses are way off base. Pyro shoots him a glare.

Meanwhile, Dennis gets frantic, drawing the scissors larger in the stick figure's other hand, until the shears are taller than the stick figure itself.

The sand in the timer is nearly drained.

A frantic syllable starts and dies on Pyro's lips, and then the man is laughing, laughing, laughing until tears are in his eyes. “R—Rick!” he shouts, struggling to produce words through gasps of breath and frantic pointing at the drawing. “Rick Trager!”

You don't get the joke, but it's clearly a joke, because Pyro is laughing and there's no way 'Rick Trager' could be an official Pictionary drawing prompt. Beside you, Eddie is hunched over the table with his fingers covering his face in display of exasperation, but from your angle you can see he's smiling and holding back laughter.

Unintelligibly, Pyro manages to say Trager's name a few more times before the sand drains and Dennis gapes at him in utter betrayal.

“You wasted our turn!” Dennis accuses, devastated.

“I—“ Pyro chokes down his laughter. “I wasn't gonna get it anyway. What was the word?”

“Barber,” you, Eddie, and Dennis say in unison.

Pyro grunts. “God—really? Just draw some scissors cutting hair next time. Easy peasy.”

“Oh, because you're the master of Pictionary,” Dennis accuses, quiet voice so, so bitter.

“Damn right, you guessed my drawing, didn't you?”

“Pa did.” Dennis crosses his arms over his chest, pissed but still eerily calm. “Still looked like a balloon to me.”

“Fuck off.”

“Alright kids, settle down,” Eddie says, reaching for the dice and rolling. “Ah, would you like to draw first?”

You're rapidly shaking your head no before Eddie can finish his sentence. You don't draw. Haven't drawn since your last visit with your sons.

Eddie doesn't question your resistance, acquiescing with a smile and taking a card. He frowns at the word he got, shows it to the other team, and puts his hand on the timer. “Ready?”

Something about Eddie asking if you're ready sends prickles up the back of your neck. You nod.

He flips the timer and starts drawing in precise, swooping strokes. He has rough, quality sketches of two people facing each other in no time. The drawings are reminiscent of fashion design mock-ups, stylistic and slender, and you're entranced by how quickly he gets them on paper.

“Guess,” Dennis stage-whispers from across the table, his hand cupped beside his mouth. "Start guessing something."

Oh. Right. “Uh.”

There's a speech bubble in front of one of the people now, simple flowers drawn inside of the bubble.

“Conversation?” You guess. “Florist? Talking? Talk? Happily talking? Praise? Compliment?”

Eddie shakes his head slightly with every wrong guess. His tongue is between his teeth in concentration. It takes everything in you to pull your attention away from his mouth and back to his hand as he draws. He erases the flowers in the speech bubble and starts drawing them again, as if that will help.

“Uh...”

“See, this is why Eddie sucks at Pictionary,” Pyro chimes in as the timer continues to drain. “He overthinks. Just because you're good at drawing doesn't mean you have to take three centuries drawing something too elaborate—“

Eddie cuts Pyro off by shushing him with a glance, seeming to give up on the previous drawing and instead moving the marker to a blank corner of the page and drawing a thin vertical rectangle.

You lean in, rocking slightly in your chair, wracking your brain for what the drawing could possibly be. You don't want to let Eddie down, for some absurd reason. Maybe to validate Eddie's artistic skill. Yeah. That's it.

Eddie adds what looks like a label on the rounded rectangular shape, and a bump on one end.

“Uh—oh! Oh! Battery!” you guess, certain.

Eddie gives a slight nod, seeming pleased, and then circles the top nub on the battery, before pulling the marker away, pausing.

“Positive!” you say, much louder than you intend, more excited about this game than you intend, “Positive!!”

“Yes.” Eddie's happy, maybe even proud—his smile is closed-mouthed and restrained, but you can see his elation in his eyes. “The word was indeed positive.”

The confirmation overjoys you enough to spill over into laughter, some of your anxiety shedding away until you feel good—not quite comfortable, because there's still something raw and new and vulnerable underneath the stripped away anxiety, but it's good. It feels good. Positive.

Against your better judgment, you lift a hand towards Gluskin, offering him a high-five.

Shit. A habit from playing games with your boys.

Confused, Gluskin stares at you, even leaning away slightly, as if confused, or afraid you're going to hit him.

You falter, not sure what's so wrong about the common expression of a job well done. It's a high-five. You can't be an awful person for offering Eddie Gluskin a high-five. He allowed you to hug him last visit... this should be nothing in comparison, but judging by the bewildered look on Eddie's face he must think this small gesture will make him regress into the stalking predator of a man he was during the riot.

“Psst,” Pyro hisses from across the table until he gets Eddie's attention, upon which Pyro demonstrates a high-five with Dennis, who seems on the same page with Pyro, both trying to come to Eddie's rescue.

“Oh?” Eddie says, turning back to you. “Oh! I'm—I didn't realize that's what you were attempting to do—“ Eddie blinks; your hand is still hovering awkwardly in the air, so he belatedly returns the high-five—not a victorious and celebratory slapping of palms but a brief little press that barely makes a sound.

As if he might break your hand. As if a touch harder than a hug will condemn you both to hell.

You laugh hard, outright, dropping your face into your hands. Pyro and Dennis are laughing too. Eddie should be laughing off his own social ineptitude, but he's not, instead just bright red and mortified.

“I'm sorry,” you try between breaths of laughter. “I'm sorry.”

Eddie clears his throat, takes a moment to collect himself before replying smoothly, “No need to apologize. I am simply unaccustomed to such casual displays.”

How long has Eddie been unfamiliar to typical social interactions? Is it fairly recent thing, or did Eddie not have many friends growing up, either? The small, formally dressed little boy you've seen in old Gluskin family photos on TV documentaries didn't exactly look the type to have kind peers.

Across the table, Dennis and Pyro look simultaneously amused and embarrassed for Eddie.

“You two have been depriving Eddie of high-fives?” you ask them, meaning to be teasing but coming across as stoic.

“Ed doesn't like to be touched,” Dennis says as if he's letting you in on a secret.

Oh.

Gluskin has friends who know his boundaries and respect them. Gluskin has friends that call him Ed.

(Friends that know more about him than you do.)

Eddie Gluskin doesn't need you to be here, taking pity on him with some weird, inappropriate friendship.

You are a fool to think both you and he are socially isolated outcasts who have an unsavory but undeniable connection. That this tentative bond is equivalent exchange—he humors your loneliness and you'll humor his.

What a depressing mess. Why do you even keep coming here? Because you're pathetic. Because you have nothing else.

You're not all he has. He doesn't need you. He's not alone like you, desperate and out of options like you.

“Oh.” You feel like an asshole for not only the high-five, but the hug last visit too, which probably felt like an obligation to Eddie—were you taking advantage of him? Surely he's a man who, if he's legitimately sincere about being repentant, would do almost anything you asked of him in attempt to make up for his shameful past. Do anything. Like give you a hug even though he doesn't like being touched. Fuck. “I'm sorry, Eddie. Really sorry.”

You mean that. There's no good way to express to him that you understand, that you don't like being touched either anymore.

(But you've offered him a high-five and a hug like nothing has changed since the old days when platonic touches came easily to you. So much has changed. Even Lisa's touches still make you flinch.)

Last visit you hugged Eddie Gluskin on impulse and with only a moderate twisting in your gut that intrusively worried he might have a large cleaver on him, ready to thrust it into your stomach. You hugged him. Could do it again, probably.

(Lisa can't put her hand on your shoulder without you jumping under her touch, buzzing with malaise, wanting to shrug away and flee.)

“Please, no more apologizing.” Eddie looks visibly uncomfortable, and you know it's not because of too many apologies. Shit. You really fucked up. “I... one moment.”

You watch as Eddie hesitates, indecisive, and then leans over the drawing pad and writes, down at the bottom of the page under the drawing of the battery: 'I don't know how to say this in a way that I can say aloud and not receive scrutiny or perhaps even punishment from the orderlies. But please know that I don't mind you touching me.'

Yeah. There's no way to phrase that sentiment that doesn't sound suspect. At least you can't think of a way.

Then again, at this very moment you can't think about much of anything other than trying to swallow glimpses of imaginary feelings you've been harboring for Eddie Gluskin for years.

(The Groom taking care of you after some ridiculously elaborate attempt on your part to talk him out of mutilating you; him lavishing you with delusional love, escorting you out of Mount Massive in one piece—a devoted body-guard).

You can't think about much of anything period. Your face is so hot you feel an overwhelming urge to excuse yourself for some cool autumn air. But you stay firmly planted in your seat, frozen. A spectacle.

('Please know that I don't mind you touching me.')

Eddie glances between you and what he wrote nervously, doting, you think. “Was it okay? To write that?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

Having gained your approval, Eddie scratches out the sentences on the paper. “I apologize for the unfortunate phrasing.”

“The phrasing was good, I liked it—“ shit. “It was fine. I mean. It's fine. Everything's okay.”

Shit shit shit shit shit.

Visible warmth spreads plainly across your face. Eddie ignores your flustered response—he's steadfast, stoic enough to warrant suspicion.

What, no desire to tease you? Just a steady attempt to ignore your reaction? For your sake? For his?

“What did you write down, Eddie?” Timmy asks—it must be Timmy, because he's risen from his chair to lean over the table curiously. “On the paper—what did you write to Mr. Park? A secret message? I wanna know.”

Pyro grabs Timmy by the sleeve of his oversized sweater and drags him back down into his chair. “Drop it, Tim.”

“But—“

“Drop it.”

Timmy huffs and pouts but stays quiet.

“Good boy.” For once Pyro's voice loses its hint of cynicism, instead sounding almost sweet. Fond.

You're not sure because their hands are beneath the table, but you think that maybe Pyro's hand is still on Dennis's arm. Based on their posture, it looks like they might be holding hands. Is that kind of thing allowed between patients? A comforting touch? It's surely platonic, at least right now, while Dennis is speaking through his child-like alter.

Just when Eddie picks up the die to roll again, a man you recognize enters the recreation room from a door several yards away. Frank Manera.

He's wearing a red flannel shirt and jeans, his long brown hair tied behind his head in a bun. His beard is neatly trimmed and he honestly looks well put together—well, as much as one can be when they look like they belong sitting on a porch-swing on some ramshackle house out in the middle of nowhere.

You don't register that you're staring at Manera until he waves at you, grin visible even across the room. Before you can wave back, Manera takes a empty seat at a small table near a barred window, pulling a deck of cards from his pocket and arranging them for what must be solitaire.

So. He's not having an adverse reaction to you this time.

“That reminds me,” Eddie says, quietly, though Frank is well out of earshot. “Manera asked me to tell you he's sorry for running off last time he saw you. He wanted me to let you know that it was nothing personal—it completely slipped my mind.”

“It's okay,” your eyes are still on Frank across the room as he plays solitaire by himself. “Should I invite him to play something with us?”

That last bit you were wondering out loud, unsure, but Eddie responds anyway. “If you wish, we would not mind. Right, Py? Dennis?”

The two men nod in unison. Their hands still appear to be linked under the table.

You wet your dry lips with your tongue, try to swallow some of the re-manifesting anxiety. “I don't know if I can go and talk to him.”

“Would you like me to go inquire on your behalf?” Eddie asks.

(No demands to know why you're anxious.)

(No need for an explanation on why you can't do it.)

(No encouragement to do it yourself.)

(No disgruntled pushing when that encouragement fails.)

“I—yeah. Actually. Would you?”

“Absolutely,” Eddie says, firm but slightly questioning, like he doesn't know why you think he wouldn't be willing to do it.

“Thanks. Just let Frank know it's okay if he wants to play. Or talk to me. Or anything.”

Eddie nods and rises to leave—you reach out and catch him by the sleeve to make him pause.

“Can—can you also tell him that I'm not angry at him? For the other day when he ran off. And for what happened in Mount Massive.”

Eddie stares down at you curiously, a glimmer of amusement in his expression. His gaze flicks plainly from your face to your fingers pinching the fabric of his sleeve, and back again. “Of course.”

You release him, movements mechanical and throat thick (from your anxiety over Frank or from Eddie's curiosity, you're not sure). You wring your hands to try to rid yourself of the touch, the feeling of his sleeve in your fingers. Not caring if the other men see such a nervous gesture. “Thank you.”

Eddie just nods and smiles before heading across the room to speak with Frank. You can't bear to watch the conversation, even at an inaudible distance, so you look down at the table and the paused Pictionary game.

“Frankie's not gonna join us,” Pyro says around a yawn, leaning his cheek against his free hand. His other hand is now resting on the table, fingers interlocked with Dennis's. “Don't take it personally.”

“Oh?” You're doing your best not to stare at Pyro and Dennis's linked hands. There are orderlies around in the recreation room, not actively monitoring patients but interacting with them casually, talking, joking, playing games. Pyro and Dennis are clearly unconcerned with someone witnessing their public display of affection.

“Frank's best friend Rick Trager is losing privileges fast and might even be moved to a different ward,” Dennis stage-whispers the explanation. “So Frank has been feeling rather depressed, I reckon.”

“Best friend?” Pyro repeats incredulously though clearly amused, leaning towards Dennis until their noses are almost touching. “Best friends? Are we best friends too, then? Really, Dennis? That's what you call that?”

Dennis grunts, flushing—when he pulls away Pyro follows, rubbing their noses together this time.

“Quit that right now—you're being inappropriate in front of Eddie's Friend.”

You blink, realizing Dennis means you. That's what you are to them. Eddie's friend.

Pyro purrs his next words, “Make me.”

Despite the taunt Pyro pulls away, smiling wildly.

Dennis rolls his eyes. “Sorry about that, Mr. Park.”

You want to tell him that he can just call you Waylon, but your voice won't work, so you just wave your hand to dismiss the apology.

The patients here are allowed to date each other? Display affection openly? Surely there are boundaries of some sort. Rules...

But the linked hands, the butterfly kisses—Trager rubbing Frank's back the other day as he vomited into a trash bin—none of that is against the rules?

“And yeah, everyone knows they're boyfriends,” Dennis says to Pyro, slightly miffed. “But Trager only refers to Frank as his business partner—of course he's just being cruel like always, and it makes no sense to tell Mr. Park that Frank and Trager are business partners—so I translated a bit and said best friends. Sue me.”

“Boyfriends is the proper translation,” Pyro points out.

“Fine.” Dennis untangles his fingers from Pyro's to cross his arms over his chest, which prompts Pyro to lean over and kiss him chastely on the shoulder. Pyro's antics soften Dennis's pout into a smile.

Perhaps you should be more curious about what it's like to date a man who has at least three personalities, one of which is some sort of surly father figure and another that appears to be a child... but instead you're stuck on the fact that patients in a mental hospital are allowed to date each other at all. Is that normal?

“Patients are allowed to... date?” You ask aloud, the words a baffled accident that rush out before you can stop yourself.

If you hadn't flushed at your own embarrassing question, you would have flushed at the look Pyro gives you. Knowing. Teasing. It's all in your head, probably.

“Yeah, the staff doesn't want to discourage interpersonal relationships, and that includes romantic ones,” Pyro says, watching you with too much humor to match his explanation. “As long as the relationship isn't deemed destructive, they don't care. There are rules, of course.”

“A lot of rules,” Dennis chimes in, forlornly.

“No sexual contact whatsoever, that sort of thing. But yeah, they can't discourage romance between inpatients—'cause we're all lonely fucks and having feelings for others is part of being a normal human being, right?"

You nod.

Dennis rolls his eyes, probably at Pyro's crass explanation. “That's not true of every ward in the facility. Rules vary by ward, and wards are separated by dependency levels. In some of the other wards, even a handshake would be get you punished.”

"A few of the people here were married before being committed, but not many. Murkoff tired to procure patients no one would care about.” Pyro's attitude shifts to veiled anger at that last part. "But yeah, the dudes with partners on the outside are allowed PG interactions during their visits, hugging and kissing, that sort of thing. So Dennis and I are allowed to do that too. It would be cruel if they didn't let us at least pretend to be a little normal while we're stuck in here."

If that's the case, and Eddie's comfortable with his sexuality, why hasn't he formed that kind of relationship with one of the other inpatients?

(And... if patients are allowed to express affection with their partners during visitation—is that, is that something Eddie wants from you? Is that something he lies awake at night thinking about, hoping desperately that that's what these visits with you will lead to?)

(You feel sick—sick that Eddie might have fantasized about that.)

(...Sick that he might not have.)

(Sick with curiosity. Sick with how illicit it is that you're thinking about any of this at all right now.)

“Interesting,” you say, because you got yourself into this mess and have to say something.

Pyro smirks. “Is it interesting to you, Park?”

What is that supposed to mean?

You choke on your next breath, have to clear your throat with a cough.

Luckily Eddie Gluskin saves you by returning, slipping into the chair beside you.

“Frank sends his regards, but unfortunately declined the offer to join us,” Eddie says, unaware of the awkward atmosphere he just walked back into. “He told me to let you know that it has nothing to do with you, Waylon, he's just having a bad mental health day.”

Across the room, Frank tosses you a reassuring thumbs-up—you wave at him and he seems pleased, returning to his game of solitaire.

“Told you he wouldn't join us.”

“That's okay. Thank you for inviting him for me, Gluskin—it... it really helps me.” It helps you not miss opportunities just because your anxiety immobilizes you. You can still do normal things like socialize... you just need some assistance along the way, and most of the time that assistance needs to be more than just encouragement from others.

“Waylon... is something the matter?” Eddie asks, demeanor shifting as he hones in on you.

“No? I just, sometimes I find it hard to do normal things like invite someone to play games and it does help that you were willing to—“

“No, no. Not that. Your face is bright red.”

Pyro bursts out laughing and Dennis smacks him on the arm.

“Leave the poor man alone,” Pyro tells Gluskin, unexpectedly coming to your rescue. “He's fine. Right, Park?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie is dubious for a long moment before he sighs and picks up the game die. “Shall we continue, then?”

You nod, heart hammering—so, so thankful that Pyro didn't decide to humiliate you by telling Eddie that you had asked about the facility's policies on dating inpatients.

Eddie rolls and moves the game piece, but it's your turn to draw.

You pick a card. The drawing prompt is 'wedding ring.'

Of course.

Great.

You show the prompt to Dennis and Pyro, which inspires frowns from them both.

Great.

Eddie's looking at you in trepidation as you flip over the sand timer and start drawing on a blank page.

Wedding ring. You set your left hand down on the paper and begin tracing your fingers, which warrants a raised eyebrow from Eddie.

“Hand? Fingers?” Eddie guesses as you trace. “Fingernails? Skin? Digit?”

Once you finish tracing you draw a ring on the ring finger, quickly grabbing a gold crayon to color it in.

Eddie has stopped guessing, so you sit back, unsure if he can see the drawing properly. He's staring at it, taken aback.

He notices you looking at him and glances over at you apprehensively. “Ring?”

His voice is strained. Undeniably strained. You keep looking at him purposefully, not budging, refusing to draw more.

“Wedding ring.” It's not a guess—he's certain. His distaste is plain. “That prompt is incredibly unfortunate—I am so sorry, Waylon.”

Gluskin is always so hype-aware of your potential triggers. Why? To manipulate you into thinking he gives a shit? Does he actually care?

It. Doesn't matter. All you know is that warmth expands comfortable and snug inside your chest.

He's accommodating to you. Always. And. You like it. That's all you know.

“It's fine. It didn't bother me.” Not in the way he thinks, anyway.

“...If you're sure.”

“You two are so tedious,” Pyro accuses. “And apparently really good Pictionary partners. I hate this.”

“You sound like Val,” Dennis says, and then points out, slyly, “If we don't finish the game, we can't lose.”

“My thoughts exactly!” Pyro agrees. “It's getting late anyway, we'll be kicked out of the rec room soon.”

Eddie's sigh is more amused than weary. “Don't mind them. They always get like this when they're losing.”

“That's okay. I had fun.”

“So did we,” Dennis says. “We as in Py and I. Though the alters in my system had fun too.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“It was nice to meet you officially, Park. Eddie's told us so much about you,” Pyro smirks as though he knows the information will slay you. It does. “Anyway, bye. Dennis and I got stuff to do before light's out.”

With that, Pyro drags a waving Dennis out of the rec room by his hand.

That leaves you and Gluskin to clean up the game, then.

You move to fold up the board and pack away the cards, but Gluskin shoos you away.

“Stop that. I'll do it,” he says, swiftly packing the game up before you can protest. He pauses at the used paper—the four pages of drawings from the game. He peels them off of the drawing pads and stacks them neatly. “I think I'll keep these,” he says, almost to himself, and then seems to remember you. “I should show you out. It's dark already, you must be eager to get home.”

There's something about him. Large fingers holding the stack of drawings. The patient way he regards you. They patient way he's regarded you since the very first visit.

Your heart pounds with something. Longing, absolutely. Fondness, maybe.

“I, uh.” How can you even dare to ask this question? “Can I stay longer, maybe?”

What are you doing? Why does this man standing before you now seem so different than the one who terrorized you in Mount Massive—the one who has haunted your nightmares and fantasies alike since then?

Why does he register to your brain as a completely different person?

(Someone safe?)

It's the same Eddie Gluskin. You should be afraid of him.

(You're not.)

(And you are.)

(And...)

He tilts his head. “Unfortunately, Pyro wasn't fibbing—common areas are getting locked up for the night soon.”

“The staff I talked to in reception today told me visitation is allowed until designated light's out hours—is that what's happening now?” Is it really that late?

“Well, no—and that's correct. However, we're required to be in our rooms or thereabout during the hours before sleep.”

“So can I tag along with you? To your room or... thereabout?” Eddie's word feels wrong and awkward in your mouth. Your entire existence is wrong and awkward at this very moment.

You're all impulse, no forethought, struggling to survive in the moment, unable to access anything before or after the present. It's deliriously precarious and part of you suspects it's a form of self-preservation. Stay in the moment. Don't think. Don't dwell.

It keeps the anxiety at bay, replacing it with a rush of anticipation instead. One impulsive decision after another.

Gluskin tears his eyes away from you, taps the stack of drawings against the tabletop to straighten them. “I don't see why not,” he replies eventually, tone too measured to be natural.

He's lying.

He's lying and you're letting him.

Because of course Eddie Gluskin must be aware of at least a million reasons why not to invite you back to his bedroom. Oh boy, you and he both intimately know why this is a bad idea.

You smile at him, shaky with embarrassment—the smile he returns is uncertain, so, so uncertain.

And you like his smile, even when it's guilty and unsure.

You like it a lot.

(You... like him a lot.)

Chapter Text

Walking through the patient ward to Gluskin's room is a rush of trepidation. Patients who linger in halls turn to stare, to whisper. Eddie's height means his strides are longer than yours, and you have to skip forward occasionally to catch back up with him.

(How did you ever outrun him in Mount Massive?)

With the narrow halls and other patients and orderlies passing by, it's difficult not to instinctually gravitate towards Gluskin, press yourself close to something familiar. But you resist. Of course you resist. The impulse is destructive.

(He's familiar now? Safer than the unknown?)

(How much mental willpower are you exerting to maintain such willful ignorance?)

You would cling to Lisa this way, after the riot. Link your arm through hers and saddle up close to her side as you navigated a simple task like grocery shopping. Not one for public displays of affection to begin with, this quickly drove her to irritation.

You understood her annoyance, but you had just come back from the brink of believing you were never going to see her again. And after emerging from Mount Massive, the world suddenly seemed like an unfriendly place. Sticking to her like a magnet in public was comforting because it meant proximity to protect her as well as allowing yourself to know she was there to protect you, too.

Mutual. It was supposed to be... a mutual comfort.

But.

Lisa hated enabling any behavior she saw as a change in you, an unsightly product of Mount Massive.

You can't blame her.

(Would Eddie frown at this behavior too? Gently lecture you about how unnecessary it is to walk through the halls with linked arms, shared body-heat? Tell you how paranoid you must be, to need to cling to someone that hard in order to remember they are still with you, that you are safe?)

"This is it, my humble abode," Eddie jokes, stopping in front of one of the many doors that line the hallway.

All of the doors in this hallway seem to lock from the outside with a key, but Eddie doesn't seem to need a key to enter.

"What's with the lock?"

"Ah, precaution. They all open with the same master key, which the orderlies carry. In case we need to be locked in at night, though they check on us every hour—in this ward at least. In other wards checks are more frequent."

You frown. "That doesn't sound pleasant."

"How do you mean?" He quirks an eyebrow and pushes open the door, gestures an invitation for you to step inside.

You swallow, flicking a glance up and down Gluskin's bulky frame as he stands in the doorway, and then decide to be brave and edge yourself past him, somehow managing not to brush your shoulder against his chest as you enter his room.

The room is tiny, but you suppose a small room is better than having to share it with others. A twin sized bed is shoved into one corner. The mattress looks barely able to fit someone your height, let alone a man as massive as Gluskin. The furniture squeezed into the rest of the room is basic, impersonal: an armchair, a writing desk, a nightstand, some bookshelves. The only thing that reveals any character about its owner is a small sewing table, complete with a sewing machine and a rack of thread spools.

You fit yourself in an empty space against the wall, eyeing Gluskin as he walks into the room. He leaves the door wide open—does he know it helps you to have an open escape route, to have him on the other side of the room, as far away from that escape route as possible?

"Uh, I just mean that, it would probably freak me out, knowing I was locked in a room all night."

"Most of the patients here are criminals of some variety, so though some may not like it, the loss of freedom is understandable. Besides, the locks are only utilized when behavior is an issue."

And it's not like they aren't locked in a glorified cage anyway, being confined to a mental institution like this. The locks on their doors, the security checkpoints at intervals throughout the facility, the facility itself, the high, barbed-wire fences outside.

How many cages do you need to put a person in, to ensure their freedom is taken away?

It seems excessive, but you don't comment further.

"I would extend an offer to give you a tour, however..." Eddie gestures helplessness with a raise of up-turned palms. "I'm fairly certain it speaks for itself."

You snort. "Yeah—I'm surprised it's so small. And they let you have a sewing machine?"

"I was astonished when staff offered me the sewing machine in my own room—it's not something the other facilities I've lived in would dare allow, though the first facility I was in did have a room of sewing machines for use under supervision. I spent a lot of time in there.” He pauses. “Of course, needles are not to leave my room when I check them out from the orderly's station, I have to be careful about that. And when I want to use fabric scissors, I have to check those out as well."

"Seems like a pain."

Eddies shrugs, smile lop-sided. "I'm grateful I get to sew at all."

You drop your gaze to your scuffed sneakers, the linoleum floor. You don't want to look at that smile.

(The Groom runs his thick fingers along your bare inner thigh—your legs spread by restraints. His lips crack into a wide smile that bears too many teeth. His eyes lock intensely on your face. He walks around your bound form, dragging his hands along your body as he moves to stand by your side, fingertips rough and bloody from hours of fervent sewing. He leans over you, fixes that too-wide, too-enraptured smile on you. Presses his lips to yours.)

(And you only resist long enough for calculated thought to take over instinct—you kiss him back when you realize that this may be the only way to keep your body from being torn in half by the saw yielding dangerously between your legs.)

"What do you do with the things you sew?"

"Most garments are made with the intention of gifting to others—fellow patients or staff. Sometimes I get requests for certain items, and I'm happy to oblige, as idle hands are the devil's tools, as it were." He laughs, short and dismissive at his own joke, then steps forward. "Ah, where are my manners—please, as long as you're here, you may as well sit."

Sit.

Uh. There's the bed, and an armchair, and the stiff wooden desk chair.

Or there's the safe spot against the wall right by the door—your current location.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"If you insist." Eddie frowns, and then takes a breath, swiveling around to rifle through the shelves of books built into the nightstand next to his bed. The nightstand is so low to the ground, he has to bend over to pull out a book.

(The Groom crouches, large silhouette dropping down to peer under the long rows of sewing tables as you make yourself small against a stack of boxes, depriving your lungs of a frantic need for oxygen. Slowing your breathing to a quiet, dangerous wheeze.)

You blink, staring at Eddie's wide back, his thighs as he bends over at the shelf. Your breath gains without your consent.

(You manage to peel the makeshift gown off of a corpse-turned-mannequin, stumble into the dress yourself, shimmy the damp, stinking, red-stained fabric up your own body in time for The Groom to round the corner.)

(At the sight of you, he stops in his tracks with the sudden halt of slammed breaks.)

(It takes him a moment to recollect himself, and when he does he advances on you, slow and predatory gait contrasting with the heavy rise and fall of his chest from having stomped through the halls to find you.)

(He assesses you like prized stock at a cattle auction. But then something shifts and he smiles, suddenly looking at you like you're a small animal for sale in a pet store window instead.)

(And despite his claims when he chased you through the vocational block, there's no courtship, no conversation—nothing gentlemanly about the way he reaches down to hike up your skirt, gather it across his arm as he runs his palm up the back of your bare leg.)

(You stand there allowing his touch like something well-trained. A dog holding itself back from a treat. You want to run, so badly. You want to fast-forward, to know for sure that this plan is going to work, that you'll make it out alive.)

(It's killing you, the anticipation. The waiting to know.)

(And a chance at life, at having saved your own life—it's a treat worth anticipating, even if your desire for it is so strong it makes you sick.)

You try to blink reality back into your vision, rid yourself of the haze of both real and imagined memories coating your mind. Your heart-rate is inappropriate, an unsettled mess of nervous energy pulsing through your body.

"Here we go." Eddie straightens, a thick leather-bound folder of some kind in his hand.

"What is that?" you ask, feeling out of breath, barely able to speak.

You're in Eddie Gluskin's room in MMSS.

Not in Mount Massive.

He isn't The Groom.

You've been talking to Eddie Gluskin for the past few weeks.

A month?

Has it already been a little over a month of visiting him weekly?

(Of spending the days between visits anticipating the next one like a dog, too— quivering with the force of its self-restraint, staring at a treat on its nose?)

(What makes these visits mean that much to you?)

"Just a photo album," he flips open the album, translucent pages fluttering thickly apart with a sticky plastic sound. "I think I'll save the drawings from our game in it."

"What else is in there?" You need to remember to keep responding, keep inquiring, keep looking like you're not on the edge of being lost in bad memories, bad fantasies. Things you shouldn't be lost in right now.

Eddie glances up at you for only a moment, and then beckons you over with a curl of his fingers.

He doesn't see your hesitance, the deep breath it requires to force yourself across the room to stand at his side.

Peering into the open album in his hands is an excuse to stand close. Too close.

(What are you proving to yourself, to stand so close you can feel his body heat?)

You accidentally bump your shoulder against his, causing your breath to hitch audibly.

Eddie shoots you a questioning look for only a moment before he offers a polite smile.

('Please know that I don't mind you touching me.')

"The orderlies give us disposable cameras from time to time, and develop them for us when they're full." He adjusts the album in his arms to give you a better view.

It takes several excruciating seconds of blinking and measured breath to focus on what Eddie's showing you, instead of mentally replaying the accidental touch from moments ago.

The album is filled to the brim with photographs, all taken at MMSS. Eddie slowly flips through the pages for you to observe.

Most of the photos are of Pyro or Dennis—in the rec room, surrounded by trees in the yard, sitting at easels in a room full of colorful art supplies. There's pictures of Sarah, obviously taken with her knowledge, she's smiling for the camera in every one. One photo shows a group of people sitting in a circle of chairs, light filtering into the room through a high window's slotted blinds—a rather artistic shot, even if Pyro is sinking back in his chair, legs stretched in front of him, arms crossed in a display of boredom.

There are more pictures of MMSS staff, a few of that orderly you met at the reception desk named Toby; he's throwing up peace signs in every picture. A lanky blond patient you don't recognize appears frequently in the photographs, sometimes in MMSS uniform, sometimes adorned in long, conservative gowns with high collars and long sleeves, skirts reaching their ankles.

"I made these clothes for them at their request," Eddie points out, gesturing at a picture of the blond patient leaning dramatically against a tree, arm thrown over their head in a mock modeling pose. He turns the page and it's full of more pictures of this person—draped across a stone bench out in the yard, lying upside down in the grass, clinging to the arm of a laughing Dennis as if they're playing the role of gorgeous arm candy.

There are so many pictures of this blond person, in so many different outfits Eddie apparently made them. Your pulse spikes again, unwarranted. Confused.

In one photograph this person is sitting backwards in a chair, their skirts hiked up and pooling into their lap, bare legs pale and exposed, socks pulled up over their ankles and soft, slip-on shoes absurdly contrasting the provocative nature of the picture.

The photos of this person are clearly meant to be artistic shots, mimicking fashion models in clothing magazines, but this goes on for several pages, enough to make your brow furrow.

Eddie glances at you and instead of growing embarrassed, he laughs. "This must seem strange to you, all these photos of one subject—but you would understand if you met Val. They love this sort of attention and are very persuasive. And it can be entertaining to have someone model the clothes I made so enthusiastically."

"Why haven't I seen Val before?" You met Pyro and Dennis, surely if this Val person is good friends with Eddie you would have at least seen them in the halls before.

"That first time we saw each other through the fence. Val was present, then."

(A tall blond patient behind the bench leans forward to loom over Gluskin, look down at him. They're speaking to him.)

"Ah—right. I think I remember. It was far away though."

Eddie nods. "Val resides in a different ward, so we don't see them except in the cafeteria and when we're allowed out on the grounds. During those times most wards are able to intermingle."

"Ah."

Eddie's use of gender neutral pronouns for Val confirms your uncertainty upon looking at this person, who, despite wearing a dress in most of these pictures, seems to be missing any sort of gender marker, their features beautiful in a way that isn't strictly masculine or feminine.

There are some female patients in MMSS, from a small village Murkoff was illegally experimenting on by influencing them with radio towers that caused similar effects to the Morphogenic Engine—apparently creating a mass religious delusion in the town as well as severe hallucinations. Apparently it caused fatal physical symptoms in anyone with a uterus, too.

As Eddie turns the pages, the photos progress into random shots of various rooms in the facility, as artistic as possible with the limited features of a disposable camera. He must enjoy photography, or at least find it difficult to keep his artistic side out of his photography.

Eddie's explanation about the excessive number of photographs of Val makes sense, but you still have a strange nagging feeling left over from seeing the photographs. A numb tingling in your limbs.

(How does Eddie interact with Val, usually?)

(Dennis and Pyro both seemed reserved, perhaps even shy. You can't imagine Eddie around another extrovert. )

(He must be bored with someone like you who can barely muster up the courage for conversation.)

At the end of the album, the small squares of paper from the Pictionary game are tucked inside the clear plastic like the drawings are every bit as important as the collection of photos.

You manage a shaky smile at that, heart skittering like a skipping-stone for reasons you don't want to think about.

It's not until Eddie snaps the album closed that you realize there were no pictures of Eddie himself in that album. Not a single one.

You open your mouth to inquire, then close it, remembering the blurred photographs of a child Eddie Gluskin adorned in every news article and made-for-TV documentary on his past.

His father and uncle used to photograph him as part of the abuse they inflicted.

You don't need to ask why he doesn't have any pictures of himself.

"Thanks for showing me that," you say as you back up slightly to give him room to tuck the album back into the shelf.

"My pleasure—I'll admit that I was slightly nervous about sharing that with you."

"Why?"

"Well, it's not exactly all doom and gloom. Photographs are for happy memories."

"Yeah, so?"

He hesitates, looking you over in careful assessment. "I despair giving you a false impression that I haven't suffered also, during my time here, with the knowledge of what I have done to you. To others."

Would you have come to meet him in the first place, if you had seen this album first? Probably not—it would have sickened you to see his life depicted happily. As if the weight of what he's done isn't constantly on his shoulders...

But...

You sigh. "You can't get better if you're always tearing yourself apart about what you've done."

You should know.

"So I've been told," he remarks, and then, softer, "Please don't think you're not in my thoughts daily."

...Wow.

That.

You probably shouldn't have been allowed to hear that.

(He's in your thoughts daily, too.)

(Has been since the riot.)

"Why me?" you ask, small, hoarse with apprehension. You're twisting your fingers, tugging on them with enough pressure to remind you that your body is grounded in reality, painful enough to remind yourself not to drift somewhere else. "There were... others. A lot of others."

(You can still see them, hanging from the rafters, dripping wet blood, some knocking free dusty flakes of dried fluids as they swayed precariously from their nooses.)

It takes twisting your knuckle sharply to pull you out of the memory.

Eddie touches his fingers to his lips absently, deep in thought for one moment. "I suppose—I suppose that, since you're the only... surviving victim." He scowls at his own word choice and casts a furtive glance over at you, to gauge you for distaste. You remain steadfastly blank. "You've become sort of a... a proxy, for them. A singular representation of what I've done."

"So I'm a glorified mascot for the fucked up shit you did?"

Eddie frowns at your snide comment. Absurdly, there is no detectable anger in his expression, instead a flicker of worry in his eyes.

"Sorry," you mutter quickly. "That was uncalled for, I—"

(You're actually glad he thinks about you as much as he claims to.)

(Because you've been caught up on his memory, too.)

(You aren't. Alone with this.)

(Not anymore.)

(And that...)

Eddie gestures your apology away with a dismissive wave. "Please don't apologize to me. I can't bear to hear it."

"Sorry."

He shoots you a tired look.

You bristle sheepishly, swallow yet another apology. But can't fight down the apologetic smile.

Eddie sighs.

"So, uh—your bed is really fucking small," you say, in a shoddy attempt to change the subject.

"Yes, quite. I'm afraid it doesn't fit a man of my stature very well."

The mention of Eddie's stature leaves you rife with distraction, struggling to keep your eyes on his scarred face instead of his broad shoulders, his solid legs, that wide chest, his perfect posture.

(You want to see his bare torso, brush your fingers down his straight spine, marvel at how your touch is sure to elicit some variety of strong reaction. What will it be? A shudder, an accusing glare? A hitch of breath and a sudden frantic effort to scramble away from your improper action?)

(Fuck. You need...)

(You need to stop.)

"Can you show me?" you ask, impulsive.

(Fuck!)

"Hm?"

"Like, lie on the bed. I wanna see how bad the height difference is. I can't imagine you fitting on a mattress that small at all."

(You need to stop, you need to stop, you need to stop.)

Eddie's brows knit, his gaze flicking to the open door to his room, the empty hallway beyond.

You had forgotten that he left the door open. Patients and staff have probably been walking by this whole time, blinking in surprise at catching a glimpse of Waylon Park alone in a small bedroom with Eddie Gluskin.

Fuck.

What is your life right now?

"Hm," his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He hesitates, seeming to weigh your request with a couple tilts of his head, as if mentally calculating his response on a scale. Finally, he smiles, "Oh, alright."

His expression is light, almost too casual, as if he's fighting to maintain an air that this exchange is only chummy and comical between two friends, not odd and illicit at all.

(Does he believe that, even a little?)

(Is he telling himself that you can't possibly want to see him lying in his bed for any nefarious reason? Is he telling himself that the image won't be burned into your brain forever?)

He sits on the bed, and then careful not to touch his shoes to the bedding, swivels his body until he's lying flat on his back, legs hanging comically about six inches off of the bed.

"Ta-Da," he says in further attempt to lighten the mood, desperately prove that this is just a normal funny exchange and not something that quickens your breath, makes your pupils blow wide.

You can't stop staring at the way his pillow musses his slicked-back hair. Can't stop staring at the scarce space between his body and the edge of the mattress.

(Can't stop thinking about how close you would have to press, to fit on this mattress with him.)

(Can't stop thinking about how thoroughly it would stun him if you were to climb on top of him right now, straddle his hips.)

(You want him to be taken aback, thrown off kilter, confused and affected and hanging on your every move.)

Just as Eddie's pushing himself up on his elbows and throwing his feet back over to the side of the bed to stand, there's a clatter in the general vicinity of the door, and a voice—

"Hey Eddie," Pyro says as he grips the door frame and swings into the room, clearly in a hurry to say something—but he stops dead at the sight of you hovering nearby Eddie, who is still half-lying on his bed. "Uh—"

"Py," Eddie drawls in stoic greeting—the picture of stony nonchalance as he sits up on the edge of the bed.

Your face must be bright red. Damp heat was rising from your skin even before Pyro walked in. The embarrassment only escalates.

"Wow, okay. What the hell did I just walk into?"

(Pyro walked into you coming up with a flimsy excuse to see Eddie Gluskin sprawled out on his bed.)

"Just showing Waylon how ill-fitting my bed is," Eddie says, no trace of guilt in his voice as he straightens his sleeves absently.

(...Does Eddie really think your request was innocent?)

"Uh-huh," Pyro says, clearly dubious.

You have to fidget with your fingers to try and keep your breath calm.

(It isn't calm.)

(You aren't calm.)

"Anyway," Pyro says skeptically, turning to Eddie with dubiously wide eyes. "I was just coming by to ask you if you'd consider asking him," he jerks his head in your direction. "If he'd be oh so generous as to give you his blessing to go to Roadside Boulder with us next week—but I didn't expect him to still be here. Thought you could, y'know, just call him up or something."

"We've never spoken on the phone," Eddie dismisses, studiously ignoring Pyro's question.

You honestly can't decipher what Pyro's question even meant—you have no idea what Roadside Boulder is. Instead you say, "You have phones here?"

"Patient landlines," Eddie says. "For calling friends and family, attorneys, that sort of thing."

"Oh." For some reason you were picturing cell phones. But of course. Landlines. You haven't seen a landline in what feels like forever.

Has a man Gluskin's age even seen a touch-screen phone before?

You almost laugh, the thought of Gluskin confused by a cell-phone screen helps to calm your embarrassment somewhat.

"Well?" Pyro prompts, impatient. "I asked you a question."

Eddie levels Pyro with a long stare that communicates that he thinks Pyro should know better. "Waylon is right here, why don't you ask him yourself?"

Pyro rolls his eyes, pivots to face you. "Will you please give your fucking blessing for Eddie to come with us to Roadside Boulder next week? He hasn't been out of the facility in years, not since they made him leave to testify against Murkoff. Dude needs some fresh air—"

"I get plenty of fresh air in the yard—"

Pyro throws out a hand to shush Eddie. "And Val is absolutely insufferable without Eddie there. Won't fucking shut up about how unfair it is that he refuses to come. Because of you," Pyro shoots you an accusing look. "So please. Just tell him you don't fucking care if he goes. You don't, right?"

You have absolutely no idea what Pyro is talking about. "I—sorry, I don't understand what you're asking... What is Roadside Boulder?"

Pyro sighs in exasperation and opens his mouth to reply, but Eddie cuts him off.

"It's a diner in the nearby town. Patients here are often taken out into the town for trips—"

"Part of re-integrating you into society?" you ask, remembering your conversation with the receptionist named Toby. Gluskin nods. "You're allowed to leave MMSS?"

"Yes," Eddie says, studying you tentatively. "It's, as you said, an important part of readjusting to life outside the facility—"

"No—I mean, no, I know that. What I meant was, you're allowed to leave MMSS, specifically? You as in, you Eddie Gluskin? I thought patients like you needed judge approval or something—"

"He has it!" Pyro exclaims, throwing up his hands.

You flinch slightly at the exuberant motion, even though you know it's just a normal display of exasperation.

"My doctors procured such permissions for me over a year ago. For supervised day trips, that sort of thing," Eddie adds hastily, as if he's worried about upsetting you. "I didn't request such a thing, as I have no intention of ever leaving this facility. But they insisted it was something they would like me to be able to do, should I wish to. I've never gone, however—"

"Because of you, Park," Pyro accuses again, spitting the last word. "No offense, but please just tell him he's allowed to go out with his friends. Orderlies are there. Guards. It's not like he's gonna be able to escape or anything."

"Of course I wouldn't escape, I would never do such a thing," Eddie scoffs, visibly offended. He turns to you. "I simply forego optional trips into town, as I know you live nearby—from the news—I can't imagine how dreadful it would be for you to catch a glimpse of me when you're out and about in town. I would never willingly put you through that."

You frown, looking between the other two men with vague confusion. "I don't go into town. Ever. I only leave my apartment to come here for therapy. And these visits, I guess. I barely leave for grocery shopping."

Eddie frowns deeply at this information, seeming at a loss for words.

"See, Eddie," Pyro gestures at you as if you're evidence of something. "It was never an issue! You were overthinking this the whole time."

"How was I to know that Waylon was holed up in his apartment, afraid to leave," Eddie asks, aghast, shooting you a concerned look. "—and if anything, this proves my reasoning. The poor dear would have truly never left his house again, if he stumbled across me in town on one of the rare occasions he did venture out into the world."

Part of you really wants to complain about being coddled, about being referred to as poor dear, but your face just blazes red at the attention, and your brain can't form a protest.

"Well whatever, it doesn't matter, because you two are all hunky-dory now," Pyro says, as if explaining to a child. "Right, Park?"

It's not... really your decision. You don't have the right to prevent Eddie Gluskin from going out on trips to the local town with the orderlies. Don't have the right to take away an afternoon of pretending he's a normal person, out with friends. A person that has basic freedoms.

"If his doctors think it's okay, then he should go," you say, because it's true. And. Pyro's right, you're fine with Eddie right now. It wouldn't shock you to see him out in public flanked by orderlies, especially now that you've had fair warning.

"But—" Eddie starts to protest, but Pyro cuts him off.

"Thanks, Park!" Pyro beams, waxy scars stretching across his sharp features. "Ed, I'll tell Dennis that you're coming with us to the diner next week!"

And with that, Pyro turns on his heel and disappears down the hallway just as quickly as he arrived.

A broken syllable of protest dies on Eddie's lips. He turns to you, frowning as if he doesn't know what to make of you.

"Please forgive Pyro, he can be... overbearing sometimes."

"Yeah, I got that impression." You don't really mind. "And it's okay if you go on the field trip or whatever, really. Because we're... okay, for now, right?"

Eddie just stares, jaw tight. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Yeah. Like I said, I never leave my apartment anyway. Except to come here. And buy food."

"Why is that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why don't you leave your apartment?"

You shrug. "Isn't it obvious?"

"I'd like to hear it from you, rather than assume."

You assess him for one long moment, the way he's still sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, looking up at you. (Oh so invested in what you have to say.)

"I don't like being around strangers. Never have, really. Now I feel like everyone's looking at me."

"I can understand that." A pause. "It must be difficult for you to come here to visit me. With all the orderlies and patients around."

There's a silent question there that you hear loud and clear: are these visits causing you pain?

"It's a little difficult," you admit. "But it feels safer here. It's... different, than normal society. Everyone here knows what happened and... they aren't judgmental. Or at least I like to think they aren't."

"What would they judge?"

You gesture to, well, all of you.

"I don't follow."

"I look like a mess, Eddie. A wreck. I spend most of my free time crying or dissociating. I jump at random noises. I take off running if someone accidentally bumps me in the supermarket."

Eddie looks positively pained by this information. "I am so sorry to hear this."

"It doesn't help that I'm..." Alone. "That I'm on my own, so... it's not like I have emotional support, or anything to ease me back into doing normal things, like going out into public."

Eddie has that, you realize. All of the patients here have that support. The orderlies aren't just there to monitor them for public safety's sake—they're also there as a support system, reassurance. To help the patients engage with the real world in a way that feels safe.

You don't have that.

Lisa scoffed at the idea that you would need that kind of support for longer than the first few months after the riot.

Her sympathy had drained fast.

You can't blame her. Your stagnated improvement must have been so disheartening. So tedious.

(She hadn't signed up to be your caretaker, when she married you.)

(You can't blame her. You can't blame her.)

(She didn't sign up for this.)

Eddie is quiet, contemplative, obviously pitying you.

You sigh. "I'm... not very good at managing on my own, am I?"

Eddie looks... struck by that. Face brimming with concern and distaste and some sort of desire to take action. Like he can see more clearly than you can what's wrong with you, like he would like to pick you apart and rearrange you into something different, something better.

"Waylon, you are doing just fine. You're alive. Surviving. I know," he sucks in a deep breath. Stands. Hovers like he's not quite sure what to do with himself. "I know it must feel like you're failing, but these things are seldom that simple."

You take a step back, the small room suddenly feels suffocating.

Gluskin's words feel like a downpour, an onslaught cold enough to chill you to the bone.

You. Didn't ask for this.

Didn't want these words of encouragement, of comfort.

They're unsolicited. Wrong.

You don't deserve a word of it.

"As long as you are alive, that is a success. There is no wrong way to survive," the sureness of his voice is too much, hot tears sting your eyes. "I understand that life is painful for you right now, uncomfortable. And yes, you should work towards changing that. But that doesn't mean you have to force yourself to be anyone's definition of normal. It just means you should try to make yourself comfortable in your own skin. And ease your pain in ways that aren't harmful."

What did you do by visiting Gluskin in the first place, if not ease your pain in a way that is harmful?

You forced yourself to see him just to unload your guilt, put it on display as painful and honest as a knife to your wrist. You hurt yourself on purpose with the humiliation of your spilled guts, of letting this man know you've been fantasizing about him.

('Ever since the riot, I've been having dreams about you. Dreams where you fuck me on that goddamn buzz-saw table—where I beg you to do it, so that you won't hurt me.')

('I think I like it, actually—wake up with cum in my pants, more often than not. Sometimes just an erection—and sometimes I finish myself off.')

The simple truth is that you are functioning worse than Eddie Gluskin.

Coping worse.

And just letting him bear witness to that—letting him have that victory over you— is enough to open deep wounds inside your fragile mental state, let your emotional mess seep from you, radiate.

(Eddie Gluskin hasn't behaved like a man gloating a victory over you.)

Is self-harm all these visits are?

Still?

Right now?

Are these visits to Eddie just a self-destructive distraction?

Eddie's attention has been easing your deep wounds of inadequacy and worthlessness, while at the same time harming with how horrible it is that you like his attention. Harming with the guilt you're left with, the guilt of giving Eddie Gluskin an ounce of your time. The guilt of enjoying your time with him at all, even a little—and you like it a lot more than a little.

Something's wrong.

You shouldn't want to be here.

Shouldn't want to talk to him.

It shouldn't make you feel better, just like a fit of suicidal ideation shouldn't be deliriously comforting, the refreshing, gross thought that death is a way to make the pain stop, this can all go away, it's in your control.

But. It is comforting, to know that there is a way to make the pain stop.

And. It is comforting, to know that someone values you, pretends you are worth something, accommodates your newfound eccentricities.

(Even if that person is Eddie Gluskin.)

"I don't know what to do," you say, tears falling thickly down your face. You ignore them. Refuse to scrub at your eyes in a fruitless attempt to stifle them. "Everything that makes me feel better just makes me feel worse—the anger, the bitterness, the fantasies. Going out to socialize and trying to be normal again has never made me feel better, just, inhuman. Like. I'm not a real person." You don't function like a real person at all. "I feel like a fraud."

Eddie's sympathy is still trained on you, invested in you. "Perhaps the reality is that you are different than most people now. The majority of us here at MMSS have accepted that, and try to find solace in that difference."

You shrug, staring blearily down at the floor. "Maybe that's why I like it here. I don't feel... wrong, here. It feels like I belong."

The patients at MMSS—the don't intimidate you like the general population, because it feels like they know you. They are strangers and they know you. They are strangers and you know them. You recognize their anxiety, their mental illness, their scars, their odd demeanors. And they recognize yours.

Without ever being told, they know who you are.

It feels so safe to be around people predisposed to understand everything about yourself that you're ashamed of.

Christ.

Lisa was right.

You should have voluntarily committed yourself to MMSS all those years ago, when she offered the prospect up as a last-straw condition to save your marriage.

How different would your life be now, if you had trusted a place like this to give you the structure and security you clearly desperately needed.

(Still need.)

But you couldn't trust it. Because of Murkoff. Jeremy Blaire.

"Please know that you are welcome to visit me here anytime," Eddie's worry is audible in the slight crack of his voice. "I am so incredibly glad to know that these visits have been helping you in some way."

('I initially told my doctors that I couldn't bear to see you again—that I didn't want to,' you remember Gluskin saying on your second visit to him.)

('I don't think it's good for me, you see. They think that meeting you like this will help to humanize you in my thoughts—that it will help to quell my fantasies involving you. They think it will make me realize that my fantasies are ridiculous, unrealistic.')

('I'm sorry to say the fantasies are stronger than ever since our last meeting.')

"No. No, how can you say that? This is—this is bad. I shouldn't be here," your breath stutters, catches in your mouth. You're drowning. Every time you flick your gaze back to Gluskin, the tears sting hotter. "You said these visits are making things worse for you—and I still keep coming back, fuck."

It's absurd to bury your face in your hands, squeeze your eyes shut and block out the world—you shouldn't be able to stand knowing Eddie Gluskin is in the room with you and you can't see him. But somehow it feels safer this way, hiding your eyes, auditory senses amplified. You can hear him shuffle in place, suck in a breath.

"Oh—Waylon, please—"

"No, I shouldn't be here," you insist, forceful and precise, aiming to refute any protest Gluskin could possibly lavish you with. "You said it yourself, humoring me is only making your delusions about us worse."

Gluskin sighs, and your overwhelming desire to hang on his every word forces your breath calm, your tears silent. "In the weeks since our first few encounters, I've come to realize that there was a lot of emotional processing and stress to be had at first—and I believe that was because those first few encounters were the entirety of our relationship. When one difficult day comprises the majority of our time spent together, everything can feel confusing and dire from that perspective. I was constantly reeling, wondering what to expect from these visits."

Your breath is hot against your palms, still locked securely over your wet face. Focusing on Gluskin's words send waves of relief to soothe your panic.

Gluskin's voice has all the gentle patience of a person trying not to frighten a wounded animal. All the sincerity of a man with a conscious—the kind of man Eddie Gluskin isn't supposed to be. "But every visit has helped to re-adjusted my expectations, and now that I have gotten to know you better, I find your company pleasant, truly, your presence in my life is the least stressful thing in the world to me, now. Getting to spend time with you is a comfort to me. And the more I get to know you, the more I never want to jeopardize that with silly fantasies about a future that will never happen."

You want to argue. To implore him to change his mind. You want him to tell you he doesn't want you here.

But that's... irrational. And. Wallowing. And.

The desire to claw yourself deeper into the hole of self-pity is strong. But...

"Waylon, I will absolutely tell you if this... arrangement ever does me harm. I promise you that. I owe you that. You are clearly uncomfortable continuing contact with me if this hurts me—and I respect your wishes. Right now, I am perfectly happy with this situation. I will let you know if that changes."

The urge to argue subsides just slightly, just enough for you to nod. You scrub at your eyes with the sleeve of your flannel shirt to hide the fresh round of tears that soak quickly into the fabric.

"Duly, you are free to stop this arrangement at any time. I will not hold it against you."

"Okay." It's quiet and frail but it's all you can manage.

When you finally attempt to look at Eddie, his expression is too soft, too understanding, and his broad chest looks too inviting.

(You just want to hide from the world against another living, breathing thing, something warm and watchful—is that so wrong?)

(Yeah—yeah it is, when that person is Eddie Gluskin.)

(You shouldn't have hugged him the other day.)

"Do you think you might like to come with us?" Eddie asks suddenly, forcing some casual positivity into his voice, a clear attempt to lighten the mood. He must be floundering, unsure what to do in response to your ceaseless crying. "To the diner? I believe Dr. Sarah is chaperoning, I'm sure if I asked her, and got the permission of the patients attending, you would be allowed to join us."

That.

That doesn't help your attempts to calm down.

You don't want this confusing kindness offered to you like kibble to a starving dog, nudged towards it as it growls through the whimpering.

You don't deserve it. You don't understand it.

"Why are you asking me this?" you gasp through your strangled attempts to stop the tears.

This whole time, Eddie has been refusing to seize what little freedom he's been allowed, by not going on these trips.

Because of you.

Despite his reassurances, he's probably shredding his own recovery to ruins by entertaining these visits with you—how could he not be having a hard time, when the biggest hurdle in his therapy was his struggle to stop obsessing over your memory?

And now he's offering for you to join him on the first occasion he's stepped outside of this facility without handcuffs. The first time he's going to taste freedom in who knows how long.

And. You should think that this is just a ploy to lure you into an environment where he can attack you and escape easier than inside the walls of MMSS.

But. You know that's not why he offered.

He offered for your sake. To get you out of your house.

As if your freedom is more important to coax forward than his own.

You're fucking sure that's why he offered.

Why are you so sure his intentions are pure?

What is wrong with you?

With him?

What is this... thing, you two have?

Is it. Really friendship?

Is that all?

A desperate, precarious bond formed by two people that share similar loneliness?

But. He's not lonely, is he? That photo album proved he's not. The game of Pictionary proved he's not. The conversation you witnessed between him and Sarah proved he's not.

It's just you.

It's only you that needs help, only you who is drowning in your own despair, your own alienation.

So why—why is he here offering to share his happiness—his life—with you?

"You expressed that you felt more comfortable around the patients and staff here than typical strangers—and I have witnessed the truth of that statement myself, seeing how happy you were meeting my friends today."

Were you happy?

You don't know.

You were distracted. You forgot your pain in conversation, processed it in chunks throughout the evening. Managed, somehow, to think of Lisa and not break down.

It was.

Okay.

It was.

Comfortable.

Is that what happiness is?

You can't remember.

"Yeah... I. Can't even sit down to play a game with my old friends. I don't talk to them at all anymore. The few attempts I made, in the beginning, it was... bad."

You had been sick with grief, driven further into distress by their reactions to your obvious depression, the way they smiled and tried to ignore it, to pretend like everything was okay. The way they wouldn't reach out to you afterwards, expected you to come to them when you could barely pull your own consciousness into your shell of a body every morning.

The guilt of dumping your emotional baggage on them without their explicit consent was too much for you to attempt.

(And they never offered to bear it.)

Eventually, they moved on without you.

(Nothing was okay.)

"Please don't feel obligated, but if you would like to join us on our outing to the diner next week, I'm certain it can be arranged. If you think it might help to have some company for an excursion out in public, I would be delighted to have you by my side."

By his side.

Suddenly, you realize what it means that this will be the first time Gluskin's out in the real world. In a town in a state that knows intimately about the events of Mount Massive.

"Are you nervous?" you ask, finally managing to quell your tears, dry your face.

"Perhaps," he admits, folding his hands behind his back—an anxious gesture, for him. "But I'm sure I'll be fine, with my friends attending. And Dr. Sarah. And it means a great deal to me to know I have your permission to go."

"You never needed my permission, Eddie. It wouldn't have been wrong for you to go, even if we weren't... on good terms." You still can't say the word friends to his face. "Anyway, who's going with you?"

"Ah, Pyro, Dennis, Val—the one you saw in the pictures. Dr. Sarah and another orderly."

So. You already know most of the people who will be attending. That... helps.

Pyro and Dennis were pleasant company today—they were simultaneously considerate of your trauma while also not treating you like you might break at any moment. Pyro's abrasiveness was actually refreshing.

It. Probably wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, to go out to a diner with these people.

Maybe it will earn you some amount of praise from your therapist.

A real attempt at progress.

Look at you, you're a goddamn model patient.

"I think... I'd like to go." It's tentative but firm, and as soon as you say it Eddie beams wider than you've ever seen him smile.

"Excellent. I'll see to making arrangements for it first thing tomorrow."

Your smile is wobbly, tears long gone.

And later, when Eddie walks you out of the patient ward, you buzz with an impulsive desire to hug him goodbye. Instead, you thank him and wave.

And you leave MMSS lonely. And hopeful.

(And tentatively, happy.)

Chapter Text

Lisa loved watching crime shows, would often stay up late nights reading about serial killers of all varieties. She would go through wikipedia rabbit holes with you through video-chat when the relationship was still long-distance. So when you finally made it out of Mount Massive, it quickly dawned on you why Eddie Gluskin's name was so familiar.

Since the riot you've studiously avoided any biographical documentaries about Eddie Gluskin—about any criminal, really, fictional or otherwise. The thought of viewing any kind of violent content makes you feel ill these days, woozy.

Even video games with cartoonish graphics and colorful, unrealistic violence make you feel out of place—you can remember when fantasy violence didn't phase you. Now it leaves you unsettled, alienated, because the people who create those games, the people who partake, they haven't been through what you have—haven't slipped on spilled blood left untouched on the floor long enough for a film to develop on the surface like milk microwaved too long. Haven't seen live bodies cut through, torn apart still wriggling.

And there's something disingenuous about that—art that isn't made with a full awareness of what aspect of life it's imitating.

(You wish you could go back to not knowing the reality of slaughter.)

You shouldn't be sitting at your computer, legs drawn up to your chest, hunched over the keyboard, searching for very specific crime documentaries.

This is bad for you. The sickly anticipation of browsing through the list of titles on the torrent site is enough to hurt you with your own lapse of restraint.

The.Leadville.Tailor.DVDrip.1080p

Tried.As.An.AdultS01E02.Eddie.Gluskin.720p

Victim.to.murderer.S02E05.avi

Inside.Mount.Massive.NEW.2016.WEBrip

You ignore any documentary made after the riot—your breath quickens even knowing that your footage has been picked through and edited into an accessible spectacle for the average person to view in the comfort of their own homes, enjoy while never having to go through any of the real-life horror witnessed on screen.

What you want is something released before Eddie's infamy made a resurgence after his involvement in the Mount Massive riot.

Something that only focuses on the crimes that got him arrested in the first place.

You should just read an article. Consume the facts quickly and move on.

But... here you are. Looking for a documentary to watch that might skew your perspective back to something normal and reasonable—might make you never want to visit Eddie Gluskin again.

...Even though you have plans to accompany him on his first supervised day-trip to a local diner in a few days.

This is just what you need—to upset yourself. Stir up the fondness that's been settling for him like water turned clear by debris finally sinking to the lake floor.

There are so many television episodes that feature Eddie Gluskin—there's something that bothers you about that, how media can take someone's entire life and shove it into a intrusive forty minute biography. Just one episode, one segment in a myriad of names and crimes.

One television series that features an episode on Gluskin is clearly about children who commit serious crimes before the age of legal adulthood.

Eventually, you download a documentary about Gluskin that is as recent as possible while still predating the asylum riot. You don't want any chance of seeing so much as a still-frame of your own Mount Massive footage.

As soon as the file downloads you open it.

The first thing you notice is the high quality of the footage, the shot fading into a well-lit facility, a long hallway—the camera following an adult Eddie Gluskin into a room for an interview.

This shocks you to the point of bated breath—you had assumed any documentary you downloaded would simply be footage from the town the crimes were committed in. A voice-over describing the events of Eddie's life leading to the crimes. But no, the Gluskin in the video must only be a handful of years younger than he is now.

This Gluskin's face is smooth, unscarred by Mount Massive. He's reserved as he regards the camera, politely responding to the off-screen interviewer.

The screen cuts to solid black, white text fading in for narration: 'At the age of fourteen, Eddie Gluskin was arrested for the 1981 murders of two adult women in Leadville Colorado.'

Footage of a handcuffed, teenage Gluskin appears on screen. You gnaw nervously on your knuckles, lean in towards the computer monitor, utterly engrossed, heart beating wildly. He looks... so young. Baby-faced, even with his sharp features. He's disheveled, wearing a rumpled white dress shirt and black suspenders.

A voice-over plays over the silent footage of a teenage Gluskin sitting in a courtroom, head bowed.

'After two years of court proceedings, Eddie Gluskin was tried as an adult and determined to be Not Guilty by Reason Insanity, a rarely successful defense used in less than 1% of all criminal cases.'

'Medical professionals determined that the young Gluskin was suffering from severe paranoia, delusions, and psychosis at the time of the murders.'

'This psychosis persisted until he received a diagnosis of schizophrenia during detainment, for which he was medicated and eventually deemed fit to stand trial.'

A clip plays of adult Eddie in a quiet, vacant room, sunlight streaming through a barred window to fall in thick swaths across the wooden table he's seated at. He lists the medications he's currently taking, the symptoms he still experiences—auditory and visual hallucinations. His smile is strained, careful, when he explains to the camera how his symptoms aren't as dire as one might think—now that he has had the therapy to understand his illness, he says hallucinations are little more than an everyday nuisance.

You can tell by his careful wording that he doesn't trust whatever audience might watch this to understand that something as frightening as hallucinations are something he can manage with ease.

The video cuts to white text on a black background again.

'Statistics show that those who succeed with a insanity defense are often confined to a hospital for significantly longer periods than prison sentences served for similar crimes.'

'As of filming in 2010, Eddie Gluskin has served 29 years of his indeterminate sentence in various mental hospitals.'

On screen, Eddie leans forward politely, cupping his ear with his unbound hand.

'What was that, dear?'

The off-screen interviewer repeats their question, 'What would need to be accomplished to warrant your release?'

'Why, simply a judge deeming me mentally well and fit for society.'

'No longer a danger to society?' The interviewer asks, for clarification.

'That's right.'

'And what improvement do your doctors think you need to make in order for you to no longer be a danger to yourself or others?'

Gluskin leans back in his chair, takes a visibly deep breath. He's been calm this entire time—oddly dour and serious compared to the Gluskin you know. He's not being overly friendly with the interviewer, though he is a picture of good manners.

He shoves his gaze out the window, answers, eventually, 'My doctors believe I have made sufficient progress to be allowed another chance in the outside world. They have felt this way for many years now.'

'That's surprising—considering you haven't been released.'

Gluskin gestures unconcern.

'How long have you been ready for release, according to your doctors?'

Gluskin shifts in his chair, tips his head back towards the interviewer. 'Decades.'

The screen cuts to a woman in an orderly uniform, she laughs at whatever the interviewer asked her before the footage started. 'Eddie? Eddie Gluskin? No way—I've worked in this facility for over ten years, interacting with him daily. He's never once made me uncomfortable. He's a sweet man.' The film cuts forward, editing out whatever the interviewer asked, but it becomes clear when the nurse responds, 'Of course I know what he did. If I didn't believe people could change, I would be in the wrong career.'

In your small apartment, you swivel slightly in your computer chair, eyes locked on the screen—something about that statement makes your stomach churn. Is it disgust to see someone give Gluskin a second chance? Guilt at your own desperate urge to find validation—something to confirm it's okay to give him a second chance?

Maybe both.

Maybe it sickens you to know what he went on to do after this—all those bodies mutilated and strung from the ceiling like soft, decomposing stalagmites. What does this orderly think of Gluskin now?

Do you feel sick because this nurse was wrong about Gluskin—or is it that she wasn't wrong, he had changed, and Mount Massive destroyed his progress thoroughly enough to facilitate his re-offense?

(You... inadvertently helped destroy his progress by working for Murkoff.)

(Which led him to... re-offend.)

As in-depth interviews are given by his professional psychologist and doctors at the time, you barely hear a word of their certainty about Eddie's improvement, their certainty that he is ready for the world again. Disapproval and frustration seep into their voices when they discuss how they believe Gluskin and many other patients in the country are being done a disservice by the justice system, confined and forgotten in mental hospitals longer than necessary.

You try to focus on the interviews as you press your fingers into your eyes. Try to think about anything but that code.

>Start MorphogeniCEngine/RootSystem/MorphoggenicEngineV5.exe

and

>Start Walrider.exe

And Eddie Gluskin's face forced open by tubes sprouting from several orifices—his frantic form before that, beating on the glass, looking you in the eye, begging you for help.

The interviewer's next question, and then Eddie's voice, helps extract you from the foggy flood of memories. You pull your hands away from your face—the air is refreshingly cool in your lungs when it's not being filtered through your warm palms.

'So why do you think you're still here?'

Eddie blinks steadily, to all appearances unfazed by the question. 'It's not an opinion, it's a matter of fact—no judge my doctors have petitioned for my release over the years has granted approval.'

'Because they don't think you're ready?'

'It could be any number of reasons—my improvement is well-documented. I have been a model patient. I have not been violent since my confinement. There is nothing indicating a likelihood of recidivism—but my crimes were severe. I imagine a decision to release an offender like myself probably weighs heavily on a judge.'

'Recidivism?'

'Re-offense,' Eddie explains, shifting in his seat. 'It's the likelihood of a convicted criminal to repeat their crime. It's an important topic of discussion when considering the release of any criminal.'

'Judges often receive public backlash for allowing release of high-profile offenders. Do you think this may be a factor in your continued confinement?'

Gluskin merely shrugs, somehow managing to make the lazy gesture look elegant.

'Are you frustrated that you've been prevented from release?'

Though Gluskin has appeared polite and disinterested for the entire interview process, he does not respond to this question for a long time, looking out the window again. 'No. While I trust myself to lead an ordinary and uneventful life should I ever be released—release is not something that I feel entitled to. I have accepted my fate. If I spend the rest of my days without freedom, it is what I deserve for the wrongs I have committed.'

With that, the text on the screen narrates details of Gluskin's past, including his verbally and physically abusive mother, his difficulty making friends in school, his participation in the family tailoring business since he was old enough to hold a needle and thread. He's described in statements from neighbors and former classmates as having been a gloomy and standoffish child.

'After Gluskin's arrest, investigators found pornographic photos of a young Eddie Gluskin, age 3-11, depicting sexual abuse by his father and uncle.'

It makes your heart pound sickeningly hot in your throat when the film cuts back to the adult Eddie Gluskin. The interviewer proceeds to ask methodical questions about this abuse.

'Regarding the photographs investigators found in your family's estate after your arrest—were you aware of the existence of these photographs?'

Eddie is silent for so long you don't think he's going to answer. He's clearly uncomfortable. Your blood is boiling—the interviewer shouldn't be asking him this.

But eventually, he answers, 'I knew pictures were taken. Of course I did—I was conscious for much of the abuse. Did I know the location of these pictures? Obviously not, since they still exist.'

The interviewer continues by asking a number of additional questions about his childhood abuse—all of which he politely declines answering.

'Did you ever try to tell anyone about the sexual abuse?'

For the first time, Eddie looks mildly offended, his eyes flashing, jaw tightening. Probably suspicious of the intent of that question—as if perhaps the interviewer is implying that regardless of the effects the trauma had on him, he was at fault for not seeking help during the time of the abuse. You don't blame him for his suspicion.

'I told my mother.' Eddie says, flat and stoic. 'She tried to cut my tongue out with fabric scissors for telling what she believed to be awful lies about my father. I am sure you can hear the slight speech impediment her attempt left me with.'

You snort, proud of Eddie for standing up for himself, for answering the question in a way that is sure to shut down anyone who would dare blame him for the abuse he endured.

The documentary continues by showing several Gluskin family photographs—Gluskin's father and mother to all appearances seeming like normal, well-groomed parents. There are several photographs of Eddie close to your son's ages—he can't be older than eight or ten—smiling, his fathers armed wrapped around his shoulders in what looks like a normal happy moment between father and son.

Tears well up in your eyes to slip warm and stinging down your face, knowing the abuse Gluskin endured. It's hard to see pictures of him as a child, forced to keep going on, keep trying to live a normal childhood despite the abuse, which he was likely unable to make sense of so young. How can someone do that to a child?

Again, flashes of your fingers hovering over a keyboard overlay your vision—Eddie slamming into the reinforced glass, begging you to help him, screaming about how the Murkoff doctors were going to rape him.

You squeeze your wet eyes shut, try to focus on calming your rapid breath, but the memory persists. Repeats.

The documentary snaps you back to reality when the interviewer starts discussing Eddie's potential transfer from his current residence in a state mental hospital, to a privatized mental health facility called Mount Massive.

It's like a horror movie you know the ending to, listening to this calm and polite Eddie talk about how he's petitioning against the transfer to Mount Massive.

'Of course I would rather not transfer. I have been in my current facility for thirteen years. It is my home.'

Your heart drops, knowing the result of the transfer.

The screen fades to black one last time, reading:

'Eddie Gluskin was transferred to Mount Massive before filming for this documentary could conclude.'

'We have not been permitted contact with him since.'

'Murkoff Psychiatric employees have declined requests for statements.'

'As of today, Eddie Gluskin has served 31 years for the crimes he committed at age fourteen.'

The documentary ends with a number and website for a mental health help line, as well as a sexual abuse help line.

The credits roll, and the file ends.

You feel cold.

Despite the dubious ethics of some of the questions, and an obvious desire to appear impartial, the mental health and sexual abuse PSA at the end of the documentary suggest that it was made out of sympathy for Gluskin and people like him.

You've been picking yourself apart over your own inclination to sympathize with him. And yet these strangers who made the film have sympathized so readily—without really spending much time with him, like you have.

Why have you been holding yourself back from sympathy? From understanding?

Gluskin has committed atrocities, and has had atrocities committed to him. And as the documentary detailed and Gluskin himself explained to you—he had no support for his schizophrenia at the time. No awareness of it.

The abuse, the undiagnosed mental illness—it's an obvious recipe for trouble. An unfortunate result. A foreseeable conclusion. It's nauseating that Gluskin ended up hurting others in the swell and crescendo of all these unsightly factors swirling together, multiplying to something that left Gluskin in over his head at too young an age to pull himself off of the wrong path—a path that he, no doubt, didn't know was dangerous or alarming.

It's just...

You push your keyboard back, fold your arms on your desk, lie your head down on them. Let yourself mourn the unfairness of life for a countless time since Mount Massive—but this time you're morning someone else's misfortune—Eddie Gluskin's.

* * *

The documentary leaves you feeling numb, vulnerable.

Doesn't leave you conflicted, feeling like you never want to see Eddie again. You had expected it to.

(Instead, you just want to grab your jacket and go visit him on impulse, share a space with him, pull him into a crushing embrace, break down and tell him how sorry you are for the misfortune in his life—but it's too late in the evening to visit. And you shouldn't anyway.)

You're freed from your dissociation and Sudoku puzzles when your computer dings with a message.

There's nothing like the warm excitement that swells in your chest as your smile spreads wide enough to hurt your chapped lips, and you scramble to maximize the voice chat program.

You only have two people added on this account—the message can only be from one of them.

The message is in the group chat. From Lance—your oldest son.

Lance: Dad, game? - Lance

You chuckle at the fact that he signed the instant message, despite the program clearly labeling who it is from. He's been doing that lately, he even signs his texts.

The next message that pops up is from your eight year old son.

Felix: dad join now

You laugh at that, too—Felix can be a bit pushy in an endearing way. It's still amazing to you that kids so young are efficient with computers, you're glad you talked Lisa into letting them have their own laptops. It helps with learning to spell, too, even though it drives Lisa up the wall when Felix is shouting at her from across the house, asking how to spell words.

You pull on your headset and join the voice chat.

As soon as you connect to the voice server, your boy's small voices cut in, in the middle of an argument over how to set up the game.

"Hi dad!" Felix says when he hears you connect, and then without waiting for a reply, "Tell Lance to make the game creative mode."

You snort softly, too quiet for the microphone to pick up. This is a tired argument, one that happens every night you play this game with them—which is every night, unless Lisa banishes the boys to homework-land for whatever reason.

Felix prefers creative mode, which takes all monster and combat situations out of the game, making it essentially virtual block-building.

"No, please, Fe. You just have to get used to it," Lance pleads, firm and desperate. "How are you ever going to get used to it if you don't play the real game?"

"Creative mode is the game!"

"Yeah, but not the real game," Lance chastises.

"Yes huh! The game is for building. That means we should build."

You almost chuckle—Felix's argument is sound.

"The monsters in this game aren't even that scary," Lance says. "You're being a baby."

"Lance, don't call your brother a baby—" you attempt gently, but are quickly cut off by Felix's screech.

"I'm not a baby! I'm eight!"

"Yeah, Lance, he's eight. He's in third grade—that's basically halfway to middle school," you joke, amused by their bickering. Lance is only a little over a year older than Felix, but thinks he's vastly more mature.

"See!" Felix exclaims, happy you backed him up.

"If you're not a baby then I'm picking the normal mode with the monsters and skeletons and everything," Lance replies smugly.

"LANCE STOP IT!" Felix screams, and then, in a rush, "If we don't play creative mode then I'm not playing!"

"Hey, hey," you cut in, firm enough to halt their argument, and then gentler, "Lance, it's not nice to pressure your brother into doing something he's uncomfortable with."

"But—but—"

You know exactly what Lance wants to articulate—that Felix always gets his way, that he cries and throws a fit if he doesn't, ruining the group activity for everyone by threatening to quit.

But because Lance is only nine years old, he flounders, overwhelmed by frustration, unable to form a protest.

"If you want to convince Felix to do something, you should ask him nicely. It will only make him more upset if you try to force him."

Lance sighs, pauses. Then, "Felix, will you please play the regular game?"

"No."

"Why not, Fe?" you prompt, already knowing the answer. He often throws his headphones off and runs off to hide his face in Lisa's lap when an in-game enemy shows up. But it's important that he articulate the issue himself.

"Because the skeletons and the exploding things and I'm bad at it!" Felix's voice still carries a note of hysteria.

Lance groans. "But Felix—they won't be scary if you just get used to them."

"You always say that!"

"I'll help you, okay?" Lance says, strained. "I'll teach you how to fight them and make you the strongest sword. And I'll stay with you the whole time so nothing can get you—you don't even have to fight if you don't want."

There's a desperation in the way Lance keeps listing things off, like he needs to present as many valid points as possible so that when he finally rests his case, Felix won't immediately refuse.

Felix is quiet. You picture him sitting on the floor with his sticky laptop, dark curly hair messy, tiny arms crossed over his tiny chest, lower lip jutted in a pout.

"Dad will help you too, right dad?" Lance adds, imploring you to back him up.

"Of course."

At that, Felix's entire combative mood shifts, and he bursts out in a fit of giggles. "Dad is worser than I am! I feel very sad for him—he screams when a zombie sneaks up on him."

That earns a chuckle from Lance, whose annoyance seems to relax. "Yeah—see, you're already the second best at dealing with monsters in the family."

"Nuh-uh. Mom's second best! She just shuts the computer off," Felix points out.

Lance laughs hard at that. "That doesn't count!"

"It absolutely counts," Lisa's voice filters in through the boy's mics from somewhere in the background, muffled and barely audible. Your heart speeds at the sound of it. "You're just mad that the power button is mightier than your diamond sword."

"Mom," Lance groans, exasperated, as if her statement is so ridiculous that it doesn't even warrant a proper rebuttal.

Lance fancies himself the computer expert in the family—conveniently ignoring that his father is a software engineer and his mother a 3D-modeling artist, both of whom met through online gaming. Though it is true that Lance and Felix are both better than their parents at navigating the newest generation of operating systems—kids catch on to technology changes better than adults do, since adults tend to be stubborn about upgrading.

"Hey, your mom was a pro gamer before you were even born," you jokingly scold.

"Pro at what?" Lance grumbles. "Taking away my laptop when I'm in the middle of a game?"

You almost choke on your laughter, but manage to reply, fighting seriousness, "Bed time doesn't wait for you to finish building your castle. There's a save feature for a reason."

Felix giggles uncontrollably again. "You just got burned, Lance."

Lance scoffs incredulously. "Burned? How do you even know that word, Felix?"

"Everyone in my class says it," Felix declares proudly.

"You're in third grade!" Lance protests, apparently shocked at the slang being used by kids a grade younger than him.

In the background, Lisa cackles, "What, a third grader can't know a burn when he sees one?"

"Ugh." Lance groans heavily and sucks in a deep breath, as if his family is testing his patience. "Can we just play the game already?"

"Yeah," you say, and then, not wanting the fight from earlier to spark back up again, add, "Fe, is it okay if we try the mode Lance wants to play for a while? When it gets too scary we can switch to creative."

“I'll help you make a sheep farm if you play the normal mode,” Lance says, targeting Felix's love for the in-game sheep.

Felix giggles. “The sheep are so cute I want to squeeze them.”

“I'll find you a whole herd if you play the normal mode,” Lance says.

"Okay," Felix agrees. "But if a skeleton shoots me I quit."

"Fair enough," you laugh.

"Yay," Lance says flatly, even though he's genuinely pleased. "Okay it loaded in, you can join now."

This game is apparently very popular with kids, though you're not sure it started out targeted at children. The graphics are blocky to the point of being archaic, textures intentionally pixelated to exemplify the stylistic choice. It mostly consists of building and mining, though there are some enemies that aren't scary visually but do sneak up behind the player and explode or attack them.

Personally, you prefer the mode Felix likes, that's just for building, because it disables the in-game monsters.

Of course you jump when something surprises you in the game, of course it startles you. Luckily your boys think it's funny, laughing at you and teasing you when you yelp at the sudden appearance of a zombie—which is refreshing, because it means they don't think it's odd or unsettling that a childish game like this has that effect on you.

And though your heart momentarily spikes at the slight scare, you're quickly smiling and calming down with your boy's teasing.

Once inside the game, Felix shows off a skin he made for the game—a custom texture that goes over the game model to change its appearance or outfit. This skin is clearly just a re-color of a texture someone else made, but you praise him profusely nonetheless.

Lance raves about the mods he wants to install for the game, explaining the different things that can be installed to add features to the game. You listen and respond with interest, but remind him to ask his mom before downloading anything.

It baffles you to the point of being a bit weepy, that your boys are getting so good with technology, discovering little hobbies and interests, like re-coloring game textures. You can't imagine having access to this kind of stuff at their age.

You do your best to make the boys laugh, at one point playing dumb about how to shear a sheep in the game, trying to shear a tree instead and pretending to wonder why it's not working.

"I don't understand—where's the wool? Don't sheep have wool in this game?"

This dissolves Felix into a riot of giggles, while Lance catches on to your joke and plays along, leading you to other objects in the game and telling you they're sheep, even though they're clearly not. This has Felix in tears, he laughs so hard.

"Your dad never could tell a sheep apart from a tree," Lisa pipes in from the background.

This has Lance laughing too.

And you're grinning, despite how much it rattles you to hear Lisa's voice. How much it hurts to know that she and your sons are in the same room, the boys sprawled on the floor with their laptops, or maybe on the couch with her, sitting in her lap or snuggled up to her side. While you're here, alone in your apartment. Distanced.

It's always like this. It always hurts in that bittersweet mixture of comfort and jealousy and longing.

You should be there. With them. All three of them.

You should be sitting on the couch with Lisa, watching the boys play games, casually commenting on their antics.

But you shouldn't be.

Can't be.

Lisa... doesn't want that anymore.

She doesn't feel that way about you anymore.

She's content with this arrangement. She's not sitting there, wishing you were beside her, wishing you were part of the family like that.

She's honestly doesn't want that.

It took you a long time to accept this—that she could have really changed her mind about what she wanted for your lives. That she could honestly be okay with you not being in her life in the same, fundamental way you were before.

It was so hard to believe that her feelings didn't match yours anymore.

Especially when you still wanted to spend your life with her.

She changed. People change.

It's okay.

And... you've mourned the loss of Lisa as your wife. Your best friend.

Because she doesn't want to be either of those things anymore.

But. It still hurts, sometimes.

There's a void.

Your marriage to Lisa was something that grew inside of you, became a part of you, something you thought would take permanent residence within you. Something that made the world comfortable and right. And now that it's been carved roughly out, there's an emptiness there.

An emptiness that comes with having found exactly what you want, and knowing it's truly lost to you—like an amputated limb, horrifying and irreparable and gone, something important that can never be fixed, and you can only stare in horror as it's sawed slowly off to smack the ground in a sickening thud.

When that table saw was whirring between your legs you were brimming with horror and disgust and terror at knowing just how permanent that amputation would be.

Watching your marriage with Lisa crumble was a similar feeling—overwhelming terror and dread, knowing an important piece of your life was about to be messily severed in the most irreversible way, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

And. You're not in denial anymore. Not even stuck in the stages of grief about your divorce with Lisa.

But you still mourn.

And that's okay.

If you get a bit misty-eyed, it's not like Lisa or the kids can witness it over voice chat.

* * *

You don't usually answer calls from unknown numbers. Never liked doing so—you've always hated talking on phones to strangers.

But you gave Eddie permission to call you from the facility's landlines to let you know if he got approval for you joining him on the public outing to the diner.

So when your phone rings, waking you up in the morning—well, afternoon, you only hesitate for a moment before answering.

"Hello?"

"Waylon. It's Eddie Gluskin."

Something about stating his full name over the phone amuses you. His voice sounds a bit different through the phone, but you would have known it was him. You're too used to his voice.

"Hi, Eddie." You push the covers back and sit up in bed, feeling greasy and sleep-frazzled. Your eyes are dry and your throat is scratchy, your brain full of fog. "What's up?"

"I wanted to let you know that you're able attend our trip to the diner, if you'd like. No pressure, of course. It's completely your choice."

"I'm coming," you say around a yawn. "I wanna go."

There's silence on the other end of the call for a long moment, and then, "Did I wake you?"

"What makes you ask that?" You smile as you stretch your arms above your head, involuntarily eliciting a cross between a yawn and a groan.

Gluskin is quiet again in response, and you can too-easily imagine his pointed, reprimanding stare. Eventually, he says, "For goodness sake, Waylon, it's three in the afternoon. I received the permission for you to join us early this morning, but I refrained from contacting you until I was certain you would be awake."

You chuckle at that, grinding a palm into your eye, which is watering in protest of being awake.

"You really must learn to cultivate a better sleep schedule, darling."

The endearment catches you off guard in your sluggish state, and you freeze at the wrongness of hearing the gentle nickname while you're dressed only in underwear, legs sprawled open on your bed. You shift, draw your knees and the covers up to your chest, as if for modesty's sake.

"May I ask why you find it difficult to wake at a reasonable time?" Eddie asks in response to your silence.

"Being awake doesn't feel good."

"And sleeping all day does?" Gluskin asks, clearly disapproving. "Sorry—perhaps that was insensitive."

You grunt, wanting to argue that sleeping does feel a lot better than being awake, than being left conscious and alone with your thoughts—but he has a point. Spending all your time downing sleeping pills and spending your days in bed while the days, the world, pass by around you... it doesn't feel good, either.

"Did I upset you? I'm awfully sorry—"

"No, no. It's okay. I'm just groggy, sorry. I was thinking about your question," you say, and then, "I think you're right. Sleeping so much makes me miserable, too. It's just... so hard to make myself want to wake up."

"What about getting out of bed proves difficult?" Gluskin's voice is so gentle that it makes your skin prickle. He asks the question not as a rhetorical, he actually wants to know.

It takes you a few beats to form a reply. "It's just... I'm instantly bombarded with thoughts. And grief. And regrets. My brain automatically decides to think about everything that's ever upset me. And then... I try to think about getting up. Getting dressed. The dishes in the sink that need washing. The laundry that needs done. The steps it takes to make breakfast, even if it's just a matter of putting something in the toaster... for some reason it seems difficult. Like too much work."

Eddie hums thoughtfully.

Before he can reply, you add, "I must sound like the laziest person alive."

"Heavens no," Eddie breathes, confusingly serious. "That's simply mental exhaustion. Wrestling with emotional labor exhausts a lot of energy—mental tasks cost energy too, they take a toll on a person. When this emotional labor spends most of your energy, simple daily tasks can become insurmountable."

That... makes a lot of sense. "I swear my therapist has told me the exact same thing before."

"You would do well to believe it. The first step in overcoming this is understanding your limits and forgiving yourself for what you are unable to do—because being ashamed only contributes to the energy cost. Please try to be proud of what you are able to accomplish, even if it's as simple as buttoning your shirt in the morning."

The advice is encouraging, reassuring. And Eddie's example makes your mind wander to imagining him standing close to you, towering over you, smiling as he buttons up your shirt for you with brisk ease.

"Thanks for telling me all of this, Eddie," you mutter, trying your best to shake the image of Gluskin finishing the buttons and smoothing your shirt with a hand firmly running down your chest. "I'll remember it."

A noise of approval from Eddie, and then, "Do try to go easier on yourself."

"I'll try."

There's a lull in conversation, in which you stare at the bedspread and try to come up with something more to say. You don't want him to excuse himself and hang up. It's odd to hear his voice while you're in your apartment. Odd to hear his voice first thing in the morning. Like you woke up together.

(Like for the first time in over two years, you aren't waking up alone.)

"Those of us at the Sanctuary are lucky enough to have the orderlies here to help whenever we are finding it difficult to get through daily routine," Eddie begins, curiously tentative. You have no idea why he sounds so cautious until his next words, "When I hear that you are having a difficult time, I can't help but long to ease your struggle."

The phrase ease your struggle sends a pang of alarm through you—it's a poor word choice on his part, one you doubt he notices. It brings memories of struggling against the ropes around your limbs as you wake to find yourself naked and restrained on the table, Gluskin gently coaxing you, attempting to calm you with reassurances as his palm strokes your bare thigh.

You take a deep breath, push away the unwanted thoughts and say, "What would you do to help?"

There's something inherently forbidden about asking that question, inviting his answer. You shouldn't want him to help you with something as intimate as daily routine—it isn't appropriate for him to even suggest that he might want to. He knows that, you could hear it in his hesitance.

Eddie is still hesitant when he says, "I would want to help get the day ready for you."

You swallow. There's something so sweet about the way he says that. Nurturing. Longing. (Wrong, wrong, wrong.) "What do you mean?" you ask anyway, barely above a whisper.

"The tasks you mentioned—the dishes, the laundry—I want to take care of them for you. Make sure the cleaning and chores are done, have breakfast ready on the the table. So that when you wake up, there is nothing for you to worry about besides choosing how to spend the rest of your day."

That...

That's.

Fuck.

You exhale, shaky and stunned.

It's so wrong, so wrong, to hear such a loving, kind sentiment directed at you.

(You don't deserve it.)

A kind, loving sentiment directed at you by Eddie Gluskin.

(Maybe that, you deserve. The divine punishment of the one person in the world who wants to take care of you being a monster from your nightmares.)

The tears fall before you realize you stopped breathing, and when you start again it's like a malfunctioning machine, a spluttering engine, and you quickly slap your hand over your mouth and nose to stifle the escalating hitch of your breath.

Getting the day ready for you.

God. That's...

Gluskin is quiet for what seems like an eternity—you do your best to muffle your quiet sobs, but you're sure he must know you're crying.

Fuck. This is pathetic.

How many times have you broken down in front of him now? Self-depreciating is one thing—angrily admitting that you're a mess is another. But actually being a mess in front of another person is a different beast entirely.

You're humiliated, ashamed, and not just because your emotions are erratic.

(What Gluskin said about getting the day ready for you—it sounds nice. It sounds so fucking nice.)

A frightening warmth spreads inside your chest, clenches painfully, urges you to not lose this feeling—this person offering you something so precious. His time. His attention. His kindness.

His support.

(And god knows you can't stand on your own, not right now. Not for a long time.)

When Eddie finally speaks, he doesn't ask you what's wrong. He doesn't need to—he knows. "I'm very sorry. That was uncalled for. It can't be pleasant to receive such an offer from me."

It's not pleasant—because, because you like it. You like his offer. You like that someone, anyone, wants to take care of you. You like that you think he means what he's saying.

And you shouldn't like it. You shouldn't like any of it. And that's an unpleasant feeling.

Liking something when you shouldn't.

(Liking him when you shouldn't.)

"I..." You should let him think that you're disturbed by his offer, even though that's a lie. You're disturbed that his offer makes your heart sing. The difference matters. But it's a difference that is too unsightly—it should be secreted away, forgotten, left to die. "I'm happy that you said that. It... sounds nice."

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Oh," Eddie breathes, involuntary and dizzy. Floundering. "Oh."

You almost hum in delight, knowing you caught him off guard, disturbed his equilibrium. It feels so good, knowing you have that power. You catch yourself grinning and fight unsuccessfully to stifle it. The tears are cooling wet and itchy on your face, so you busy yourself with wiping at them with the bedsheets.

For a while the only sound is the din of cars steadily rolling down a road near your apartment. The faint tinkle of wind chimes on your neighbor's porch. Eddie's quiet breathing emanating from the phone.

(If you close your eyes and focus on his breath, you can imagine his face pressed into the nape of your neck.)

(You do close your eyes, and you do imagine this, and it feels nice.)

(Peaceful.)

(And you're too out of it from your brief crying session to feel guilty for this.)

"I meant what I said, truly," Gluskin says eventually. "I would absolutely do these things for you, if I were able."

But of course he's not able, because he's living in a mental institution. Of course. "I believe you. I appreciate the offer."

Neither of you mention the fact that, even if Gluskin was a free man, the notion of him being in your apartment—doing your chores while you sleep—is ridiculous. How would you ever be comfortable with that? How would that even work, if he wasn't living with you? There's no other way it can work, than him being a big part of your life.

The kind of care he's offering is meant for family or lovers—not two people who have formed a precarious, forbidden friendship against all logic.

(You're both odd people. Gluskin's kindness is odd, your willingness to accept his kindness is odd. You both are scarred in ways that make you dwell in the world differently than most people. It's... comforting. And absurd. And you want to keep exploring it—why do you want to keep exploring it?)

"If you can think of any way I can help from a distance, please let me know," he sounds so sincere, imploring, almost desperate to help. It's not just a platitude, the polite offers of assistance your friends gave you after the riot, only to never contact you again.

"I will."

You can already think of several absurd things that he could do to help—like calling you every morning so you don't have to wake up alone anymore. Staying on the phone with you when you're forced to go grocery shopping and are terrified at the open space, the public setting, the strangers all around you. It would certainly be comforting to have someone there with you, even if it was only over the phone.

Of course you can't bring yourself to suggest any of these things.

It's ridiculous.

Inappropriate.

And you shouldn't be relying on Eddie Gluskin for daily emotional support.

You shouldn't be relying on anyone.

That kind of dependence is what drove Lisa away.

So it must be wrong.

To receive it, and to want it.

(How can it be wrong, when Gluskin is more than willing to give that kind of support—when it would undoubtedly make him happy to do so?)

(It hurts that you can't ask him to do these things for you—it hurts not to try, when the thought of him helping in this way warms your soul to contentment.)

"It's so weird hearing your voice when I'm in my apartment," you say, forcing yourself to change the subject. "It's like you're really here with me."

"It's been quite some time since I've seen the inside of a home outside of a television screen," Eddie muses, not seeming the least bit mournful.

"I'll give you a tour."

Eddie snorts. "Oh?"

"Yeah—hold on—fuck," you stumble on your way out of bed, barely managing to catch yourself. "Shit, sorry, leg got caught on the blanket."

Eddie laughs. "You make a wonderful tour guide."

"Shut up," you snap, smiling. "Anyway, the bedroom's kinda boring. Just a bed and a nightstand, dresser, closet, that sort of thing—oh, I guess the most interesting part is my son's old night light. It's shaped like a whale and there's fiber-optic water spraying from its back."

Eddie's voice is way too amused when he asks, "You sleep with a night-light?"

"Yeah, got a problem with that?" You refuse to be embarrassed by this and arm yourself with a rebuttal about nightmares after Mount Massive—something sure to make him feel bad—if he teases you.

But he doesn't tease you, instead saying, quite genuinely, "That's adorable."

You almost stumble again, trip over your own feet, blushing at the word adorable spoken so emphatically.

About you.

He thinks that about you.

And why shouldn't he?

"Damn right, I'm fucking adorable," you mutter fervently, trying your best to sound unrattled by his compliment.

Eddie laughs, loud and delighted, and you're so, so fucking proud of yourself for being able to elicit such a wonderful sound from him.

The rest of the tour goes well—you maintain a friendly banter while describing the rest of your apartment as you move through it, taking Gluskin with you through the phone. His interest in the tour—and you—never wanes (it never has), and by the time he has to excuse himself to leave for group therapy, you're left smiling and...

Aching.

Missing him.

And.

For once, you allow yourself this. Cling to it. Beat away any voice in your head that tells you that you should feel ashamed of yourself.

Chapter Text

After the other day, there's no excuse for Eddie to call you again. Time drags on as it usually does, the only highlight of your existence being the nightly gaming sessions with your boys.

The trip to the diner looms closer and you are honestly looking forward to it despite the anxiety and trepidation the thought of meeting new people brings.

You try to focus on the memory of the game of pictionary with Eddie's friends—Dennis and Pyro weren't bad people at all, and you enjoyed the time spent with them. This trip to the diner will be like that—safe and comfortable. It has to be. You'll make sure of it.

It takes you several days after your call with Gluskin to remember that you have software installed on your phone to record all incoming and outgoing calls—a precaution from when the footage first leaked and Murkoff employees would call from unlisted numbers with unsettling and cryptic threats.

You don't make or receive many phone calls these days—especially since you primarily call your kids over a voice chat program on the computer.

But your phone call with Eddie was automatically recorded by the software.

You wish you hadn't realized.

Pure curiosity leads you to listen to it once.

The countless times after, you have no excuse for.

There's a morbid desire to play voyeur on your own interaction with a man you should hate.

And it does feel like you're looking at something you shouldn't, because Eddie wasn't aware he was being recorded, still isn't aware his conversation with you exists in an audio file saved to your internal phone storage.

What's worse than feeling your pulse speed at the sound of Eddie's voice, is hearing your own voice—your own words, the odd eagerness in them, the receptiveness with which you respond to Eddie Gluskin.

It makes you shaky and confused to listen to your own crying session, the gracious and gentle way Gluskin tends to your display of vulnerability.

And if you listen to this recording when you're feeling lonely, when the musty stench of Mount Massive's halls fills your imagination, barring you from sleep—if the recording helps take your mind off of bad memories while you're lying in bed, trying to calm down enough to let rest overtake you—then...

Then...

It's not like anyone has to know.

It's not like anyone has to know that listening to this recording helps you fall asleep.

Cheers you up in the middle of the day.

It's not wrong if.

No one knows.

It's the day before your trip with Eddie to the diner, and you wake up with a knot of anxiety tangled like a rosebush through your insides.

The sheets are stained with heat from your body, and you roll yourself to the unused (empty, empty, empty) side of the bed where the covers are pleasantly cool.

You need to do laundry before you can dare step out into public. That means you have to do it today, because you can't spend tomorrow with Eddie in clothes that smell like stale body odor.

Your body feels exhausted and heavy, despite sleeping for over ten hours.

Your muscles ache, your sinuses hurt, your throat is painfully dry.

Getting out of bed feels like it'll drain your body of all the energy it managed to gather overnight.

Lying still is soothing. Closing your eyes is the only thing that gives you any sense of gratification.

You need to vacuum the carpet in the living room. You can't remember the last time you did.

(The thought of losing the vague comfort of your soft pillow and mattress by stepping out of bed is alarming—without this physical bliss, nothing will feel good anymore.)

If you're going to do laundry, you might as well change and wash your bed sheets, too. You don't do that enough.

(Your body protests at the thought of leaving the bed. You curl up tighter under the sheets, keep your eyes closed, let the comforting physical sensation of being allowed to go back to sleep wash over you.)

After you do chores—then what?

Wait until after dinner time when Lisa lets the boys call you on their laptops.

What until then?

Lately you've been play Sudoku, or mindless match-the-shape games on your phone. You read a lot—any genre that won't have a lick of horror or suspense.

You shift against the mattress, surprised when your fingers brush something under the blankets, you tug at it to pull it close enough to examine—but you don't have to see it to know what it is.

The orange hat Eddie knitted for you.

It's in your bed because you toss your clothes everywhere when you undress.

And the hat ended up in the bed.

Because you're messy. That's all.

(Not because the soft yarn under your fingers is a huge comfort. Not because the sight of it reminds you that someone thought about you in their free time, remembered you long enough to make you a gift. With their own free will. Not out of obligation.)

(Not like Lisa, who honestly doesn't think about you throughout the day, not anymore.)

(Not like Lisa, who is content moving on, putting your memory behind her.)

(Not like Lisa.)

You hug the hat to your chest. It's soft. You can feel your own heartbeat through it, steady and still-beating, somehow, despite the chronic pressure it's been under the past few years.

Thick scars slink across your skin at random; there's a particularly bad one on your ankle, from where you fell down the elevator shaft. That scar looks less like a scar and more like a chunk of flesh whittled and scooped from your leg. Healed over, concave and jarring. It's a healed wound that leaves an aftermath, makes you clumsy—too much pressure on that ankle makes that leg give out. You've learned to favor your other leg, resulting in a slight limp.

(A few times you think you've seen Eddie notice the limp, eye you sympathetically. Like you need his pity. Like you want his pity.)

(You don't.)

Despite your wispy, hard-to-grow facial hair, you've always had body hair in excess. Every time you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror all you can hear is Eddie's voice—no, The Groom's voice:

'All these unsightly hairs.'

(Would Eddie really have a problem with the hair that dusts across your stomach, your chest? Or was that just the psychosis talking?)

Every time his voice rings in your head, calling your body hair unsightly, you try to remember Lisa running her fingers through your chest hair, tugging on it playfully.

She liked it.

(Somehow, happy memories with Lisa hurt just as much as recalling Eddie's cruel words to you during the riot.)

You feel sick at the thought of The Groom.

Of Eddie.

Hurriedly, you paw the mattress until you find your phone—quickly thumbing through the interface until you pull up the recording of your phone call with Eddie the other day.

It's instant relief—to hear Eddie's voice, calm and cordial, friendly, harmless—to remind yourself that the monster you remember from Mount Massive doesn't exist anymore.

Perhaps Eddie Gluskin is still a monster, just a different breed of monster. Many would think so.

But this Eddie—the one locked away in a mental hospital, talking to you kindly and respectfully on the recording—isn't the one that haunts you, that makes you uncomfortable.

And so it helps to know that the monster that haunts your dreams doesn't exist anymore, is instead something you wouldn't mind approaching in the daylight.

Listening to the recording locks reality firmly back in place.

You're no longer having doubts or fears about Eddie.

(But you still keep listening to the call.)

If you close your eyes, it almost feels like the conversation is happening in real time.

Like Eddie Gluskin is waking you with a phone call again. Like this is your normal routine.

And somewhere around the middle of the recording, the sound of his voice, or his kindness, or something else, leaves you with a hardness between your legs that you can't explain.

Don't want to explain.

Don't want to think about.

So you should ignore it.

And like a lot of things in your life right now, shoulds and shouldn'ts don't warrant your compliance.

It's just a coincidence that the sound of Eddie's voice pressed close to your ear through the phone sends pangs of heat to your groin, an uncomfortable coiling of arousal that makes you squirm.

You're not. Trying to get off to his voice.

The hard flesh between your legs is irrelevant.

Arousal is a normal bodily urge, one that needs tending sometimes, like any other discomfort.

And your erection is uncomfortably hard right now. An insistent ache.

('Come here, darling, allow me to take care of that for you,' you imagine Eddie saying, able to hear his exact tone of voice with the help of the recording still held against your ear. 'Shh, shh, no, no—I know, this has nothing to do with me—you needn't feel ashamed. It's not wrong to ask for a little help—I'm delighted to offer you this.')

A throaty groan forces its way out of you as you spread your legs and slip your hand into your briefs, body already damp with perspiration. Fingers slide over heated flesh to grasp your erection, which throbs with interest. You buck into your hand involuntarily with the desperation of how much you need this, need to be touched. You squeeze your eyes shut and your brain instantly supplies that empty recreation room in MMSS, Eddie relocating to sit beside you on the couch.

('That's it, don't fret, darling, it's natural to accept help from others.')

In the movie playing in your head, you tentatively shove your pants open, heart racing, doubtfully glancing up at Eddie as you present your erection for display, for scrutiny.

Eddie smiles at you, kind and unruffled, as if this is merely a one-sided transaction—a kindness offered by a caring friend, as he touches you, strokes you, encourages you as you squirm under his ministrations, unable to delegate your frantic attention from his hand on you, his pleasant, polite expression, his body seated calmly beside you.

('There we go—see, doesn't this feel better? Doesn't it feel nice to accept some help?')

Your moan is practically a purr as you press your face into the pillow, fist loosely squeezing your leaking erection as you work it up and down the length in quick jerks.

('My, look how wet you are—soaking your soft flesh like this. Poor thing. You've been neglecting yourself.')

You buck into his hand—your hand, spasm erratically when you tip over the edge, come too fast all over your hand.

When your breath calms and you float back down to reality, the recording is still playing against your ear. Eddie's voice, Eddie's voice, Eddie's voice.

The shame seeps in like dark ink on pale fabric, replacing the high your orgasm brought.

Eddie didn't consent to this—to being the subject of your masturbation fantasies.

He certainly didn't consent to you recording the phone call with him, let alone coming into your hand while listening to his voice.

Fuck.

You... you're going to see him first thing tomorrow morning. For the outing to the diner.

How are you going to be able to look him in the eye?

* * *

The trip to the diner is absurdly early, perhaps to minimize crowds. Meeting everyone in the MMSS parking lot at the scheduled time of seven thirty in the morning means waking up much earlier than that.

You're lucky the alarm manages to rouse you.

The early autumn morning is chilly, there's frost dusting the grass and the air is cold enough to produce visible breath. The sky is a dull blue, as if the cold has sapped its color, washing the world in a quiet, pale light.

It's mornings like this that make you thankful for the hat Eddie knitted you.

When you pull into the MMSS parking lot after a brief stop through the guarded gate, it's easy to spot the group of people meandering near a small shuttle bus in the desolate parking lot.

You park nearby, steeling yourself, taking a deep breath and assessing the situation briefly before exiting the car.

Everyone is standing around looking like they're freezing their fingers off, bundled up in heavy jackets and scarves, hands shoved in gloves or pockets. Eddie, Sarah, and Dennis wave at your approach. You're surprised to find that, aside from the tall blond named Val that you've heard of but never met, you know everyone else present. It looks like the other orderly chaperoning is Toby, the man you met in the lobby the other day.

Eddie's wearing a black peacoat, leather gloves. The dark purple scarf around his neck looks more like a fashion statement than an attempt to ward off the cold. He is positively delighted to see you.

(Would he still look delighted, if he knew you jerked yourself off the sound of his voice yesterday morning?)

(Fuck.)

(It feels like everyone here knows what you did, can read your thoughts. But of course that's not possible.)

"Good morning," Eddie says, a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "I'm pleased to see you awake before noon."

Despite the slight teasing, you return his smile readily, only faltering when the blond patient—Val—leans an elbow on Eddie's shoulder, looking down at you with an assessing gaze.

Val is... tall—taller than Eddie, even, and lankier too. Their hair is an angelic pale yellow, and their facial structure is all sharp edges—high cheek bones, pointed nose, narrow face. They're a strange mix between conventionally attractive and a bit odd looking. The kind of person that gets hired as a model because of their unique bone structure.

Even though Val's eyes are narrowed, they eventually smile at you—not friendly or pleasant, but amused, intrigued. It's a bit unnerving—especially when their eyes flick up and down your body briefly.

(Despite all of Eddie's promises of marriage and sex and seed in Mount Massive, even he didn't seem to exude as much sexual energy as Val is right now.)

"Waylon!" Sarah exclaims throwing her arms out both in greeting and offered hug—you lean and accept the hug, careful of her pregnant belly. "I'm glad you could make it! I was so excited when Eddie invited you."

You pull away, smiling, trying to ignore the prickle in the back of your neck from the others watching you—Val especially hasn't taken their eyes off of you.

The truth is, you may not have accepted Eddie's invitation if you weren't guaranteed to know most of the people attending. Sarah's presence in particular was a key deciding factor for you coming along. You want to tell her this in some way, but it's too much to express and the moment passes.

"Can we just get on the bus already? I'm freezing my ass off," Pyro complains, arms crossed, posture slouched—as if making himself smaller will ward off the cold. Dennis is saddled up right next to him, arms around him in an obvious attempt to warm the smaller man up.

Sarah shoots Pyro a smile. "Hold on one minute—let's do some introductions first. Waylon, you know Eddie and I hear you've met Dennis and Py, too." She gestures at each person she names. "This is Val, and the other orderly coming with us today is Toby."

Toby the orderly waves at you with hands wrapped in mittens, beaming and bouncing slightly in place in attempt to warm up. "I've met Mr. Park, actually. We talked for a bit in the reception area."

"Yeah—hi again," you try to muster a smile and ignore Val's stare. "And you can just call me Waylon."

Toby tips his head in acknowledgment.

"I cannot believe I'm finally in the presence of the notorious Waylon Park," Val says, voice a cloying drawl. They reach down to offer you a handshake, one elbow still draped across Eddie's shoulder.

(You can't help but feel Val's current position in close proximity to Eddie is somehow a taunt, a possessive mark of ownership—but that's ridiculous. Eddie and Val are friends. This is normal behavior—you're just being.... paranoid.)

"Eddie showed me some of the pictures he took of you—it's nice to finally meet you." You only manage to respond so well because you've been practicing this line for the last week. You shake Val's hand easily, and there's no excessive grip, or tugging—it's just a normal handshake, brief and quick. That probably means you really are just being paranoid to think they're being possessive.

A slow smile—more of a smirk than anything—stretches across Val's lips, their teeth darting out to chew on their bottom lip, as if trying to fight back the expression. "You are a cute little thing, aren't you? So polite. I admit I didn't understand what all the fuss was about—but, I can see why Eddie likes you."

The forwardness stuns you, colors your already wind-bitten cheeks a brighter red. You have no idea what to say to that.

Fortunately, Eddie saves you. "Val, come now, no need to embarrass the poor man. We discussed this, I told you to dial it back out of courtesy. Waylon is very shy."

Shy?

Very shy?

It's so surreal, hearing Eddie slap that label on you.

He's... probably not wrong. But it's not usually a welcome descriptor for a man your age.

(Somehow, you don't really mind.)

"What, I'm not allowed to give him a compliment?" Val teases, unperturbed by Eddie's reprimand. "It was just a compliment, Ed. Lighten up. Waylon Park doesn't mind, do you, Waylon Park?"

You manage to shake your head. "No—I mean, no I don't mind. It's fine, Eddie. Don't worry about it."

Eddie's sigh turns to a scowl when Val grins and pinches his cheek.

"See, I told you that you had nothing to worry about. Waylon's a good sport."

"Don't mind Val," Pyro pipes up. "They're like this with everyone."

"Like this?" Val asks innocently. "Like what?"

Pyro's only response is a flat stare.

Val laughs, pretty and melodic—and for some reason it feels like a weight lifts off of your shoulders.

It doesn't matter that these people know Eddie better than you do, or that you don't fully understand his relationship with any of them. It doesn't matter, because they accept you.

(And it feels good to be accepted.)

Sarah's been absorbed in a conversation with Toby, but eventually she turns to you, gesturing at the bus behind her. "So, quick rundown. We're all taking the bus, there's room for you if you want to come along that way, or you can follow in your car, it's up to you. The diner is about twenty minutes away, and we'll be coming straight back afterwards."

You had just assumed you would ride with them—but now that you think about it, would that entail sitting next to Eddie? Close to Eddie? Surely there are enough seats that you could have your own, too—so how bad will it look if you sit next to him instead of across the aisle?

And there's always the prospect that if you do sit next to him, you'll panic at the proximity and need to move away—which would only serve to needlessly hurt Eddie's feelings in front of everyone.

Maybe you should just drive yourself, so you don't have to make a choice like that...

"I'll ride with everyone," you say.

Shit.

"Awesome," Sarah's response is quick enough to be reassuring—it makes it clear she's really fine with you riding in the same bus as her patients. "There will be some Sanctuary security tagging along, just in case, for the safety of the patients. But they'll be waiting on the bus and making themselves scarce so don't worry about them. They're there if you need them."

For the safety of the patients.

Is that phrasing supposed to mislead you into believing the guards are there to protect the patients from the outside world and not the other way around? For a moment you think Sarah is being misleading, but...

In Colorado the events around Mount Massive and Murkoff's other experiment sites are notorious—it is very possible that the average pedestrians might not want to see the monsters from the news out and about in their town.

"The guards are actually here in case Pyro tries to bite an innocent pedestrian again," Val adds helpfully.

You don't know what's more absurd, the word again in that sentence, or that all those present, including Sarah and Toby, laugh.

Amusement dwindling to a heavy sigh, Toby says, tone serious enough to be a friendly warning, "Hey now, let's leave the jokes about biting people inside Sanctuary grounds, okay?"

Val only tosses their head back and laughs.

With that, Sarah rolls her eyes and waves everyone onto the bus.

Pyro is the first to follow, detaching himself from Dennis to practically skip towards the bus, eager to get out of the cold.

Dennis and Toby trail after, and you're thankful that Val follows next, but not before ruffling Eddie's hair and pushing off his shoulder.

Eddie grimaces at his ruffled hair, trying in vain to smooth it back down to its previous perfection. He smiles over his shoulder when you step close behind him.

"Apologies regarding Val. They are a very..." he searches for a word. "Rambunctious person."

"It's okay. I like them. I think." So far, anyway.

"I'm happy to hear that," he says, before gesturing towards the bus. "Shall we?"

"Yeah."

Your heart shouldn't be beating this fast, climbing into the bus after Eddie and following him down the small aisle. Everyone else is seated. It's a small bus, like a shuttle at an airport, two rows of seats with an aisle down the middle, each seat fitting two people.

There are two Sanctuary security officers in the very back. Toby and Sarah sit together up front, Dennis and Pyro directly behind them, Val alone across the aisle.

Eddie slides into the empty seat behind Val, and you hesitate, gripping the back of a seat to steady yourself in the suffocatingly small aisle.

"Uh—is it okay if I sit with you?" you ask Eddie quietly, feeling like a spectacle in the small bus. Of course everyone aboard can hear you, if they're listening.

You swear you can hear Dennis and Pyro snickering.

Eddie seems a bit stunned, like he hadn't expected you to ask this, or like he hadn't considered it an option. He's glancing around, like someone might reprimand him at any moment.

Did you do something wrong by asking him this? Will it get him in trouble with the orderlies?

A quick glance behind you shows Sarah chatting away with Toby again, completely unconcerned with whatever you're doing.

"You can sit with me, honey," Val says, a joke clearly meant to be a jab at Eddie.

Eddie tosses a glare at Val before looking cautiously to you. "Of course you may, Waylon."

Thank god. You don't know what you would have done if he had rejected you in front of everyone. Even as you plop gratefully down in the seat with him, you can't help but feel like you might have done something wrong by asking him.

Of course it's probably uncomfortable for Eddie to have the staff and his peers know just how friendly he's becoming with you. Because everyone here knows his past, your past. They know what an odd couple The Groom and The Whistleblower make.

And of course Eddie has to be careful to make sure none of the staff thinks he's manipulating you or abusing your trust in some way. He has to make sure nothing about your visits or interactions with him seem illicit or taken advantage of.

(And... something is being taken advantage of, right now. But it's not Eddie's doing—it's you, it's all you.)

He could hurt you right now if he wanted. Grab you. Stab you or snap your neck before you have a chance to scramble away.

But he's had that opportunity every time you've been alone with him. And you ignore the tiny alarm bells going off somewhere in the back of your mind, like you would ignore the same instinct that screams don't don't don't when you're about to board a roller-coaster.

(But does Eddie Gluskin really come with as little risk as a safety-tested ride at an amusement park?)

(You... think so. Sort of.)

(Yeah. That's how he feels right now. Something that seems dangerous but isn't. How many times have you proven to yourself that he isn't dangerous? Every visit, every successful interaction has proven to you that he's not as dangerous as he looks.)

"I can't believe I don't get to sit with Eddie," Val pouts over the back of their seat, mimicking wiping away tears.

Eddie snorts.

"Just kidding,” Val says. “You kids have fun."

Something about your apologetic expression makes Val smile, and they lean over the seat to flick the fluffy ball on top of your hat, before sinking back down in their seat and turning their attention to Dennis and Pyro.

You peel off your coat as you wait for the bus to move, anticipating perspiration, skin already heating uncomfortably at Eddie's proximity—the seat is small enough that shoulders and thighs nearly touch.

Eddie clears his throat, peers out the window pointedly to avoid having to tip his head to look at you—if he did his face would be close to yours, as if leaning in for a kiss.

God, he's so close you can smell him—he smells like lavender and bar soap.

There's a suffocating tension in the air, in the hesitation, the silence as Eddie does his best to pretend like sitting thigh-to-thigh with you doesn't mean anything to him.

(And he does have to pretend, doesn't he?)

(He's hyper aware of your closeness too, right?)

(You want to know. Want to force him to reveal something about how this affects him—want him to drop the facade he's maintaining so expertly right now.)

If you wore glasses they would be fogging up with nervous perspiration, you're sure your face is flushed on principal.

"I hope the morning hasn't been too excruciating for you so far, having to wake up so early." There's a stiffness in Eddie's voice, like this is a forced attempt at small-talk. He won't look at you as he speaks.

"Honestly, it's been a lot easier to get out of bed after what you said to me the other day, uh, on the phone."

"Hm?"

"The, uh," you don't really want to say it out loud, not in the company of others. But Eddie is being distant, and you hope the honesty will snap him out of it. "The thing about. Getting the day ready for me. Making sure all the chores are done so I don't have to worry about anything."

"Ah—well, I'm pleased that the sentiment is something you take solace in."

"God," Pyro groans, twisting in his seat to look back at you and Eddie across the aisle. "This is the most sickeningly sweet conversation I have ever overheard. Disgusting."

"Pyro!" Sarah scolds from the front of the bus—you're almost positive she couldn't hear your conversation with Eddie, but Pyro complained loud enough for the whole bus to hear.

"What?" Pyro protests. "I'm allowed to say that—I'm the sappiest one here besides Eddie."

You're vaguely mortified, and you expect Eddie to be livid, but instead he's rolling his eyes and smiling.

Val leans across the aisle to pinch Pyro's cheek. "I will literally fight you for your title."

"Not if I fight him for it first," Sarah jokes.

Toby's laughing so hard he has to take off his glasses to swipe at his watering eyes.

Somehow, the initial panic you felt at the attention drains away and leaves something pleasant.

Eddie is still being uncharacteristically quiet. You half expected to have to fight for his attention today, with all the other people here.

But no. He seems... preoccupied.

"Hey," you lean towards Eddie, nudge him with your shoulder—an unmistakably friendly gesture. And innocent. Totally innocent. "Why so quiet?"

"Oh, just thinking," he replies, tone carefully even, barely sparing you a glance.

The bus finally lurches into motion, vibrating the entire vehicle slightly with the thrum of the engine. Quiet chatter fills the bus as those present talk amongst themselves, but you can't even focus enough to eavesdrop, your ears are ringing, your heart pounding—why is your heart pounding?

"Thinking about what?"

Eddie's gaze is still firmly glued outside the window, full of indifference. "The weather."

Is he upset with you? It almost seems like he's upset with you. "The weather?"

Is he really going to talk to you about the weather right now?

"Yes. It's awfully dreadful out today."

You don't really think so. Yes, it's too cold, but it's the kind of morning that feels like something out of a story book—slightly foggy, dew frosted across the grass. It creates a quiet, calm atmosphere that you don't mind at all.

"I kinda like it," you reply. "But I'm looking forward to some snow. Seems like a waste, when it's this cold and it doesn't snow."

At that, Gluskin tosses you a wary look, one eyebrow raised. "You're fond of snow?"

"Yeah. Winter's my favorite season." Wow. He's really talking to you about the weather.

(The weather!)

"I must admit, I was never one for the outdoors."

"Why not?"

"It tends to ruin perfectly good clothing," he grunts, as if it's obvious.

You laugh because of course that's what he's concerned about—your amusement earns you a small smile from Eddie. "Not if you wear the proper attire, right? Like, snow-boots."

"Snow-boots," Eddie says the word like it tastes bad. "On me? Can you imagine?"

"Actually—no," you laugh again. "It's kinda funny though, picturing you bundled up in a big fluffy snow suit and heavy boots." You have to shake away the image. "If you don't like winter, what season do you prefer?"

It takes him too much thought to form an answer. "Early autumn, I suppose. Not too hot, but without the endless rain in the spring."

"I can see that. And, it's a good season for fashion too, right?" you eye him purposefully, adorned in his dark peacoat and leather gloves. "You're very well-dressed for fall, anyway."

Eddie double-takes at the compliment, clearly realizing it was a mistake to look at you when he catches you raking your eyes up and down his torso. He quickly shoves his gaze back out the window, a faint blush coloring his high cheek bones, blending his skin with the pink scars winding up one side of his face.

"Yes—I, ah. Yes. Autumn attire is a popular subset of fashion."

He ignored your compliment completely.

You can't help the grin that splits your face.

Ha.

So he is affected by the proximity, too.

You're not the only one with butterflies crawling inside your stomach.

You're not the only one who's having trouble wanting the right things.

The proper things.

You want whatever this thing is, between you and Eddie Gluskin.

He must be trying hard to hide how much your presence is affecting him.

Is it the staff's scrutiny or his friend's that he's trying to avoid? Both, maybe.

(Is he afraid you might look too closely at his reactions?)

(Is he afraid if his feelings are too strong or forbidden, he'll scare you off?)

(He doesn't understand that the only thing that disturbs you is the prospect that you're feeling these illicit things alone—that you're committing a crime without an accomplice.)

"What about thunderstorms, do you like those?" you ask, a veiled attempt to ignore his flushed face and allow him some dignity. "That's weather you can appreciate from the comfort of indoors."

Just as Gluskin shrugs, the bus hits a bump in the road while it rounds a corner—jostling you against him hard, practically throwing you into his lap.

Your hands shoot out to steady yourself, to stop you from completely splaying into his lap, one hand gripping his sleeve while the other lands on his knee.

After your forward momentum halts with jerk, you freeze in place, shocked by the sight of your hand on his knee—

Oh.

Oh god.

You really didn't mean to.

Breath caught in your lungs, you flash your eyes up to Gluskin, terrified and guilty, afraid that you might have upset him—and you still haven't moved your damn hand, still haven't pulled away.

Gluskin is staring at you, just staring. Incredulous. Shaken. Half-terrified. Still, he manages to collect himself before you do. "Are you alright?"

He keeps looking between you and the front of the bus, where Sarah and Toby sit. As if he's afraid they'll witness this and get the wrong impression.

"Yeah, I'm alright," you exhale the breath you were holding, watch as Gluskin's eyes flick down to your fingers gripping his sleeve, and then lock on your palm on his knee. "Sorry—I'm sorry."

"No worries," he says, hurried, much too breathless. And then, "I believe it's okay to remove your hand now."

His words are like a stinging slap across your face that leaves you with a rush of guilt and shame.

Because.

He's eager to get you out of his lap. And. You're having a hard time wanting to take your hand off of his knee.

"Y-yeah," you repeat in your stupor, mechanically releasing your grip on his sleeve, withdrawing your hand from his knee as if burned. For good measure, you scoot as far away form him as the seat will allow, lungs swollen and constricted.

Ashamed of yourself.

Is he upset with you?

Did you do something wrong—you really didn't mean to grab him for support, it just happened, and then you froze, and then...

Your touch bothered him in some way—in what way?

Should you ask him?

Should you drop it?

Should you apologize again?

Fuck.

In your haste to catch your breath, to look anywhere but Gluskin, you catch Pyro staring at you from across the aisle—expression unreadable under all the scarring. When he sees you looking, he quickly turns away.

Shit shit shit.

Fuck.

What does that mean?

Beside you, Eddie is silent, and you notice he's also added as much distance as possible, pressing himself to the wall of the bus, close enough to the window that it fogs up with his breath, his forehead resting against the glass as if he needs it to keep him upright.

He's clearly having a hard time. With something. With what? You don't know what. You have no idea what's going through is head right now.

(Is he mad at you?)

(Is he... he's not having a relapse to his time in Mount Massive, is he?)

(No. It can't be—why would this trigger it?)

(No. No way.)

You need to ask him. The not knowing is suffocating you.

"Eddie—" you whisper, feeling like you're breaking a rule by addressing whatever feelings Eddie's experiencing right now. "I'm really sorry—are you okay?"

It takes a moment for Eddie to respond and when he does it's only a stiff nod that wholly fails to reassure.

Fuck.

Eddie's usually so attentive, so focused on you, brimming with conversation. Now it's like he would rather avoid talking to you altogether.

For some reason you feel like crying, reduced to helplessness and terror by a simple interaction.

(How many nights did Lisa spend like this—tight-lipped and upset and unwilling to tell you what was wrong? All hard stares and avoidance. Too many nights.)

Pained, you ask, voice small and strained, "Did I do something wrong?"

That seems to jerk Eddie out of a trance, he straightens and turns to you, looks at you—and for the first time since you sat next to him, doesn't stop looking. "Heavens, no—Waylon, no, of course you didn't do anything wrong."

The simple reassurance pours through you like cool water over sun-soaked skin. The air stuck in your lungs evacuates in an audible shudder, your knee bouncing rapidly to relieve the whatever excess nerves Gluskin's words didn't cure.

Eddie shifts even more in your direction, eyes searching, full of concern. "What's upsetting you right now?"

(Why is he always concerned for you? Since the day you met him—well, reconnected with him—he's been so attentive, like he'd lay his life on the line for the sake of your comfort.)

You should just lie. Talking things out never went well, not with Lisa. It only served to make her more upset. More withdrawn.

"You seem different. Quiet. But not in a comfortable way. Like, tense," you answer, leg bouncing harder with the effort the honesty takes. It feels like a risk, to bring up a problem. Quieter, you add, "Should I have not asked to share the seat with you?"

(Honesty risks long pauses, rolled eyes, heavy sighs, silent treatments, biting retorts.)

(And in the end, abandonment.)

(The end of a relationship.)

Eddie opens his mouth to answer, thinks better of it, and then tries again after a moment of thought. "I suppose I'm nervous. This is my first time out in the real world in quite some time. First time without handcuffs since I was fourteen."

Your heart sinks like it's been dropped in mud. That's right, the only other times he's left a mental institution thus far have been for court appearances or asylum transfers. All of which he'd been handcuffed for. How many times has he ridden in a vehicle in his life? Did he ever even learn to drive? Watching the world rush by outside the bus window must be such a bittersweet feeling to him.

It's weird to think about, that a man more than a decade older than you has very nearly spent less time in the outside world than your nine year old son.

"It makes me feel... conflicted, that you asked to sit with me," Eddie continues, voice low to keep the others on the bus from hearing. "On one hand, I am astounded that you feel comfortable sharing space with me. On the other, I cannot say I deserve your trust."

You frown. "Why not?"

Eddie assesses you for a long moment, inhales a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "I enjoy our time together, Waylon. I fear that if you knew how much I enjoyed it, you would not wish to see me again."

Somehow, you manage to blink, to keep breathing—when you swallow the lump in your throat, it feels like you're swallowing your raging heartbeat, thick and convulsing.

So.

So he.

Eddie, he's...

Admitting it.

That he likes you too much.

Does he know you have the same problem?

The same fucking problem.

(You shouldn't be so overjoyed to have your crimes mirrored.)

"You haven't done anything to make me uncomfortable," you say, soft and emphatic.

He shouldn't worry.

He shouldn't worry about this.

He's the only thing that makes you get out of bed most days—even when it's not a day you're visiting him, his insistence about proper sleep and eating has stuck with you, you think about it when you're having trouble and it... it helps. Knowing someone wants you to get out of bed, to eat a good meal, to have a good day.

To know someone is worried about you.

Even if you can't manage to want a healthy lifestyle for yourself.

Even if you can't manage to worry about yourself.

He does. And.

It has helped you more than anything else.

You should tell him this.

All of it.

(You can't tell him any of it.)

"Ah. That's reassuring to know." The words are too tentative, too guarded. You can tell he doesn't believe you fully, still feels like his existence harms you.

(That couldn't be further from the truth.)

"Why are you always so concerned for me?" you ask on impulse. "You have been since I first starting coming here, before we really got to know each other."

(Do you even know him now, really? Does he know you?)

His answering smile is wry, precarious. "I feel responsible. For your current pain."

You pull the hat Eddie made you off of your head to rake your fingers through your hair. "You shouldn't. Feel responsible, I mean. I don't blame you. Not anymore, not really."

"Waylon," Eddie sighs, as if he knows better. "I perpetrated many atrocities against you. You would do well to place blame with me."

"But, Murkoff, the Morphogenic Engine—"

There is so much you want to say, so much you still need to apologize for. Does Eddie even remember banging on the glass, looking at you in the eye, asking you to stop the torture? You've been too afraid to talk to him about that. Too afraid to know whether or not he blames you. Because he should blame you.

"Yes, yes. I understand your protest. However, not all of those affected by the Engine became violent towards others."

"Yeah, that's because they were violent towards themselves instead, or rendered completely unnaturally docile—no matter how it affected the patients, it wasn't right. No one was themselves. Even I—"

Even you weren't yourself entirely after a few hours of Murkoff's therapy.

You can't bring yourself to finish that particular sentence.

"Even so," Eddie's tone is gravity laced with regret. "There is a reason the Engine affected me the way it did. Something innate about me, that allowed it to induce that particular brand of insanity."

There's something that strikes you as unfair about that—though you only frown, unable to conjure a protest. What he's saying is fact, but... you really, really, don't think it's fair, when he showed no sign of re-offending before Murkoff got their hands on him.

And you can't exactly go spouting off about his good behavior at his previous mental hospitals before Mount Massive—it's beyond inappropriate that you even know any of that. Now that you're... friends, with him, it feels like a violation of his privacy that you even watched that documentary.

"I'm sorry, Eddie," you grumble, defeated, allowing him this victory. "It's just all so fucked up."

"Indeed," Eddie agrees, smiling slightly.

You smile back, small and tentative.

Behind Eddie, outside the window, you spot what must be the diner the bus is headed for—it slows down to turn into the parking lot.

You can't help but feel a loss, knowing you'll have to get up from your comforting little bubble with Eddie.

Speaking of which—why haven't the others been bothering Eddie during the ride here? Given what you know of their personalities, his friends are the type to bug or tease him, but they've oddly made themselves scarce for the entire duration of the bus ride.

Weird. Your anxiety spikes a bit, wondering what that's about.

"Looks like we've arrived," Eddie observes around an exhale, too much trepidation in that simple statement. He's staring out the window like he expects something dangerous to be lurking outside the bus.

It strikes you that he's probably extremely nervous about getting off the bus, about being seen in public at all.

After all, he is an infamous criminal on top of being the biggest star of your leaked Mount Massive footage. And it's not like he can blend into the crowd with his scarred face and severe haircut.

There's a good chance people in the diner might recognize him.

And you can guess what their reaction might be.

He'd be lucky to receive quiet shock and forced politeness.

"Hey," you whisper, poking Eddie on the arm to snap his attention back to you. "It's going to be okay. If anyone messes with you I will personally kick their ass."

The assurance is metaphorical of course, spoken in good humor. It's an absurd thing to even promise Gluskin, who must be nearly twice your size.

Eddie's lips twinge in a smile he's trying hard to fight off. "Waylon Park, you will do absolutely no such thing."

A pang of arousal shoots through you at the firm command—a reaction that is both baffling and entirely unsurprising. Somehow you're growing used to your body's uncouth reactions to Eddie Gluskin.

So this time instead of finding your own reaction overwhelmingly shameful, you just feel comedic exasperation.

(Really, Waylon? This again?)

The bus parks and opens its doors, saving you from having to scrounge for a reply that doesn't reveal how much you enjoyed Gluskin speaking to you with authority.

Shaky and oddly heady, you follow the rest of the group off of the bus.

* * *

The chilly air nips at your face as you step into the parking lot and steel yourself for entering the diner. Everything will be fine. It's just a diner, and this early in the morning it's likely almost empty. And Eddie's with you. His friends. Sarah and Toby. Every single one of them will understand if you get unsettled and have to leave; if you grow nervous, visibly jumpy—they'll understand why.

They won't think it's embarrassing.

They won't think you're embarrassing.

Right?

You can't blame Lisa for finding your flighty demeanor humiliating—she was used to the old you. She never signed up to be constantly tending to your overwrought anxieties.

But...

Eddie never signed up for that, either. And you've grown agitated and bailed on him plenty of times in your early visits. Snapped at him. Practically hid behind him when he took you through the MMSS cafeteria.

All things Lisa would have found unacceptable at best, humiliating at worst.

Eddie has yet to act even mildly inconvenienced.

And after you've blown up on him, cut a visit short multiple times by fleeing in a panic—shouldn't he be afraid to invite you out into public with him? Afraid you might embarrass him in front of everyone with an outburst?

But here you are. With him.

He... wants you here.

That's almost too much to comprehend.

Your pulse is in your throat as you walk through the door of the diner when Eddie holds it open for you. Time passes faster with every wet thump of your heart—you barely notice Eddie, or anyone else in the group as your senses scramble to assess your surroundings.

The diner is small and boxy, booths lining the walls surrounding a bar-style counter in the middle that wraps around the open kitchen area. The layout is typical of all diners you've been to in your life, and the familiarity is a slight reassurance.

Being with a group means no focus on you from the waiter, who hands Sarah a stack of menus and tells her to sit anywhere that's open.

There's a brief discussion about where to sit, and when Sarah looks to you for an opinion you shrug, finding yourself unable to speak, made quiet by your buzzing nerves, your hands shaking so badly you have to shove them in your pockets.

The worst part of this is that you're not even afraid of anything in particular, your mind isn't jumping from bad memory to bad memory as it sometimes does in the solitude of your apartment. No—apart from your physical response of anxiety so bad it unsettles your stomach, you feel fine. But you can't stop your body's reaction of sickly fear, the strong urge to flee.

This brand of panic settles over you whenever you leave the house. In fact, the only place it doesn't overwhelm you is MMSS. Probably because you've been attending therapy there for long enough that you grew used to the sight and smell of the building. The routine.

The diner is pleasantly empty, the only other customers are a few elderly couples and some men in worn denim and fraying baseball caps that look like truckers, hunched over plates on the bar stools set up around the high counter near the register.

Sarah, thankfully, leads the group over to the far left end of the diner, furthest away from the other customers. The relatively small booths sit against large windows, probably only meant to fit two adults on each side. Sarah passes out menus before sliding into one booth, Toby across from her in the same booth, while Pyro and Dennis squish together in a different booth directly behind them.

"This one okay, Mrs. Sarah?" Dennis asks, loud enough for Sarah to hear a booth away. He gestures down at the booth he's in with mitten-covered fingers.

(Did Eddie knit those?)

You kinda think it's cute how all the patients call Sarah by her first name accompanied by a title. Is it because she's married to and shares a last name with Dr. Everett, head doctor at MMSS? Or does it simply help build trust with the patients to be so casual with them?

"Yeah, that's fine, Dennis. I can see you from here," Sarah says cheerfully, circling her hands around both of her eyes to mimic peering at Dennis through binoculars. "So behave yourselves."

It's clear from her tone of voice that she's joking, rather than seriously expecting them to misbehave.

"Dennis has never misbehaved in his life," Pyro says facetiously, causing Dennis to shoot him a harsh look.

"Move over, lovebirds," Val says, already squeezing into the seat with Pyro and Dennis.

Pyro grunts in protest when Dennis pushes him into the wall to make room for Val. It's a tight squeeze. They look ridiculous, shoulder to shoulder like that, Dennis looking perfectly happy despite being squished in the middle.

"Seriously, Val?" Pyro says, leaning forward to shoot an annoyed look at Val at the end of the seat. "How am I supposed to eat with Dennis practically sitting in my lap?"

"Never stopped you before," Val comments absently, rolling their shoulders and opening their menu.

"Hi, Val," Dennis says, smiling pleasantly and dropping his head onto Val's shoulder.

Val's only response is a slight tug of their lips as they reach up to pat Dennis gently on the side of the head.

"Waylon?"

Eddie's voice snaps you out of your daze—you've just been standing here by the booth, staring. Hadn't even noticed Eddie slip into the seat across from his trio of friends. It looks odd, three people packed on one side of the booth, while Eddie sits alone in the seat across from them.

"Oh. Uh—sorry," you mutter, forcing your stiff limbs to move, plopping yourself down next to Eddie on the small seat. Val's seated directly across the table from you. Even though everything is rushing around you, you feel like you're stuck in slow motion.

"You can sit with Dr. Sarah, if you prefer," Eddie whispers. "Whatever makes you comfortable. And you can have the window seat too, I just thought you'd prefer the aisle."

Yeah. The. The aisle is better. Eddie is so tall, if you were in the seat against the wall, you'd have a hell of a time trying to climb over him to run towards the exit.

Not that you'll need to run towards the exit.

Because.

This is just a diner at eight in the morning.

And not Mount Massive.

"Thanks. Yeah. The aisle is less claustrophobic. And. I want to sit with you."

Eddie nods, clearing his throat and busying himself with the menu, his response almost shy.

(And you were just thinking about having to climb over him to get out of the booth.)

(And yesterday morning you masturbated to the sound of his voice.)

(And on the bus he told you that you would do no such thing and it sent sparks of interest through you, as if it was a command spoken in bed.)

(And you're sitting so close to him right now that you can feel the heat from his body.)

(And...)

Snickering from across the table draws your attention. Pyro is unsuccessfully hiding his outburst of laughter behind his hands.

Eddie looks up at Pyro sharply from across the table.

"Sorry! You just—the look on your face when Waylon said that he wanted to sit with you, Eddie. Priceless!" Pyro chuckles.

The look on Eddie's face. You had thought it was a bit shy—too slight of a reaction to really gauge. But, Eddie's friends can probably read his expressions a lot better than you can.

"Py," Eddie says the other man's name as a warning, almost a growl.

Your cheeks flush, even though you can't really make sense of the exchange, don't know why exactly Pyro is so amused. But, he's teasing Eddie. About you. And that...

That hits too close to home.

Pyro sucks in a breath. "So anyway, Waylon, I like your hat."

The hat is shoved in your jacket pocket now, but you were wearing it earlier before you got on the bus. "Uh. Thanks."

"It's the one Eddie made for you, right?" Pyro doesn't wait for a reply. "Man, you should have seen him when he was knitting it. Fussed over it something fierce. Whenever me and Dennis stopped by to see what had him holed up in his room, he wouldn't shut up about how you told him your favorite color is orange and asked him to make you a hat—and of course, we already knew that because he told group immediately after it happened."

"Group?" you ask without thinking. As soon as you ask, you realize what he must be referring to. "Oh, group therapy?"

"Yeah."

Eddie talks about you in group therapy?

You shoot Eddie a questioning look, panic rising, not sure what to feel about this. Your... friendship... with Eddie is shameful enough—the thought of Eddie talking about it with others... the thought of other people knowing details about your visits...

It's... uncomfortable.

Alarming.

Eddie looks alarmed himself, like he knows he might be in trouble right now. He looks like he wants desperately to explain, but is having difficulties finding the words.

Pyro continues, "You should've heard him fumbling with words that day after you hugged him. Dude couldn't fucking form a sentence to tell us what got him all flustered."

Wait...

They know?

They all know about that?

The staff—probably Sarah herself—knows about that?

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck—

"Pyro," Eddie seethes, leaning forward to fix Pyro with a glare fierce enough that it frightens you a little. Makes you want to scoot away. Put some distance between you and Eddie—so you do, you scoot as far away as the seat will allow. "Would you kindly be quiet?"

Pyro only scoffs, opens his mouth to protest, then thinks better of it and crosses his arms, shoving his gaze out the window instead.

"You're embarrassing Eddie, dear," Val says calmly to Pyro, not looking up from their menu.

"I'm just teasing him! Sheesh!"

"Mmn, well,” Val says, “As delicious as Eddie is with ruffled feathers, he may not forgive you for making him look bad in front of his favorite person."

Favorite...

Favorite person?

What?

Somehow the odd phrase makes your face flush harder than if Val had said best friend.

"You can't just toss that term around willy-nilly," Pyro says.

Val hums, flipping their menu over and scanning the glossy page. "I'll do as I please."

"Eddie, you're scaring Waylon," Dennis stage-whispers across the table, as if no one except Eddie will be able to hear him, and then he turns to you. "I hate it when people argue, too. You can come sit by me if you'd rather, Waylon."

As soon as the words leave Dennis's mouth, Eddie's annoyance washes clean off his face, replaced by horror as he turns to look at you, seated all the way on the edge of the bench. As far away from him as possible without getting up and walking away. Leg bouncing anxiously beneath the table, visible only to Eddie.

"I'm fine," you tell Eddie forcing a smile. And then, to Dennis, "That's okay. Thanks for the offer, though. I'll remember it."

Dennis beams.

"Waylon, I understand completely—" Eddie starts, whispering even though the others present can surely hear him. Eyes imploring. So desperate for your approval. "Please, I'll go sit with Dr. Sarah. It's no trouble at all—I could kick myself for frightening you."

"No, no, it's fine, really," you reply, eyes locked on Eddie's face, the desperation there. So dependent on your forgiveness. It's... a form of power you're not sure you can be trusted with. "You're allowed to be annoyed. I just..." you trail off, shrug. "It's nothing personal. I'm fine—really."

Eddie straightens, eyes you for any sign of deception. Sighs, eventually.

"Py, apologize," Dennis stage-whispers again, elbowing the other man.

Pyro searches Dennis's face for a moment before looking at you. "Sorry, Waylon. I was just teasing, didn't mean to cause an argument. But I shouldn't have done that."

"I know, it's okay." The small smile you offer him is genuine.

Pyro almost returns the smile, a corner of his lips twitching slightly.

"So you, uh, talk about me in group therapy?" you ask Eddie, unable to let the topic die. If you don't talk to him about it you'll probably tear yourself apart later, wondering why he talked about you and in what context.

"Ah—yes, I have. In hindsight, I should have refrained from doing so without your permission. However, I first mentioned you after our initial visit." Eddie's hands are folded tightly in front of him on the table. A nervous gesture. "I hardly dared think that you would visit me again—or that we would... come to spend even more time together than I could imagine. If I had foreseen this, I may have chosen to forgo sharing details about our visits in group."

Oh. So. He started doing it before he thought it would be a violation of your privacy. That. Makes sense. It feels like a weight lifts off your shoulders.

"I understand. And our interactions are part of your life. They're yours to share."

"Yes but—you're equally within your right to be made uncomfortable by that, too."

"I was uncomfortable at first, but talking to you about it just now made me feel a lot better. I'm fine with it." It's not a lie—even if it is embarrassing that Eddie's friends know you hugged him—god, what do they think about that? What do the orderlies who facilitate group therapy think? And Sarah is one of Eddie's therapists, surely she knows too—

Fuck. You need to stop thinking about this.

Soft chatter intermixes with the music playing from a jukebox—the truckers are chatting with the cooks and the waiter. Metal pots and pans clink in the kitchen as the cooks prepare food.

"What will you be having?" Eddie asks you, gesturing at the untouched menu in front of you on the table.

Oh. Right. You should probably look at that. The waiter has to be arriving to take your orders any minute.

"If you tell me what you want, I can order for you, if you'd like," Eddie offers.

You stare at him, startled by the offer.

He...

Of course he knows you would rather not talk to the waiter—you asked him to order for you in the MMSS cafeteria.

He accommodated you then. And. He's willing to do it again?

He doesn't think it's weird or unsightly or something you should just get over?

(Lisa thought it would get easier, the more you forced yourself to do things that made you uncomfortable post-Mount Massive—like ordering your own food from a harmless restaurant employee.)

(But it never got easier. Your anxiety swelled painfully every single time.)

(You can do it yourself. You're capable of doing it.)

(But it hurts to do it. The anxiety is suffocating.)

(Why make yourself do something that hurts you?)

(Because it'll get easier—that's what Lisa always said.)

(But it never did. Not even a little. And that just made you feel impossibly broken.)

(Because Lisa thought you could do it, thought you could get used to it.)

(And you failed to.)

(Every single time.)

(Each failed attempt was reminder of how broken you are.)

"I—" you want to thank Eddie, to tell him how much his offer of assistance means to you. But your voice is croaky with tears you're holding back. "Yeah—I'd really appreciate that, if you wouldn't mind."

"Of course I wouldn't mind," Eddie sounds genuinely confused, as if he doesn't understand why you think this would be something that might inconvenience him. "It's no trouble at all."

Why? Why does he have to be like this? "Thank you, Eddie."

Too frazzled to focus, it takes you several long seconds of staring unseeing at the menu before you can read a word of it. The food is typical of a diner, listing an array of breakfast food as well as lunch and dinner specials. Nothing fancy.

"Just, uh, french toast and soda," you tell Eddie, who arches the eyebrow that isn't struck through with a scar.

"Soda so early in the morning?" he asks, dubious, and then, at your frown. "Oh, alright. Whatever makes you happy."

"Don't let Eddie hassle you," Val says, finally looking up from their menu to eye you, chin rested on knit fingers. "I know it must be hard to believe, but he really doesn't mean to be this insufferable."

Eddie merely snorts in response.

"They don't serve any sort of carbonated beverages at the Sanctuary, because we're not allowed to have caffeine," Pyro's smugness is palpable. "So me and Dennis get pop every time, when we come here."

"You abuse the free refills, is what you do," Val remarks slyly, shooting Pyro a smile.

Just then the waiter slides up to your booth, greeting everyone with a smile.

You jump at the waiters sudden appearance, crashing slightly into Eddie. You force a smile that turns shaky with how much effort it takes to maintain. Beside you, Eddie tenses.

"Are you all set to order?" the waiter asks, eyes only catching for the briefest of seconds on the way three of the table's occupants are squished together on one side of the booth. He has to notice the scars on Pyro and Eddie's faces, but he doesn't stare.

"Sure thing," Val practically purrs, looking the waiter up and down. He's a fairly homely guy with glasses and a splotched apron bearing the diner's logo, beneath that he's wearing worn jeans and sneakers with sloppy laces. "I'll have—"

The buzzing in your ears is so insistent that everyone orders around you in a blur you barely register. When the waiter turns to your side of the table, looking at you expectantly, you flounder for one brief moment, mind going blank. You can't remember what you wanted to order. Can barely remember where you are.

"He'll have french toast and a soda, please," Eddie says pleasantly, drawing the waiter's attention, and then following up by ordering for himself.

The waiter is gone in a flash, and you're still feeling shaken, not registering your companion's conversation around you. You're so out of it that you don't snap back into reality until the waiter is back a few minutes later with drinks.

"Your food will be out soon," he promises before starting to depart, and then hesitating. When you glance up at him he's looking right at you. "Hey, I was just wondering—are you Waylon Park?"

Oh.

Oh no.

"Um..." The waiter seems nice so far, but you would really rather not have this interaction. There's never a way of telling what people who recognize you are going to say.

All you can think of as a response is I don't want to do this right now.

But of course. You can't say that. What can you say?

"Nah, his name's Benny," Pyro cuts in before you can form a reply. “Benny Jetts.”

Benny?

Benny Jetts?

It sounds like some sort of ridiculous porn star name.

Despite the dubious name choice, Pyro's interruption completely saved you from an awkward interaction and you shoot him a thankful look.

"Oh," the waiter says, chuckling. "Well, you look a lot like Waylon Park—but I only saw him on TV a few times."

You manage to force a polite smile and the waiter excuses himself with another promise of your food being out soon.

Val hums, watching the waiter's retreating back as he stumbles slightly on his way across the diner. "He's cute."

"Dr. Sarah said no flirting, Val. C'mon, behave," Dennis reprimands in good humor.

Val nudges Dennis with their shoulder, grinning. "Looking isn't flirting."

"And he's annoying me anyway—keeps trying not to look at Py's scars," Dennis adds.

"So?" Val says. "He's trying so hard to be polite. I think it's sweet."

"That guy looks like a hot mess," Pyro says, leaning forward slightly to get a better view of the waiter across the room, his messy hair and rumpled clothes.

"So do you," Val points out, eyeing Pyro meaningfully. "But Dennis still likes you."

"Yeah, I still like you," Dennis coos, pinching Pyro's cheek.

Pyro looks down at himself, his pilling sweater and fraying jeans. "Fair enough."

A pleasant calm settles over you as you listen to Eddie's friends banter, but the whole time your attention is still partially fish-hooked to Eddie sitting beside you. So close.

When the waiter arrives with your food, you use it as a distraction to scoot closer to Eddie—who glances at you briefly but doesn't comment—of course he doesn't comment. He can't, because both your action and his lack of protest are at worst breaking some sort of unspoken MMSS rule, and at best, worthy of teasing from his friends.

Val thanks the waiter with inappropriately intense eye-contact that actually makes the waiter flush and stutter when he replies with a you're welcome.

Pyro and Dennis manage to hold in their laughter until the waiter is out of earshot.

Val just licks their lips and shrugs. "What can I say, the shy ones always like me."

"Confidence in your own abilities has never been one of your failings, Val," Eddie says dryly, smiling when you spasm with surprise laughter.

You don't know why, but you're laughing so hard it starts to hurt, and when you finally manage to calm down to wheezing breaths, you realize you shifted slightly in your fit of amusement and now your thigh is pressed against Eddie's and—you...

Oh.

You really didn't mean to do that.

It wasn't on purpose.

(But scooting closer to him earlier was on purpose. So. You're guilty of. Something. Absolutely.)

You should move. Shift away, casually.

But the contact sends sparks of exhilaration through you and—god it feels good to feel something that uplifts you rather than weighs you down.

And—you think, oh god, you think you just felt Eddie shift his leg closer, just slightly.

You're sure your breath is visibly escalated when Eddie flicks his gaze to you just briefly before looking back down at his food and pretending nothing is happening.

"So, Waylon Park," Val says, startling you out of your little bubble. "Tell us about yourself."

"Uh. What," your eyes accidentally dart to your thigh against Eddie's thigh before you lock your attention back on Val. You clear your throat, not trusting your voice right now. "What do you want to know?"

(You're so close to Eddie that you can feel him breathing.)

"Oh, I don't know. Anything. Would you prefer I provide a topic?"

You're about to agree, when Dennis blurts out a response first.

"Childhood pets! What were your childhood pets?"

"Um. A cat?" you offer, relieved at the safe topic.

"I was never allowed pets. Though there were plenty of farm animals around in the village," Val contributes. "Chickens running around loose in the streets. That jazz."

"I had pigs and chickens—chickens are the cutest darn things," Dennis gushes, beaming. "I became a vegetation after the first slaughter my Ma and Pa made me watch. Didn't wanna eat something so soft and cute and didn't want it to suffer or nothing."

"Growing up on a farm always seemed kinda morbid to me," you say, frowning.

"It was. Oh boy, it was. That's where one of my alter's showed up, Pa. He always took over to slaughter and skin the animals so that I didn't have to. Else my real Pa would beat me." The tone of Dennis's voice is still conversational, almost cheerful, despite the sensitive subject matter.

It's oddly refreshing to hear someone able to discuss their trauma without visible emotional wounds. Whatever pain Dennis has endured from this particular bad memory, it's clearly a wound that's been healed over, closed and smooth.

And some traumas belong that way, blended into the tapestry, one piece of a whole, visible or invisible but no longer bleeding.

"I'm sorry to hear that," you tell him anyway, even though he doesn't seem too bothered by it now.

Dennis waves off your sympathy. "Doesn't matter no more. Besides, we got Py. He's our family, now."

Even under all the glossy scars winding across Pyro's face, his cheeks glow bright red. He sinks down in his seat slightly, as if he wants to hide, but instead settles with squishing himself into Dennis's side.

"Thanks for that lovey-dovey stuff," Val drawls. "I hate it."

Ignoring Val, Dennis perks up. "Oh! Eddie had pets as a kid, too—Eddie, tell Waylon about your pets."

Eddie frowns. "I'm not sure where you got that impression—"

"The bugs, you told me you kept bugs," Dennis replies.

"Ah—those were hardly pets." Eddie turns to you, as if to explain, his knee knocking into yours even more. He leaves it there. "As a child, I would collect insects from the woods on my family's property. Keep them in containers where they were fed and housed until the natural end of their lifespans."

"And then he'd stick pins in them and mount them to a board," Dennis finishes for Eddie.

"Yes..." Eddie agrees, seeming oddly nervous. "It was an unusual hobby for a child. I was teased relentlessly in school."

"Why?" you ask, honestly baffled. Pinning and mounting insects is an odd hobby for a child, but a lot of kids play with bugs, right?

"I suppose they found it unsettling that I was willing to handle the more gruesome looking species. Peeling cicada skins off of trees is something my peers found particularly disturbing." Eddie hesitates, like he's not sure whether or not to volunteer this next part. "It was especially difficult to catch butterflies without damaging them. On several occasions after I was obviously pleased with a successful catch, some of the other boys would hold me down while they took the specimen I caught and ripped its wings up over my face."

It's too easy to imagine a young Eddie Gluskin kicking and screaming while his peers hold him down and rip his newly caught butterfly apart over him, tissue-paper thin dusty wing fragments floating like ashes through the air right before his eyes.

Your pulse spikes an anger, in protest, in the desire to put an end to such an awful injustice. But of course it's a memory, long gone; an experience etched into who Gluskin is, for better or worse.

"If I went to school with you, I would have screamed at those kids—" Anger pools into your voice. You ignore the impossibility of the scenario, given your age difference. "I mean, I was scrawny as hell as a kid, but it would have boiled my blood to see someone kill a harmless insect like that."

"You're a gentle soul, Waylon," Val says thoughtfully.

"I used to try to burn ants with a magnifying glass, but it never worked," Pyro offers helpfully, much to Dennis's distaste.

Aghast, Dennis punches Pyro lightly on the arm. "That's awful!"

"Ow—hey, I said it never worked!"

"I admire the sentiment, Waylon," Eddie says, re-directing the conversation. "But I'm afraid any hypothetical aid you offered me would have went unappreciated—I was a dreadful child. Moody and pessimistic. I simply would not have accepted a kind word in my direction."

"Well—but, that's just because you weren't used to others being nice to you, right? I'm sure if someone actually tried to—"

Eddie shakes his head ruefully. "When offered a helping hand I would have smacked it away with a biting retort. It's just the kind of child I was. And every time I successfully pushed someone away, that would just reaffirm to me that other people were awful. It was a vicious cycle."

You frown. "Still—if just one person had kept showing you kindness—"

"Despite ill treatment? Despite doing a thankless job? Yes, perhaps, eventually it would have changed my world view. But that's not a task other children are suited for, nor should they be."

"It was his parent's job," Dennis points out. "To give him unconditional love and kindness."

Eddie smiles at Dennis in acknowledgment before staring down at his food, quiet and lost in thought.

"You're different now," you offer, more of a reassurance than an observation. And... you find that you actually mean this. "What got through to you?"

Eddie is silent for a long moment, and then, "The orderlies at the first in-patient facility I was housed in after my sentencing. I suppose it was their job to know better, to not be fazed by a prickly attitude. To keep trying to get through to me."

"That'll do it," Val says, raising their glass of juice in a mock-toast. "For most of us, anyway."

"It helped that a few of the kindest orderlies were women—I had some horrid opinions about women instilled in me by my mother, who was self-hating in the degree of her misogyny."

Did that contribute to Gluskin murdering those two women? Even considering the schizophrenia and psychosis, it had to be easier to commit an act like that when he didn't think of women as human in the first place. Something tells you Gluskin didn't see other people in general as human, either. Not back then.

"I remember thinking you had some pretty archaic ideas about gender roles with all the weird messages you wrote in the vocational block."

Pyro laughs. "In Mount Massive, there wasn't such a thing as rational thought. I doubt Eddie really even thought those things at the time—I mean, before Murkoff fucked with his head."

Eddie nods in confirmation. "Yes. They were distant memories from things my mother would say. Long since disillusioned. It's part of what makes looking back on Mount Massive so devastating."

Devastating.

This.

Hurts them too.

Of course. You had known. Because why else did you blow the whistle on Murkoff if you didn't know how badly the patients were hurting?

That must be hard to juggle. The guilt, the shame—being both a perpetrator and a victim.

And.

You were both of those things, too. Because you worked for Murkoff. Even if you weren't okay with what they were doing.

You still hurt people by helping Murkoff run that inhumane Morphogenic Engine.

(You hurt Eddie. Eddie Gluskin specifically.)

(And he's sitting right next to you, thigh warm and pleasant against yours, proving that you are able to form some sort of friendship, even though you are broken. Even though that friendship is strange and illicit.)

(And you still haven't apologized to him for running the code that started the machine that he was dragged to, kicking and screaming the word rape.)

"I'd been an atheist for most of my adult life." Pyro leans his head back, stares at the ceiling. "Yet, all rational thought out the fucking window—during the riot I believed in God again as strong as when I was a little kid. Burned the facility's little chapel down, hating God for putting us through that hell."

"Wait—" You remember seeing the chapel on fire. "That was you that burned the chapel down? I hadn't even realized we had one until I saw it burning that night."

"Yup, all me," Pyro says, flashing a smile which he immediately drops. "No regrets."

Dennis pouts a little at that, and for a moment you wonder if maybe he's religious, but no—he lifts a crooked finger to brush his knuckle gently over the thick burn scars on Pyro's cheek.

"Oh stop it, I'm fine," Pyro says, which only prompts Dennis to lean in and kiss him next to his milky, unseeing eye, presumably damaged by some sort of fire.

Val sighs and rolls their eyes. "You two are so sweet—I hate it."

Eddie surprises you by leaning towards you and stage-whispering, "Val doesn't really hate it."

Val finds an unused straw on the table and unwraps it enough to blow into one end and shoot the wrapper at Eddie, who raises his arms to block it, chuckling.

The straw wrapper falls on his thigh.

In a bold move, you pluck it off.

Eddie does his best to only seem mildly alarmed by you reaching towards his lap.

You smile at him and wave the straw wrapper briefly before folding it accordion style. Just to. Have something to keep your trembling fingers busy.

Everyone has been picking at their food this entire time, and you realize the conversation has stretched for so long that everyone's plates are empty. The waiter returned several times for drink refills and you barely noticed him, too focused on the conversation ricocheting around the table.

And. When Sarah finally peeks around to your booth to ask if everyone's ready to leave, you find that you're sad that it's over.

* * *

Outside the diner, while waiting in the parking lot for Sarah to finish paying inside, a young couple that looks to be in their twenties exits a raised truck nearby. You're always hyper-vigilant of your surroundings, so you notice when the woman elbows the man next to her and gestures inconspicuously at your group loitering in the parking lot.

You swear you can hear the woman mouth Waylon Park, and then, the next hushed words are audible enough to leave no room for doubt.

"That guy—that Murkoff employee that filmed the Mount Massive slaughter. And, is that..."

Your skin prickles, breath halts in your lungs. You drop your eyes to the cracked pavement but it doesn't stop you from hearing what comes next.

"Holy fuck, look at those guys, the scars—"

A scoff from Pyro behind you snaps you back to reality, reminds you that you're not here facing this scrutiny alone.

And suddenly the way the couple is hovering by the front of their truck, pretending not to stare, turns your blood from a rush to a boil. Why won't they just leave?

"How can that be Waylon Park?" the man in front of the truck asks, not even trying to keep his voice down, "It can't be, because those other people are definitely from the asylum—look at them."

Okay.

Okay. Your head snaps up in a glare and you're opening your mouth to say something, anything, to make these people regret their rudeness—but Val throws and arm over your shoulders, spinning you around to face your little group of MMSS patients instead.

"Don't mind them," Val whispers, leaning close to you. Their arm around you is reassuringly firm, somehow, like an embrace, like a support beam keeping you upright. "They're just staring because I'm extremely attractive. Happens all the time."

The joke surprises you, and you laugh, short and choppy. And somehow that helps you breathe. Lifts some of the anger.

"If they don't stop staring I'm going to bark at them," Pyro hisses under his breath, glowering unabashed in the stranger's direction.

It's then you notice Eddie, standing straight-backed and stiff, turned away form the strangers as if trying not to be recognized. Val's free hand, the one not still wrapped around your shoulders, encircles Eddie's wrist like a weight on the end of a balloon string, keeping it grounded.

"Let's just get on the bus," Toby says, steely, finally catching on to the stranger's scrutiny.

"Yeah," Dennis agrees, tugging Pyro along and ushering him towards the bus's open doors.

Pyro, for his part, keeps his glare locked on the rude couple the entire time like some sort of attack dog.

Val squeezes your shoulder one last time before shoving you forward towards the bus.

You comply, climbing into the bus, tossing a look over your shoulder to find Val has threaded their arm through Eddie's like a crutch, leading him right behind you.

Eddie seems in a daze as he walks down the aisle to where you wait for him to take the same seat as last time, against the window. He does, and you follow him quickly.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Eddie nods, but he won't look at you. "That was... unsightly."

"Yeah."

Val peers over the back of the seat at you and Eddie. "Don't look so glum. I wasn't going to let anything happen to either of you. To any of us."

Val did protect you, didn't they? Put their own body between you and those awful people. Knew you needed that, somehow. And Val did the same for Eddie simultaneously.

"Thanks, for stopping me," your voice is hoarse, hesitant. "I was going to yell at them." It wouldn't be the first time you've impulsively gone off on the rude people who sometimes recognize you from the Mount Massive fiasco. But those people were usually paparazzi of sorts.

"I could tell," Val says slyly, eye twinkling like they're proud of your audacity. "But it's not our job to fix their gross behavior. Better to just ignore them."

"They're still out there," Pyro grumbles from across the aisle, staring out the window. "I swear to god I'm going to bark at them."

Dennis sighs and tries to shift in front of the window to block Pyro's view. When this annoys Pyro, Dennis instead reaches out and ruffles Pyro's hair, cooing at him like he really is a dog.

"Good boy, you're so protective—what a good guard dog," Dennis says, smiling as Pyro actually melts under his praise.

Pyro makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a whine, mimicking a dog, while Dennis laughs.

"What the fuck," Val says, staring at their friend's odd display. And then, fondly, "I hate them so much."

Beside you, Eddie is unresponsive, doesn't even seem to notice his friend's antics.

"Hey Dennis, where's my praise?" Val asks, arm draped over the back of the seat. "Am I good, too? How come no one ever tells me I'm good?”

"You're good—the best," Dennis says, standing and stretching his arm across the aisle to pat Val on the head, who readily leans into the touch.

You chuckle at that.

Sarah finally returns, climbing into the bus, completely unaware of the rude couple encountered in the parking lot. "Okay guys, settle down. We're about to be driving."

"What took you so long?" Pyro asks, pulling Dennis back down into the seat with him.

"She's pregnant, Py. A human infant is sitting on her bladder right now," Val scolds.

Toby twists to look down the aisle, grimacing. "It sounds really gross when you put it that way."

"I was in fact compelled to use the restroom by the fetal overlord," Sarah says as she slides into the seat with Toby.

The bus starts to move, and you scoot closer to Eddie, feeling allowed, somehow. Allowed to turn all your attention on him.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Eddie offers you a small smile that drops immediately. "I expected that perhaps I might be recognized. But I never dreamed it would be a problem for you."

"Yeah. I get that all the time—well, not exactly like that. Usually just people recognize me. Whisper. That's all. Not that bad." But still bad enough that you don't want to leave your apartment unless you absolutely have to. "I don't think anyone would recognize me at all if I moved out of state. It's just. The whole thing was big news in Colorado."

"Why don't you leave?"

You shrug, a yawn forcing its way into your next sentence. "Lisa and the kids are still here. Next town over, but still. And, I'd rather go to therapy at MMSS."

And Eddie Gluskin is here.

And. For some reason that matters now.

Eddie nods, accepting your answer. Then eyeing you with fondness when you yawn again. "You must be tired."

"Yeah—I'm not exactly used to being up this early." You rest your head against the back of the seat. Close your eyes.

"Feel free to fall asleep on my shoulder," Eddie teases.

Your eyes snap open and you glance at him side-long.

It's just a joke.

Eddie was definitely joking.

But.

He offered.

You're not sure what you're trying to prove—to Eddie or to yourself—when you scoot right up against Eddie's side and drop your head onto his shoulder.

Eddie doesn't say a word, but you're close enough that you hear his breath hitch, the slight note of surprise or maybe protest caught in a syllable that dies before forming words.

And somehow, you don't feel guilty.

Just. Shameless.

Absolutely shameless.

Proud of your own boldness.

And you close your eyes, thinking about what those strangers in the parking lot said—how you couldn't possibly be Waylon Park because Waylon Park would never want to be in the presence of patients from the asylum.

Joke's on them.

You feel...

Content.

The reverberation of the bus engine, the tires grinding on the pavement, the chatter of the other people on board—it all mixes together into a soothing hum.

But the most comforting part is Eddie's warmth—the fact that he's allowing you to do this. What that means.

(What does that mean?)

And your heart is racing—you can hear, feel, Eddie breathing. The scent of lavender soap engulfing you. You listen hard for any trace of teasing from Eddie's friends, but they either don't notice you pressed against Eddie's side, head on his shoulder, or they're too nice to ruin this for Eddie.

Eddie. What is he thinking?

Cheek still resting on his shoulder, you tilt your head up slightly and crack one eye open to sneak a look at him.

He's staring at you, a small smile on his lips.

Like he's content, too.

So you push yourself impossibly closer. Let yourself get lost in the feeling of being wanted. Of companionship. Of having another human being to rely on.

And somehow, you do fall asleep, because the next thing you know Eddie is gently nudging you awake, the bus's engine cut. A glance outside the window shows the MMSS parking lot.

And you catch more than a few glances from the others present as they rise from their seats to exit the bus.

Shit.

What...

What have you gotten yourself into?

Chapter Text

Over the next three weeks it becomes increasingly clear just how much of a social butterfly Eddie Gluskin is. He introduces you to various other patients, his favorite guards and orderlies, and convinces you, against all logic, to engage in card games and other menial activities with him and Dennis, Pyro and Val.

The realization is alienating—even confined to a mental hospital, Eddie has more of a social life than you've ever had.

Even before Mount Massive your social life was limited to online game friends-lists and forum posts. You lived with your parents through your college days, avoiding campus life as much as possible, until your parents disowned and cut you off for packing up your life to move across several state lines to live with (and soon after marry) Lisa—a girl you met over the internet. You still don't talk to your parents much, and it's their loss anyway—they would have liked Lisa, had they given her a chance.

You joke with Eddie about how busy his life seems to be, and with a bit of self-depreciating humor, note that your own social life is so barren that you often take several showers a day to pass time.

(You don't divulge that you've never been able to feel completely clean since Mount Massive. You can still remember the smell of decomposing flesh under your fingernails from all the gore splattered surfaces you had to cling to.)

(You don't mention that your shower curtain is transparent, because a solid colored shower curtain causes too much anxiety at not knowing what imaginary monsters could be waiting for you on the other side of it.)

It's not until you receive an unsolicited email from an old friend inquiring about your well being, that the reality of what you're doing sticks to your mind like flypaper.

You're spending all your time with Eddie Gluskin. And what's worse: you're enjoying it.

You delete the email because that is the only way to prevent yourself from pulling it up for the hundredth time to attempt a reply that won't be honest—because how can you tell anyone outside of your therapist that you've been spending all your time in a mental hospital and having a great time of it?

The question turns over and over in your head, like a flash card that refuses to commit itself to memory. The answer is too feeble, impermanent. The question is more solid, demanding: what the hell are you doing?

Since your trip to the diner with him, you've visited Eddie Gluskin every single day for three weeks straight.

It's not until you bail on a therapy appointment on a Monday, so that you can eat dinner in the MMSS cafeteria with Gluskin, that you mentally confront the question while in Gluskin's presence.

You look at Eddie, barely listening as he chats away to Pyro, watch as he debates with the cynical man about the topic of camp fire smell, and how it likes to sink itself into clothing like the smell of death into memory. You sit next to Eddie, and though a few weeks ago he scarcely seemed able to rip his gaze from you, now he is more comfortable committing time to the other patients at the table.

This change is good—no one needs to assure you of this, you can tell it's good for him that he's not clinging to your time like its finite, like he has to appreciate it now before it's gone.

He trusts you—he must, if he's willing to devote a single second of the time you're giving him to someone else. He trusts that you're not finite, that you won't stop coming to see him. It's an unspoken promise that you don't know if you can keep.

It seems his obsession with you has been staunched by your repeated visits, as his therapists had predicted it would—what had he told you his therapists had said? That getting to know you would humanize you in his mind?

It has done the same for you, too. Last week you showed up for a planned visit only to stumble upon Eddie busy with teaching Dennis how to do a cross stitch. Eddie had apologized for having his hands full upon your arrival, but after encouragement on your part, continued his lesson, fumbling slightly with the distraction your presence brought, letting his eyes linger on you for too long, enough to derail his train of thought.

The visits give you a reason to leave the apartment, a sense of security that only Dr. Everett would claim to understand. The environment at MMSS is structured, it feels safe, and seeing all the random patients fills you with a sense of pride—even when you've seen some of them struggle or shout or have to be led away by an orderly—the kindness and patience with which the staff treats them is enough to quell any anxiety the patient's outbursts bring you.

You've done right by them. And it's about the only good thing in your life that you can allow yourself to feel proud of. You fucked up things with Lisa, with the kids, with your own life. There is only a sense of irreparable shame when you think about your family, the friends you lost after Mount Massive.

Some old friends might still be willing to talk to you again, even after your best efforts to cut yourself off from everyone for the last few years. But they would look at you as you are now and furrow their brows, unable to understand why you prefer the company of the patients of MMSS to them, to the real world.

How can you blame them, when you don't even really understand it yourself?

But you do blame them, you are bitter, just as you were when they looked at your broken state with pity, and then later, with exasperation, unable to understand why months of safety hadn't repaired the hours of damage Mount Massive had done. They saw your supportive wife, your children who love you, and couldn't fathom why you weren't letting yourself be happy again.

They all tried to relate to you, to tell you that they had felt similar despair for some reason or another, that things would get better, that you just had to leave your apartment, find work again, indulge in a productive hobby, spend more time with people, come out of your shell.

If only the thoughts that had hindered you from doing all the things people carelessly claimed would heal you could have instead manifested themselves not as haunting memories or unbidden feelings, but as festering wounds, physical and ugly and encompassing enough of yourself that anyone who looked could understand why it's difficult for you to get out of bed. Why the look of a stranger can send you reeling back to your car, to your apartment, shopping cart abandoned in some suffocating aisle in a store you had only forced yourself to go to in the first place out of some misguided advice that normalcy would make it better.

Watching Gluskin now, frowning comically at Pyro as he and Dennis berate Eddie for his knowledge of laundry detergent and household cleaners... It does make things better, in a way everyone's unsolicited prescription of normalcy never had. It feels good seeing Eddie Gluskin getting along with the other patients, maintaining friendships with other people despite what they've all been through. To see the other patients regard Eddie amicably, without fear, to see the staff smile and greet him.

You helped these people by leaking that footage. And you have spent too long being angry, regretting the decision and the publicity it caused.

And if you told anyone outside of MMSS that realizing this—that spending time with the people who made your life a living hell, who are reminders of all you've been through—is the one thing, the one fucking thing that makes you happy these days, they would stare at you like you're even more broken then you are. They would whisper amongst themselves with their I told you so's. They would lament that, if only you had listened to them, if only you had tried to be normal, you wouldn't be here as you are now, spouting absurd things about how spending time with your monsters makes you happy.

But it does, god, it does.

Is this how Eddie's doctors feel? Proud that their efforts have led him towards a better life, a better future—even though so many would take one look at what he's done and deem him unworthy of anything but suffering?

You had thought that way, too. Questioned whether or not men like Eddie, men like Frank, men like so many of the patients at MMSS, deserved mercy. As if it's an easy thing to do, weigh and measure another person's worth at first glance, without considering anything but the bad they've done.

You believe that some people are just evil, that they don't deserve a second chance—how can you not believe in evil, after what you've been through? But these days, more often than not, the evil you believe in comes in the form of Jeremy Blaire, Murkoff executives, of Eddie's rapist father and uncle, of the doctors at Mount Massive—the ones that spread sickness, not the ones who are living with it, who have been living with it for a long time.

It's a sensitive issue, one that will always favor the morally righteous, those whose mistakes stay in the halls of their home, private and secret.

All you know is that it's something that has to be assessed case by case. And as for Eddie... his crimes in Mount Massive, even those he perpetrated against you, are the easiest to forgive. The Engine made him do terrible things under its power. You can't blame him for that. You can't blame any of the patients for what Murkoff's sick experiments, the abuse, influenced them to do. Murkoff's technology aimed to brainwash and control—and it did just that.

It's the women he killed before he was ever strapped into the Engine—that is most difficult to forget.

Would Eddie have killed those women if his family hadn't instilled in him such a warped worldview? If his schizophrenia had been treated properly? If he wasn't so young and sheltered? If he had received any understanding, or empathy, from anyone about the years of violent sexual abuse he endured as a child?

It doesn't excuse his actions, it doesn't conceal your knowledge of the gruesome things he's done. It doesn't replace your disgust with pity—but it does make him different from the executives at Murkoff, Jeremy Blaire, the men whose only motivation to destroy lives were heavier pockets and fancier, expensive homes for their lonely wives.

You can't find any goodness in men like Jeremy Blaire. They are evil by choice, not by happenstance. There is nothing that could inspire you to pity Jeremy Blaire. Nothing that can make you forgive him.

Eddie apologizes for his friend's antics when you're finally alone at the table, the others rising to discard their trays and line up for afternoon medication. The apology is soft, intimate almost. You assure him that it's fine, and you watch from across the hall as he joins the other patients in the long line outside the cafeteria, leading to a window where orderlies are bustling to fill little paper cups with pills.

You shouldn't have to defend these visits, even if it's only to imaginary people in your mind—old friends, Lisa. You shouldn't have to defend why this makes you feel good, and you're done defending it to yourself, too. Done feeling like a creep, a bad person, a sick person, for finding peace in your conversations with Eddie Gluskin.

Eddie's eyes stray to you even as he converses with Val in line, and you hold his stare. The tightness that manifests in your chest is something you still can't explain, something you can't vehemently defend.

Your opinions on the treatment and stigmas involving the mentally ill are fueled by as much conviction as any social advocate would have on the matter. After all, you risked so much to defend the patients, to blow the whistle on Murkoff's crimes against them. You can rant with great passion about the issue, and you have, in the early interviews about the riot where you would be bombarded with sympathy from news casters, urging you to deem the patients of Mount Massive evil. You had always told them that it was Murkoff that was evil, not the patients.

You believe that now more than ever.

But you can't defend, you can't think of a single thing to say to convince anyone—especially yourself—that what you feel when you look at Eddie Gluskin is anything short of really fucking not okay.

You can't even tell Dr. Everett—who is the only person who understands why you find interaction with Eddie healing—you can't tell her about the butterflies that crawl from their cocoons to squirm sick and wet in your gut whenever Gluskin is around.

You think you have a crush on him.

You probably very likely have a fucking crush on him—christ.

(A fucking crush!)

Even watching Eddie throw his head back to swallow his medication makes your heart swell with affection, not fear. Never fear. It should be fear.

Maybe these feelings are all the dreams and obsessive coping coming to fruition, triggered by finally spending time with him in person, outside of that vocational block.

Maybe these feelings are a result of the way he talks to you so respectfully, looks at you like he thinks you're a real person. A human being.

(You haven't felt like a human being in a long time.)

"What medication do you take, by the way? If you don't mind telling me," you ask when Eddie rejoins you.

"An anti-psychotic, a mood stabilizer. Antidepressants too, though we're not entirely sure if they do anything for me. There's dissent among my doctors as to whether it's a good idea to take me off of them just to observe any changes."

"Ah."

Eddie tilts his head, regards you carefully. "If you don't mind my asking... your doctor hasn't put you on any medication?"

"No." It's hard not to cringe. This question coming from anyone else would be wildly uncomfortable. But. It's just Eddie. He's not judging you. "Dr. Everett has offered to prescribe something for the anxiety and depression, but..."

"You refused?"

"Yeah."

"May I ask why?" He's still tentative. Handling you with care.

"I have... a phobia of it, I guess. After Jeremy Blaire forced me into being a patient at Mount Massive... I don't know." You rake a hand through your hair. There were so many medication bottles in the cart next to the chair you woke up in, during the riot. "It's ridiculous."

"No, no, it makes quite a lot of sense," Eddie assures. "However, I can attest to the usefulness of medication myself. Think of it like a tool to help you through your day. It's never too late to try it—and you can always stop if you don't like it."

Somehow, you can tell he's not trying to pressure you into anything. "Thanks, Eddie, I'll keep that in mind."

He beams and tilts his head to gesture down the hall. "Shall we?"

"Sure." You match his stride as he leads you down the hall. It's difficult to resist gravitating towards him, to orchestrate a premeditated stride which causes your hand to brush his.

You resist the adolescent urge to provoke contact, to further your crush.

Eddie Gluskin is a murderer. That word—the knowledge of what he's done—soaks into his very being, dark and permanent, a staple of what makes him who he is. An important line of code, essential to all other functions.

And yet, as you walk beside him, his smile cordial and his banter ordinary, it's difficult to see him as the same man that tried to mutilate your genitals. You know better than anyone that he is the same man. You feel it in your instinct to withdraw if he steps too close; the sense of foreboding that washes over you in waves when he stares for just a little too long.

There is no doubt in your mind that people with mental illness—even those who cause severe harm to others, deserve help, perhaps not freedom, but help, a chance to regret their actions. The victims deserve that, too, to know that their perpetrators feel the devastating weight of what they've done. It helps knowing, believing, that Eddie and Frank are truly sorry, that the help they've received has allowed them to understand how wrong their actions were.

That closure is something you'll never get from any Murkoff executive.

Forgiveness isn't for everyone or every circumstance, but it's for you in this circumstance—you know that now, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Eddie opens the door to his room, which you've been in multiple times now.

The sewing machine makes you smile every time you see it. You think it's cute that he gives away most of the clothing he makes either to the other patients or the staff. During one visit he whipped out flexible measuring tape from his pocket and proceed to stretch it across Toby's chest as they conversed about various types of fabric—of which the only word you could discern was cotton.

It's late. After six. You would be in the middle of a therapy appointment right now if you hadn't canceled.

"Oh—before I forget," Eddie flits over to his sewing table and retrieves a coil of measuring tape. "Would you mind giving me some measurements—sweater season is upon us."

There's something intimate about Eddie being unafraid to ask this of you. He's certain that making you clothes is something you're comfortable with. He's sure you'll accept his gifts.

But there's nothing intimate about the way he offers you the measuring tape instead of holding it out to stretch it across your body himself. You take the tape, shocked at your own disappointment.

In the months you've been visiting, you've witnessed him take measurements of orderlies himself. But. He's not even asking you for permission to do it himself, he's just handing over the reins.

It's. Respectable.

And.

Frustrating.

"Yeah, just tell me what to do," you say, letting the tape uncoil to the floor. "I've never done this before."

Eddie hovers next to you, smiling, hands behind his back in that way he holds himself when he's trying to make himself non-threatening for you. "Sleeve measurement is taken from between the shoulder blades to the shoulder, and then flat down the arm to the wrist."

You frown, trying to twist an arm behind your back to hold the end of the measuring tape between your shoulder blades and follow his instructions. But you're sure the line of tape is crooked already, as you move your fingers over to hold the tape down at your shoulder.

You grunt trying to get the tape to hang flat down your arm. The frustration is genuine, the fumbling.

"Perhaps that's a difficult measurement to take on your own," Eddie says, all patience. "Keep trying."

You sigh and give up. "Can't you just do it for me?"

The question doesn't faze Eddie. Like he was prepared for it. "You're doing fine. It's quite alright if the numbers aren't perfectly accurate."

"Can't you just do it for me?" you repeat, offering him the measuring tape. He doesn't budge. "You can say no, Eddie. I'll keep trying, if that's what you want. But I would prefer if you do it."

The way Eddie stares at you... it's like he's gauging your intentions. There's a suspicion there.

You flush, confused, wavering slightly as you continue to hold the tape out awkwardly, hoping he'll take it.

"Oh, alright," he says finally, accepting the tape. "Turn around."

You oblige, happy to hide your reddening face. He steps closer. You can feel him standing next to you. Your entire body stiffens.

"Back straight, arms at your sides," he says, so much like a command that your breath quickens.

And then just his fingertips press the measuring tape between your shoulder blades—stretching the tape to your shoulder, shifting his fingertips to hold it there instead. And then down your arm, pressing it briefly to your wrist.

He checks the number but doesn't write it down. He's... memorizing it? Is his memory always that good?

"Arms up," he says, and then, "I need to wrap the tape around your chest—is that alright?"

"Yes." Even the simple response is breathless. You hold your arms up for him, and he loops the tape over your head, wraps it beneath your arms, holds it taut with his fingertips on your back again.

"Arms down."

You obey.

Again he doesn't write down the number. "Arms out. Same thing but around your waist."

It feels like a warning, an opportunity for you to stop this, to reclaim the tape and ask to do this yourself. And it feels like permission—holding your arms out so he can coil the tape just above the waistband of your pants.

This time his fingertips hold the tape in place at the small of your back—and god, god, it's just a infinitesimal touch. Meaningless. Professional. But he's—he's standing so close. And.

And you know you have no excuse. No earthly fucking excuse for the way your breath quickens, the shiver the runs down your spine.

Eddie doesn't linger, he removes the tape and moves to stand in front of you. There's no way he doesn't notice your flush, but his face remains impassive. "Collar's next—you can do this one yourself very easily."

He doesn't have to explain to you why he's trying to hand you the tape to do this next measurement yourself—why he's assuming that you'll want to do it yourself.

But you don't. You want him to do it.

You tilt your head back, offer him your neck, pulse jumping. "Go ahead."

You stare at the ceiling, refusing to bear witness to his hesitance.

He sucks in an audible inhale. Sighs.

For a moment you think he's going to refuse, that you've pushed too far. But he steps forward, coils the tape gently around your neck. Fingers brushing your skin only briefly, accidentally.

And. You should be terrified. The rope-burns around your neck took weeks to fade after the riot. This measuring tape is only thin plastic, it would probably snap under the weight of a human body—but if he were to strangle you with it right now, you doubt your fingernails could pry it from your neck.

But, even as these thoughts cross your mind there's no panic—no fear. Just, awareness. Memory.

And he's pulling the tape away before you know it.

"Thank you," Eddie says, the smile he offers is sheepish, worried, perhaps. He likely doesn't know what to make of you. You don't know, either.

"Don't you have to take an inseam measurement, too?" you ask. You know enough to know that an inseam measurement taken from inside the leg near the groin, down to the ankle.

And. The thought of him kneeling before you...

You...

You would like to see that.

A lot.

Eddie's stare is flat, smile gone. "Inseam measurements aren't required for sweaters, Waylon," he says dismissively, radiating neutrality as he re-coils the tape in swift motions.

Your face is not only bright red but damp with perspiration. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It feels like a punishment when Eddie puts the measuring tape back it its drawer on the table before you can make any other scandalous requests.

He... he doesn't know, right? He doesn't know how much you wanted to see him on his knees.

He can't know. It was just. An innocent question.

'Don't you have to take an inseam measurement, too?'

That's all you asked. It. Was an innocent question.

Calm down, you need to calm down—he doesn't know what you were thinking.

"Please, have a seat," Eddie says, offering you to take your pick of seating with a sweep of his hand.

The armchair, the desk chair, the sewing chair, the bed.

As an act of personal rebellion, you sit on the edge of his bed.

(Fuck. Your impulse control is spiraling down down down and you can't help yourself.)

"There are chairs, you know," Eddie says, oblivious to any not-so-innocent intent on your part. There is conflict on his face—he likes seeing you on his bed, but he feels bad about it.

"I'm fine here, if that's okay." You bounce experimentally, pretending to test the springs. "Wanted to see how uncomfortable it is." Nope. You just want to relish in the look on Eddie's face.

(A white lie is okay, because the truth isn't.)

"I thought the same, but it's more comfortable than it looks." Eddie sits in the armchair and attempts to regard you with an air of indifference. "You may lie down, if you would like."

He delivers the suggestion so casually that you almost believe he's not just allowing himself to indulge. You feel like you're back in high school staring at two multiple choice answers that look virtually identical—this is a test, and it's not one you know how to pass.

Is he just trying to mess with you? Turn the tables regarding the first time you were in his room, when you asked him to lie down on the bed to show you how badly he fit?

The thought of lying back on Eddie's bed is all too reminiscent of being strapped down to that table-saw. The position will make you vulnerable and your heart pounds at the thought.

Taking him up on his suggestion to lie down is a way to display your trust, to test Eddie's credibility.

Part of you is still afraid he won't be able to—won't want to control himself. Part of you is still afraid that something you do might trigger him into his manic, Mount Massive self.

But that's ridiculous.

Because there is no Morphogenic Engine here to induce that scenario.

"Are you sure?" you ask, to fill the void, to make it less apparent that you have to think this through.

He's staring, not timid like he sometimes is in the recreation room. Not flustered, just intense, as if his next words are a dare: "I don't see why not."

It's a lie. Eddie must know it's a lie as well as you do. There are so many reasons why not to lie back on Eddie's bed, to purposely test an already strained bond.

Eddie had been conflicted about these visits at the beginning of all this, he had wanted to stop indulging his feelings for you that he's harbored since Mount Massive. It's a goal of his therapy to stop obsessing over you. You shouldn't risk what little happiness you've managed to bring yourself—and Eddie—by teasing him, by testing him.

You shouldn't, and maybe that's why you do.

The bed really is more comfortable than it looks, but as you lie there on top of Eddie's blankets, head on his pillow, the scent of the other man deep in your lungs, all you can think about is making this as difficult for Eddie as possible.

Your heart races—out of fear of the parallel, or out of the wrongness of your actions, you don't know—as you fold your arms up behind your head for good measure, subtly imitating the way you were bound on his table down in the vocational block.

Eddie is oddly quiet, and when you turn your head to look at him, his expression is cold but fiercely present, looking you over in a way that makes you all too aware of the chill of air over the exposed flesh of your stomach, where your shirt rides up to reveal a sliver of skin.

When Eddie's eyes finally lock with yours he searches your face. What he's looking for, you have no idea.

Finally, he sighs, and says, voice thick with disapproval, "Must you?"

You bolt upright, startled by the reaction. "What?"

"We both know what you are doing—I thought it innocent at first, but over the last few weeks it's become readily apparent that you're..." he becomes disgruntled, less stern.

Your mouth is dry, your breathing irregular, anxious. You've been caught red-handed but you're not sure if Eddie knows what exactly your crime is. You certainly don't know. But you're guilty of something, that's for sure. "I'm what?"

"You know," he offers, over a rough, confused noise.

"I don't."

Gluskin is having such a difficult time with the subject that you hope he'll just take the easy way out and drop it altogether. Wishful thinking; he doesn't.

"I thought maybe it was all in my head—imagined flirtations, imagined blushes, imagined reactions."

"...Are you accusing me of something?" you ask, still half-lying on Gluskin's bed. You're not sure whether to laugh or feel sick. You've been so obvious since day one, when you told him about your fantasies regarding him. You want him to know. You want him to know you're attracted to him. Why do you want him to know?

"There is nothing to accuse. I am sure now."

It takes a moment to grasp his words. "What do you mean, you're sure?'

"I invited you to lie on the bed to be sure that your flirtations were not just a product of my imagination. And here you are, so quick to act on the invitation.”

“What?” You maintain your position half-draped across his bed, leaning up on one arm. If you move, if you stand, it will only make you seem as guilty as you are. “Eddie, I'm just trying to get a feel for how your life is, here at the facility.”

The skepticism is steely and unrelenting on Gluskin's face.

You feel horrified that he's talking openly about this. Because—because... he's right and... this behavior, these feelings—they could ruin everything. Everything you have with him.

(This friendship.)

You don't. You don't want to ruin anything.

(You need him. Need these visits. Need the stability he provides. Willingly provides.)

You consider blaming him, accusing him of delusions, of jumping to conclusions he's predisposed to make because of his admitted obsession with you. Resist, because it's not right to lie to him, to gaslight him. You're the one doing something wrong here, not Gluskin.

In the end, you look at him with an expression you can't manage to coax away from a sad little pout. “What?” The question is meek but demanding.

“It is simply not possible that someone of a healthy mind, who has been through what you have, would accept an offer like that. Not when the act of lying before me must be so actively tied to the abuse you suffered at my hands.”

Healthy mind?

That—fuck, what gives him the right to be presumptuous about your mental health?

“I am perfectly healthy, thank you very much.” Even with the PTSD, the anxiety, the compartmentalizing, the denial, the agoraphobia, the fantasies.

“Waylon—“

“No, shut up—seriously, fuck off with that shit. I'm fine. I'm happy with myself.” You realize the reality of the words the moment they leave your mouth; the truth spills from you like the hot spray of your first shower after the riot—it's relief beyond measure. “For the first time in three fucking years, I feel something closer to okay rather than terrible—thanks to you, honestly. And to me right now, that feels like happiness. So don't fucking tell me that—“

“But Waylon,” How dare he interrupt you? It's so important, what you're saying is so important and he doesn't even care to hear you out. Your silence blisters in your veins in protest of his interjection. “The road you're going down now will only lead to a destruction of that happiness, don't you see? I think you know this as well as I do.”

Will it? Because besides your therapy appointments, spending time with Eddie Gluskin is the only thing that gives you the motivation to get out of bed, let alone leave your apartment.

You lie back on Eddie's bed, stare at the ceiling through your fingers. Close your eyes, listen for movement. He's not coming closer. You're safe. He's not going to hurt you. Not now. Not yet. Why not?

Eddie's next breath is so controlled, so deep, that you hear it. It's not quite a sigh, just a need to possess as much air as possible. You've been there. It's not born out of exasperation, but of stress, the weary ache of indecision.

Finally, you say, voice strained, “What's so wrong about it?”

You don't know. You honestly don't know anymore. All you know is that your attraction to Eddie Gluskin—the contentment he gives you—is wrong, irrevocably so. Anyone would agree that it is. Everyone in the whole world would think that it's wrong, so it must be, by god, it must be.

“That you see fit to seek such an answer from me is proof enough of your impaired judgment.”

You listen to every word as though it's a symphony, the sound a story to decipher. Why? Why is he being so cold? He wants this, too. He has to. You can't be the only one.

You draw in a shuddering breath and reiterate: “What's so wrong with it?”

“Waylon, you know very well—“

“I'm not asking what other people would think is wrong with it, what I should think. I'm asking what you think. What's so wrong about me wanting to kiss you?” the last words come out as fragments of themselves, but you choke them out nonetheless, around the tears that coat your throat but haven't quite reached your eyes yet. Tears you didn't know would come. Fuck. Fuck. Why did you say that?

You don't want to see him, don't want to know how what you've just admitted makes him feel.

“Waylon, it would hinder the progress of both of our recoveries.”

His words are a computer with a fancy, colorful case and a cheap processor—it looks nice on the outside, but the guts are all wrong. It doesn't work—what he's saying doesn't work because you know, you know, that Eddie Gluskin would throw away all of his therapy for a chance to indulge in you.

“Bullshit.”

Your eyes are still closed, covered by your fingers—the silence is a living, buzzing thing.

Finally, he says, “Pardon?”

“Bullshit. I don't believe you for a goddamn second.” He's going to play dumb, act as though your doubt is unfounded. “You don't really think this is a bad idea, you don't care that it will screw up your therapy. You have nothing to lose.”

It's harsh and you don't realize just how mean it sounds until you've already said it. Shit.

Gluskin's next words are so rough that your entire body seizes in fear. “I am entitled to make my own choices regarding what's best for me.”

It's not the therapy. It can't be. It's a damn good excuse, but it doesn't feel right. He's not concerned with the therapy, he can't be valuing recovery over the chance to accept whatever the hell it is you're offering. So what is it? What is he so caught up on?

“Seriously?” The word is as hostile as it is pleading. “You're seriously going to miss this opportunity because you want to feign anger about something you don't even feel?” You're taking a shot in the dark with the accusation. “I just don't understand. Explain it to me, tell me what's holding you back. Not the best excuse you can come up with, the real reason.” You can't think of a single thing that could be motivating Gluskin to hold back right now.

“Waylon,” The speed of his response, the lack of careful consideration—it's enough to make you realize that you won't like what he's going to say. “I am not sure what you expect me to say. I have told you how I feel. If you mistrust me, I understand, but there is nothing I can do about that.”

He is lying though, he is. It's not about the therapy. Why won't he admit that? Maybe it's about something else, but it's certainly not the therapy. Gluskin is a man who puts his own desires above everything else, and you are on the top of the list of his desires.

(Except—is he that kind of man? He's... almost always put you first at the potential expense of himself. He's allowed you to keep visiting him even though he knew you might decide it's too much and cut him off completely one day. And. He's been doing so much emotional labor for you.)

Maybe you're just paranoid.

Are you being selfish?

Taken aback by his reluctance?

Insulted that he's not as eager as you expected (dreamed) he would be?

(Terrified by what it might mean, if you want Eddie Gluskin more than he wants you?)

You force yourself to swallow your argument, your desire to pry the truth out of him. There is a chance your gut is wrong, that he's being honest, and even if he's not, his commitment to the lie is already so unrelenting.

Instead, you try something different. “What... what can I do to change your mind?”

Gluskin is silent for the longest time, leaving you isolated behind the darkness of your fingers, the loud thrum of your pulse heavy in your chest. His hesitation to respond is good—whatever convictions he had before have transformed into indecision.

“Please," you add, "just talk to me about this.”

More silence. Enough to boil your blood again. You are a hair's breadth away from screaming at him, demanding a response—when there's a knock at the door.

The knock on the door and the swing of the hinge happen in quick succession, so fast that the sound of it has you flying upright, eyes wild enough to warrant a raised eyebrow from the orderly standing in the doorway.

“Checks,” she says, obligatorily.

Shit. That's right. The orderlies come in to check on the patients once an hour, every hour. How the fuck does this look? You and Eddie in a room furnished with tension and somber expressions. You, Waylon Park, lying on Eddie Gluskin's bed.

The orderly's attention flicks from Eddie, to you, the bed beneath you, and then back to Eddie. She marks something off on her clipboard, and then, attention still pointedly on her clipboard, asks, “You boys alright in here?”

Eddie is the first to recover. “We are quite alright, yes.” His words come easily—too fucking easily. No trace of the stress he must have been feeling moments before.

She nods, and then finally pulls her gaze away from the neutrality of the clipboard to look at you. “Mr. Park?”

Shit, she was really asking you all along, wasn't she?

You try your best to sound inconspicuous, “We're fine. I'm just a little tired.” Shit, your voice shook. You yawn for good measure.

“Alright,” she says, hesitation audible. “See you in an hour, Eddie.” She nods at you one last time, and then ducks her head out, the door latching behind her.

Eddie turns to you. “Sorry about that. It's one of the many perks of living in an institution.”

Your face is still burning from the embarrassment of being caught on Eddie's bed, the anger at his refusal to respond to you before—but mostly all you can think about is how right now would be a good time to put your hands on Eddie, to kiss him, because it'll be a whole hour before someone will come in to check on him again.

A whole hour.

So much can be accomplished in an hour.

God, you're like a fucking teenager.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and sit up. Stare Eddie down. He has the nerve to raise an eyebrow at you. You wish with all of your heart that you possessed the audacity it would take to saunter over to him, to straddle his lap without permission, to breathe your next words against his neck.

(But you don't have that kind of bravery.)

“So... you don't want to, then?”

The question is so weak. Not seductive or convincing, just defeated. You want to launch yourself at him, to press your mouth against his, to prove that you're not the only sick one, not the only one who wants this. But there are too many concerns stopping you: Will he react violently to your advances? Will it upset him, make him uncomfortable in a bad way? Will the sudden display of control on your part unearth memories of his childhood abuse? Will you regret it for the rest of your life?

You're an idiot. A selfish, fucking creep. What the hell are you trying to get yourself into? Why? There's no reason for what you're doing.

(It's reckless and impulsive like a knife to your wrist—but god, it's exhilarating. The rush you feel right now is euphoric.)

You need to go, need to leave and remind yourself to thank Eddie fucking Gluskin for saving you from yourself by denying your advances.

But before you can bring yourself to move, he says, “Oh darling, of course I want to, don't you see that's the problem?”

You need to leave. To come back when you're not so unstable, so willing to let impulse guide your decisions. “I don't think it has to be a problem.”

His smile is full of pity. “Oh? Enlighten me, then.”

It is a problem. Any semblance of romance with this man is going to fuck you up and you're going to regret it for the rest of your life. What will Lisa think, what will the kids think? They can't know. They don't have to know. If they don't know, then it's fine.

You don't have a single explanation to give him for why this is okay.

"I just want to try it. Why can't we try it?”

“What exactly are you asking me to try?”

You want him to come home with you, to go grocery shopping with you, to make you clothes, to choose the music in your car from the passenger seat, to fix your stupid hair, to surprise you with breakfast.

There is not a single minute of your day that you don't want him to be a part of. Hell, you want to create more moments in your day, add to your mundane daily routine, just to have more experiences to share with him. Go to the park. Buy a dog, walk the dog together. Start a garden, go to the museum, see a play, visit the zoo. Anything, everything.

On a logical level, you know that this is simply the nature of a crush. It's how you felt about Lisa, it's why you were willing to change your entire life to be with her, it's why the distance Murkoff forced into the relationship was so difficult.

“I don't know,” you mutter. “I just know I want more.”

“Our current interactions are not sufficient?”

“No. I want more than this.”

“I'm afraid I don't know what that means.”

Is he going to make you say it? “I enjoy our time together. I used to dread leaving my apartment—hell, even leaving my bedroom was excruciating—but now...” It's too hard to admit how much his company means to you. So much fucking harder than confessing your attraction to him.

“I return the sentiment. My life is brighter with you in it.” He says this so effortlessly, so casual, like he doesn't feel the importance of it the way you do.

“But I also want to...” You can't say it. You can't.

“I'm aware. You've made your intentions clear.”

God fucking dammit—why is he being so elusive? “I really fucking hate you right now.” You are an absolute child, a brat on the verge of tantrum, but you don't fucking care.

You expect him to withdraw again, to grow angry at the venom, but instead he laughs. “You really are quite the minx, aren't you?”

“Fuck you.”

“Yes, as I've said, I'm well aware that your intentions are of the vulgar variety.”

Fuck—he's... he's making fun of you! How the hell can he joke about this? “I swear to god, Eddie, if you've just been fucking with me this whole time—“

“I haven't been—but oh, I was under the impression that your issue was precisely that.” His grin is toothy and infuriating.

“It's a figure of speech!”

He leans his head back and laughs, the sound of it so nice and deep that all you want to do is rest your head against his chest and feel his mirth against your face. His laughter dwindles down to a little melodic hum and it's so fucking cute and—shit, you're blushing so hard you can feel the heat radiating from your face.

“It's getting late, you ought to go home before the sun has completely set.” He's still smiling—god—you love his smile. “We don't want you driving home in the dark, now do we?”

What a fucking gentleman. “Aw, how sweet, I didn't know you cared.”

The way you practically growl the words causes Eddie to miss a beat, blinking for a moment, and you almost consider it a small victory before his expression darkens and he purrs, “My, my, aren't we a little... frustrated?”

Fuck—you can't scramble to your feet fast enough. You pivot in place, not sure whether to kiss him or yell at him or throw your hands up in the air and curse unintelligibly in his general direction.

In the end, you find yourself heading for the door.

Fuck him, fuck him and his fucking games. God, you want to kiss that fucking smirk off of his face so badly, to swallow his amusement until he devolves into a mess of incomprehensible moans.

Leaving is the best option because he's driving you up the wall right now with the teasing, and yeah, he's right about this being a bad idea—you were crossing a line before it was ready to be crossed. You were trying to progress the relationship too fast.

His teasing reassures you, in a sick way, that it's okay to feel the desires you tried to express to him today. It tells you that he isn't angry, and gives you hope that he might eventually be willing, too.

You fling the door open and toss a glare over your shoulder. “I really fucking hate you, Eddie.”

His expression shifts from amusement to slight worry, and you can tell he's wondering if he pushed you too far, if your anger is sincere.

Your anger is actually just a whole lot of frustration at yourself for finding him so fucking endearing. Hesitantly, some of the bite bleeding from your voice to reveal something softer, you add, “I'll see you tomorrow.”

He smiles again, reassured, and you close the door behind you.

Chapter Text

It's a twenty minute drive to the most expensive supermarket in town, just down the road from a wealthy neighborhood. The combination of high prices and location means that it's also the least crowded place to buy food.

The parking lot is almost vacant, but a little busier than usual. Maybe you should come back later. You usually shop at night, make a beeline for the freezer section, hover a good distance away from the other customers if they are blocking the shelves you need, use the self-checkout and then hightail it the fuck out of there.

Still in the driver's seat in the parking lot, you stare at your phone's abysmal contact list. Dr. Everett is the first one. Your lawyer second. The third is the number to MMSS. That's all. It had been too painful to see Lisa's number in there, so you deleted it at some point. Not that it matters—you have her cell memorized.

Your shaking fingers nearly click the wrong contact, but soon the phone is ringing and the receptionist at MMSS answers.

"Mount Massive Survivors' Sanctuary—how can I help you?"

"Uh, is it possible to connect me to one of the patients there?"

Shit. You've gone over this conversation a thousand times in your head since last night, but you're still handling it with no finesse.

"Yes, I can do that," she replies. "Depending on the patient's allotted privileges of course. Who are you trying to contact?"

"Gluskin," it's embarrassing to admit, even over the phone. "Eddie Gluskin."

"Gluskin?" She hesitates. "One moment please."

This is a bad idea. What possessed you to think it was a good idea?

Is the receptionist just surprised that someone wants to get in touch with Eddie Gluskin, who only ever gets visited by one person?

"I'm sorry, sir, " the receptionist says, after a moment. "But Mr. Gluskin still isn't accepting interview requests—"

"I'm not—I'm a friend.” The interjection is rude, and your face burns under your mistake.

The receptionist doesn't miss a beat. "May I have your name, please?"

You should hang up. You should just hang up now and spare yourself any further embarrassment. "Waylon Park."

"Mr. Park? Oh, I'm sorry. Eddie usually only gets calls from people trying to arrange an interview. Journalists and whatnot."

The information makes you sad, somehow. "Ah."

"It's nice that he's not receiving a call from someone trying to profit off of his suffering, for once," she says, and it strikes you as odd once again that the staff, particularly female staff, take any pity in the man. "Anyway, I'll transfer you right away."

"Are you sure that's okay? I mean, I'm kinda calling on a whim, I didn't have my therapist talk to his first, to make sure it's okay for me to call."

You should have, but the amount of time you spend in your therapy sessions focusing on your budding friendship with Eddie Gluskin is starting to feel increasingly wrong. Dr. Everett hasn't spoken ill of your new-found interest yet, but it's probably only a matter of time before she deems it as unhealthy as you know it is.

You can practically hear the receptionist shrug. "You're on his doctor-approved contact list. You are the only one on it who isn't an employee here."

Did Dr. Everett make that happen, or was it Eddie himself? "Okay. As long as it's allowed."

"No worries, every protocol has already been strictly followed. I'll transfer you now. It may take a few minutes for the orderlies to commandeer Gluskin, but he'll be with you shortly. Goodbye, Mr. Park."

Before you can reply, the line clicks and soft music starts playing, indicating that the call is on hold.

That was easier than you had expected it to be.

While you wait for Gluskin with your cellphone held to your ear, you exit your car and make your way into the store. You decide to take a cart instead of a basket this time, it'll make it easier to hold the phone to your ear.

Just as you're turning down one of the empty aisles to stall for time, the music on the other end of the line cuts out and Gluskin's voice replaces it with a, "Hello?"

"I'm at the grocery store. Tell me what to buy."

There's a pause and a few attempted syllables before Eddie finally says, "You want me to shop for you?"

"Yeah, and after that you're going to tell me how to cook it, too."

"Oh, I am, am I?" he sounds more amused than you've ever heard him. Which is saying something, because he had a grand old time teasing you the other day. "And when did I agree to this?"

"You didn't. You don't have a choice."

It's good that there's no one around yet, no other customers wandering down the aisle you're hiding out in. You probably look ridiculous, leaning over the handle of the empty shopping cart, smiling into your phone. Would a random passerby think that you're flirting with the person on the other end of the line?

It almost feels good, knowing a stranger might mistake you for a normal guy.

Gluskin laughs, "I suppose I have no choice. Alright, I hope you have enough sense to be in the fresh foods section already."

Chips and crackers tower over you on the shelves. "En route now."

You push the cart with one hand, following the signs, because the fresh foods section isn't a part of the store you frequent.

"If I close my eyes, it almost feels like I'm there with you," Eddie murmurs after a moment. "I can hear the rattle of the cart, your footsteps on the linoleum. The music in the store."
You can picture it too, Gluskin walking next to you, eyes on a grocery list, pulling a pen from his pocket to jot down more things to buy.

You don't tell him this. You don't respond to his words at all.

"Okay, I'm here. Fruits and vegetables—what should I get?"

"What will you eat?"

"Anything, really."

"I gathered as much, considering you're willing to eat those atrocious frozen-dinners."

"Just tell me what to buy, jackass."

A man shopping nearby glances at you warily, but he sees your smile, the phone in your hand, and glances away again. What, did the stranger think that you were scolding a girlfriend or something? Would he even have intervened if you were?

"Fruits are an easy and healthy addition to any meal, and they make wonderful snacks."
Gluskin sounds like a pediatrician, a children's dentist, a grade-school teacher... a parent.

"Are bananas, apples and oranges okay?"

"Those are adequate, yes. Whatever you like."

You like Code Red Mountain Dew and Cheez-Its, but he's probably never encountered good food. Plus, defending the honor of junk food will only lower his perception of your maturity.

You finish adding the fruit to your cart. "Okay, got them."

"I'll just pretend that you know how to select fruit properly."

"Don't worry, we're both pretending that I know how to do that," you reply.

You expect Gluskin to laugh, but instead he groans, as if this information pains him.

You're about to snap at him, to tell him that he should just fill out some paperwork and get permission from his therapists to come shop with you in person, if he cares so much, but then you remember that you're the one who doesn't want that.

Maybe it would make it easier with him at your side. You wouldn't have to keep your distance from every other shopper and maybe if you had someone there with you, it wouldn't be so nerve-wracking to navigate crowded aisles. Maybe you wouldn't feel like such a weirdo, refusing to make eye-contact with everyone and wandering around alone in the store with your dark eyelids and overly cautious demeanor.

"Waylon?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Huh?"

"You stopped talking. Your breathing sounds different. Heavier."

He's listening to you breathe?

(He's listening to you breathe?)

"Sorry, just thinking."

"About what?" The inquiry is a gentle one, the kind spoken by someone cradling their lover in their arms. You can almost feel his eyes on you, his fingers in your hair.

Two words.

He only said two words to you.

"About you being here. How it might make it easier for me to cope. I don't like public places much. Not anymore. I mean, I was always an introvert, but this is different. Worse." The sounds of clashing shopping carts translates to your brain as sharpening blades, the soft talk between other shoppers resonates as conspiratorial whispers. “It's not fun.”

"This fear is my fault." It should be a question, but it's not. Eddie knows he's at least partly to blame.

You shrug, even though he can't see it.

The silence must get the point across because Eddie says, "I understand. But, I must ask—why then do you think having me there with you now will make it better?"

Because you know if some other predator in the asylum had caught you, Eddie would have killed them to keep you for himself. And in your fucked up brain, that sounds like safety.

Because you believe Eddie when he says he doesn't want to mutilate your genitals anymore. Because you know if Eddie doesn't want to mutilate you, it's unlikely that he'll hurt you. Because you know everything he did in Mount Massive wasn't really him—it was a false version of him brought to life by the Engine. Because you honestly believe he doesn't want hurt anyone ever again.

(Because if you're wrong about Eddie, if he really is just luring you into a false sense of security so that he can kill you—well, then you might just welcome death, because you're sick of feeling inhuman all the damn time.)

Instead, you say, "I don't think you want to hurt me," you glance around, paranoid about someone eavesdropping. There are a few people around, and they might be listening, but you suppose that it doesn't really matter. "And I know you won't let anyone else hurt me."

"Sounds like purchasing a pocketknife or mace would be a better option for you, considering those objects will protect you without any chance of betrayal."

He should be delighted by your confession—delighted that you want to seek comfort and safety from him in any way. Instead, he sounds matter-of-fact. Not even bitter.

"Eddie," you say, firm, weary. "Even... back then, I didn't defend myself. I could have picked up," a blade, is what you want to say, a weapon, but you're all too aware of the other customers around you, “something to defend myself with, to fight back, but I didn't. Even when you," hit me. Even when you hit me, "I didn't."

Only the camera. That's all.

"But why?"

You shrug again, but knowing Eddie can't see it, you force yourself to answer, "It's just not in me. I'm not a violent person."

"Even in extreme danger? Waylon, that's absurd—"

"It's true," you say, loud enough to cause stares from the other shoppers. "Now what else should I buy?"

"Vegetables. Celery, carrots—whatever you're willing to eat raw," he says, reluctantly. He doesn't want to change the subject.

As you collect the items he mentioned, you shift your gaze between the various customers staring at you. They're trying to be inconspicuous. Some seem curious, others vexed, but in the end all of their gazes look hungry to you—like they want to pounce you and eat you, cut your flesh away and chew the marrow from your bones.

It's...

It's just the PTSD.

Nothing more.

"Okay, now what?"

"Hm. I'm thinking, darling. I'm afraid you've sprung this on me, so you'll have to give me a moment to consider what recipes I know by heart. Perhaps—"

You don't like it. You don't like the way the other shoppers are looking at you. The air feels too thick, sticky, like the air in Mount Massive. "Eddie. Now."

"Spinach," he replies. "Frozen. A bag of it."

The speed at which you push your cart draws even more attention, but it doesn't matter, because it gets you around the corner and out of sight quicker. It's not until you throw a worried glance over your shoulder to make sure no one's following you, that you finally slow your pace.

After the spinach, Eddie rattles off several more items, all business, the conversation killed by your obvious panic. What should you make of his lack of inquiry about it? Is he not sure how to handle you? It wouldn't be a first. Even Lisa didn't know how to deal with you when you got like this.

Next thing you know you're heading to checkout—self checkout, because a machine won't take one look at your rattled appearance and think you're some sort of creep or murderer, like a cashier would. The machine won't scrutinize the items in your basket as if they expect to find rope and duct tape and the sharpest kitchen utensils a grocery store has to offer.

"Okay, Eddie, I guess I'll call you back when I get home. If you’re allowed to get two calls in one day."

"I don't see why I wouldn't be."

"Ah." You glance over your shoulder. While scanning your food at the checkout, you're forced to have your back turned to the rest of the store. It doesn't feel safe.

"Waylon, am I correct to assume that you're feeling a bit paranoid right now?"

Paranoid. Paranoid!

That word—you hate that word—it has such a fucking negative connotation. Like your fear is unfounded. Like you shouldn't be feeling this way.

He's the reason. He's part of the reason. He should know. He shouldn't be belittling the feeling by slapping the label of paranoia on what you're feeling—what you feel every time you go out in public alone.

You really, really consider, hanging up on him right then and there.

"Waylon?"

"What?"

"I apologize if my assumption offends you, but your demeanor has shifted since the start of this call."

You glare at the touch screen on the self-checkout. Wait for him to give you another reason to hang up on him. You should just end the call. You should abandon your partially bagged groceries and walk out of the store empty handed.

You're done, you're just—

"I would like to stay on the line with you while you drive home, if that's alright. If that might ease your mind a bit."

"Way to flatter yourself," you choke out, surprised by how sweet the offer is. It's the kind of thing Dr. Everett did for you, back when you first started therapy, back before you decided that you are a grown man who should be doing things on your own. (Still, Gluskin's offer deflates your anger instantly.) "I guess that might be okay. I could put it on speaker phone, or something."

Gluskin only grunts in response. He's probably shocked that you accepted his offer. Doesn't want to open his big mouth and destroy the progress he's made. Wise choice.

"It's a long drive though—twenty minutes—are you sure you want to be on the phone for that long? What are the phones like there, anyway?"

"I look forward to the duration. And, as I mentioned before, there are rows of phone booths with landlines. No dials, so we can't make outgoing calls."

"Are they private?" You go back to scanning and bagging the remainder of the food.

"Booths, Waylon, are you familiar with the definition? Or are such things lost to your generation?"

"Shut up. Small box with a bench and a door—I get it. I meant, like, do they let you have privacy?" A thought crosses your mind for the first time. "Are they monitoring this call? Recording it?"

"They don't do that without permission from one or both parties."

Ah. That's a relief.

"Why do you ask?"

"Hm?" You have to hold the phone to your ear with your shoulder as you finish paying and load the cart with bags.

"What does it matter if the call is private?"

"I don't know. Just curious."

"Right."

There's no note of teasing in Gluskin's voice, but your cheeks glow red anyway, as if he's looming over you with that toothy, knowing grin.

The drive home is remarkably uneventful—light conversation and the feeling of a weight lifting off of your chest. You ask how Eddie's day has been going, he talks to you about group therapy, about keeping Val company while they planted bulbs in the MMSS gardens.

It's unspoken, but you know Gluskin would alert the staff at MMSS if the call ended suddenly, or if it seemed like something happened to you. And it makes you feel less worried about some ex-Murkoff CEO's hired goon running you off the road. Nothing like that has ever happened, but you're afraid of it nonetheless. Especially every time some awful driver tailgates you.

Eddie talks—he's good at that—and you listen while you drive. He tells you about his three therapists, how Sarah is going to be on maternity leave soon. How she promised to bring the baby in eventually, to show it off. She promised she would let him hold it (and this—this baffles you a bit, that someone who knows Eddie inside and out would trust him with a baby—it makes you feel less alone, less like you're out of your mind to consider trusting him).

Eddie tells you he doesn't mind the lack of privacy at MMSS—doesn't mind being cooped up inside one facility for so much of his life. He says he likes the sense of community, (which makes sense to you, considering his desire to surround himself with a large family).

And when you finally make it back to your apartment, grocery bags hanging off of your arms and your phone still smashed against your ear, Eddie Gluskin asks you what you're wearing.

"Excuse me?"

"Your clothes—you might want to change them, depending on your current attire. Unless you have an apron."

Oh.

He's just worried about your clothes getting stained while you're cooking.

Is he even aware that 'what are you wearing' is the universal way to initiate phone sex?

Probably not.

It's absurd, how innocent that is. You can't help but laugh as you put the groceries away.

"...What?" he asks, suspicious of your amusement.

"Nothing."

"You're laughing."

"Am I?"

"You are—what is it?"

"Nothing, it's nothing." The thought of telling him isn't helping you quell your laughter.

"Tell me," he demands, on the verge of annoyance—he probably thinks he's being laughed at. Are you really laughing that hard?

"You don't want to know."

"I do. Why else would I ask?"

"Seriously, you don't want to know."

Gluskin apparently has the patience of a middle aged business man late for a meeting.

"Waylon." There's a sharp edge to his voice, a warning.

Maybe his annoyance would intimidate you more in person, where you would be able to see his severe expression. Over the phone, it just makes you laugh harder.

“Tell me.”

"Alright, alright.” You pause for effect. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Silence.

More silence.

You can all but hear his clenched fists and grinding teeth.

"You asked me what I was wearing," you supply so easily that it's sure to infuriate him further.

Nothing. No reply.

"Eddie?"

"...How is that amusing?"

For a man that was so confident in his ability to impregnate you in Mount Massive, he sure seems innocent—sheltered.

"That question is usually used to initiate phone sex, either seriously or jokingly." Just to rub salt in the wound, you add, "You do know what phone sex is, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I know what it is," he snaps.

It probably makes you a terrible person, but you're laughing again. What the fuck—maybe all that confidence and sexual prowess he displayed back in Mount Massive was really just a result of the psychosis. Without the Engine around to get rid of his inhibitions, could it be that Eddie Gluskin is actually a timid man when it comes to sex?

"Well, are you happy now?" you ask.

"I would be happy if you shut your mouth," he grumbles, unnecessarily harsh as an attempt to lighten the mood.

God, it feels good to be the one doing the teasing for a change. "Are you sure? Are you sure you don't want to know exactly what I'm wearing? How about what I would do with my mouth if I was there, instead?"

Fuck. You're such an asshole, but it's too hilarious—too easy to tease such an uptight man. Is this how Lisa felt when she used to pick on you until you turned red?

"I, uh," he clears his throat. "Perhaps we should get started on dinner, before it gets too late. We've been on the phone for a while. You must be starving."

You are hungry, actually, but you couldn't care less about that right now.

It's probably just the distance the phone creates that makes you so confident, that makes you think that this is a good idea in any way. Yeah. It's because you can't look him in the eye, can't be scrutinized under his gaze, that makes you brave (impulsive, impulsive, impulsive) enough to say your next words:

"I'm wearing a long-sleeved, plaid button-down shirt. Button-fly jeans, folded around the ankles.”

You've only spent a handful of hours each day with Gluskin for the past couple of months—but it feels like you've known him forever, and in a way you have, considering how frequently he's been on your mind since Mount Massive.

You have never participated in casual sex—hell, Lisa's the only girl you've ever been with. The only person you've ever been with. You've been called a prude by more people than you can count for your dedication to Lisa during your marriage.

The closest thing to casual sex you've ever had was having a crush on a guy that used to write in the campus coffee shop every Wednesday, back in college. You never even spoke one word to that guy.

And yet here you are. Though nothing seems casual about this.

Eddie's silence is not exactly a rejection of your attempt to test the waters, so you continue with the calmest voice you can manage despite your shaky grip of the phone, “Want me to take something off?”

“Waylon.” He says your name like it's a flashing caution sign, all but growling it, and god, it sends a rush of unintended warmth through you.

“Fuck, Eddie, if you're trying to convince me to stop, don't say my name like that.”

Eddie fails to shoot back a retort, and you listen hard for any slight noise from him. Nothing.

He likes it, doesn't he? He likes it when you tell him what he does to you. He's not tempted by your feeble efforts at seduction, but he likes your frustration.

You can work with that.

“The other night in your room, it took everything in me not to climb into your lap and shove my tongue down your throat.”

It's not eloquent and you weren't able to bring yourself to tell him in person, but the safety the phone creates as you slip into a chair at your familiar kitchen table—it makes sharing so much easier.

“God, I wanted to suck on your lip until it bled, claw my way under your shirt and grip your skin hard enough to bruise.” It's okay if you pop off a few of the buttons on his shirt, he can sew them back on. It's okay.

Eddie's not going to reply, is he? But he's not stopping you either. He's still there, still listening, you can hear him breathing now.

“I wanted to press myself against you until you couldn't deny that you wanted me too—I wanted to insist that you admit it, force you to tell me how much you wanted me while I swallowed that precious fucking speech impediment of yours.” You're alone—completely fucking alone in your apartment, and still you have to cover your face with your free hand, hiding your embarrassment from no one at all. “Right now, I want to rake my fingers through your hair, grab a fistful of it and jerk your head back so I can kiss your neck.” So you can feel his pulse against your tongue.

Nothing. No response, just Gluskin's steady breath on the other end of the line. You're fucking things up but it's too late to go back. He has to respond, he has to.

“Fuck, is this okay? Can I keep talking to you like this?” You're treading dangerous waters, letting your racing thoughts spill from you the moment they half-form. You don't want anything you're saying to remind him of any of the sexual abuse he's experienced, but you need him to know how you feel. “Eddie? Tell me I'm not hurting you.”

Eddie grunts, and you figure that's about as much permission as you'll get from him. It's okay, it's okay to take that as consent, because he can just hang up the phone if he wants you to stop. Yeah, he'll hang up if it bothers him.

“I want to bite my feelings into your shoulder so fucking bad, see how long you can bear it, memorize your discomfort.” Would he hiss at the pain and tear your mouth away from his wet skin? Surely you won't be able to stop biting until he pries you off of him—there is too much to communicate with your teeth, too much anger, confusion, desperation.

“Darling, correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought you said you weren't the violent type?”

What he's saying isn't sensual in the slightest, it doesn't indulge or enable your behavior, but hearing his voice at all is too much.

You're not sure which is louder, your heart pounding on your ribs like a caged animal, or your own fingers fumbling with the buttons on your pants. The act of ripping your fly open and shoving a hand down your pants resounds loudest in the end, simply because of the wrongness of it—no one is around to see it, and still the action commands so much attention.

The sound you make when your fingers encircle your erection is something that can't be contained by your teeth gnawing at your lip.

“Waylon,” Eddie hisses—even over the phone you can practically see Gluskin's scandalized expression. “Please tell me you're not.”

“I am,” you choke out around a moan, hand working as quick as the confined space of your pants allows. You're aching with both relief and need, squeezing yourself as you stroke.

That shuts Gluskin up, but not before he fails to contain a strained vocalization that your hazy, impaired judgment can only interpret as wanton.

“Nnn.” You're past the point of being able to narrate your mental images of Gluskin and what you want to do to him. Instead, you ask, breathless, “Do you want to listen?”

To your delight, Gluskin replies feebly, “Aren't I already?”

“No, I mean,” it's no use trying to explain it, so you show him what you mean instead, pulling the phone away from your ear to hold the speaker close to where your hand is working in earnest over your erection. The sound of shuffling clothing is probably the only thing that translates, but it's the thought that counts.

When you bring the phone back up to your ear, Gluskin must notice the change, because he says, “I enjoy sound of your breath much more.”

Fuck, the sincerity is overwhelming. So confident. Like he's not even fazed.

“Eddie—“ You mean to growl out some sort of retort because you don't want to let the fucker get away with acting like this doesn't affect him, but you forget your complaint with the insistent slide of your hand over swollen flesh.

“Yes, darling?”

Fuck—it's like he's not even aware of what he's doing to you, of how much you need him. “Please, say my name,” you whine, bucking slightly as you fuck your own fist—close, you're so close.

You're on the verge of babbling incessantly, you want to tell him about how this isn't the first time you've jerked yourself off to the thought of him recently—how it won't be the last.

Eddie hums, probably in preparation for some sort of quip, but before he has a chance to say anything else, you're moaning against the phone and sliding your hand up to the tip of your cock to spill your come into your fist, drowning out whatever he was going to say.

He doesn't try to tease or taunt you, he doesn't say anything, he's just quiet, allowing you to catch your breath, to rejoin him back in reality.

You wipe your slippery hand off on your jeans in display of how little you care; it's a task to remove the fluid from between your fingers. Would Eddie be willing to suck them clean, or is that too vulgar for him?

Shit—Eddie. He barely spoke a single word during all of that.

What a fucking fiasco.

You're a mess. Such a fucking mess.

The legs of your chair scrape back against the floor as you lean down to rest your head on the table.

What did you do? What the hell did you just do?

Shame and uncertainty flood through your body, crashing together in waves.

Eddie is still quiet and—you can't take it back, you can't take that pathetic display of lust back.

Fuck, what if he tells his therapists? What if they tell yours?

Shit, you're—god, what did you just do? What the fuck did you just do?

Your next groan is free of want, comprised of pure self-loathing.

“I'm so sorry, Eddie, I'm sorry,” your words are nothing more than a dull whine. You blame your orgasm for the sudden wave of emotion. It's your first sexual experience with another person since Lisa divorced you over two years ago, and you practically forced it on Gluskin. Eddie Gluskin. “I shouldn't have done that—”

You wanted power. Control. To feel desired.

But. Now it just feels like you abused some sort of power.

Took advantage of this man.

Eddie hushes you, and despite all of your misgivings, you still close your eyes and imagine his fingers in your hair. “Nonsense. You've done nothing wrong.”

“Why didn't you tell me to stop?” Fuck, you're actually fucking sniveling into your tablecloth now, and there's no question that Gluskin can hear it. He must think you're a wreck.

“I was afraid that if I participated more actively it would disrupt the flow of,” he pauses, probably in attempt to make his next words sound as clean as possible, “stimulating information I was receiving.”

It takes a moment for your muddled brain to process that. “Bullshit. You would have joined in if you enjoyed it that much.”

“Oh, I did enjoy it. But you're right, there was something else stopping me.”

You hold your breath. Wait for the onslaught of excuses about hindering your therapy and his therapy and how oh so wrong it is. “What?”

“Two different orderlies came in to check on me during that. I've been on the phone a questionably long time, apparently.”

You don't know how it's possible through the tears, but you laugh harder than you ever have in your entire life .

“Oh, I am so glad you find my predicament amusing.”

His sarcasm only doubles you over with the force of your laughter. You aren't sure if the tears that stream down your cheeks are from relief or mortification or grief.

When your amusement finally dwindles down to shaky breath, you wipe the tears from your eyes, not all of them a product of your earlier self-loathing. “Wow, that cheers me up.”

“At least you're happy.”

“What, my shameless display of lust wasn't enough to amuse the great Eddie Gluskin?”

“Amuse? Never. Though it does leave me with some things to consider.”

“Like what?”

“How I'm going to manage to look you in the eye during our next encounter.”

Shit. Maybe you should have considered that before you made a fool of yourself.

“It doesn't have to be awkward.” You don't even believe your own assertion.

“Oh?”

“I'll just meet you in your room, and—“

Eddie cuts you off with a groan. “Dear lord, darling, haven't you had enough for one day?”

“I meant tomorrow, when I visit.”

“Yes, I realize this, but must you plan your next indulgence so quickly?”

Ha, you're actually wearing him out. Is this all it takes? A few sentences and a whole lot of enabling? You have to resist the urge to tease him with all of your heart. “Well, looking forward to the future is a hell of a lot better than regretting the past.”

“Very true,” he says, “Very true. Now, why don't we get started on dinner?”

You want him to be here to make you the dinner himself, you're worn out and emotionally drained, but the thought of Gluskin guiding you through meal preparation seems so inviting, the type of thing a normal long-distance couple might do. Gluskin isn't going to hang up the phone on you. He still wants to talk to you after what just happened. He still sees value in you, in making sure you eat properly, in taking care of you.

It makes you feel better than you have any right to feel, after what just occurred.

“Okay, I'll get my apron.”

Chapter Text

The mall isn't too crowded on weekdays and what little bustle there is serves to create a sense of invisibility as you navigate it. Window shopping at the mall used to be a prime outing location with the kids, which entailed toting them around to the various toy shops and letting them scavenge through the aisles to find the perfect boxed plaything to beg for. The one-toy-each rule was always in effect but seldom obeyed, as it was a struggle to not give in to pouting lips and small limbs bouncing with excitement over the prospect of a new possession.

The internet delivers almost everything you need right to your apartment, remedying anxiety and leaving groceries to be the only real chore that forces you beyond your doorstep. But you need something, anything to tell Dr. Everett tonight that might cushion the blow of reality you're going to—have to—tell her.

Then again, ' went to the mall alone today isn't that a great step forward for me? Oh by the way, I had phone sex with Eddie Gluskin' doesn't seem like the most tactful plan ever conceived.

Still, here you are at the bookstore in the mall so you have something to tell Dr. Everett that isn't a lie, an attempt to avoid talking about the biggest problem in your life: Eddie Gluskin.

Hasn't he always been the center of your problems, even before you decided to form some sort of shameful friendship with him? During the riot most of the violence you came across was implied—bloody messages scrawled on the walls in finger-wide strokes, piles of dismembered limbs, corpses hanging from the ceiling. Frank chasing you through the halls with only the whir of his saw to unveil the threat of violence.

Gluskin remains the primary source of the images that haunt you, the things he did to other patients while you watched from the locker. The screams of the men he killed, the seasoned way he went about it.

The Engine aimed to instill a brutal, all-encompassing sort of hunger. You felt that hunger yourself after only a few hours of forcibly enduring it. Lisa and the kids were the only things grounding you, reminding you of reality, of your humanity—but they were dangerous memories to conjure after stepping away from the Engine. The need to consume threatened to pollute those good memories along with everything else.

The effects of the Engine are just remnants now, no longer an insistent, probing influence, but instead memories of feelings you never wanted to know yourself capable of.

The Engine mutilated men and hung them from the ceiling, the Engine bound your limbs to posts and threatened to cut off your genitals.

It was all the Engine. Murkoff. Mount Massive. Jeremy Blaire.

That little, familiar mantra is rattled by the Throwback Best-Sellers display in the bookstore, proudly assaulting you with copies of The Leadville Tailor: An Unofficial Biography.

It's as funny as it is infuriating, and even as you touch the cover and your heart pumps harder in warning (because flipping through the pages will only bring you pain) you can't help but feel lucky that it's not you on the cover of some invasive biography. You're sure your lawyers can't keep your name out of everything and that somewhere in the bookstore Waylon Park is printed between shelved pages. Somewhere there must be a chapter about Murkoff's whistle-blower. But it's not on the best-seller display and that's all that matters.

Your existence is fit for gossip columns and news articles but it is too boring for a whole biography—when your name is brought up, it's to credit you for the footage you leaked, not to tell any story that comes before or after.

It takes the brand of violence Gluskin achieved to make the best-seller list.

You shouldn't be skimming the pages with unstable fingers, pausing to take in the low quality crime-scene photos that are telling of the decade they were taken in. The dried skin stitched experimentally, thoughtful only of the craft, not the life being reduced to an object.

The book tells you that Gluskin's parents had been tailors, and so he had been too, which was the nature of a family business, especially in a town so small that those born to it were unlikely to venture beyond it.

A tailor. Eddie likes sewing, he's skilled at it. He's never told you this about himself directly.

So many things you know about him are from summaries in documentaries watched casually in a dark room with a bowl of cereal, long before you ever took that job at Mount Massive. So many of these details never stuck before, never jumped out at you like they do now, committing themselves to memory like fundamental math. It makes you feel like a bigger creep than the young Eddie Gluskin who treated dead women's skin like animal hide.

Gluskin hasn't talked to you much about his life before it became a series of asylums, not that you ask. It feels like cheating to learn about his past from an outside source, his life detailed dryly by some author trying to make a penny off of someone else's story. It reads to you like Lisa's social media page had when she first accepted your friend request—you had felt so guilty for scrolling through years of posts trying to absorb everything you could about her, no matter how invasive it felt, to marvel at the essence of what made her who she was.

It's wrong, so wrong to be fixated on the photograph of a teenage Eddie Gluskin, standing with stiff, proud posture in front of the glass storefront of his family's tailor shop. And it's these pictures, the ones dripping with normalcy that hold your attention, that fill you with a disgusting mixture of longing and affection. The plainness of the pictures, the soft smile on Gluskin's face and the air of pride about him should register as grim and foreboding when you know that in just the span of a few pages the photographs contain the bloody evidence of his crimes.

The responsibility for what he did—what others did to him—settles itself on your shoulders, uncomfortable but not entirely unwelcome.

You couldn't have known him back then, it's impossible by circumstance, age difference, so many variables that could have never made it so—but looking at the photographs now just makes you wish you could have known him, befriended him, perhaps saved him from himself. Maybe it's a savior complex, maybe you feel like this for the same reason you sent the email exposing Murkoff, the same reason you leaked the footage.

But you can't bring yourself to feel guilt for your desire to go back in time and take a too-young Eddie Gluskin away from his abusive parents, to befriend the young man working at his family's tailor shop and give him a reason not to hurt anyone.

'I know I would have hurt you, no matter what actions you took.'

It's just like the dreams. The fantasies. Just like the not-knowing that tore you up after Mount Massive, the paranoia about your own almost-death on that table-saw—the thought that if only you had been calm enough to convince him not to hurt you, things could have ended differently for him, for the people you watched him kill.

Is it something about Gluskin himself that makes you want to save him? The way he pounded on the glass and told you that he knew you could? The way he coaxed you in the vocational block with so much desire?

Or is it you? A character flaw—the inherent need to fix things and the overconfident belief that you possess the ability to do so in a clean, neat way that improves everyone's lives?

But nothing you've ever tried to fix has ended cleanly—Mount Massive is proof of that.

(Or is it that you like Eddie Gluskin too much and you need that to be okay so badly that you long to go back in time and fix his life?)

Either way, it's your fault you feel this way.

The horror of Eddie's crimes are dull, grainy in your mind. The things he did are fact, you know that, but you don't feel it. Those things, they don't feel like him, even the memory of The Groom leaning between your exposed thighs doesn't feel like him. The sight of his blade ending another man's life. His voice gently advising another sentient being to bleed out. It's not him, it can't be. That was the Engine, and this—what's in this biography, it was the schizophrenia, the abuse. It has to be.

Eddie Gluskin is the man who has been spending time with you for the past few months, he is the man who welcomes your presence, looks forward to it despite your instability, your misgivings, your occasional hairpin switch from contempt to understanding and back again.

He is the man who stayed on the phone with you after you spilled your own crimes into your hand, who guided you through a meal plan and spoiled you with normalcy. He is the man who has made taking care of yourself—eating right, getting out of bed, initiating social contact—feel like something other than a punishment, because most days not doing anything but withering away seems like the most valid option.

He is not his crimes, not anymore. He is more than that, even if he is only more than that to you.

Why him? Why not be thankful for the motivation he's given you and move on? Why not say your goodbyes and never visit him again, or perhaps only on occasion? Why waste this chance to piece your life back together on some morbid little relationship with Eddie Gluskin that can never see the light of day?

You've talked yourself into telling Dr. Everett on the off chance that she'll reassure you that this is somehow okay, and you can keep visiting him and live a life that isn't hidden, one that you can come to feel proud of.

A life where the loneliness doesn't incapacitate—because the visits with Eddie have removed such a huge hurdle: the fear that meaningful connections with other people are impossible for someone as broken as you are. The fear that no one will be able to look at you without pity pouring from their knowing smiles.

You still spend too much of your time alone despite the progress you've made—that's why you're inclined to rationalize this, to think that telling anyone how you feel about Eddie Gluskin is a good idea, to think that anyone would ever support you in regards to these feelings.

How can you expect Dr. Everett to understand when you know how unnecessary this is, how much stress it will continue to bring you?

Gluskin isn't the only person in the universe—the country—hell, the city, your neighborhood—that can make you happy. You know this logically, that there are billions of people in the world, many of whom you could find yourself loving, who could love you.

But none of those people were there for you. Even the friends you reached out to after the divorce, the friends who may have been interested in pursing a relationship with you, instead kept you at a distance, perhaps unsure of how to best console you, believing you a task outside their abilities, afraid to break you, afraid to appear over-eager. It wasn't them who put in the effort to be an active part of your life.

It wasn't the bookstore clerk behind the counter eyeing you through his glasses and smiling when you glance at him, it wasn't the woman sitting cross-legged on the floor of the science-fiction aisle, absorbed in a book. It wasn't the man with a toddler on his hip, or the customer with short, bright-pink hair and several facial piercings.

It was Eddie Gluskin—Eddie Gluskin who dropped everything whenever you would visit unexpectedly, Eddie Gluskin who kept tabs on your physical and mental health, who advised you in favor of a healthier lifestyle. Eddie Gluskin who thought of you in his free time, who made gifts for you, who kept seeing you even in spite of his concerns about his own progress being hindered. Eddie who regarded you as something other than a walking remnant of a person who used to be worth knowing.

Eddie Gluskin, Eddie Gluskin, Eddie Gluskin.

No one else.

* * *

Your therapy appointment isn't for a few hours, and though usually a few spare hours translates to you as time to spend at home attempting sleep, it's probably best if you get visiting Eddie over with.

The anticipation has been gnawing at you—will he treat you differently after that phone call?

Even in Mount Massive the man struck you as a prude despite the sexual harassment. He'd assured you over the phone that your lapse in judgment hadn't bothered him, but you're not so sure.

The receptionist at MMSS doesn't bat an eyelash at the sight of you, even with a reusable shopping bag in hand. You could have left the books you bought in the car—but having physical evidence of your trip into the outside world will help ease the news you have to break to Dr. Everett.

Right.

“Eddie's with his therapist currently, right?” you ask after a glance at the clock above the receptionist’s desk. Maybe it's embarrassing that you have his schedule memorized, but the woman behind the desk doesn't seem to notice. “Is it okay if I wait for him by his room or something?”

The receptionist checks his schedule with a few clicks. Whatever is on the monitor makes her frown. “He should be in therapy, yes. But according to this he's been in his room all day.”

“Why?”

“Could be many things. A patient refusing to abide by their schedule, or a schedule change. Sometimes the side-effects of a patient's daily medication can call for bed rest.”

He's not having a breakdown because of that phone call, is he? “Can I still go see him?”

“It doesn't appear he's had his visitation rights revoked, so yes, it should be fine.”

“Okay, thanks.”

The nagging feeling that you have something to do with why Eddie's been holed up in his room all day eats at you as you go through the security-checkpoint and make your way to the patient ward.

Pyro intercepts you in the hallway outside Eddie's room, and you don't mind because you honestly like him despite his cynical attitude. He is gnawing on his thumb nail, one arm wound tightly around his middle, as if holding himself back from something.

“Eddie wasn't in group this morning,” he says, skipping the formalities. It's not the first time he's initiated uncomfortably strong eye contact. You don't know what it is about him, but somehow you don't mind the intensity. “Missed two meals and a meeting with his psychiatrist.”

Does Pyro usually keep such close tabs on Eddie's whereabouts? It's probably hard not to notice the schedules of other patients. “Yeah, receptionist told me. Said he's been in his room all day.”

The man hums, lips pursed against the pad of his thumb. “Would've assumed he finally succumbed to all the guilt about the shit he's done, if it wasn't for the orderlies coming by to bring him water and meds.”

Coming from anyone else, the implication would infuriate you, but Pyro's cynical musings only resound as worry. He strikes you as a man attuned to the well-being of those around him, which is a bit ironic considering he's claimed to have an impulse to start fires that is clinically diagnosed.

“Do you know why he's not coming out of his room?” you ask. It's best if you know what you're walking into.

“Sick would be my guess. Just a cold, probably. There's one going around. I had to sweet-talk an orderly just to get that much information—that's what I don't like about this place, all the secrecy.”

There is a difference between privacy and secrecy, but it's not one you care to argue, especially when the information he's providing soothes some of your anxiety.

“They won't let you talk to him?”

Pyro's arms drop to his sides, fingers twitching with an itch to do who knows what—though he quickly settles for tracing a thick scar that runs up his arm. Is it medication side-effects that make him so fidgety, or his impulse control disorder itself, the urge to flick a lighter or strike a match?

“We're not allowed to enter another patient's room without invitation if the door is closed.” His voice is slow and confident, a huge contrast to the way his fingers go from bothering his scars to twisting in the hem of his shirt. “I knocked on Eddie's door like five times but he just groans at me—not exactly a no, but I wasn't going to take my chances.”

Whether he's referring to trouble he might bring upon himself with the orderlies, or repercussions from Gluskin himself, you don't know.

“What do you need him for? I'm heading to his room now.” It feels ridiculous to say that since it must be obvious, and being so transparent adds another layer of embarrassment. “I can relay a message or something.”

“Oh, nothing much. It's not important,” Pyro says, waving a dismissive hand.

Not important? Nothing much?

Could have fooled you, with the way he's hovering outside of Eddie's room.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Eddie promised Dennis a game of cards today, and without him we're a player short,” Pyro supplies.

“Ah.” There has to be something you're missing—something that explains why the card game is important enough to have Pyro hovering in the hallway waiting for Eddie to come out of his room. “Well, I'll see if I can get him to come out.”

“Not a big deal if you can't get him out of bed. To be honest, I don't care whether or not he plays. It's Dennis who is going to throw a fit—well, Timmy, that is. It's his day.”

Is Pyro really hiding out in the hallway to avoid facing his boyfriend's childlike alter in the middle of a tantrum? More importantly, is Gluskin really so sick he can't come out of his room? It's better than your previous assumption that your phone-call may have caused a breakdown, but it could just be a cover for something else.

You're already turning to leave when you remember Pyro and shoot him a polite smile and wave goodbye before heading towards Gluskin's room.

You hesitate at the door and wonder briefly if the rule about not entering a patient's room without invitation applies to visitors, and then decide you don't really care. It's only when you're slipping into the room, attention immediately falling to a shirtless Eddie, startled at the sudden noise and sitting up in bed to stare in your direction, that you realize you probably should have knocked.

“Hi,” you say, shutting the door as soundlessly as possible.

Eddie's hair is a mess. He blinks at you blearily through disgruntled features. His chest is broad and naturally hairless—skin pale and smooth.

(You shouldn't be looking at him like this.)

Your gaze freezes on the scar on his bare stomach, from the rod that impaled him, no doubt. Garish and oddly shaped.

You swallow. Forget to blink for so long that your eyes sting with dryness.

That scar.

That scar.

That wound. Open and red. Dripping hot fluid onto your face as you laugh.

It's healed now. A scar. A scar. This scar.

Your exhale is shaky and frightened. Frightened for what could have been.

(A dead man.)

(A dead man who you didn't help when he begged you to.)

(A dead man whose death you laughed at.)

But Eddie's still here.

He's alive. He's okay.

(He's okay he's okay he's okay.)

It's just a scar. Just a scar.

(You want to touch it. Badly. Want to press your face to this old wound and find out if the healed flesh feels as warm as the blood did on your face.)

“Waylon?” Eddie accidentally smacks himself in the face with a clumsy hand as he fumbles to run his fingers through his hair. It doesn't help.

“Yeah?” you reply, softened by at Eddie's sleepiness. Somehow managing to pull your attention away from that scar.

Your slight amusement is enough to deepen Eddie's frown, but there's none of the much anticipated anxiety you expected to be present during your first in-person encounter with him after that phone call.

The presumed awkwardness is instead a smile tugging at your lips; the would-be shame replaced by a throbbing heart.

Eddie looks around like someone tracking a bug, as if he expects to discover the facility's entire staff collected in his small room. When he finds the room empty he turns back to you. “What are you doing here?”

Is his voice raspy from sleep or sickness? Either way, you want to feel it reverberate against your lips. “Visiting you.”

“Yes, but,” he scrubs at his eyes before his attention snaps to the blankets covering him from the waist down. He pats and smooths them as if they are sole protector of his decency, which is laughable after what he listened to you do over the phone yesterday. “Didn't they tell you that I'm ill?”

“No, actually.” You deposit the shopping bag on his desk and hover beside his bed.

Gluskin visibly tenses.

“They just told me that you'd been in your room all day.”

“Well, as you can see, I am not currently presentable.”

“Mmhm.”

“So perhaps it's best if you came back another time.”

“Seriously?”

“I wouldn't want you catching my cold,” he offers around a groan, offended by your lack of reason.

“I don't care if I do.”

He eyes you for a moment, absolutely miserable. “Of course you don't.”

You grin, because you've won.

Gluskin rolls his eyes. “Would you mind waiting outside while I dress myself, at the very least?”

“Why bother asking if you're going to say it like it's an order?”

“Waylon—“

“Wait, are you not wearing pants?” You stand on the tips of your toes and make a show of leaning in to get a better look—it's no use, the covers obscure everything below his waist, not even the hem of his underwear can be seen above the blankets. If he's even wearing any.

The scrutiny does serve some purpose though—because Gluskin snarls his next words, “Is a man not allowed to sleep how he wishes in his own bed?”

You laugh, because it's both absurd and expected that he's the sort of man who gets angry when embarrassed, and it's even more absurd that the clipped, furious words don't frighten you in the slightest. You should be afraid, the anger should make you feel threatened, remind you of the slurs he spit at you in the vocational block of Mount Massive. It shouldn't be cute of all things, but it is. It really is.

Your laughter dies down to careful observation and his annoyance drains. He goes back to more idle concerns that he probably thinks you don't notice—like attempting to smooth back his hair for the hundredth time, or tugging the edge of the blanket further up his abdomen.

Then there's a moment where he meets your eyes, no petulant retort or sarcastic gesture behind his expression, but instead veiled curiosity. And okay, there is some of that awkwardness you had anticipated—but it isn't the sick, shameful kind of awkward—it's the kind that manifests itself in blood rushing to your cheeks, the kind that forces your gaze to the floor because returning his stare is too difficult.

Your reaction must resonate with him, because the springs of the mattress groan in protest of movement and his voice is as gentle as it can be with the audible congestion. “Darling?”

You don't look at him. You can't look at him. Your breath rattles its way into your lungs, shallow and unpleasant and much too quick.

You turn to his dresser instead, your back to him, and in complete disregard for his privacy, open the drawers systematically until you find the one that contains his shirts.

He doesn't protest, but he must be watching you.

You pick something plain and comfortable, just a v-neck shirt, and then proceed to the drawer below and dig unabashedly through it in attempt to find something other than slacks.

“Don't you own anything other than dress pants?”

“Keep looking, there should be something.”

His compliance makes you smile. You find something akin to draw-string sweatpants tucked into the dark recesses of the drawer.

“Okay, arms up,” you order as you return to his bedside, his shirt in your hands and the pants tossed over your shoulder in wait.

Gluskin shifts away as if you're being careless with a sharp object. “I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

“Doesn’t seem like it, considering it's five in the afternoon and you're still in bed.” This is rich coming from you.

“I'd like to see you do better when your body is producing this much mucus.”

“Stop complaining and put your arms up.”

Gluskin does, and you expect to see reluctance in his posture and defiance in his eyes, but instead find something closer to disbelief. Even as you slip the shirt over his head, the look of wonder, of question, doesn't feel like it's meant for you.

Why is it so hard for him to believe that someone is willing to take care of him?

You miss the sight of his bare chest the moment it disappears beneath the shirt. You should have skipped the shirt and just offered him pants.

But. That scar. It's good that you can't see that scar anymore. It.

It made you ache to touch. To bury your face against it and apologize for everything you've ever regretted in your life.

(The code.)

(The laughter.)

Eddie's hair is sent into further disarray by the fabric pulled over his head and it's almost as satisfying as the tint of pink on his cheeks. Is the blush just from fever, or is he savoring your bedside manner?

"Here," you say, offering him the pants.

He makes no move to take them. Instead he raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You aren't going to help me into those as well?"

He's just trying to be difficult, but he has a point—after how you acted on the phone yesterday, getting Eddie into his pants seems pretty counter-intuitive to your agenda.

"Don't test me. I'm well-versed in forcibly dressing unwilling participants, thanks to the joys of parenting."

Putting clothes on another person is a bigger task than it seems, even a very small person—shoes are always the hardest. It was a good day when your oldest son learned to put his shoes on by himself.

"Hand them over, then," Eddie says, and you do.

You turn to leave so that Eddie can put the pants on, because as vexing as it is that he violated your own privacy so thoroughly in Mount Massive, you know he has reason to guard his own.

Now that you think about it, you're not sure if Gluskin has ever had an intimate or romantic relationship with anyone, let alone a sexual one. From every detail you know about his life, obtained artificially or from the man himself, it seems he lived an isolated life before before being committed, his primary means of socialization were with customers, store clerks and his own family. And at fourteen years old at the time of his arrest, that means he likely didn't have relationship experience at all.

Under the influence of the Engine, Eddie exuded sexual prowess in excess, but everything he said back then sounded like dialogue from a shitty erotica novel, not words born of actual hands-on experience.

There was no evidence of sexual assault in his crimes before Mount Massive, and though you would certainly call what he did to you during the riot sexual assault, there was no semen found on any of the bodies in the vocational block. Which doesn't surprise you since it was clear to you even back then that any inkling that his victims weren't consenting to his advances lead to fatal violence. He was more interested in killing than anything else—using the first real or imagined signs of rejection as an excuse for his actions.

His own fear of rejection manifested itself in the punishment of those personifying that rejection.

He was convinced he would be alone and lonely forever, and that it was everyone's fault but his own. He wanted to see proof of his destined suffering in the blood of those who refused to alleviate it.

His own personal nightmare fueled by the Engine.

"Where are you going?"

"To wait outside for you, so you can retain your dignity." Perhaps that sounds a little too mean, so you add, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

That isn't entirely true—you derive a lot of pleasure from his discomfort, both in realty and in fantasy. But the last thing you want is to push that discomfort to the point where it reminds him of his past abuse.

"That won't be necessary," he says, and rolls his eyes when you whip back around with your eyebrows raised. "Though I would appreciate it if you turned around for a moment, at least."

"Oh, drat." You catch a glimpse of his smile before you pivot to face away from him. The disappointment is feigned, because it feels good to know that he trusts you enough to let you stay in the room, at least.

The mattress creeks and there's a shuffling of bedsheets and clothes and you remind yourself that you've already seen him in his underwear when he begged you to save him from the Engine, though the thought isn't something you can find arousing in the slightest. There's too much grief tied to it.

"Hey, Eddie," This is a great opportunity to bring up awkward topics, since you're staring at the wall. "Have you ever read erotica?"

The room goes silent, and then, "...Why do you ask?"

Your grin is especially wide since he can't see it. "I knew it."

"My mother had an extensive collection hidden under a few boxes of ribbon and sewing needles," he says, much easier than you expect. "You can turn back around now."

The information is almost amusing, until you consider that he may have found them at an early age—and that makes you feel terrible. So much sexual exposure in childhood can't be good for anyone.

When you turn around, your frown must give away what you're feeling, because Gluskin offers you a reassuring smile as he lowers himself to sit on the edge of his bed.

"What prompted this question?"

Might as well tell him the truth. "I was thinking about the things you said to me in Mount Massive."

He frowns. "I don't follow."

"How well do you remember it?"

"Too well. It's fuzzy, many events blur together, but still, the parts that are clear are memories I'd rather forget." That strikes a bit of a nerve, that he of all people wants to forget. But he was a victim of Murkoff as much as you were a victim of him. "My encounter with you is most vivid."

Of course it is.

"Well, all that stuff you said to me to coax me out from hiding sounded more like fiction than experience. Like you'd read too many romance novels."

His laughter is clipped, breathy. "I suppose most of what I said may have been a result of too much time spent reading fictional depictions of romance."

"So, you haven't had..." You falter for a moment, searching for the right word. "Romantic experience, then?"

Gluskin studies you, composed—so composed, even though every bone in your body is telling you to treat the subject with nerve-wracking amounts of caution. "My mother taught me to treat women with suspicion and abhorrence. Even if I had been interested in them, I doubt I would have been able to engage them in little more than feigned pleasantries."

"And men?"

"However enamored I was by any male acquaintance, it was buried under a great deal of fear and mistrust, and as I believe I've mentioned, self-hatred." He tilts his head, studying your reaction. "Besides, I was much too young for a relationship before my arrest. And I've been confined to facilities like this one since."

...He's a virgin? You almost blurt the realization, but it sticks in your throat, which is for the better, because given the abuse he's been through, it may not be a welcome descriptor.

"Yeah, but—Dennis and Pyro are... dating, right? They told me they were allowed to."

Eddie blinks. "When did you broach this topic with those two?"

You wave dismissively. "During Pictionary. When you got up to talk to Frank."

"Ah. Yes. Well, staff can't really discourage healthy interpersonal relationships between patients."

"So... have you, uh, dated anyone? In the facilities you've been in?"

"No." The answer is quick and stoic with no follow-up. Gluskin looks down at his hands folded in his lap, his unusually hunched posture making him look oddly vulnerable.

"Nothing close to a relationship? No mutual crushes? No one-night stands? Casual sex?"

Gluskin snorts. "What kind of man do you think I am?"

You only stare in response.

"Waylon, I have lived most of my life in various mental institutions. Whatever ideas you have about typical relationships do not apply to me. Of course I haven't led a normal life." He sighs. "When I was a teenager, there were a few daughters of regular customers at the shop who attempted flirtations, but nothing more than that."

“Shop?” You know exactly what he's referring to—but how do you point out that he's never told you about his family's business? “You mean your family's tailoring business?”

Gluskin groans and for a split second you wonder if you've done something wrong—but no, his eyes squeeze shut he doubles over, face buried in his hands.

So it really was being sick that had him in bed all day, after all. Poor guy. He kneads his hands down his face as if his fingers can work the congestion out of his sinuses.

In a bold move, you sit beside him on the mattress, inches spanning between his body and yours, but you swear you can feel the heat radiating from him again, stronger than it had on the bus.

Every nerve ending is telling you that if you shuffle closer and nestle against his chest, you might actually get some decent sleep for once.

You receive a sideways glance when your weight settles next to his, but he doesn't protest the proximity.

Something about this feels dangerous.

This isn't like on the bus where you were surrounded by people.

You're alone with him.

His door is shut.

He could reach out and hurt you right now if he wanted to. The man could probably knock you out with one punch. He could gag you with some spare strip of fabric and tie you to the bed; he could do anything he wants before anyone comes to check on him.

And what if he did? He's already confined to a mental hospital, he has nothing to lose. And you—you don't want to think about what state you would be left in if you lived. Would you be able to trust your own judgment ever again?

Is it really okay for him to have this much freedom? Did years of good behavior really earn this opportunity for violence?

Is hurting you, forcing you, something that crosses his mind? The knowledge that he can even if he doesn't want to?

How does someone forget that they have the ability to end another person's life with comparatively little repercussion? How does that not stay with someone for the rest of their lives—the entitlement that comes with that much power? It must be there. It has to.

But does it frighten him now, knowing what he's capable of? Or does it reassure him, make him feel the kind of safety you'll probably never feel again?

Your gut says to trust him, that he's wasted so many opportunities to hurt you that he must not have any desire to anymore. On some level you know that your judgment is fucked, but gullibly believing in your faulty judgment is better than hating yourself for wanting to seek comfort from the man.

Do you really believe he's not going to hurt you, or are you just tired of feeling like something is wrong with you for wanting to trust him?

Gluskin breaks your thoughts with a small shift that you're hyper-aware of.

You lean away out of some dull instinct born of the wrong womb—you're cautious of his movement out of a ridiculous desire for him to be comfortable. Even with your previous musings, there is no fear.

“I like it when you do that,” he says.

“Huh?”

“Sorry for interrupting, I can tell you were thinking—you only do it when you're thinking—but I had to tell you.”

“Do what?”

“You wring your hands together whenever you're mulling something over.”

You look down at your tangled fingers, paused from being caught in the act. “Why would you like that?”

The question is futile coming from someone who has all but made a spreadsheet categorizing Eddie Gluskin's smiles. You know why he likes it.

“It's like I can see the gears in your head turning.” He folds his own hands in his lap to keep them from pawing at his sinuses or fussing uselessly at his hair. “It makes me want to interrupt your worrying hands by taking them in mine. Kiss them. Steal your attention away from your thoughts.”

You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket to keep yourself from offering them to him. You can't risk rejection.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

He must think he's made you uncomfortable. “No. It's fine.”

He allows silence to fill the room as avoidance shifts his attention elsewhere. You wish he would say something, convince you that he wants you to take your hands from your pockets and give them to him, convince you that he'll accept them.

Instead, he says, “I haven't mentioned my family's business to you.”

“No.”

“But you knew?”

Is he upset? “Yeah. From the biographies.”

You leave it at that, don't tell him that you've watched a documentary about his life very recently. Hopefully he'll think you learned of it before you ever visited him in MMSS.

“You know, my doctors at Mount Massive forced me to read a few of those.” The memory angers him, but he laughs. “Disgusting fucks enjoyed binding my wrists and gagging me so I couldn't cover my ears or scream to avoid hearing them read it aloud.”

You can still remember Gluskin's mouth forced open by tubes, his screams as they shoved the tubing down his throat.

The lines of code stretching beside his image on the monitor.

The exact command it would have taken to stop the Engine.

The indifferent musings of the doctors around you.

A Murkoff doctor's slick tongue squirming its way across your face when you were strapped into the Engine yourself.

Gluskin's suffering didn't end when they pulled the tubes from his throat and let him go back to his cell. No one's did. God—you knew, you knew that's how things were—you could see it in the patients dragged screaming down the halls. You could see it in the idle cafeteria small-talk among the staff with security clearance high enough to know... but the extent of the abuse has never felt so tangible.

“All those fucks would have had to do was leave me with a copy in my cell. I would have read it on my own eventually, despite my refusals.”

Who can resist the russian-roulette of knowing what strangers think of them? “It wasn't about whether or not you read the book. It was about upsetting you.”

“Yes, I realize.”

“Eddie,” why do you feel the desperate need to apologize for what he's been through when you're the reason he's safe now? “Fuck—I'm really sorry.”

You have so much to be sorry for.

(He threw himself against the glass. He begged you for help. You entered the code to start the Engine.)

He narrows his eyes. “I'm not even going to humor that. You know you have nothing to be sorry for.”

His words are firm enough that you don't argue. You can't speak anyway. Can't admit how directly you caused his suffering.

(Does he even remember begging you for help?)

“It's funny, those books like to drone on about what my father did to me. What my uncle did.” His next exhale is heavy, the product of controlled breath. “They never mention my father sitting next to me at the breakfast table the next morning, reading the newspaper. Him joking with my mother, praising me for my grades in school. Pulling me to his side and teaching me how to thread a sewing machine for the first time.”

He stares down at his lap, the memories are too personal to invade with the sight of your pity.

Your eyes sting. Your throat closes up. You have no words.

“They don't mention how normal it was, the way I convinced myself every time that I would never see that cruel side of my father again, that he was two very different people, that one of those people was okay to love as a child should love their father.”

He's right. He's absolutely right that it's wrong to stop the story of domestic abuse partially told, it implies that a child's desire to believe his father will change is sinfully wrong—because they don't talk about that, they just talk about the crimes as if they're the victim's entire experience with the abuser. They don't mention that the victim has to eat breakfast with their monster and walk the line between fear and hope—hope that things will get better.

“Why are observers so inclined to paint the picture in black and white, as if it somehow darkens the narrative to imply that people like my father are always frightening, always causing pain? Why does it ruin the story for them to know that the sun rises and life goes on as if nothing happened? Why do they wish to remove the normalcy from it?" He glances at you, expression torn. "Why doesn't it horrify them more to know that men like my father were also capable of kindness? Shouldn't that be more frightening—that there are no such thing as monsters? That people who do horrible things lead otherwise normal lives?”

“I think it scares them too much, the normalcy of it,” your voice is shaky but you need to keep talking—you can't abandon him to silence. “I think... I think that it helps them to stay in denial about abuse of any scale in their own lives.” And maybe that feels like protection.

“It felt so invalidating to see my childhood depicted as if there was no happiness in it at all. Like I am only allowed to believe it was gruesome and wrong and horrifying if abuse was all it consisted of. If hatred and anger was all I ever felt. It makes me feel dirty for having any happy memories. As though my abuse wasn't as bad as I claim it was, if I'm still capable of feeling happiness even to this day.”

That's it—that's really what it implies when abusers are depicted as inhuman things—it implies that the victim isn't as wronged if that's not entirely the truth, if their abuser is a good friend to others, or a doting father in the daylight. It implies that if their abuser is anything other than a shadowy stranger or violent brute, then their abuse wasn't that bad.

It's just as gruesome no matter what—even more-so, in fact, that a man can hurt his child so irreversibly and then take him out for ice cream the next afternoon as if nothing happened.

What Eddie did to you, it's not any less gruesome because of the knowledge that the Engine takes a great deal of responsibility for it.

Abusers are people, not demons in human skin, and dehumanizing them like that, though they surely deserve to be dehumanized, gives them power—the power to hide behind the title of lover and friend and family. It makes it harder for victims to recognize that their abusive loved ones may not be scary strangers cornering them in a dark alleyway—but they are abusers all the same.

“You know that's not true, right? What happened to you was fucked up no matter how good other parts of your life were. The abuse doesn't have to be constant for it to be horrific."

He glances at you, and you're shocked to see him smile. “I know this now, yes.”

Why is he smiling? “What?”

“You're getting so worked up over this. There's fire in your eyes. It's nice knowing you feel that for me—even if you are doing that thing you do, where you try to save me from things that are long over.”

How do you respond to that except with a rush of heat to your face? “Eddie, I know what happened to you is likely the cause for your illnesses.” Why are you blurting this, you've already consoled him—why take it as an opportunity to go further? “And I know that's why you killed those people.”

Eddie's attention snaps to you with a look so severe that it has you scrambling to your feet.

“Waylon,” he says, angry—what did you do? What did you do? You back away, but he continues with no concern for the way his intensity has you pressed against the opposite wall. “I did not kill those women because of the abuse I suffered.”

Why is he angry?

“Okay,” your reply is rushed to placate him—you don't understand. It had to be because of his abuse, his illness—why is he so angry?

“You can't do that, Waylon. You can't rationalize my actions however you see fit.”

You're not even trying to hide the tremble of your fingers or your wide eyes and messy breath—why isn't he more concerned about your reaction? Why is he still scolding you?

“There are many people with the same set of diagnosis as I have who will never be a danger to anyone.” The scolding dwindles down to firm explanation, and you take the opportunity to manage your breath and try to listen. “The same thing rings true for my traumas—those experiences do not cause a person to do what I did.”

He shouldn't be talking to you this way, he should care that he's scaring you. “You expect me to believe that none of those things had to do with you killing those people?” It's dangerous to argue with him, but fuck it—you're as pissed as you are scared.

“It's an insult to those who endure the same and never harm anyone.”

Ouch.

Like you're the bad guy for trying to understand.

Maybe Eddie can tell his words hit home, because for the first time his intensity dims, replaced by a strained sort of consideration. “We are all the fruit of our upbringings. And it's not wrong of you to sympathize with what I've been through. To find a correlation—there is a correlation, this is true.”

“Then what the fuck is your problem?”

He looks at you as if you're the one being difficult, like the bite in your words is the real crime. “I killed those women because they meant nothing to me. Because I had convinced myself they were more useful to me dead than alive. Because of beliefs and opinions I held about women—people in general.”

“But—“

“Yes, the opinions I held were formed due to my upbringing—as are everyone else's opinions. Where does personal responsibility come in?”

You shouldn't argue, you shouldn't argue, don't argue. Shit. “What about your father's responsibility? Your uncle? Your mother?”

“Waylon,” there is so much disappointment in your name, “I believed other people were wastes of life who did not possess the same humanity as myself.” He rubs his eyes as he did earlier, concerned with his clogged sinuses once more, his interest in the conversation waning. “In fact, I believed that of everyone. At what point am I to be held responsible for the pain I caused?”

He didn't have to hurt anyone. No one forced his hand. That still doesn't stop you from feeling sorry for the circumstances that led him there. But he's right, it's not like Mount Massive, where his psychosis and the responsibility for his actions rests entirely on Murkoff. What were you thinking?

“As someone who no longer believes in the things that made me capable of those crimes, I am disgusted with myself.”

You've seen ingrained beliefs yanked out from under people with a scathing remark made by someone who knows better—you've seen unyielding prejudice destroyed by casual conversation. Once someone's eyes are opened to how shitty they're being, there's no going back. And you've seen the refusal too, the defensive denial of all logic in order to protect some fucked up world-view.

“How did you change your mind?”

“The doctors in the first institution I lived in. Many difficult conversations and a great deal of undeserved sympathy.” He chuckles and you gravitate closer in attempt to feel comfortable again. “I was... not the most cooperative patient they've ever had.”

“I'll bet.”

He sighs. "Yes, the schizophrenia did not help. I was delusional. The schizophrenia, the psychosis it induced, is a an explanation for why things happened the way they did—not an excuse. I am personally responsible for what happened, no matter what."

That hits too close to home—it reminds you of how you feel about your voice raising in panic with Lisa, after Mount Massive. How you would struggle out of her embraces after you told her to stay back and she wouldn't listen. You're ashamed of it all—and just because your alarmed reactions make sense given the context of your trauma, you still feel personally responsible for the grief it caused her. You did it. Your newfound mental illnesses were just the explanation; key information to understanding the situation. Not an excuse for it. Not the perpetrator.

“I'm sorry if I frightened you,” Eddie doesn't sound sorry, "I can still recall what it was like to blame my actions on the illnesses and trauma. It's not something I want you to be sympathetic of.”

“Yeah, I get it.” You made a mistake, a big one. Are you that eager to rationalize liking him—his smiles and mannerisms and the attention he pays you? “Eddie—what the fuck is wrong with me?”

It's a question you should be asking Dr. Everett, not Eddie Gluskin.

Eddie takes in the sight of you—still shaken from his abrasive response—and then beckons you over to him with a clumsy wave of his hand.

You pretend to be conflicted because otherwise he'll know the truth, how badly you want to let him comfort you.

(You shouldn't want this.)

“Waylon, please. Just for a moment.”

You shuffle over to where he sits on the mattress.

He reaches for your hand without asking, tentative enough to give you a chance to stop him, but you don't, of course you don't—his fingers are warm and you want them everywhere, not just squeezing your hand to punctuate his sincerity.

“Waylon Park, there is nothing wrong with you.”

There is. There really is, because those words coming from his mouth should not make you feel better, should not make you want to weep with relief and collapse into his arms.

But he believes it—you can see it in his face that he really believes what he's saying. You can see that it hurts him that you don't believe it yourself.

You stand there dumbstruck, your fingers loose in his. You have to bury your face in your sleeve in attempt to hold back emotion that you can't let him see again—because being so emotional will only weaken his opinion about how much is wrong with you.

“No one has ever said that to me before. I mean, my therapist has. Lisa. But—“

Lisa didn't mean it. You understand why—you scared her. Not knowing how to handle you, not knowing if she was making you worse, it frightened her dearly. She never meant it when she said nothing was wrong with you—she knew something was very wrong, and she knew she wasn't capable of helping.

“Waylon. Darling—look at me.”

You pull your arm away from your face but refuse eye contact. Your eyes feel a little damp but you aren't sobbing and that is a victory.

“You are the kindest person I have ever known. You have sacrificed a great deal for many people you have never met.” His thumb massages across your knuckles, his attention fixed on you with a degree of intensity that is too much for you to bear. “You do not deserve the turmoil this has caused you. You do not deserve to hurt.”

Say nothing. Don't cry. Don't cry—you can't cry.

His words echo in your thoughts, repeat. You try to smudge them, drown them out with something else. Focus instead on his hand on yours, study the way his fingers look. Think absurdly of the germs he's probably scrubbing into your skin. Tell yourself that you should be more concerned about his fingers conjuring images of the way he gripped the hilt of a blade in Mount Massive. The germs seem like the most pressing concern.

“What you feel is not wrong. How you cope with it is not pathetic,” he continues, and the tears leak hot from your eyes at the sound of his voice more than at what he's saying. “Even what you feel towards me is not hurting anyone. There is nothing wrong with it.”

There is something wrong with it—it is hurting people. It hurts you, the shame burns and overwhelms when you allow it to seep through the rationalizing.

And...

And it will hurt Eddie, too, because you're trying to take something that you don't deserve.

You like the companionship and care he's tentatively offering. The devotion a relationship with him promises. The attention. The lust. The reassurance. The comfort. The way he looks at you.

But you have been lying to Dr. Everett about him.

The thought of Lisa finding out—you can't even think about it because it's impossible, she can't find out—but now that you are thinking about it you want to crawl into your bed and die.

You can take random strangers recognizing you in public with Eddie Gluskin. But Lisa—no way. You can't. She can't know.

And your kids—god, the boys. They can never be a part of any life with Eddie Gluskin—even a hypothetical one.

No one deserves a friend who is ashamed of them. Not even Eddie Gluskin.

“Darling... Oh, darling.” Eddie tugs you towards him, his free hand lifting to beckon you closer, an offer of an embrace, and—and you can't.

You've been treating him like some sort of gruesome, shameful rebound, someone you're willing to take from without giving. You have no right to accept what he's offering.

You pull away.

His fingers tighten around yours, halting your retreat.

No—no, no, no.

The concern on his face does nothing to stop your lungs from working overtime, breath audible in a tangible manifestation of your fear.

“Let go,” your plea is frantic and it comes with violent tugging as you try to rip your fingers from his. “Please, please let go.”

“Waylon—“

Your free hand shoots out to grip his wrist in attempt to pry him off with force and fingernails.

He releases you at once—you know it's him letting go and not your own effort, because he holds his hands up to display his innocence, and you're sent toppling to the ground with the force of your retreat.

You kick at the floor, scrambling backwards until you hit the wall.

You try to breathe but your breath is rapid and unfulfilling and only makes you feel light-headed.

Eddie doesn't pursue. He has the nerve to look shaken.

Why didn't he let go right away?

“Waylon? God—are you okay?”

“Shut up, please shut up.”

“I'm so sorry—I should have let you go when you pulled away, but I was so surprised...”

Surprised? Surprised?

“I made a mistake, I thought I could calm you down—”

“By trapping me?” You need to lower your voice, need to keep the hysteria out of it, but god, you couldn't care less if it gets the attention of an orderly, a guard, the entire facility.

“I know.” He seems more overwhelmed than he has any right to feel. “I know why it scared you. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry.”

Frightened. He seems frightened. Like Lisa had always been.

Is it you, is it you who is at fault? Are you the scary one?

No. No.

“Your reaction makes sense. I don't know what triggered it—but I should have recognized what I was seeing, should have reacted better. I'm so sorry.” He shifts, like he wants to reach out to you, come towards you, perhaps instinctually, like trying to coax an injured animal out of a corner.

“Don't.”

He stops—thank god he stops.

“Don't move. Just. Hold on.” Breathe. Take in your surroundings. Everything is fine. He's not coming closer. “I'm sorry.”

“No. That was entirely my fault. I reacted on instinct, I had no right.”

“It's...” okay? No, probably not. You doubt he's lying, he probably was reacting on instinct. It was Lisa's instinct to halt your withdrawal physically too, with a touch or a blocked doorway. Fists clutching fabric. “I understand.”

“What happened? Did I do something to—“

“No.” Your chest is finally starting to slow its heave, but your skin is still slick with sweat. “No. Nothing you did, specifically.”

His anxiety deflates. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” The answer surprises you. “Not yet.”

Eddie nods, and your heart thrums with the latent anticipation that he might change his mind and stand from his docile position on the bed to attack you.

He's not going to. He doesn't want to.

“I have an appointment with my therapist soon. I was just killing time until then.”

“Good.” His smile is solemn. “I trust you'll talk to her about it?”

“Yeah.”

It's not entirely an empty promise. You have a lot to talk to her about. Like your feelings for Eddie. You can't accept whatever semblance of comfort he's offering you until you can tell her, at least. The shame isn't fair to Eddie.

“I'm glad to hear that.” His eyes follow you as you pick yourself up off the floor and somehow manage to remember your bag of books before you make it to the door. “I hope you feel better soon.”

You pause with your fingers on the doorknob. “You too.”

Chapter Text

The familiarity of Dr. Everett's office isn't as comfortable as it usually is; the room only serves to remind you of the other conversations you've had within it, conversations about Eddie Gluskin in which you would have never tried to defend anything he's done.

The topic of your venture to the mall seems more like a stalling tactic than an attempt to ease Dr. Everett into what she may consider to be bad news, but you indulge in it anyway, not daring to mention the biography you came across about The Leadville Tailor while in the bookstore.

Eventually the topic of the mall dwindles away and you no longer have an excuse to keep from telling her what you need to.

And what you need to tell her is that you have feelings for Eddie Gluskin.

The kind of feelings that long for cohabitation more than a chance to sate the attraction and move on.

(The dangerous kind of feelings.)

But Dr. Everett is smiling, genuinely pleased by your happy little account of your trip to the mall, and you can't do it. You can't disappoint her.

Maybe it will help to tell her about what happened with Eddie before you got here. Your attempt to blame his crimes on his mental illnesses and the way he corrected you.

(Of course you can't tell her you found comfort in the squeeze of his fingers.)

(Of course you can't tell her how severely you panicked when he wouldn't let go.)

Just the conversation. That's fine.

Dr. Everett listens to your attempt to recount the incident while omitting any details that give away your feelings for Eddie. When you finish she studies you for a moment before replying.

“It's good that he's taking responsibility for his actions. Though, I think it's worth noting that Gluskin's insanity defense did succeed in a court of law. He was definitely suffering from psychosis at the time.”

You sigh. “He seems pretty convinced that it was all his fault anyway.”

“I think his explanation about being influenced by preexisting thoughts and feelings is valid. Though, psychosis isn't an easy thing to deal with, especially when it comes to schizophrenia. It can cause a lot of leaps in thought that the person would not otherwise have.”

“It's all so contrived. I don't know how I should feel about it.”

She smiles sympathetically. “I think it's right that he holds himself accountable for his crimes, and that others do as well. But it's important to remember that this is a very different situation than someone who commits similar crimes without the influence of a psychosis.”

“I know. I don't want to feel sorry for him, but I do.”

You felt sorry for all of the violent patients you encountered in Mount Massive—you knew they were mentally ill, you knew Murkoff had made them worse. You knew you had contributed to Murkoff making them worse during your short employment. You even felt sorry for Eddie when he had you strapped down to that table in the vocational block. And you still feel guilty that you ever thought for a second that he deserved to bleed out in that gymnasium.

You don't want to be the kind of person who relishes in the pain of anyone. For Lisa, for the boys, you didn't want to be that kind of person.

Most days you reserve that brand of unabashed hatred exclusively for Jeremy Blaire.

“It's his choice if he wants to reject sympathy,” she says. “But I think understanding and sympathy is appropriate from those who are willing to offer it.”

Understanding. Sympathy. You can manage that.

“It bothers me though,” you say, tentatively, not sure if it's a good idea to bring this up at all. “There's something I don't understand—something I've never really understood about Eddie.”

“What's that?”

“I basically attributed his crimes before institutionalization to his psychosis—something out of his control.” Your brows knit in concern, voice heavy with a confused frustration. “Why not let me believe he didn't have responsibility for his actions? Why correct me? Why take more blame than he had to? “

Dr. Everett shifts a bit in her chair, attention drifting elsewhere for a moment. You've been seeing her long enough to know she's considering her words. “Well, why do you think he corrected you?”

There's bitterness in your breathy laugh. You're frustrated with yourself for not knowing the answer to that. “I have no fucking clue—but surely the better option for him was to let me believe he's not responsible. Why would he tell me the truth when it could push me away?”

“And why didn't the truth push you away?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

That catches you off-guard. You fumble.

“I—I... I like him? I guess? For some godforsaken reason I really genuinely like him.” Swallowing your nerves, you add, guiltily and with ample effort, “As a friend.”

It's not quite the confession you came here to give Dr. Everett—she already knows you enjoy spending time with Eddie, you tell her how much you visit him. Hell, most of your therapy appointments consist of you detailing what you did with Eddie on the days between appointments.

“That's only natural, you do spend a lot of time with him,” she replies easily. “From what you've told me, he seems to be treating you well.”

“...Yeah.” That's an understatement. You almost feel spoiled by how much attention and consideration he gives you without expecting anything in return.

“Do you think his honesty has something to do with why you enjoy his company?”

Oh.

“Yeah.” Absolutely. It absolutely does. “I wouldn't still be in contact with him if I felt he was lying to me all the time—actually, wait. I think I wouldn't have kept coming to visit him at all if his honesty didn't keep surprising me.”

“So it's an unexpected honesty?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie could have just let you blame his past actions on his mental illness and it wouldn't necessarily have felt like dishonesty—but it also wouldn't have felt like he was bearing his soul to you. Taking a risk. Letting you make your own decisions about him with all of his guts strewn out for you to analyze.

He's been giving you that agency all along. He's been giving you the gift of informed consent. And. You've been devouring it like sustenance.

“God,” you say, rubbing your hands down your face. You stare around at the dimly lit office, the heavy cherry-oak desk. The wood-paneled walls. “I hate that I keep... overthinking everything. I think I'm afraid in the back of my mind that he might be manipulating me when he does things I can't explain—like tell the truth even when he risks losing me. I don't understand it so I just panic.”

Dr. Everett tilts her head, her short hair staying perfectly in place as she does so. “Well, let's talk about manipulation.”

“Alright.” Maybe it'll help you stop diving down into confused apprehension whenever you don't understand Eddie's actions.

“Manipulation typically involves lying. When are some occasions you've considered lying?” she asks. ”When is the choice to lie prominent in your mind, something you have to think about?”

You're well aware of your choice right now—the choice between telling the truth about what's really going on between you and Eddie Gluskin, and the choice of lying by omission. If Dr. Everett asks you right now if you have feelings for him, you would certainly consider lying.

“When the topic is difficult to talk about,” you answer.

“Absolutely. When else?”

When you were still married, you had a choice to tell the truth every time Lisa inquired about your mental state. More often than not you would sugar-coat that truth. You would tell her you were fine even when you were unable to force a smile, when you could barely conjure the motivation to answer her, to speak at all for days on end. You lied to Lisa, even if it was an attempt to make things easier on her.

You can't look at Dr. Everett. “To conceal something.”

“Why would you want to control the information another person receives?”

“Because it's embarrassing.” With Lisa, you had wanted to be better for her—you had wanted her to think you were better so that she wouldn't worry. “Or to make someone believe something they otherwise wouldn't.”

“Yes. Sometimes individuals withhold information for good reasons, or with good intentions,” her smile is kind. “But even when lies are told with the intention of protecting or making others feel better, oftentimes those who are being lied to will feel that a breach of trust has occurred.”

Manipulation. It's a negative word, but it's true that you had tried to control the information Lisa received about the state of your emotional health on a daily basis, lying to her to conceal the extent of how bad you really felt. Though in your case with Lisa, it was mostly an attempt at self-preservation—trying not to suffer more under her disappointment.

Is that why Lisa had responded with anger when you finally broke down and snapped the truth at her—that of course you weren't fine and of course you were miserable and of course she should have known? Because you had been trying to hide it and sugar-coat it for so many months—and yet had still expected her to notice? You hadn't understood how someone who loved you could respond with anger at your fear of showing them the truth. Now it makes more sense—you broke her trust.

Fuck. You can't start thinking about how things could have gone differently with Lisa. How, if you had only been better at coping, she might not have been so unhappy, would not have felt like things would never get better, like she was making you worse.

(Don't think about Lisa, don't think about Lisa.)

(You don't even want to fix things with her anymore. Even if things could go back to the way they used to be with her, you wouldn't want that anymore. You still care about her. She's the mother of your children. But. You feel differently about her, after the divorce. The rejection. You're not in love with her anymore—couldn't ever be again.)

You can't change what happened. It wasn't your fault and it wasn't hers either. You couldn't have coped better because you had no experience doing so, it was something you were learning to deal with along with her. It was just circumstance that neither you or Lisa were equipped to handle the situation.

“Do you think I did that with Lisa—manipulated her?” Your can barely raise your voice above a whisper. It's a miserable question to ask and you are miserable. “When she would ask if I was okay and I would lie and tell her I was?”

The question doesn't seem to faze Dr. Everett. She hums thoughtfully. “What makes something constitute as manipulation is when someone uses behaviors or communication to influence others artfully, covertly, and fraudulently.” She pauses for a moment. “Do you think that applies to your situation, with lying to Lisa?”

Did you lie to Lisa about your mental state artfully, covertly, fraudulently? No. It was obvious in your demeanor, your changed behavior, that something more was wrong than you were letting on. You were not a very good actor, you never tried to convince her beyond brushing her off if she asked you how you were doing. If she had pressed, the lie would have crumbled.

It doesn't make the lying okay, it doesn't mean it wasn't a breach of trust—but it doesn't necessarily make it manipulation.

“No,” you answer, quietly. “I don't think there was anything artful or covert about my lies. I think Lisa understood that it was my way of refusing to talk about my feelings.”

Dr. Everett nods. “That sounds like an accurate analysis.”

“I think sometimes she felt manipulated, when I told her how suicidal I felt,” you add, impulsively. Wanting to claim fault for something. Anything. Because you feel at fault for everything. “I think she felt it put an expectation on her to be gentle with me. Like I was trying to get out of responsibilities or something.”

The guilt for that is thick inside your chest. Heavy. Lisa felt like she had to be overly careful with you—was eventually bitter that you forced her to.

But... honestly, you felt like you had to be overly gentle with her, too—like you weren't allowed to show any sign of how bad you really felt. Weren't allowed to talk about it. Because it exhausted her. Because she was frustrated and emotionally drained from hearing the same unfixable problems over and over and over.

Dr. Everett surprises you with her soft expression. “When you told her you were feeling suicidal, were you trying to influence her artfully, covertly, and fraudulently?”

You slump in your chair. Sigh. “No—I was just telling her how I felt because I was terrified of what I would to to myself if I kept it secret.”

You never, ever confessed those feelings to keep her from leaving you. The thought of that disgusts you.

“Then it definitely was not manipulation,” Dr. Everett says. There is a brief but noticeable pause before she speaks, and the loss of her conversational tone is all too apparent. She's taking this seriously. “But yes, my advice would be that you should always ask yourself whether or not a behavior was trying to influence someone artfully, covertly and fraudulently whenever you're wondering if something is manipulation.”

Artfully, covertly, fraudulently...

It's useful advice, but that's the problem. If Eddie has ulterior motives, he's very convincing.

“That's the thing, though,” you say. “If Eddie's manipulating me, all three of those things would apply. Because I sure as hell can't tell. If he's doing it at all, he has me fooled completely.”

“It does appear to come down to intention, doesn't it?” she asks. “We can't know what others are thinking. All we can do is judge people based on their actions. So if Gluskin has you convinced he's honest—it either means he is being honest, or he's a very skilled manipulator.”

You sigh again, drop your head into your hands. Can't even look up at Dr. Everett as you ask, “Do you think he's manipulating me?”

“Me?” Dr. Everett asks, sounding surprised you're asking her opinion at all. “Well, I don't have first-hand experience with Gluskin.”

“Yeah, I know—but what do you think?”

She waits until you peek at her through your fingers before replying. “I think anything's possible, as a general rule. But I also think you should trust your instincts. From everything you've told me, he's given you no direct reason to believe he's manipulating you.”

She's just being logical. Of course anything's possible. Of course you can't know what's going on in Eddie's head. The same goes for anyone else in the world. All you have are intuition and trust. Observation.

From what you've observed in the past few months, Eddie is trustworthy and genuine.

That's been your gut feeling the whole time. You used to be disturbed by that, ashamed of your own intuition.

But.

Anything's possible.

He could be lying about everything and. You wouldn't know.

“But as I said, it's impossible to truly know what someone is thinking for certain,” Dr. Everett reiterates. “Believing in others is not a fault. You should never feel ashamed for your desire to trust others.”

You suck in a deep breath and rub your damp palms on your knees, scrubbing at the worn denim.

The conflict must show on your face, because Dr. Everett says, “There is nothing foolish about being comfortable with your friendship with Gluskin, Waylon. Your desire and ability to trust him is admirable. And should he turn out to be untrustworthy, I'm certain you'll be the first to realize that. You should trust your own perception first and foremost.”

What she said is reassuring. It really is. But.

Friendship. She said friendship.

Your friendship with Gluskin.

Friendship.

It's the first time she's used that word to describe what's going on between you and Eddie.

Friendship.

It's shamefully lacking. She doesn't know how lacking it is.

You can't tell her.

* * *

Back in the halls outside Dr. Everett's office, you're left alone with the missed opportunity to admit what has really been going on between you and Eddie Gluskin.

You've told Dr. Everett so much over the years, found relief in the pain of admitting to her the fantasies you've harbored for Gluskin, both the involuntary ones in your dreams and the very intentional ones you've indulged in. Those began before you ever saw Eddie outside of Mount Massive.

The fantasies are different now, less catered to scenarios of life-preserving manipulation, enticing him to let you keep your genitals, to use you as you are. Now the fantasies come in the form of slow comfort, domestic interactions, shared showers, the hour before an orderly comes to check on him. A stolen kiss in the hallway that ends in Gluskin shoved against the wall with no regard for how much it may hurt.

You've already gone too far with the phone sex. The fantasies have no business becoming reality, not until you are willing to let them be more than a secret shared only with Eddie.

The men's bathroom down the hall from Dr. Everett's office is as deserted as it always is, since your appointments are always past the time when patients are in this level of the building for their daily sessions.

After a few moments of giving yourself a long look in the long mirror above the sink, you nearly drop your phone in the haste to pull it out of your pocket. You look as shaken as you feel. Is that why Dr. Everett had regarded you cautiously as she walked you out of her office?

You. Don't think Eddie's manipulating you. Not really. But. There's something off about the way he treats you. His willingness to be honest still confuses you. Maybe he's just doing it because he's afraid you'll reject him if he slips up?

It doesn't scare you to think that maybe Eddie's interactions with you might be less virtuous than they seem. His honesty with you may come from a desire to do the right thing rather than being something that comes naturally to him.

And sometimes that might entail him guessing what the right thing is. It makes sense that he might navigate the world trying to guess the right response to any given interaction, rather than basing his actions on an emotional response. It makes sense given his solitary childhood, hell, his solitary life.

At the same time, you can foresee how it won't bode well for you all the time. You get the feeling you saw a glimpse of it when he didn't let go of your hand—how he didn't seem to be feeling much emotion about your fear and panic. In hindsight he was just reacting how he thought it was appropriate, no emotion attached.

The results are dubious—he did the right thing by not pursing you after your retreat, by explaining himself and answering your questions. But the calm, unemotional way he proceeded despite your obvious distress was unsettling to a degree you never want to experience again.

Eddie didn't react to your distress with immediate empathy like Lisa always would, features twisting and eyes welling at the sight of your pain. He was calm. Practical. Sympathetic more than empathetic.

Even if he's not manipulating you... you still may end up experiencing his eerie calmness and confusing honesty a lot more.

But he was understanding, he didn't deem you unworthy of his time. He did try to help you, he did want you to be okay. He must care about you, in his own way.

Have you been reading him wrong this whole time? Mistaking protocol for empathy? There have been times you have definitely thought he was hurting on your behalf, but perhaps that had only been pity, not empathy, not something that penetrates deeper, striking the heart and twisting the gut.

You don't know. You want to know. You want to know Eddie Gluskin more than you do now, you want to navigate his thoughts, his actions, no matter how different from yours they may be. You want to understand, and you want him to feel that understanding.

But you couldn't even tell Dr. Everett how you feel about him. Not even a diluted half-truth, a sweeter, less troubling version of what has been going on.

Your reflection on the unlit phone screen looks even worse than in the mirror under the harsh fluorescents.

You send the text to Lisa before you can change your mind: 'I need to talk to you.'

You wait for her to text back, staring at the phone, your attention focused on the ebb of anticipation inside your chest. What the hell can you even say to her?

You almost drop your phone again when instead of lighting up with a text, it rings violently.

She's calling you.

Why? You had texted because hearing her voice—having to say what you need to say more intimately than a text—is too hard. Besides, Lisa hates talking on the phone.

You consider letting it go to voice-mail.

And then answer it against your better judgment.

"Lisa?"

"Yeah. You said you needed to talk?"

"You didn't have to call. It's not important."

"Whatever you need is important." Ten years together tells you that she is concerned. You aren't surprised by her next words, "Are you alright?"

Ah. Half a year with you after Mount Massive tells her that I need to talk is a warning sign.

"I'm fine. Feeling a lot better than usual, actually." It's vague and you haven't discussed the state of your happiness with her for over a year, but she'll know what you mean.

"That's really good to hear, Waylon." Your name in her voice stabs between your ribs in a way that is much too similar to when you first heard Eddie say it. “What do you need?”

You need to explore your connection with Eddie, and you can't do that if he is some shameful secret kept at a distance by plausible deniability.

“To tell you something,” it's redundant and unhelpful but it will force you to tell her, because it's harder to forge a lie on the spot than it is to just admit the truth. Probably.

“Okay,” she drawls, skepticism a prompt for you to continue rather than a sign of impatience.

“I met someone.”

The cute little curious noise that Lisa fails to contain brings a rush of heat to your face.

“Really? Fuck, man, tell me everything—where did you meet? What're they like? Are they cute?”

She is reacting a lot better than you had when she told you she was remarrying. It wasn't that the guy wasn't nice, but the knowledge that someone else could make her happy, that there had always been the potential that someone else in the world was right for her too—it was hard to take when you still felt like she was the only one for you.

“Waylon? Come on, I know you're shy but, christ, you can tell me.”

Shit. She makes you feel like a mortified middle-schooler studiously ignoring the teasing of someone who knows too much. She's always made you feel that way. It's not so bad to be reduced to a blushing mess now.

(You have to push away the urge to connect the feeling to memories of burrowing your face into her shoulder and smiling against her skin, unconvincingly demanding that she cease her teasing immediately.)

“You texted me first, mister," Lisa goads. "Don't think I'm going to let you hang up without spilling the details.”

It's hard to breathe and you don't know what to say or where to begin but somehow you're smiling. God, it's good to have your best friend back.

Maybe she never left.

Had you just taken her disappointment at your withdrawal from the boy's lives more harshly than you should have? She had a right to be disappointed.

Perhaps the depression had skewed all of your tentative interactions with her since the divorce. She's still here. She's still family.

“Waylon Park, I swear to god if you don't answer me I will drive all seventy-five miles to your apartment with the kids in the back and—“

“Alright, alright.” You spend your saved breath on choosing the right words. “I've been visiting the patients at the Sanctuary a lot, and I know this sounds like something out of a really weird romantic comedy, but I've become really good friends with a guy here who—“

“A guy! Wonderful, lord knows you need a man's touch in your life.”

“Not funny,” you laugh anyway. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“I don't know, I was just worried about that, you know? You always liked it so rough—you'd be hard pressed to find a girl who is into a man being so submissive.”

“Oh, fuck off. I found you, didn't I?” You have to cover your face with your hand to hide from your reflection in the mirror. “Way to enforce gender roles, by the way.”

Lisa cackles. “Oh, sue me—I didn't mean anything by it. It's just hard to tell whether or not a girl will be into committing such aggressive displays of lust before you actually start dating them.” She's slept with more girls than you, so you trust her assessment. “And one of your sons drags his Hello Kitty blanket everywhere, so don't talk to me about gender roles.”

“Yes ma'am,” you say, wishing she was here to see your grin, you know she takes a lot of pleasure in enamoring you so thoroughly. “Felix told me about that, by the way. At first I thought you had purchased him an actual cat, with the way he was talking about it.”

“Kitty!” She exclaims in a very good impression of your eight-year-old. “Yeah. He's proud of all of his Kitty things.”

“God, I miss him. Both of them,” you say before you think better of it. It's not like you don't spend time with them every night over voice chat, but... long distance isn't the same. It really. Isn't. It's just. Not good enough.

Lisa's quiet for a long moment in which you hold your breath and wait for a well-deserved reprimand, but when she speaks her voice isn't any less welcoming than before. “You can visit anytime, you know. You're always welcome here. And the boys miss you, too.”

“I know, I just...”

“I know, sweetie. I know.”

She's too good to you.

“So this mystery crush is a patient at the mental hospital, eh?” she asks, her tone calming a bit.

Shit. Here's the difficult part, where the truth delves into territories that are unlikely to be accepted with any amount of ease. “Yeah. I know it's incredibly weird—“

“Not any weirder than meeting me on the internet.”

The assertion is so matter-of-fact that your smile drops and is replaced by a rapidly beating heart, warmed by the sheer amount of respect you have for this woman.

“Thanks, Lisa.”

“What?”

“For being supportive.”

“I'm not a bra, Waylon.”

She sounds so serious that you can't help but groan. “Your jokes are just as terrible as ever.”

“You missed them.”

“Just take the compliment, will you? You're an angel, really.”

“Tell that to the guy I cussed out at the supermarket the other day.” She doesn't sound like she regrets whatever altercation occurred. “So, about your guy—“

“He's not my guy. Just a friend.”

Lisa snorts. “Waylon, I know you.”

What is that supposed to mean? “Really, he is just a friend currently.”

“Right. So what's up? You need dating advice or something?”

She isn't asking the questions she needs to be, like: what are the complications of your crush being confined to a mental hospital? Is he dangerous? Is his name is Eddie Gluskin?

She's not bothered by what you've told her so far—but she should be, will be, if you tell her who it is, because she saw enough in the footage you took in Mount Massive's vocational block to know that Eddie Gluskin is a terrible choice in romantic partners.

“No... I,” Shit, how the hell do you say this? “I wanted to let you know because he... did some bad things during the riot—things that he regrets—and, shit, I just feel like I'm betraying everyone I know by having any interest in him.”

The sickening relief at finally getting that off your chest leaves you dizzy in anticipation for Lisa's reply. It doesn't matter if she hates you. You can live with that, you've already lived with it, even if it was all in your head. But she needs to know. Someone needs to know how you feel, but you're horrible for telling the person whose reaction you're afraid of most, instead of relying on the clinical neutrality of Dr. Everett.

(God, you don't want Lisa to hate you.)

“There's a reason all these people are in a mental hospital and not in prison, right?” she says finally, tentative, and despite your efforts to over-analyze her response, you can't find anything to be disappointed by. “You always said that the machine Murkoff used for therapy there was inhumane—that it basically was responsible for everyone's actions that night.”

“Yeah. I don't blame him—or any of the patients, really—for what happened during the riot.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“The patients at Mount Massive were all committed there in the first place for a reason.”

“Ah.”

“He... did some things he's not proud of before Murkoff ever got their hands on him.”

Lisa pauses for too long and you contemplate feigning a dropped call just so you can grit your teeth and stop holding back the urge to curl up in a ball right there on the restroom floor.

“Waylon, you don't have to tell me this. You don't owe me that. You're allowed to have a private life. You don't have to feel ashamed, like I'm here to judge your every life choice or something.”

This time the relief actually soothes and you can feel yourself breathing again.

“If you're going to turn everything into an if-then statement, at least get your facts straight. If you tell me you're dating an ex-axe-murderer, then I'm going to be wary—not to mention really fucking worried about you. But I'm not going to hate you.”

You can tell by the way she says axe-murderer that she's exaggerating—that she doesn't really think it could possibly be that bad. And that hurts, that she's using murder as an example of a worst-case scenario in attempt to make you feel better about the comparatively insignificant reality.

But murder is the reality, and she doesn't know that and—fuck, as guilty as her assumption makes you feel, her words are actually reassuring.

“And really, Waylon, you should trust your own judgment more. If you like him, he can't be that bad.”

She doesn't know.

She really has no idea.

And you can't tell her—not today.

And maybe she's right, maybe you shouldn’t have to tell anyone.

Maybe it's none of their business.

* * *

After the call with Lisa, you find yourself back in the patient ward instead of the parking lot.

It's late, but not the latest you've ever extended a visit with Eddie, and none of the guards or orderlies you pass on the way to Eddie's room regard you with any more than a glance and a mental note.

When your knock awards you a groan from Eddie, you slip inside. The room is dark, but Eddie reaches out of his bed to turn on a dim reading light on the the nightstand. He was sleeping. You guess Eddie never made it out of his room to partake in cards with Dennis. The wastebasket is overflowing with tissues and it makes you feel guilty for waking him.

“Back again so soon?” Eddie asks hoarsely as you settle yourself on the ground at his bedside. The armchair feels impersonal, you need to be close. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” you say, and then, “sorta.”

Eddie regards you from his sleep haze, face pressed into his pillow. He must not have the energy to sit up, either that or his drowsiness is forcing him to be more relaxed around you than he ought to be. “Tell me what's ailing you.”

Ailing. Does he always have to be so immaculate? Even in his disheveled state he's still rife with charm. “I tried to tell my therapist how I feel about you.”

He grunts his surprise. “Didn't go well?”

“I couldn't do it.”

“Ah.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be, though I do wish you would have told me you were planning to tell your therapist. We should do it together.”

Why didn't you think of that?

“Though,” Eddie's eyelids are heavy and you can see his steady breath below the covers, “Perhaps we should hold off on that until there is something to tell.”

“What do you mean?”

“Best not to get the whole facility involved before you can decide whether or not you would like to pursue whatever exactly it is you're attempting to pursue with me. I would like you to take your time with the decision.”

A rush of hope spills through you—he's approaching this from a realistic angle. He's aware that you might want to back out. He's not just being led on by you, he doesn't see it that way. He sees it for what it really is, testing the waters. That removes one expectation from your shoulders.

“You've changed your mind about this being bad for your therapy, then?” you ask, anticipation clawing through your relief.

“I suppose you could say that,” his response is elusive and gentle and he has no idea how much it means to you.

Hearing that he thinks you're worth the risk in compromising his therapy should not make you happy, but it's not shame that is forcing a smile to you lips.

"The larger truth is that... well, you make me feel like I'm experiencing what it's like to live a real life for the first time." Eddie's words are soft and sure and they send a prickling buzz through your skin. "I am only human, Waylon. How can I pass that up?"

At the sight of your shy delight, which you are trying your best to smother, Eddie stares at you with a level of intensity that has your ribs threatening to collapse under the pressure.

“Can I come under there with you?” you blurt, because you feel terrible about your failed attempt to tell Dr. Everett about Eddie, and all you want is to snuggle up against his broad chest and let him comfort you in a way that you haven't been comforted in a long time.

You brace for a question that doesn't come, a protest that Eddie will have to force himself to make—because he's the responsible one, somehow.

Instead there is a brief moment of deliberation before Eddie slides back as far as his small mattress will allow and lifts the covers.

An offer to join him.

Even though you're the one who requested the invitation, you hesitate to accept now that it's offered.

You have been desperate for human contact ever since a ten year supply of readily available touches was cut off in a matter of hours. From your angle on the floor you can see that Eddie's not wearing that shirt you forced him into earlier, his is so skin smooth, so much more hairless than your own.

You have missed intimacy dearly. If you get into bed with him, you fear it will take every orderly in the facility to pry you from his side.

Shoes. You should, uh.

Take off your shoes.

If you're going to do this.

You busy yourself with removing your shoes to hide your nerves. Shoelaces are a Rubik's cube you can't recall the algorithm for when your fingers are shaking this badly and the only thought you can seem to conjure is Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

"Are you sure?" you ask, because absurd as it is you just want him to be comfortable. You want him to think well of you.

There can't be any room for regrets, not when so many are still struggling to scab over. There are some regrets that remain raw no matter how thoroughly you tend to them. You won't let Eddie have any more open wounds.

"More than you know," he answers, and you think that it is perhaps one of the most honest things he has ever said to you.

That's all the encouragement you need. You climb into his bed with the intention to submerge yourself all at once, but instead find yourself hesitating—sitting on the edge of his mattress like a child at the end of a diving board.

But then he reaches out, eyes never leaving yours, and asks, "Can I touch you?"

Your nod is stiff, eyes transfixed on his fingers.

He runs his hand along your arm, unspoken and reassuring—but it's trembling. He's trembling.

A rush of warmth and instinct seeps through you and you can't help but remember what he said on one of your first visits—that his inclination is to express himself through touch. His fingers brush against the skin on your arm that you had forgotten could be so sensitive.

(Touch, you realize, is so much better than words.)

"Please don't feel obligated in any way," Eddie says, his words disjointed by his shallow breath.

His heart must be pounding. You want to feel it beat under your fingers, but instead you shift to sit fully on the bed, find his wrist, pry his hand away from your arm and relocate it to your hip, pushing his fingers beneath your shirt to rest hot against your skin. For the first time, Eddie breaks his gaze away from your face to stare hard at your lifted shirt, his hand on you.

You shift closer, telling yourself to take things slowly, to focus and remember where you are and who you're with because you honestly don't know if one sudden movement or poorly chosen word will send your heart racing with fear, not arousal.

But when your small movement comes with his fingers shifting in compliance, molding to your hip, impulse throbs your more rational thoughts away, and you find yourself hovering over him, hands pressed hard into the mattress to keep them off of Eddie.

His thumb is pressing lines into your skin.

“Eddie, can I touch you, too?” You ask, mirroring his question. His face is close, too close for you to be asking him this question—you're already invading his space.

He scoffs. “Of course.” He must find your formalities pointless when his hand is under your shirt.

“Where?” Boundaries, yes, you need to set boundaries. That's what Dr. Everett would have told you, had you been brave enough to confess your intentions regarding Eddie. Right?

(No. Not right. Because you're not allowed to be touching him like this at all.)

“Wherever you would like, darling.” Eddie's previous disdain for your formalities is replaced by something closer to amusement. He's looking you up and down like every inch of you is something he would like to possess, pupils eclipsing that icy blue stare.

His actions in Mount Massive were based on preexisting desires. How many times have you told yourself that, looking back on how you tried your damnedest to avoid him in those ruined halls. And the way he's looking at you now, it's different from the way he looked at you while you were bound to that table, but not different enough to staunch all of the anxiety attempting to join the mixture of anticipation and desire.

You watch your fingers as you press them to his neck, remind yourself that you are not bound and that he doesn't want to hurt you, and that you have never wanted to hurt him—not even when he chased you through the halls of Mount Massive and pulled you towards a table-saw.

You've never wanted to hurt him, and that's why it's okay to grip his shoulder as hard as you are, because it's not revenge digging nails into his skin.

It only takes one shove to push him onto his back. You press your cheek against his and whisper, “Let me know if I'm hurting you. I don't want to hurt you.”

The words conflict with your fingernails breaking skin, red irritation spreading across his shoulder, the hitch of his breath in response—but you know no other way to communicate how he makes you feel.

There is.

More frustration than you can contain.

Longing which hurts so terribly that it inspires your dreams almost every night and pollutes your thoughts during the day, the insistent ache of a broken heart—because your feelings for him have never made your heart feel whole, just more and more broken by the shame.

And you just want all of it gone, you want to express the whole mess until it's dull and powerless and all you can feel is his body next to yours.

Eddie's arms encircle you, trapping you against him. Your shirt is hiked up and your stomach is pressed so soft and warm against his. He burrows his face against your neck; no tongue or teeth, just his breath hot and damp and suffocating in the best possible way.

(His face against your neck, the weight of his arms around you.)

(His face against your neck, the weight of his arms around you.)

Your entire body floods with warmth and god—there is nothing like the heat of skin on skin, it is not something that can be replicated by the spray of a shower or blankets on a bed or the sun through your window. You had forgotten, you had forgotten.

Your shirt is in the way of your chest on his and you want it gone. You pull away to get rid of it, but Eddie's arms tighten, caging you closer, and his face is buried so thoroughly against your shoulder that you wonder how he's able to breathe—and the panic is as instantaneous as the claustrophobia, but you swallow your protest and try to think rationally. He's probably not trying to trap you, he's probably just acting on reflex like earlier. You can sympathize with that.

“Eddie,” your voice is as gentle as you can manage. Beneath you fingers, you can feel his attempt to control his breathing. “Let me take off my shirt.”

Eddie doesn't speak, and for a moment you wonder if he heard you, but then his arms loosen in response and his hands fall to your hips instead. He doesn't want to let go, you realize, so you tell him he doesn't have to.

"Eddie, it's okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

As you pull your shirt off, a quick glance at the clock on his desk tells you that you have half an hour before an orderly will come in to check on him, and then he will have no choice but to let go.

You need to calm the situation—Eddie isn't verbal and his movements are so stiff that any composure he's exhibiting must be artificial, barely contained fervor one touch away from something much less controlled.

As you press yourself against him all he seems to want is to smother himself on you, hold you as tightly as possible and just breathe you in.

A half an hour is all you have with him. Lying in bed with him and allowing yourself physical comfort was all you had intended when you asked to join him under the covers. But this is everything cuddling shouldn't be—taut and anxious and buzzing with prospect.

There is nothing relaxing or comforting about it, not when the only affection he's showing is restraint.

(And all you want to do is shred that restraint to ribbons.)

“Hey,” you whisper, moving your fingers over his side, feeling his muscles clench as you brush your knuckles under his navel. “What do you need?”

You wish you could see his face, it's almost like he's hiding from you.

“Just you,” he murmurs against your neck, hoarse with emotion—and god, words shouldn't feel so good. “Just this.”

“You're allowed to touch me,” you tell him, because even though his hands are on you they are immobile with discipline.

“Ask me to,” he says, all breath and unreadable emotion, but the words still manage to resound as an order. "I need you to ask me to."

“Eddie,” you allow frustration to clip your voice because you're not going to beg and that's probably not what he wants anyway. “Move your fucking hands.”

His response is immediate—the warmth of his palm travels lower until his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your pants and for a second you panic because somewhere you remember that you should take things slowly and avoid anything too sexual, but his fingers stop at the crease of your thigh, palm molded to your hip, gripping hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make you moan and press yourself fully against him.

Eddie's breath hitches and he growls and you have no doubt it's because he can feel your erection through your pants, pressing against his thigh in a way that must be painful with how hard you're pushing your hips against him. You want him to feel it, you want him to know that he doesn't have to be afraid to touch you, that you want this too.

With some amount of difficulty and an insistent hand against his chest, you manage to pry him from your neck so you can get at his. His vocalizations are reduced to rough grunts and hissed exhales as you suck your way across his neck. His heartbeat rushes through his veins under your tongue and teeth and he doesn't seem to mind when you bite almost harder than you dare.

He responds to the violence with an aggressive noise and nails digging into your skin as he pulls you roughly against him in an attempt for friction.

When you abandon his neck it is slick and splotched red but not bleeding—thank god it's not bleeding because you think you would like the sight of that a bit too much and you don't care to know why.

To quell the roughness you fire off kisses down the scarred side of his face that he might not find so handsome, but you think is beautifully rough under your lips. The scars are a remnant of Murkoff, just as permanent as the scar on your leg, a reminder of Eddie as telling as an ex-lover's name tattooed in dark ink.

Eddie is kissing you too, leaving trails across your collarbone, bold enough that you'll be recalling this for days but longing to replace the temporary sensation with something new, scrub the memory away with tongue and teeth and Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Eddie's arousal is hard against your hip and it's all you can do to halt your fingers before the hem of his pants and pant your next words, “Can I—Can I take care of that for you?”

(He's hard for you—how many times have you made his dick swell since you started vising him?)

(How many times have you left him frustrated and horny ?)

(How many times has he left you that way?)

(So many. Too many. Not enough.)

Eddie responds with an involuntary rock of his hips and a grunt that you can only interpret as annoyance.

Yeah, he's right, you shouldn't be asking him if you can jerk him off, you shouldn't want to, not when this is the first time you're even touching him and it's probably really, really important to follow your own advice to take things slow.

You can't rush this. You just wanted to cuddle him. A little. Bury your head against his chest for a while. Accept his arms around you.

Not this.

This is.

Moving too fast.

Dangerously fast.

Still, you ask again, “Please, Eddie? Can I? I want to take care of you.”

“Do what you must,” he says finally, and his reluctance is so forced that you can't help but laugh.

“You are so fucking precious sometimes,” you tell him as you waste no time working your hand into his pants, and whatever protest he's sure to make dissolves into a moan when your fingers curl around his cock. It is hot and hard and smooth and when you squeeze experimentally it pulses under your fingers.

His moan is relief and frustration all at once, and he doesn't seem to be taking kindly to the chuckle it elicits from you in response.

It's difficult to maneuver in the confines of his pants, but you manage, strokes slow and loose and enough to have him bucking into your hand for more.

There is something powerful about having your fingers wrapped around him, the way a simple shift in your movement elicits an immediate hitch of his breath. You watch his face as you work him with your fist, he looks close to hyperventilating but his eyes are accusing.

“What's the matter?” you ask, though it comes across as teasing more than a genuine inquiry, and you take pride in how easily you're able to form words when he is a mess of harsh breath and illegible keens.

“I...” he has to pause to swallow his racing breath. “Stop.”

You halt your motions and search his face. “Is it too much?”

“No, it's just that we don't have much time and I want to...” he licks his dry lips and for a moment you wonder if he wants to devour you even more than Frank did.

Whatever he wants, he can't admit it, can he? It sorta pisses you off that he wants anything more than what you were giving him, that he finds any agenda more pressing than your hand on his dick. “You want what?”

“I want you writhing,” he answers through clenched teeth, and you have enough sense to remove your hand from his pants before he shoves you back by the shoulder, sending you flat on your back on the mattress, eyes wide and breath quick.

You had wanted to break his restraint, but now that he's hovering over you the power difference between his body and yours is too significant for comfort. You enjoyed aggressive displays from Lisa, whose weight came with soft thighs and hips to die for, but you could easily hold your own against her, lift her off if you needed to.

With Gluskin, you're sure he overpowers you. The way he dragged you through the vocational block. Pulled your body through the halls with the ear splitting screech of the metal locker scrapping the floor.

If he wanted to hurt you, you wouldn't be able to stop him.

Not now.

Not after you forced yourself so deep into this situation.

Fuck.

Things are. Moving so fast.

Too fast.

You shouldn't...

You should—

Gluskin trails his palm down your heaving chest, eyes half-lidded as he watches his own movement, and when he grabs the hem of your pants, his eyes flit back to yours. “May I?” he asks, oh so patiently.

“May you what?” You struggle to understand what exactly he's asking for. If he wants you to writhe all he as to do is suck on your neck. There's apprehension coating your voice. “You said we don't have much time left.”

“This won't take long,” he assures, and his smirk makes your face flush hotter than it had when your hand was down his pants. “Judging by how eager you were during that phone call, I would say that we have plenty of time.”

You don't have a condom—you should have brought a condom. No, you don't have time for that. Actual copulation would require more than the handful of minutes you have left.

What are you even thinking?

You. Just wanted to cuddle. Not. This.

But. Oh.

You do want this. So badly.

What the fuck are you doing?

Why are you like this?

Why—

“Waylon?” he asks again.

Your response is a tentative nod.

Eddie frowns. “Say it.”

“Yes.”

He accepts this, and you watch as he unfastens your pants and pulls them down to your knees along with your boxers.

You feel. Exposed.

Timid, suddenly, with his eyes on you, with the way he regards your exposed flesh with too much patience.

Your breath hitches. In fear, in exhilaration, in excitement.

The time he takes to caress you, the time he takes to press his face to your thigh and close his eyes and breathe you in—it contrasts heavily with the effortless haste with which Eddie takes you into his mouth, the fervent bobbing of his head, his fingers wrapped around the base of your erection. His efforts are aimed to get results, not to savor the occasion.

The rush of sensation is warm and wet and too much. You arch off the bed but Eddie pins your hips down—the loss of control has you an inconsolable mess of moans. When you're finally able to steady your breath to something manageable, you fight your way onto your elbows so you can get a better look at him.

(How many times have you relieved yourself in more ways than one, imagining his head between your legs instead of that saw?)

He is watching you as his mouth works your cock and god you just want to kiss him but you know trying to pry him away will be a fruitless effort and the loss of his tongue will probably make you weep.

(You feel like weeping now, anyway—are weeping, almost, biting your knuckles to staunch your whines.)

It feels too good, looks too good, and it has been too long since you've been with another human being.

He was right that it would be quick.

“Eddie,” you manage, voice urgent and embarrassingly high-pitched but you need to give him some semblance of a warning. “If you—I'm going to—“

Eddie doesn't miss a beat despite your warning, and when you do come it's with a strangled cry and your head thrown back against Eddie's pillow.

When you manage to come back to your senses, Eddie is fastening your pants. You hate him, you hate his diligence. You hate him for being so considerate.

But perhaps hate isn't the word you really mean.

(You think, absurdly, of Val, saying they hate Dennis and Pyro every time those two display too much affection. Hate isn't really what Val meant, either.)

And god. It should not be so hot to see Eddie buttoning your pants for you. You shouldn't be so transfixed. But you are. And. Fuck.

Eddie gets up to retrieve your shirt from the floor and you watch him absently, eyes glued to the erection tenting his pants.

What the hell just happened?

That.

Wow.

Did you really just let Eddie Gluskin give you head?

You can't believe that just happened.

Eddie returns to your side, pressing your shirt to your chest and placing a kiss to your temple. “Put your clothes back on, darling. We only have but a few minutes.”

Shit, right. You can't let an orderly see you like this. You couldn't look inconspicuous right now to save your life.

You force yourself to sit up and slip your shirt back on, Eddie watching you all the while.

"Please don't tell anyone about this in group therapy," you say. The words are wary, but it's an attempt to tease him more than an actual request.

Eddie chuckles. "Wouldn't dream of it."

You press your forehead to his shoulder and his hand finds your hair and you could spend forever in that moment, but you pull away because you have to. It takes a lot of effort to swing your legs over the edge of the bed and tug your shoes back on.

“Thank you,” you say with no amount of ease as you tie your laces.

“Nonsense.” Eddie grunts his displeasure at the sentiment, hands slipping under your shirt, his movements much more relaxed now. Where was this ease earlier?

You want to force him to accept your gratitude. You want to tell him how much you enjoyed it, but you can't find the words when you enjoyed him more than what he did for you. You enjoyed his noises and his movements and the smell of him all over you.

You can't explain that to him any more than you could explain your attraction to him to Dr. Everett.

“I should leave before the orderly comes in,” you tell him, face flushed and breath still shaky.

“Probably for the best.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, my darling.”

His darling. That... that shouldn't... shit.

“I'll see you tomorrow?” you ask. You don't know why you want his permission.

“Time will tell,” he muses.

You frown. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Is he suggesting that you'll be too ashamed to ever come back? That you'll wake up with regret tomorrow, without all the arousal to make this feel right?

(He would be right to worry about that—he would be smart to remember how fickle you are.)

He laughs your suspicion away. “I only mean that I doubt you'll be able to conjure the will to leave your apartment if you come down with the cold I've got.”

“You still had the energy to make me come, so I think I can manage even if I do get sick,” you say, standing up.

Eddie catches your hand and kisses your knuckles and somehow your heart still has enough stamina to pick up speed. “That was sheer willpower, darling.”

You roll your eyes. “Goodbye, Eddie.”

He releases your hand when you turn to go. “Ah—Waylon?”

“Yeah?”

“Should you catch my cold and find you cannot visit tomorrow, would you mind,” he pauses, threading his fingers through his hair. You're surprised he went so long without trying to fix it, disheveled as it is. “Would you mind calling me, to let me know?”

Is he afraid that if he doesn't hear from you he'll spend every minute wondering if you've returned home with regret too strong to allow you to ever see him again?

“Sure,” you say, as if you don't know how much it will mean to him. He is looking at you with too much fondness and you need to leave before you dive back into his arms. “I'll do that.”

You return his smile and make your exit quick.

The route back to your car feels less like a walk of shame and more like a victory. Every time you pass an orderly or a guard or a stray patient on your way out of the building, you're hyper-aware that there may be a mark on your neck or a glow about you that will cause suspicion.

And dimly, you hope there is a remnant of Eddie on your skin. You want people to see it. You want everyone to know how lucky you are.

Chapter Text

It's early morning and several hours of lying awake after a fitful sleep before you finally throw yourself out of bed to consult a pros and cons list.

You made the list weeks ago, but it's still attached to the magnetic grocery list notepad stuck to the fridge. You keep it there so it stares you down every time you venture in the kitchen for a soda. The list's presence has helped you cut down on caffeine—which has been helping you get more sleep—though, you blame the most recent night's unrest on not being able to stop thinking about Gluskin's mouth on you, the heat of his skin under your tongue.

Part of you had been holding onto the hope that a one-night-stand sort of venture with Eddie would rid you of the schoolboy lust you've been feeling towards him. Get the sexual tension out of your system, destroy the ambiance so that you can finally think straight regarding him.

Quite the contrary, however, you went to sleep thinking about him and you woke up confused as to why he wasn't in your bed.

You eye the list on the fridge, the 'pros' side is laughably barren.

The list reads:

Relationship with E.G.

(You couldn't even bring yourself to write his full name in the seclusion of your apartment, for fear that someone might somehow bear witness to it).

PROS:
continued visits,
decreased loneliness.

CONS:
anxiety,
shame,
fear of judgment,
self-loathing,
why even do it,
stupid,
emotionally taxing.

Last on the list of 'cons' are the words potentially dangerous written several times, scribbled out, and then re-written. Right now one of the potentially dangerous lines is left in-tact, and you stare at it hard, resisting the urge to scratch it out again.

Instead of tampering with the cons side of the list, you take a pen from the counter and add a few lines to the 'pro' section:

companionship,
takes mind off of bad memories somehow,
accepts me even with the paranoia and anger and fear,
happiness sometimes,
understanding,
free hats.

You force yourself to eat breakfast while you wait for Eddie to be out of his morning obligations so that you can call him. Has he spent all day anxious because of your escapade with him last night? Has he been tearing his hair out, wondering if you'll decide that you've made a terrible mistake?

Maybe you should step back and take some time away from him. Sort out your thoughts alone, perhaps finally confess to Dr. Everett that you're actually fucking considering dating Eddie Gluskin, as pedestrian and unfitting as that sounds.

Does Eddie even want to date you? What would that even entail? You have no idea.

But it's not just sex that you want from him—hell, it's not just sex that you've gotten from him. It's emotional support (you add that to the list as well), friendship. And knowing you, that's what's really been driving your lust for him the whole time—the fact that you actually fucking like the guy.

It's not just some weird begrudging attraction to him because your subconscious said so anymore. And that scares you more than anything. But it's also... reassuring, to an extent.

It's probably high time you stop feeling bad for yourself and just do whatever feels right.

And what has felt right for months now is kindling a bizarre friendship with Eddie Gluskin.

When the appropriate hour rolls around and you can finally call Eddie, the first thing you let him know is that you spent all night thinking about him. The second is that you feel fine and you don't think he got you sick (in turn he assures you that he's feeling much better). The third is that you'll be on your way over for a visit shortly, and he better fucking be waiting for you when you get there.

* * *

Eddie greets you just beyond the security checkpoint near the lobby, his confidence glowing even brighter than usual, though you had expected his typical cordial posture to be seeped in nervous energy.

The few steps it takes you to be at his side are anticipation without climax—because there are guards nearby, orderlies traversing the halls, patients making their way to their various obligations. So of course he doesn't reach out to touch you, to lead you down the hall by the small of your back.

Of course. Of course he doesn't and of course he shouldn't.

He smiles at you like something out of a romance movie, like he's waiting outside your house to take you to a fancy dinner and you've just stepped onto the porch all dressed up.

"How are you, Waylon?"

Why bother with pleasantries when he knows exactly how you are, when you told him directly on the phone? When you can't stop fucking beaming at him.

"Good. I'm... really good, Eddie." It's a bitter-sweet thing to admit, because even though it's true, there's something about it that feels insincere, because your happiness has improved as a direct result of reliance on someone else. It didn't happen on its own, it didn't happen through your own efforts, and something about that feels fraudulent.

Dr. Everett would probably tell you that it's okay to cling to whatever happiness you can find, especially when the source of that happiness isn't necessarily harmful.

Eddie accepts the news with a soft expression that should come with a hand in yours, but he's proven to be too well-behaved for that. "I'm glad to hear that."

The conversation is so impersonal, but you know, you both know that it's pretend, that something more intimate is being held at bay. You can't stop yourself from recalling the pressure of his hands on your thighs, his head bobbing in your lap, the way it felt to drown in the scent of him.

Maybe you're walking too close to him because you swear you can feel his body heat.

When you turn towards the hallway containing the elevators, he halts you with a hand on your shoulder, the gesture bold enough that your breath hitches—because he didn't ask for permission to touch you. Instead of eliciting fear, the boldness of his touch only arouses you, and today you don't even hate yourself for it.

“Waylon, I thought maybe we could go outside in the yard today. I overheard some orderlies commenting on the lovely weather.”

Oh. You were automatically heading towards his room. Your disappointment must show, because he offers you a sympathetic smile.

“Best not to be too obvious,” he says, voice low and serious, though he's still smiling to maintain a casual air for anyone passing by. You feel like a child being scolded in public. Like he thinks you're one second away from throwing a tantrum. “Lord only knows what people think of us already. Our friendship is suspect enough—a popular topic of gossip here at the facility. I fear that hiding ourselves away in my room all the time is not the wisest course of action.”

Friendship. Our friendship. That word feels like so much and not enough. The truth. A lie.

“Yeah. Okay. I get it.”

He leads you towards the yard, and you spot Dennis and Pyro on your way. It's a little disappointing because you want to be alone with Eddie—but surprisingly, they don't come over to greet you like they always have whenever they run into Eddie. Why?

You shoot Eddie a questioning glance, and he frowns.

“That's... odd,” he says, assuring you that you're not alone in thinking it strange that they aren't making an effort to join you. They're Eddie's friends, and you think they like you. So what's stopping them?

They're down the hall, huddled together a bit conspiratorially, but they definitely see you. It's only when Dennis tries to approach you and Pyro catches him around the arm to stop him, obviously reprimanding him though you can't hear his words, that you consider that they might be trying to give Eddie alone time with you.

“You... didn't ask them to leave us alone today, did you?” Maybe Eddie planned ahead, knowing you might want to be alone with him after what happened last night.

“Heavens, no.”

“Shit.” Maybe it doesn't take hours holed up in Eddie's room for days on end to make people suspicious.

Are you walking too close to Eddie? Absolutely.

Are you glancing at him too obviously as you walk? Yeah.

Smiling too indiscriminately? Yep.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, hesitant, like he's not sure if he wants to know.

“I think we're even more suspicious when we aren't out of sight.” At least when alone in his room the dubious behavior is only implied, but when people actually see you together... well, the evidence must be displayed for everyone in a way that's too easy to comprehend.

Fuck.

Eddie responds with only a grunt, and you expect him to step away from you, alter the distance to something more impersonal, a range where your arms don't brush occasionally if your steps line up just right. But he doesn't move away, and your blood pumps harder when he says, “Let them think what they will.”

“You don't mind?”

“Oh, I do wish they would mind their own business.” But apparently not enough to avoid feeding their curiosity. “However, I am not one to deny myself what I want just to keep up appearances for others. Not anymore.”

That's all well and good but... “Then why can't we just go to your room?”

Eddie chuckles and you scowl. Does he always have to make you feel like you're some over-eager sex-fiend?

“I won't let them take away how close you're willing to walk next to me. I won't deny myself your little minx glances. But anything beyond suggestion is dangerous.”

“Why?” You already have a pretty good guess, but you want to hear it in his own words.

“We are a special circumstance, and I'm afraid I can't fathom how the staff will react if the evidence of our... ah, relations, becomes something we can't deny.” He holds the door to the yard open for you, his shirt stretching appealingly across his chest, and it takes everything in you to resist touching him as you slip through the open door. “As long as we keep our hands to ourselves in public, they will hesitate to make accusations.”

Yeah, he's right. The staff probably doesn't want to upset any of the patients, Eddie included, by making an accusation before they know it's absolutely true, since any false allegations would risk a breach of trust.

The yard is really nice despite the foreboding feel of the high barbed wire fences. You were too nervous to notice much when you were out here before, during your first meeting with with Gluskin. Since Mount Massive all your attention is devoted to scanning your surroundings for danger, watching strangers as they move around you. There is no time for appreciating the aesthetics of the outside world when every pretty tree or shrub is a potential hiding place for something that wants to hurt you.

But now you notice the carefully tended gardens and thin, recently planted trees. The stone paths swept clear of fallen leaves. The scent of flowers, of grass, of the wind combing through all of the plants.

“It's nice out here,” you comment absently as you make your way towards an empty stone bench along the path.

“Yes, the weather is behaving for once.”

“No, well—yeah, that too. But I meant the gardens.”

“Oh. Yes, They're quite nice. It's all maintained by many of the patients here.”

“Makes sense. Gardening is supposed to be therapeutic, right?”

“Many find it so. I prefer knitting and cooking myself. Embroidery. The obvious suspects.”

You walk with Eddie through the yard, eventually settle yourself on a bench in a semi-secluded area. You sit in the middle of the stone seat, leaving Eddie no choice but to sit close to you. The cold stone seeps through to your thighs and you're glad for the warmth of Eddie's body next to yours. You wish you could huddle against his side.

The only things you've been able to find therapeutic so far are your conversations with Eddie Gluskin. It's absurd, because having him in your life causes so much turmoil as well, but at least it gives you something to think about other than your memories of the riot—things that are over and done with and can never be changed.

At least whatever reservations you have about Eddie are occurring in the present, problems you can actually take by the reigns.

You can't tell him that he's the only thing grounding you right now. That he has been for months.

“Do you make most of your clothes?”

He's staring straight ahead, idly watching the other patients in the distance. “The majority. Some are pre-existing garments with alterations.”

“Ah. I'm glad they let you sew here.”

“As am I.”

He's not as talkative as he usually is, though he's never been quite as exuberant around you as he is with other people. The quiet space between words is comfortable enough, easy, but you wonder if maybe he has something on his mind.

“I really like the hat you made me, by the way. I don't remember if I expressed that enough.”

“I'm well aware, darling.” He glances pointedly to the hat, where it currently sits snugly on your head.

Oh. Right.

You've worn it every visit since he made it.

The air is chilly and rages in small bursts that rattle the skeleton tree branches and brittle leaves. You sneak a glance at Eddie's hair, but it seems to be staying mostly in place, only a few stands unsettled by the wind.

“Tell me something,” you prompt, trying your best to keep your eyes off of him, on the ground, the way the manicured flowerbeds bend to the shape of the paths. “Anything. I want to hear you talk.”

He assesses you with all the seriousness of an unraveling thread on an expensive garment.

“Please?"

“What would you like to know?”

“Nothing in particular.”

He lets the wind fill the silence for what feels like minutes, and then, quietly, “I miss you dearly between these visits, though I've started to trust that I'll see you every day now.”

It's hard news to take, to know you cause him any measure of grief. It hurts to hear him say that he trusts you to not stop visiting him abruptly, when you know your resolve is so finicky. The responsibility, the need to not disappoint him, manifests in an insistent squirming in your gut.

“I have spent a great deal of my life institutionalized, Waylon. Solitude is something one grows accustomed to, even though the noise of the facility, the forced socialization, never ceases.”

The past is something Eddie rarely speaks about. You don't want to derail him with questions or interjection, but you do want him to know you're listening, so you lean a bit closer against his side, though your arms are already flush. All you want is to rest your head on his shoulder and focus on his voice with your eyes closed—but you shouldn't, because you're in public and the staff might see. You shouldn't, you shouldn't. So you don't.

“The first facility I resided in wasn't ideal, but it was comfortable. Mind you, this is before they transferred me back to Leadville and Mount Massive.” This only serves to remind you just how long he's been institutionalized. Decades of his life. “I spent a lot of time refusing to socialize with my fellow patients. Watched some television, read many books, sketched clothing patterns, that sort of thing.”

He rubs his palms together for warmth, and you wish you could take his hands and share your warmth with him, push his hands under your shirt, warm them against your chest.

(You can't do that. Not here. Will you ever be able to?)

(No. Of course not.)

“It was a very lonely existence, but I took my medication, the voices and complex hallucinations quelled, the psychosis stopped, and I was, in all honesty, a great deal happier than I had been living in the world outside.”

“What is it like to hear voices?”

“They are auditory hallucinations. They resound as if spoken to me by an outside source.”

“Sounds frightening.”

“It was, some of the time.”

“Only sometimes?”

“I grew accustomed to them. Which caused me to become very out of touch with reality, since I didn't know to regard them with a more appropriate mindset. My doctors tell me that there are many people who live with hallucinations just fine, so long as they are aware of proper coping mechanisms.”

“What's the psychiatrist-approved mindset to have?” Is it possible for there to be such a thing?

“One must regard the voices with skepticism, with awareness of what they are and why they are happening.”

“And you didn't?”

“Not then.” He pauses, his indecision apparent in the slight apprehension in his eyes as he stares at his folded hands. “Oftentimes, and especially in my case, the voices urged me to perform tasks, sometimes mundane—get dressed or bathe—sometimes dangerous, harmful, like cross the street without looking both ways, or hurt myself, push a classmate over. Always these tasks came with a threat that if the task is not proformed something bad will happen, or something good will never happen.”

“What the fuck?” you say, before you can stop yourself. “That's terrible. And it's constant?”

“The frequency varied,” he says, gently, as though you are the one who might be hurt by the information. “If the affected is aware of the illness, they may be able to ignore the voices, or find them little more than a source of amusement or annoyance. Comfort, even.”

“And you?”

“To me, when I was young, before I knew better... they became like superstition—it's not that I believed the voices all the time, but there was an overwhelming sense of dread that came with not obeying them—I didn't always trust that doing what they said would fulfill their promises, or prevent their threats, but rather, I feared the possibility that their threats may come true.”

Absurdly, it reminds you of the first time you saw chain-mail on the internet—an email or post that tricks someone into reading a horror story that promises the ghost will come kill them in some gruesome fashion if they don't spread the post to five friends. Despite not being the superstitious type, it was still unsettling to resist the chain-mail's order.

“To me back then, the price of obeying the voices seemed a small cost compared to the weight of the threats.” He turns to you a bit, smile probably meant to reassure you, because you must look absolutely pained. “It was difficult not to believe the hallucinations, they knew everything about me, as they were born of my own thoughts. Every insult and fear they taunted me with was easy to trust, because I already believed it myself, worried about the same things consciously as well as involuntarily.”

You want to tell him you're sorry, apologize profusely for his suffering, but that's probably the most useless thing you can do. “How old were you, when it started?”

“Very young,” he says, quiet. “Childhood. As far back as I can remember. Back then it was mostly insults—that I'm ineffectual or stupid. Commands to do silly things like not step on the cracks in the linoleum at school, or else my mother would fall ill and die before I returned home. It was simply normal to me. The constant invasion. The compulsion to obey.”

You can see how this led to the deep psychosis later in his life, one that caused him to be institutionalized on criminal charges. He was too out of touch with reality to fully realize the impact his crimes would have on others, on himself—it's definitely why a court of law recognized as much and sent him to a mental institution instead of a prison. He doesn't have to tell you, to confirm any of this directly, and you don't want to ask.

“The medication really stops the voices?”

He hesitates, and you wonder if he's trying to recall his answer the last time you asked him about his medication. Finally he says, “It helps.”

“...But?”

He takes a deep breath. “I still experience auditory hallucinations occasionally, even when strictly following my medication schedule. Same with complex visual hallucinations.”

He wasn't completely honest then, when you previously spoke with him about his medication.

'The medication all but cures it.' That's what he had said to you.

It's hard not to feel apprehensive about the lie, angry. But you don't want to stand up and storm off... you want to understand why he wasn't totally honest before—why he is being honest now.

It's probably not a good idea to confront him though, not when he's finally opening up. It's taken him weeks just to talk about sensitive subjects on his own accord—topics that he's not obligated to address because they don't involve you directly.

Against your better judgment you say, “You told me the medication all but cured the schizophrenia.”

“I believe I said that in regards to psychosis—which is true, but yes,” he says, expression grave—it pisses you off that he's even bothering to mention the technicality. “I may have downplayed the severity a bit.”

“Why?” It's impossible to keep the disappointment out of your voice.

“I was not entirely sure that you would be understanding. That you wouldn't be afraid.”

“Ah.” It makes sense—but it's also infuriating that he decided it was okay to lie for any reason.

“Are you afraid?”

You stare down at your lap. He sounds so nervous and it's all wrong because Eddie Gluskin is the last person who should be nervous in this situation. You don't want to see how deeply he's hanging on your response.

Instead of words, you scoot away from him on the bench, allowing a gap to form between your thigh and his. Still refusing to look at him because you can't bear to see the devastation that's probably crossing his features, you grab his hand from his lap and pull it to rest on the bench between your body and his.

You swear you can hear a hitch in his breath as you interlace your fingers with his.

There. Holding hands should be safe, because your locked hands are hidden between you and him, and no one is walking by, everyone is too far away to see. It should be fine. It is fine—it feels good to touch him, even if his hand is cold. The way he squeezes your hand like he's holding on for dear life feels so much better than it ought to.

“Thank you, Waylon,” he says after a while, his throat hoarse. “For not being angry with me.”

You run your thumb along the side of his hand, the motion is meant to soothe him, but it helps to calm you down, too. “I am a little angry. But I'm not afraid, and I'm glad you told me the truth.”

It feels good to stay calm, to forgive, to give him some understanding even though there's a part of you that wants to reprimand him, but you resist. It's a skill you probably learned through parenting—sometimes a child's behavior may deserve harsh words, but really, what they learn from most is an honest conversation.

“That... means more to me than you know,” Eddie says, still much too serious for your tastes. “Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me,” you grumble, finally starting to feel the weight of the cold weather.

Eddie shifts, leaning forward and glancing around in a manner that is much too obvious for a man who is so insistent about avoiding suspicion. He even twists around to look behind the bench, as though searching for something. What's he looking for? The area seems the same—it's so cold that not many people are out, only a few patients across the yard conversing at picnic tables. When you turn back to question Eddie, his face is inches away, and you only have seconds before his lips close over yours.

Oh.

The kiss comes with his hand fisting into the front of your hoodie—and you automatically struggle to push your free hand under several layers of clothing to slide along his skin, but in the end you have to give up to grip the bench, because next thing you know you're half-lying on the bench and Eddie's tongue is in your mouth.

The scent and taste of him invades your senses, the hot, wetness of his mouth sending sparks through you.

He didn't kiss you yesterday, not on the mouth—did he regret that, when you left? You did. As soon as you were back in your car all you could think about were how many things you wanted to do but didn't—how many places you should have touched him.

This, him—Eddie—he feels so finite. Like you need to experience as much as possible all at once, or risk losing him forever.

You laugh into the kiss, in the spaces where he lets you come up for air—because you both must look ridiculous bundled in your jackets, Eddie pinning you down with precarious balance as he kisses you.

“Hm?” Eddie hums as he pulls away, leaving your lips wet and sore and so very cold. “What's funny?”

“I—“ You start to answer but he cuts you off with a trail of quick kisses down your face, and perhaps it's just the embarrassment of someone potentially witnessing the whole thing, but his attentions make you laugh harder.

“Darling, I asked you a question,” he says between kisses, and you squirm involuntarily when his icy fingers slip under your shirt.

You doubt he really wants an answer, because when you try to speak again he actually fucking tickles you.

“It's very rude to not respond,” he chastises, breath hot against your neck.

“Fuck—Eddie, stop,” you manage between gasps.

His fingers halt but he doesn't pull away, and then he asks, voice serious, “Why?”

“Someone is going to see us. You're the one who—“

His fingers resume their onslaught, and you buck beneath him, but his weight is holding you down well enough. When you start to squeal a little too loud, Eddie kisses you again, muffling the noise.

Just when you're starting to find it difficult to breathe between Eddie's mouth on yours and his ministrations and your own breathy laughter, Eddie pulls away, sitting back on the bench, hands kept to himself, as if nothing happened.

You're left panting, lying back on the bench and staring wide-eyed up at the gray sky, waiting for your lungs to catch up with you.

“Do try to sit up, darling. People will stare.”

“Fuck you.”

The insult doesn't work so well when you're returning his smile.

Chapter Text

The warm air inside the facility instantly soothes your wind-bitten skin, but all you can think about is the memory of how much warmer Eddie's body is.

There's a pang of longing there, even as Eddie stands beside you just inside the doors that lead back out into the yard. He's right here—but you're not allowed to touch him. Not allowed to take comfort in him, not allowed to lean into his chest and smile up at him.

You are smiling though, like you got away with something—and you did, the kissing and the tickling on the bench was too risky. So you can't feel bad that Eddie won't indulge you further. He's trying. He...

He's giving you what he can.

(What is it you even want?)

"Hey," the hallways aren't empty and the way you're looking at Eddie (too fondly, too fondly) must reveal too much. Anyone who overhears is bound to hear the plea in your voice. "I don't want to leave yet."

Eddie's smile is sympathetic, eyes crinkling around the edges, like he doesn't know what to do with you. "The recreation rooms are open, perhaps we can round up Dennis and Pyro for cards."

What you want to do is find an empty room in the facility and crawl into Eddie's lap. Pepper his scarred face with kisses, relish in the way this makes him blush.

This want is dangerous—this brimming affection every time you look at him.

He's right. The doctors can't know, the staff—even you don't know what exactly you and Eddie are doing. What do you want out of this? What does he want?

Aware of other people lingering in the halls, you motion for Eddie to come closer, and it only takes a beat for him to realize what you want.

He steps closer and leans in, so you only have to stand on your toes a little bit to whisper in his ear.

"Can we go back to your room? I just want to talk. I promise. Nothing else. I'll be good."

Something about that last part has Eddie shooting you an accusing look.

"What?"

Eddie just shakes his head, straightens. "Nothing. If you insist, then I suppose..."

You grin and lead the way.

(Should you be embarrassed that you know your way around the patient wards so well—that you know the exact route to Eddie's room?)

It doesn't take much for Eddie to match your stride with his much longer legs. Other patients barely give you and Eddie any notice. Maybe your visits here are becoming commonplace. Orderlies only nod and smile when they pass in the halls or have to buzz you through a locked door sectioning off different parts of the facility.

When you finally reach Eddie's room, you close the door softly behind you.

"I thought you only wanted to talk." Eddie eyes the closed door but sounds entirely unsurprised.

"I do."

With the noise from the bustle of the facility shut out, Eddie's tiny room feels peaceful and... safe, somehow.

And god, he's standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, doing that idle thing he does where he rocks slightly from toe to heel as if he's got a tune stuck in his head. For him, it's a gesture of anticipation.

(What is he anticipating?)

You touch his arm, coax it forward until your hand can slip into his. His hand is so large, his skin soft and starting to show signs of his age. You squeeze, brush your thumb over his knuckles.

"Your hands are so big. It can't be easy to wield a needle," you say, taking his other hand and raising them both, pressing your palms against his, comparing the size. Your coder hands look small in comparison. "How do you sew with these?"

He smiles at you with too much fondness. "Very carefully."

You snort.

"Not everyone can be blessed with such a convenient stature." He allows his eyes to rove over you from head to toe before turning his attention to your hands, twining your fingers with his. "Hands as small as yours would make threading a sewing machine a much simpler task."

A warm excitement flows through you that sates more than anything else—leaves you with the urge to curl up and sleep against Eddie's broad chest. Instead, you pull Eddie towards the bed with your tangled fingers, and he follows willingly.

You sit on the edge of the bed, and he untangles his fingers from yours to sit next to you at a safer distance—further away than when you rode together on the bus, than when you sat together on that stone bench just a short while ago.

"What, you don't trust me?" You don't know whether to groan or to laugh.

"Self-control is not something you're known for," Eddie says with enough good-humor that you laugh despite being vaguely offended.

You press your palm into the empty mattress between you and Eddie—lean towards him, fix him with a coy stare. "I have pretty good self-control, actually, otherwise I'd be in your lap right now—my whole body is screaming at me to swing my legs over yours and straddle your thighs."

Eddie seems afraid to look away from you as you speak, head tipped downward slightly, eyes flicking back and forth across your face, his breath visibly quickening.

"I wanna take fistfuls of your shirt and pull you down to kiss me while—" you pause at the involuntary disgruntled noise Eddie makes. "Holy shit, Gluskin, I bet you're getting hard right now, right? And you said my self-control was bad!"

Seeming to snap out of a trance, Eddie straightens and looks away. Scrubs his hands down his face before turning back to level you with a reprimanding stare.

Maybe you should be afraid of such a stoic expression—but you're not, you only laugh.

"You promised you would behave." His frown deepens when you laugh harder. "And is it really so wrong that I find everything about you attractive?"

That question snaps you out of your amusement. You sober, regard him seriously. "I've been asking myself the same thing about you for what feels like forever now."

Eddie rests his elbows on his knees. Stares down at the floor. "How long?"

"Hm?"

"How long have you been harboring this attraction?"

That's a good question, actually.

An uncomfortable question.

You had been having fantasies about him since Mount Massive—but those weren't really him. That Eddie, the one in Mount Massive, it isn't really the man sitting beside you now.

This man—this Eddie—he strikes you as a very gentle person. When had you noticed that? The very first visit, probably.

"I... honestly don't know. I think I started to feel some sort of fondness for you after... the third visit? When you gave me that letter."

When you cried together with him about the trauma both you and he were left with after Mount Massive. How could you not be left feeling some sort of bond with him after that? The bond is there, whether you like it or not. You used to think it was grotesque that you should have anything in common with this man. But now... you find comfort in it.

"God," you exhale heavily. "The third visit. That's so soon."

"I don't think so." Gluskin is quiet, posture still hunched over his knees. "Those first few conversations we had were dense. We discussed intimate fears and desires with each other right away. Broached very personal topics. It was the nature of what we were both agreeing to when we decided to meet at all."

"You're right."

"I think it created a recipe for intimacy that we didn't know we were getting ourselves into."

You laugh. "That's for sure."

"Waylon," Eddie says suddenly, sitting up and shifting towards you to give you his full attention. "What are we doing here?"

The sudden gravity makes you flinch. "What do you mean?"

"This. Us. What is it you want from me?"

Well. That's... kind of why you wanted to go back to his room to talk to him. To sort out whatever it is you both want.

(So, why is his question making your heart race with dread?)

"I... I think." How can you tell him you want to date him? Because the truth is you don't want anyone else. This isn't just some sick rebound to you—even if you are still hiding the truth from everyone. "I want... well, actually, what do you want, Eddie?"

It's a deflection and Eddie knows it.

He sighs. "In all honesty I am not certain I can continue these sorts of interactions with you."

It's the sort of statement that builds walls. The threat of insurmountable distance.

Somehow you manage a small, "Why not?"

Is this just another ploy, another act of rejection Eddie is forcing so that you don't think he's over-eager? So that he doesn't scare you off with how much he wants this?

"Do you really forgive me, for what I've done?"

The question leaves you taken aback.

"How could you?" he continues. "These weeks have been... the happiest of my life. However, I keep thinking back to those first visits with you. It seemed very much as if you were coming to see me—and telling me these brutal truths about the fantasies you were having—in order to hurt yourself."

You open your mouth to speak but no words come. Your brows knit, heart racing almost as fast as your thoughts.

Because he's right. That's absolutely what you were doing.

Hurting yourself by telling him a truth that you felt deeply ashamed of.

And telling Eddie Gluskin hurt the most. To let him have that apparent victory over you—to know that his actions still weigh so heavily on your mind after three years.

Except....

Except, he didn't hold this information like a trophy.

He seemed... genuinely disturbed that you were having those fantasies.

"It has been bothering me greatly," Eddie adds into your silence, a veiled attempt at pulling you back into reality with him.

"It's not like that, anymore, Eddie—"

"I know. I think. I can tell something has changed. However," he sucks in a deep breath, voice suddenly thick. This forces you to look at him, and you're surprised to find tears in his eyes, his expression pained. "I won't be the blade you cut yourself on. I don't know if it's possible for me to not to be harmful to you. Inherently. You feel so much guilt for enjoying your time with me. It's hurting you. I can see that. I can't pretend not to see that."

He...

He must have been really conflicted this whole time. Seeing you feeling better day by day, having a good time with him, but also seeing the underlying desire to wallow in your own suffering that brought you to come to visit him in the first place.

He's right. It was never okay for you to use him to hurt yourself. To build your own self-loathing on a foundation of how much you hated yourself for liking him.

These visits should have never been something you did to further your own self-hatred.

But they were.

They used to be that.

Even when you started to notice how good it made you feel to find some sort of companionship with Eddie, you felt the weight of how morbid that was.

You used your own distaste for yourself in order to justify indulging. If you were going to hate yourself anyway, what's a little more self-hatred added along with your visits to Eddie, if those visits also made you feel good?

Like taking up a self-destructive hobby and reassuring yourself that you're going to die someday anyway, so what does it matter?

It's cynical and awful and—you don't feel like that anymore.

You don't want to be ashamed of this anymore.

You don't want to be ashamed of yourself anymore.

You aren't okay with that.

"It's... difficult. Not to be angry at you sometimes," you say tentatively. "For what you've done to me."

"I understand."

"But, on some level, I've always known that what you did in Mount Massive wasn't your fault. The Morphogenic Engine wasn't natural. It made everyone present into something that wasn't themselves. Even after enduring it for that short time, I was starting to feel it." It made you suicidal and manic in a way that you had never been before. Only the thought of Lisa was able to keep you tethered to reality. "I can imagine how much more it influenced those who had been under its effects daily."

The blotchy redness around Gluskin's eyes from unshed tears has slowly receded, but his voice is still hoarse when he says, "I didn't know you felt the effects of the Engine."

"Much less than everyone else, like I said. I was only exposed to it that night."

That night. You sent the email blowing the whistle on Murkoff. Jeremy Blaire locked you up in one of Murkoff's therapy machines.

But not before a very lucid Eddie Gluskin banged on the glass in front of your keyboard and begged you to help him.

Shit.

"Eddie... I, I really don't blame you for Mount Massive. I can't stop from flinching if you get upset, or completely get rid of the feelings the trauma leaves—"

"Of course."

"But, I don't blame you for what you did to me. I know it... wasn't you. I know that now. It wasn't the same person."

Eddie's expression is too grateful. You don't deserve it. You don't deserve for him to look at you like that.

Not when...

"Eddie—I need to ask you something."

No turning back now.

You've avoided this for so long.

And at this point, it feels like you've been taking advantage of him.

Because if he doesn't know you refused to help him directly that night in Mount Massive, even after he begged for help... would he even be sitting here right now, if he did know?

And if he does remember, you probably look like an ass for never once bringing it up, even though you've forced him to to talk about every aspect of what he perpetrated against you.

Eddie gestures assent. "Anything."

"Do you remember... right before the riot," you pause for a few deep breaths, the air suddenly sticking in your lungs. Why is it so hard to say this? "The doctors were leading you in to strap you into the Engine. You broke free and ran over to the glass partition that separated the Morphogenic Engine control room..."

Eddie is watching you quietly. He doesn't attempt to speak.

Nervously, you continue, "I was there to start the Engine. You banged on the glass. Looked directly at me. Begged me to help you—I don't know, all this time, I don't know if you remember that or—"

You left out the part where you didn't help even though he begged. Even though he screamed the word rape. Even though Murkoff shoved tubes into his face that made the word rape seem fitting.

Instead you debugged the code. Started the Engine.

You left that part out.

You'll get to it. You swear you'll get to it.

Eddie is still quiet.

"Do you... do you remember that?"

A beat. And then, he says softly, "I do."

Your heart speeds sickeningly, you almost choke on your next words, which come rushing out of you all at once. "I—I'm so sorry. I. Felt for you. Really, I did, but I. I just. Murkoff terrified me, I was stuck, I couldn't... not enter the code. Fuck—I mean, I entered the code that started the Engine, even though you begged me, but—you have to understand, I worked for Murkoff but I was afraid, because—because if they treated the patients so inhumanely, I didn't think they would have a problem doing the same to me."

(And they didn't have a problem doing the same to you.)

Eddie isn't looking at you. But he must be listening. He has to be. You need him to hear this.

"And—and, right before you begged me for help, I had sent an email to a journalist blowing the whistle on Mount Massive. So I. I needed to play it cool, I didn't have the option to rebel by stalling to fix the Engine. I was forced to do it. I didn't have a choice."

Eddie's continued silence gives you pause—you comb over everything you just said. Over-analyze it. And—and...

Oh. You.

You just fired off excuse after excuse. Desperately needing him to understand the position you were in. That it wasn't your fault. That you were forced to.

And.

Eddie didn't do that to you.

Even though his situation is similar—the Engine undoubtedly influenced him that night he perpetrated his crimes against you.

The Engine took away his agency the same way Murkoff took away yours.

In the end, it was Murkoff who facilitated the crimes against both you and Eddie that night.

But Eddie didn't flood you with excuses on that first visit when he finally had the chance to explain himself. He didn't do it on the second visit either, or the third, or—ever. He never did that. Never shoved his guilt down your throat.

But.

You've been doing that to him since the moment you met him, haven't you?

"Fuck—Eddie. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all of that. I. I feel so responsible, for putting in the code that started the Engine. They had like, a video feed of your face on the monitor. And. All those tubes—I just—I felt so bad."

And then you laughed at his body bleeding from the rafters.

Fuck.

You double over, press your face to your knees. For what feels like an eternity, your world becomes tears soaking into your jeans as you sob into the small dark space you've bundled around yourself with your limbs.

When the weight of Eddie's hand falls on your back, rubbing soothing circles across your heavy body—it only makes you sob harder.

"And—and when you were bleeding down from the ceiling I laughed—I was so relieved that I was safe." You're not sure Eddie can even understand you, speaking frantically through hitched breath. "I thought you were dead and I laughed. I laughed! I care about you so much now and—and I laughed when I thought you were dying and that terrifies me. I can't believe I—"

The sobbing overwhelms you, makes you gasp for breath, swallows your confession. You're breathing too fast. Hyperventilating. There's an awful tugging sensation inside your chest, like being dismantled from the inside out, piece by piece. Ribs removed with pliers tightly gripped, wiggled side to side, side to side.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—

Kindness comes in Eddie shifting closer, removing the space he put there to begin with. He presses right up against your side, and his arm stops rubbing your back and instead encircles, you, urging you closer.

And you comply.

You fucking comply.

The next thing you know your face is buried against his chest, your fingers hooking desperately into his shirt.

He holds you tighter than he might dare, softly shushing you, rocking you slightly in his arms.

"There, there," his voice is gentle, so gentle. "It's alright. I don't blame you for any of this. I did not know entirely the role you played that night, but I'm glad you told me. And I don't blame you for an ounce of it."

That makes you sob harder, too.

"Waylon, please. I can't bear to see you hurting like this."

Your breath is erratic and choppy and you struggle to smooth it out. Eventually, your sobs dwindle from a rush to a trickle and then are left as remnants—wet splotches darkening the front of Eddie's shirt.

When you finally force yourself to pull away form him, it's mechanical and difficult.

Eddie is ready for you with a soft expression that only make your sinuses sting all over again with the threat of more tears.

But you manage to hold it in as he swipes at your wet face with his thumb, drying what's left of your grief.

"Eddie. Please believe me when I say I know what it's like to be influenced to do something you normally would never do. I even had more choice than you did that night. You weren't lucid in the vocational block, when you did those things to me, to the other patients..."

Eddie shakes his head. "You also lacked a choice. As you said, Murkoff was not to be trifled with. I imagine there was a constant threat over the heads of all of their employees. You did not have a choice at all."

"I did, though, I could have just not entered the code—" you stop short when Eddie presses two fingers to your lips to silence you.

"Waylon. A choice that leaves you with the threat of violence against you is not a choice at all. If you had refused to start the Engine, who knows what they would have done to you? I am so thankful nothing worse happened to you."

"I sent the email right before that. My fate was sealed from that point on. I didn't know it at the time, but it wouldn't have mattered if I refused to enter the code that started the Engine." You almost laugh at the irony.

"Either way, there is nothing to forgive," Eddie says. "Please, say no more about this. If you need forgiveness I will give it. But I cannot fault you for what happened."

You pull away even more. Try to exist on your own without the support his solidness provides. "I feel the same about what you did to me. I will always find it traumatic but... I can't fault you for what happened. I've always felt that way, I think. I've struggled with it for a long time. Murkoff is the real monster. Not you."

Eddie's smile is sad, but his eyes are brimming with affection.

(Affection for you.)

(All for you.)

"I... I really want this, Eddie. I want to be with you."

A pause, and then, "What does that entail?"

"Like..." Is he really going to make you say it? Then again, why should it be difficult to say, if it's what you really want? "A relationship. Dating. I want to be in a relationship with you."

Eddie blinks, clears his throat. Looks away. Like somehow he wasn't expecting to hear that.

"What?" you ask, gentle, desperate. "What's wrong with that?"

You honestly can't even answer that question yourself anymore.

"Waylon..." He says your name like a reprimand. "I am much too old for you—"

You can't help it, you laugh, loud and genuine.

That's what he's worried about? That's what he's worried about?

Eddie frowns, is about to reply when there's a knock on the door.

Luckily you're not crying in Eddie's arms anymore. Just sitting at a conversational distance from him on the bed.

You turn to look as an orderly pops her head in Eddie's room, clipboard clutched to her chest.

You wave at her, smile already on your face from the laughter.

She smiles back briefly before returning your wave and then disappearing again, the door shutting behind her.

You appreciate the quick departure.

"Eddie—I'm a grown man," you say once you're sure the orderly is down the hall. "And seriously, that's what you're worried about? Our age difference?"

"You are still so young," he tries, growing less firm the more he stares warily at your amused expression. "Waylon, please, be serious."

"I am being serious! There's nothing to worry about. We're both adults."

"But—"

"No. Stop. Just stop. I don't care how old you are. I like you."

Eddie sighs. "Must you be so exceedingly difficult?"

"Yeah, kinda. You should know me well enough to know the answer to that question."

Gluskin nods to himself a few times. "Yes. Of course. Of course you must be difficult—why had I expected anything else?"

You wack him lightly on the shoulder with the back of your hand. "Stop it. You like it. You like me."

The look he fixes you with is so tired. "Yes. I do. But, all else aside, how can you want to be with a man over a decade your senior?"

You grin, lean in and look him right in the eye. "Because you're extremely attractive and very good at making hats."

Gluskin turns away, tents his fingers over his face as if you're making him despair.

"And," you add, still too much amusement in your voice. "You look out for me. You take care of me. You care about my specific needs and you don't treat them—me—like an inconvenience. I haven't experienced that so consistently before, Eddie. It's heaven."

Heaven is the last thing your relationship with this man should feel like—but right now you could live and die with this feeling, reside forever in the privacy of being cared for, of being looked after.

"Anyone could provide you with the same care and attention, Waylon. I am sure many others would be happy to have you."

"Yeah, I've thought about that. I'm sure you're right. But they're not here. They don't exist in my life. You do. You're the one who has been here for me. Who has improved my life so much since I let you into it. It's you. Just you." Your inhale is shaky. "How can I not feel loyalty towards you, for that?"

The way Eddie hangs his head, stares into his lap... it's almost timid.

"I don't want anyone else, Eddie. I want you. If you agree to be with me, I'm not going to be waiting around for someone else to come into my life to rescue me from you. This is what I want—you're what I want."

Eddie presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, breathes deeply for much too long. At first you think he's fed up with you again, frustrated at all your antics. But no—he's... he's crying. Still and contained. A quiet suffering. Nothing like your loud outbursts of emotion.

"I'm sorry," he says, inhaling sharply and pulling away when you reach out to touch him. "One moment."

Your hand hovers for a second, and then you withdraw it.

"This means a great deal to me," Eddie says after he finally calms down, pulls his hands away from his face.

"Yeah, me too."

"I care about you dearly," he says, words rough with repressed emotion. "I cannot have you wasting your life with someone who is institutionalized."

Right now, that doesn't matter. It really doesn't. All that matters is this man who has saved you from drowning in your everyday grief. The logistics don't matter—you'll deal with that later.

Eddie seems surprised when you smile. Watches you as you lean in, bump your face against his, nuzzle him. You can hear his longing in the force of his exhale.

That's how you know it's okay to keep going.

You press your lips to his scarred face, trail them down to his jaw. "I don't care. As long as I'm with you, it doesn't matter."

Eddie laughs, small and tentative, and it's not until you feel the tears against your lips that you realize he's crying again.

You kiss his tears away—and god, the look he gives you when he catches you licking the saline wetness from your lips...

"I, uh..." you search his hungry expression. "I don't suppose you'll change your mind about uh, doing something other than talking?"

His eyes darken, and for a second you expect a reprimand, but instead he tugs you forward until your lips are against his and his tongue is in your mouth and—and then you're swinging a leg over his thighs to straddle his lap.

He's already growing hard and so are you.

You moan much too readily into Eddie's mouth, fingers gripping his shoulder for dear life.

Heat pools into your groin when he latches onto your hips with a steely grip. But as frantically as you climbed into his lap, your body moves against his slowly—all involuntary squirming. The kiss soft and tentative.

When he pulls away for air you press your forehead against his.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," you pant, whining slightly as you rock against him in small motions.

"What ever for?" he manages, half-incredulous.

"I'm—" you swallow a moan at the reassuring circles he rubs into your hips with this thumbs, fingers slipping under your shirt. "I promised I would behave—that I would be good, but. I'm not. I'm not."

"Oh," Eddie breathes, voice little more than a dark purr. He removes a hand from your hip to caress your face, pet your hair. "You are being good, Waylon. So good."

The rush of arousal the praise sends through you is enough to make you shudder, your hips rocking aggressively into him, your dick begging for attention. "Oh god—we can't, we can't do this. We shouldn't be doing this. We don't have time. Fuck, I'm sorry—"

"What is it we're doing?" Eddie asks, far too much teasing in his voice.

"I'm sitting in your lap, rutting against you," you answer, breathless, mind too foggy with need to form a quip.

"Yes, darling, I've noticed as much." Eddie's smile is so cloying—you want your mouth on his, but he distracts you with a heavy hand stroking up the back of your neck. "I see no reason this can't continue. But do be sure to hop off if there's a knock on the door."

Fuck—

Even now. He's... so composed.

How does he have the restraint it takes to tease you so casually right now?

Something about his composure makes you moan, melt even further into his touch.

The hand on your hip travels upwards, pushing under your shirt, making your body convulse beneath his firm palm. He stops to roll his fingers over your nipple, the simple touch enough to make you cry out.

He stops, withdraws his hand.

You search his face and find concern.

"It—it didn't hurt, it felt good, please—do it some more."

"I..." he studies you, conflicted. "You're very loud, darling."

You whine at that, which doesn't help your case.

Eddie chuckles and smooths your shirt back down from where it rides up your stomach.

You unglue your hands from where they grip his shoulders to instead grab his hand. You lean back in his lap to better display your spread legs, splayed across his thighs. Your arousal is obvious in the bulge in your jeans, you put his hand against it, mold his palm to it.

You mean to say something to make him lose his composure—you really do. But instead all you do is lose yours—his hand over your clothed erection is too much, you groan and buck against it.

Eddie tears his gaze up to your flushed face, your lip aching between your teeth in an effort to stay quiet.

You must looked positively ruined with lust.

Eddie's hand is still cupping your groin when he says, "You are a gift. Such a delightful presence in my life."

No, what you really are is an inconsolable mess, because all you can do is whine and lift your hips into his palm again.

Even though you're fully clothed, you feel exposed—legs spread, arousal clear in the tent in your pants and the flush across your face. You're offering yourself up to him so eagerly.

And.

He's taking his time. Savoring you.

"You are so beautiful," he says quietly, knuckles brushing your face while his other hand strokes a firm line up and down the front of your jeans. "I find it difficult to believe I am allowed to touch you."

You need him to touch you. You need more. Everything. Right now.

But you can't forget where you are. You can't get him in trouble by letting an orderly walk in on you fooling around in his lap. But.

Seized by a sudden urgency, you pull away from Eddie, climb off of him.

"Ah," he says, watching you get to your feet. "Right, yes—you're right, we ought to be more careful. We can't have one of the staff walking in. I admire your ability to keep your wits about you—"

He stops his praise abruptly when you drop to your knees in front of him, push his thighs open to settle yourself between them.

"Waylon." Your name is so sharp in his mouth. A command, a warning, a blade.

You can still remember the way his cock felt in your hand yesterday, warm and solid.

"Let me just do this for you really quick," you run a hand up his inner thigh, leave your palm to frame where his erection strains against his fly. "Come on. One button, one zipper. And then give me a few minutes, that's all."

Eddie is fixated, staring down at you with desire and trepidation. He settles a hand against your head again, smooths your hair back. "I'm not sure I am ready for that, darling."

Ah.

Is it just normal nerves, or something trauma related, or is he afraid he might do or say something that will scare you?

You suppose it doesn't matter. You press a long kiss to his thigh, mutter your next words against it, eyes never leaving his. "What can I do to make you more comfortable?"

Eddie's next exhale is long, somewhere between a hum and a moan. He's looking at you like you're that difficult, explosive thing again—something he doesn't know how to handle. "You're doing a great job of that, I simply..."

You nuzzle your face into his thigh while he tries to find the words.

"Oh, alright," he says eventually, strained with whatever protest died at your coaxing. He surprises you by unbuttoning his own pants, and you watch transfixed as his knuckles trail the length of his erection when he unzips.

He shifts slightly to get his pants down far enough to free his cock from the slot in his briefs.

"Can I?" you ask, already inching towards his freed erection—it's very thick, and all around bigger than you noticed when it was in your hand. You want it in your mouth. "Eddie?"

He nods stiffly, eyes locked on your face.

"Say it." Perhaps it's a bit mean to mirror his words from the previous sexual encounter, but you really can't leave any room for doubt.

"Yes," he says, and then, "By all means."

And that's all it takes for you to grab his cock by the hilt, press your lips to the head in a kiss, eyes flicking up to watch Gluskin's expression as you pull back with pre-cum slicking your lips.

He's panting.

"You know, I've never actually done this before," you say, licking the translucent pre-cum from your lips. "Not with someone who has a penis, anyway."

Eddie glances at the clock on his bedside table. "You'll have to be a quick learner."

You chuckle, the hand not wrapped around the base of Eddie's cock traveling up to squeeze Eddie's hip, eliciting a small gasp from Eddie. "I don't think this will take long."

Eddie combs his fingers through your hair, murmurs something about you being a mischievous little minx.

(You can still remember him chasing you through the vocational block, screaming at you for making him work for it. Calling you a minx like an insult.)

It only takes one look at him—hunched and panting above you—to calm your nerves. And then you're leaning in to tentatively circle your tongue around the leaking slit of his cock.

The long groan from Eddie, which he tries to quiet with the back of his hand, is all the encouragement you need to loosen your jaw and take him into your mouth.

Eddie shifts his hips slightly, his hand abruptly frozen in your hair—you can tell he's afraid to move, probably wants to move very badly, to thrust his hips forward, force friction in your mouth.

But you're unmoving, taking a moment to adjust to the size of him in your mouth, figure out how to breathe like this, how to be mindful of your teeth. Tongue squirming against the underside of his cock all the while.

You flick your gaze up to his flushed face guiltily when you find yourself thinking you enjoy the taste of him.

And. The way he's looking at you—the way he's anticipating your every movement.

It's too much like the control over him you've been dreaming about for years now.

When you do finally start moving, it's clumsy and with too much enthusiasm, bobbing your head in earnest.

Eddie's entire body tenses, his thighs locking around you.

What must this look like? Waylon Park's head buried in Eddie Gluskin's lap. God. You don't even know how much time you have left before staff comes to check on Eddie.

Fuck.

Above you, Eddie's breath is harsh and disbelieving. His grip tightens in your hair and—it feels good, the tugging sensation sending tingles across your scalp that spread down your spine.

But—it also.

The grip inadvertently holds you in place, limits your movement.

It sends alarm bells through your entire body strong enough to spike panic.

You use your free hand to tap his arm frantically, trying to silently communicate to him to let you raise your head.

He gets the message after one terrifying moment in which you're afraid he won't let you stop—but he lets go, raising both his hands palm-forward in a display of surrender.

"Sorry—did I frighten you?"

You pull back, take his cock out of your mouth so you can speak to him, still close enough that your breath ghosts over the tip. "Yeah—don't. Don't do that. I don't. Want to be restrained."

"I understand," he says quickly, still panting, pupils blown wide.

"Could you just, put your hands behind your back or something?"

He complies immediately. "We can stop. Are you sure you're still up for this?"

"Yeah." And with that, you're sinking his cock into your mouth again, and he's groaning, bucking slightly into your mouth, his hands obediently behind his back, bracing against the mattress.

You grip his thigh with one hand, the other encircling the base of his cock where your mouth won't reach, stroking in time with your movements.

"I may have to accost you to do this every day," Eddie pants, surprising you by speaking at all. The words themselves surprising you. "If you can prove to be efficient enough to be quick."

You hum in question and search his face—a difficult endeavor with his dick filling your mouth.

He's leaning back, chest heaving, fingers gripping the bedsheets, his nice shirt disheveled. "How would you like that, to be allowed to do this for me every day?"

Somewhere you know his words should be alarming, but instead they just register as praise in your brain, and it goes straight to your dick. The alluring pull of being desired. You moan around his cock, hand leaving his thigh to paw at your own arousal through your jeans.

Eddie stares down at you, and somehow you know he knows you're rubbing yourself through your clothes right now.

"That's a good darling," he purrs. "Take more in. You have been so unruly today, moaning in my lap for the whole patient ward to hear. But you're trying to make yourself quiet, aren't you? Trying to muffle your noises on my cock? That's it—that's a good darling."

They're words—just words, they shouldn't send pangs of pleasure through your body as if his hands are all over you. Shouldn't turn your breathing messy and erratic while you're struggling to breath properly with your mouth around him.

You're half-delirious with your own pleasure as you keep sucking his cock, tongue doing its best to lap at the underside as you work.

"Look at you, touching yourself while you're between my legs, doing just what I wanted. My special darling."

That's—

You can't—

Your involuntary whine of surprise is muffled by Gluskin's cock as your own erection convulses untouched inside your pants, coming in wet gushes without your permission.

Above you, Gluskin tilts his head at your sudden halted motion, the way your breath is suddenly sharp and erratic.

"Waylon, did you just—"

You nod, mouth still on his cock, only managing to whimper in answer.

"Oh," he breathes, previous authoritative tone washed away to something gentle. "Oh, darling. Oh, Waylon."

Feeling coddled and vaguely annoyed, you resume your motions, working Gluskin with extra fervor.

He comes embarrassingly quick after that with only a strangled grunt to warn you.

The hot gush of semen in your mouth startles you, and you freeze, letting his cock finish convulsing inside your mouth even as the taste alarms you.

It's too saline, too odd, like chlorine.

When his orgasm subsides you pull away and let the semen spill from your tongue onto your cupped palm.

"God, how did you swallow for me yesterday? This is awful."

Eddie is still breathing heavily, hair slightly disheveled, strands sticking to his sweaty face. "I like the way you taste."

The sentiment is spoken so sincerely that your cheeks glow impossibly hotter. "Yeah, I felt the same way about you until you came."

Eddie chuckles, reaching over to the nightstand and handing you a tissue. "Sorry about that—it snuck up on me. I should have warned you."

You frown as you wipe the milky liquid from your palm and toss the tissue into the wastebasket. And then, on shaky legs, you use Eddie's thighs to help yourself to your feet to go grab another tissue. You probably look ridiculous shoving tissues down your pants to wipe at the mess you made inside them.

"Need some assistance?"

"Nah, I'm good," you toss those tissues into the wastebasket, too. "I should probably just get going soon so I can shower."

Eddie hums in acknowledgment, tucking himself back inside his pants and re-fastening them.

"Thank you, uh, for that," you say, plopping down beside him on the bed.

The look he shoots you is incredulous. "Shouldn't I be the one thanking you?"

You shrug, grinning. "I don't know, I'm just happy you let me do that. And you gave me a pretty good orgasm—apart from wet-dreams I've never come without being touched before."

Eddie's brow furrows, confused. "You weren't...?"

"Well, like, no. My hand was outside my pants. So I guess technically it was being touched, but not for real, you know?" This elicits mostly puzzlement from Eddie, so you add, "Hey, you got me to come from almost entirely your voice alone, so... I don't know, that's pretty awesome."

Eddie seems more embarrassed than anything. "You're welcome, I suppose."

You laugh. "And god—you made such a big deal about me making noise but you sure are chatty during sex, holy shit. I guess your mouth was too busy yesterday for me to notice."

Eddie just frowns, abashed.

You can't resist teasing. "I mean you teased me for being noisy but if someone passing by in the hall overhears my moaning we can just say you give a really good back-rub. But there's no excuse for someone overhearing you say I'm trying to muffle my noises on your cock."

Eddie's hand shoots out to cover your mouth, to try and stifle your embarrassing determination to recite his dirty talk outside of sex.

You laugh and kiss Eddie's palm, laughing harder when Eddie pulls his hand away as if burned.

He's so cute when embarrassed, so all you can do is lean in to kiss his red face. And before long, he's laughing too.

Eventually Eddie's laughter dwindles and he seems to sober, tipping his head back to stare blankly at the ceiling.

"What is it?" you ask.

Eddie keeps his eyes locked on the ceiling. "If I were to never leave this place, would you still want a relationship with me?"

The question is sudden. But also. Not soon enough.

"Yes." Your answer is quiet. More gentle than uncertain, wanting to soften the blow of it—because you can sense how much this question means to him.

Eddie's quiet. The room is quiet. He won't look at you.

"Does this mean you're willing to be my..." you hesitate. Boyfriend sounds ill-fitting, inappropriately trivial. "My partner? Lover? Whatever you wanna call it?"

"Lover," Eddie repeats, half-scoffing, as if he doesn't understand the word. He finally looks at you, skeptical, disbelieving.

"I'm serious, Eddie." You nudge him with your shoulder. "I want to be with you."

Eddie heaves another one of his long-suffering breaths. As if you're the difficult one.

"Just say yes, or no, or something," you prompt, impatient. Needing this topic to be pulled out from under you one way or another. Either you'll leave this room heartbroken or awash in confused, happy excitement.

"Yes," Eddie says finally, staring across the room, afraid to look at you.

A wide, relieved smile splits your face—you can't believe it. He said yes, he actually said yes!

Eddie chances a glance at you, and upon seeing your excitement, a smile fights its way onto his face, too. "What am I going to do with you, Waylon Park?"

He seems to honestly not know the answer to that question.

"Well, you're going to kiss me, for starters," you tease, heart feeling worn and tired and brand new all at once.

Eddie rolls his eyes and, reliable as ever, obliges.

Chapter Text

These days, it's dark when you end your visits with Eddie. You walk to the parking lot with a small key-chain flashlight lighting the way, a habit after Mount Massive. There's a different sort of foreboding now during the solitary walks to your car. The fear of an attacker or a nanite entity is shoved to the back of your mind by a swelling sort of emptiness that comes with leaving Eddie for the night.

You can't stay with Eddie overnight. And he can't come home with you.

You want him to come home with you.

And you don't even feel particularly bad about that.

Infatuation breeds impulsivity, it's normal and you felt as much with Lisa—but Eddie isn't just someone you met online who you were overwhelmed with the urge to meet. With Lisa, you hopped on a plane to meet her after two months of correspondence and wanted to marry after spending two minutes with her in person.

You have to be careful. You can't want to take Eddie Gluskin home after a few months of shaky interactions and a few days of intimacy.

You can't want to. You can't.

(But you do, of course you do.)

In spite of your physical excursions with Eddie, you spend too much of your time indulging your feelings for him in the emptiness of your apartment, because you can't spend all of your time on the phone with him or fitting yourself into his daily schedule (can you?).

You've always thought about him with questionable frequency, but now the daydreaming doesn't just come with lust—no, now there's an emptiness, the harsh ache of missing him, of wishing he could join you for dinner in your apartment, or wanting to invite him over to watch a movie—any movie. Maybe no movie. Maybe just him on your couch with your head on his chest.

And... and you shouldn't be thinking about cuddling him fully clothed on your couch while you're fucking yourself on your slick fingers, moaning (not shamefully enough) into your bedsheets.

It shouldn't be so hot to picture such domestic interactions—Eddie greeting you at your door, Eddie sitting against your headboard reading in the dim light, Eddie doing your laundry, sewing a button back onto one of your shirts. Maybe it's not exactly those scenarios that you find arousing, maybe it's how easily you can imagine each one dissolving into sex. Eddie would be so different outside of the facility, more relaxed, more himself, and any situation where he's out of the hospital means he would be happier too.

You want him to be happy, to be comfortable, to drop whatever he's doing—close his book and set it patiently on the nightstand, forget the laundry basket and allow you to push him up against the washer.

There's an overwhelming urge to indulge your feelings for him until they seem commonplace, allowed. Prove to yourself with time that it's okay to feel this way, because nothing like what happened in Mount Massive, what happened before, will ever happen again.

Time. Time will prove that. It already is.

* * *

Maybe you're sitting too close to Eddie, but the cafeteria table is small. Maybe Dennis and Pyro are making you look bad, sitting across the table with a foot of bench between them. Maybe it's suspicious that there are only centimeters between you and Eddie. Maybe you don't care.

The staff is allowed to be comfortable around Eddie—why can't you display your comfort as well? No one can fault you for it. Not here. Right?

It doesn't matter. The closer you sit, the less obvious it is that your fingers are entwined with his under the table. You're not giving that up for anything. Not even for secrecy. Though fumbling to eat your food with the wrong hand is proving to be difficult.

Pyro's going on about a conspiracy theory involving the twins and cafeteria food—apparently the brothers have taken to stalking Pyro through the lunch lines with unwarranted banter about the meat quality at MMSS.

You wish Pyro would just stop talking, finish his food, take Val and Dennis and leave you alone with Eddie, so you can fondle him under the table without worrying about anyone witnessing Eddie's flushed face.

It's not that you don't find Pyro's banter all very interesting, and it's not like you're trying to ignore the guy. But you pull Eddie's hand towards your lap, and he untangles his fingers and brushes his knuckles against your leg and it's very hard to focus on words that aren't... well, Eddie's fingers.

After that day in the yard, you're a little braver about secret public displays of affection. That still doesn't stop you from worrying that you're pushing him too far. But... Eddie's face is relaxed as he idly caresses your thigh. He's just touching you because he wants to; because you gave him permission.

"I wasn't born yesterday—I know they're full of shit.” Pyro stabs at his food as he speaks, and vaguely you worry that he'll break the prongs off of the plastic fork. “But... it's unsettling, you know? The whole genetic identical thing is starting to get on my nerves. They keep implying that they weren't born in the same womb, but rather, are the same person from different dimensions."

"They are quite the imaginative pair," Val replies, more interested in their food than Pyro's rant.

Eddie's knuckles travel much, much too close to your (now interested) groin, and you're a bristled cat as you intercept Eddie's unruly fingers with as little movement as possible, catching them and squeezing pointedly hard to send the message that he should really not be doing that. When you follow up with an unamused (but probably flustered) glance, Eddie simply raises his eyebrows at you.

Fucker.

"The worst part is that I don't even think they're delusional—they're just trying to screw with people."

"That is what they do," Dennis agrees.

"They are very creative fellows," Eddie says, wiggling his fingers free from your grasp and spreading them liberally over your thigh and squeezing. Shit. If he wasn't intentionally trying to get a rise out of you before, he definitely is now. "It seems they've taken an interest in you, Py. I do hope you'll be careful, should you find yourself alone in a hallway with them."

Pyro scoffs. "No amount of caution could save me from those two. Have you seen them? They're huge."

“They're all talk,” Dennis growls, no, Pa growls. “C'mon boy, you can take 'em.” He shakes Pyro roughly by the shoulder, as if to rattle some sense into him.

You try to focus on the bustle of the large cafeteria, not Eddie's fingers finding the bulge in your pants.

You shoot him a glare because if roles were reversed Eddie would probably throw a fit at being teased so publicly.

Eddie is finishing up the last of his lunch and effectively pretending like you don't exist except for his hand under the table—which, begrudgingly, you suppose is for the best, since he's squeezing your hardening erection through your pants.

You have to brace your elbows on the table and cover your mouth with your hand to stifle a groan that you hope can be mistaken for a yawn.

Dennis and Pyro are bickering about something but you can't focus on a word of it because all you can think about is how great it would be if Eddie got on his knees under the table and you could feel his mouth on you again. And god, his hand isn't even inside your pants and you're already this flustered—and maybe you're not handling the whole thing as well as you should be, because Pyro is glancing at you with concern.

“Hey, you okay, boy?” Pa asks before Pyro gets the chance.

This prompts Val to look up from their food. They take one look at your flushed face and tilt their head curiously.

“I'm fine,” you say, cracking your knuckles and trying to drain some of the stiffness from your posture. “Just feel a little sick, that's all.”

Pyro's eyes widen and then drop to his food tray with the utmost concern. "Do you think it's the food? The twins, they said—"

“No need to worry, Py,” Eddie assures with a smile, and god, hearing his voice is not helping you at all right now. “Waylon mentioned he was feeling off earlier today. I doubt he's feeling ill because of the cafeteria food.”

“That's a relief.” Pyro visibly deflates. “Those fucking twins are getting to me more than I thought.”

You try to form a reply. Something conversational. Something about how Pyro should try to ignore the creepy brothers. Maybe you should offer an anecdote about the first time you met them in the recreation room. Something.

“Maybe we should just report them again,” Dennis says, voice softer now. Definitely Dennis.

“Would've already, if they weren't so annoying last time we did.” Pyro stands to discard his tray, Dennis following suit.

You try your best not to look too relieved as Dennis and Pyro walk away towards the trashcans.

Val has the nerve to linger, winking as they stand and grab their tray. "You kids have fun."

You watch as Val trails out of earshot after Pyro and Dennis.

Trying your best to sound bitter, even though you're mostly just flustered, you lean close to Eddie and whisper, “I hope you're enjoying yourself.”

Eddie just hums in response.

What, no teasing?

That throws you off. He's just... smiling. Like he's content for the first time in his life. His hand slides away from your lap and finds its way up your shirt until his palm is resting warm against your lower back. Skin on skin.

When Eddie glances at you, it's gentle and lazy and you can tell that in his mind, life doesn't get any better than this moment right here.

And that scares you—because life does get better than this.

There is more to a relationship than secret touches and a growing trust. There is Eddie's room, there is your apartment. There is a whole world outside of this facility.

But Eddie is happy right now. Probably happier than he's ever been. He is complacent and you're... well, you're not.

How can you remind him that there is more than this? You consider telling him about how you've taken to finger-fucking yourself to thoughts of him. How you broke down sobbing in the shower this morning, because you don't know how much longer you can stand to be alone in your apartment. How you can remember your first feelings for Lisa feeling something like this.

All of it only serves to remind you how much you've lost, how much will never be the same again.

That was the worst part of the divorce. Knowing that if, even by some miracle, Lisa were to change her mind, you would never truly feel the same way for her as you did before she decided you weren't something she wanted in her life.

In the end, you just say, “I know you want to be discreet, but, would you be entirely opposed to going back to your room?”

Eddie searches your face, and you don't like what he might find there.

(Desperation. Melancholic longing.)

“We don't have to... do anything. I just want to...” You just want to be alone with Eddie, because you're infatuated, and infatuation is better than self-loathing, “be with you.”

You haven't even been in Eddie's room for a few weeks now. Not since you had the conversation with him making your relationship official—not since that conversation ended in your mouth on his cock.

Since then every visit has been group activities and stolen touches. Chaste kisses in the hallway when no one is looking, out of sight of the facility's cameras.

Not enough. It hasn't been enough.

"I suppose, since you've been so well-behaved lately, perhaps I could allow that," Eddie says.

You could hug him—but you refrain, beaming instead, only to jump when a hand slams down on the table.

It's Pyro, looking vexed.

Eddie immediately withdraws his hand from your shirt.

You're not entirely sure you're not scowling at Pyro.

“Hey,” Py says, rolling his fingers on the tabletop in a universal gesture of impatience. “Eddie, you're going to be late if you don't finish up and send Waylon home.”

Send you home. Like you're some illicit playmate, a visitor overstaying your welcome.

“Late?” Eddie frowns. “Late for what?”

“Art therapy. What the fuck planet are you on right now?”

“Oh! Yes, must have slipped my mind,” Eddie turns to you, genuinely disappointed. “I'm afraid there's mandatory art therapy today. I would have mentioned it sooner had I not forgotten. I'm sorry if you got your hopes up for spending the entire afternoon with me.”

Pyro laughs. “Like Waylon wants to spend the entire afternoon with you, Gluskin. Guy barely even comes to visit you.”

Well... that was clearly sarcasm.

You can't even manage to be embarrassed by the knowledge that other people notice how frequently you visit Eddie.

“Careful, Py, or I'll report you for gaslighting,” Eddie responds easily, more teasing than threatening.

Pyro mock sneers at him in response, accompanied with an eye-roll. You're surprised he doesn't stick out his tongue, too.

“So...” This means you can't go back to Eddie's room and fondle him between orderly checks. “You have to go to this art thing, then?”

“That is what mandatory means, dear.”

You shift a frantic glance to Pyro, but he doesn't seem to react to the endearment. “I can't come with you?”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, hopeful. “You would want to?”

“Sure, it's not like I have anything better to do.”

“Well, I don't see why not. I will have to check with the orderly overseeing the event, but I'm sure—“

“You two are so fucking tedious. Just come on,” Pyro groans and storms off into the crowd of people pooling out of the cafeteria.

“Patience of a child, that one,” Eddie says, making no move to follow. “There's still ample time to arrive, and Dennis and Py will likely save us seats. No need to rush. We can wait until the cafeteria empties first.”

He's waiting for your sake, you realize. You force your gaze to your fidgeting fingers, can't look at him, not when he's being so considerate about your crowd anxieties.

Fuck.

Lisa always told you to just suck it up. It's not fair to compare the two—Lisa really believed immersion was what was best for reliving the anxiety. She believed in getting out there and proving to yourself that there's nothing to be afraid of.

But fuck, Eddie's fine with just accommodating the anxiety. He's not even making a big deal out of it, or bragging about how considerate he is. He just is.

“Waylon?” Eddie asks, leaning in curiously to get a better look at your lowered face. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” you still can't look at him. “I just want to kiss you, is all.”

“Oh, you're not still pouting over that, are you? I told you, the art therapy is mandatory today. Even though I'd much rather be alone in my room with you, I don't have a choice.”

“No, I mean like, right now. I want to kiss you right now.”

“Yes, darling, I've gathered as much. But we can't—“

“Fuck! Eddie, god—Pyro was right. We are tedious as fuck,” you shift in your seat, taking a moment to wrangle in your frustration. “Look—I'm just trying to tell you, thanks. For being considerate about my anxiety.”

“Oh.” He frowns, watching the thinning flow of patients exiting the cafeteria. “I can't fathom why you are thanking me for that. Your comfort is more than worth a few moments of patience.”

“Not everyone feels that way, Eddie,” you say around a sigh. You don't want to talk about this anymore.

Eddie must be able to tell, because he simply slips his hand into yours beneath the table and squeezes.

* * *

Eddie gets permission for you to attend art therapy from the orderly outside the door. Inside, the room is filled with canvases and easels and wooden stools.

This must be one of the designated art rooms, because there are pottery wheels pushed up against the walls to make space for the easels. Supplies line the room in locked cabinets. Patient's artwork adorns the walls in a wide range of style and skill level.

A different orderly than the one at the door stops to offer you paint.

“No thanks, I'm just here to watch.”

The orderly stops to look at you through his bustle to shove boxes of paint tubes at people coming through the door. He seems to recognize who you are, or that you're not a patient at least, and he frowns.

“Why are you here?” the orderly asks.

“To observe,” you say, at a loss. “I'm here visiting a patient.”

The orderly turns to Eddie. “Are you okay with him staying?”

What?

The orderly's completely ignoring you, waiting for Eddie's answer with the utmost concern. It's embarrassing, and it reminds you of a few of the times you've taken the kids out in public without Lisa, when some overly involved pedestrian would march over and ask your kids if they know that man. Like you’re just some unwanted predatory kidnapper.

“Yes, of course,” Eddie says, unperturbed as the orderly nods and hands him a box of paint tubes.

The whole interaction leaves you with an odd feeling. You try to brush it off as Eddie finds his seat between Pyro and Dennis, and you pull up a stool a bit behind him to observe.

Pyro unscrews a paint tube with his teeth.

You glance around but don't see Val. They must not have the same schedule, since they're in a different ward.

“There's no sort of instruction?” you ask. None of the orderlies are making a move to dictate the class. “You just have at it?”

“Yep,” Pyro says around the paint cap between his teeth. He proceeds to slather blue paint straight onto his fingers and spread it liberally across his canvas. “It's only mandatory because the orderlies are obligated to enrich our lives every once in a while.”

“...No paintbrushes?” you ask, watching as Eddie systematically rolls up his very white sleeves.

“Nope. Only in the big-kid art room,” Pyro says, taking his placement of blue strokes very seriously. “We got demoted because of the incident last time.”

Dennis bursts out into snickers.

“You... got in trouble?” Do you even want to know?

“Eddie did,” Pyro replies, almost gleefully.

“We helped,” Dennis says, causing Pyro to lean across Eddie's lap and flick paint at Dennis's face.

“Hey!”

“Zip it, Dennis. We're model patients, you and I. It's Eddie who's the troublemaker.”

Eddie says nothing, instead busying himself with tying on one of the provided aprons. It's too small but he wears it anyway.

You don't know whether to be amused or worried. “If you two are so innocent, why are you in the finger-painting group too?”

Pyro shushes you and goes back to painting what you now can tell is definitely a flame. Except blue. It's actually really good. You didn't know finger-painting could produce anything that nice.

“Blue fire, eh?” you ask, mostly in attempt to bother him.

“No reds allowed in the level-one art room,” Eddie says, half distracted by rummaging through his box of paints. “No paint-brushes either, as you've discovered. We were demoted to level-one because last time someone decided to smear red paint all over the sketch of my dress design.” He's much calmer than he ought to be given the circumstances. Why isn't he angry?

You want to ask Eddie how he reacted—if it turned into a full-blown fight. But you can't. And the three of them seem on good terms now, so maybe that speaks for itself.

Eddie glances over his shoulder and must read concern in your expression, because he says, “Don't worry, no hard feelings occurred. It may have even been funny if the orderlies weren't so upset by seeing a bleeding woman on my canvas.”

Oh.

Funny. Right.

Eddie still has yet to uncap a tube of paint. He must be concerned about his clothes—he did say he forgot all about the whole art thing today. Probably didn't dress in clothes he wants to risk getting covered in paint.

No wonder he was so concerned about what you were wearing when he was helping you cook over the phone. The man must be obsessive when it comes to clothing.

(Does the perpetually unkempt state of your wardrobe bother him?)

What would become of your relatively disorganized dresser and closet in your apartment if Eddie got his hands on them? He would probably insist on rearranging, at least. On doing your laundry more frequently. No more clothes allowed to be tossed on the floor. Except maybe when you're tearing them off of him.

Fuck.

“What's the matter, Gluskin?" Pyro goads. "Don't want to get your hands dirty?”

Eddie glares at Pyro. “Unlike you, I don't particularly enjoy the feeling of dried paint under my fingernails. Besides, there's a sponge in the box.”

Pyro scoffs. “Use it, then.”

“Here, lemme help you with this, Ed—” Dennis says, feigning innocence. He reaches over to scrawl the words I LOVE KITTENS across Eddie's blank canvas.

Eddie sighs.

“Oh, that's it, is it? Eddie needs help? Why didn't he just say so?” Pyro leans in, momentarily blocking your view, and when he pulls back the words AND FIRE are written below Dennis' handwriting.

Dennis and Pyro are a mess of snickers, and you have to dodge a high-five that takes place behind Eddie's back.

What the fuck.

Well, at least you have a better idea about why they all got demoted to finger-painting.

This time, their antics finally get under Eddie's skin—he smacks his hand down on the canvas and tries to scrub the words away—speckling paint on his face and white sleeves. The paint just spreads translucent around the canvas, the words stained in place underneath.

“I would never hurt a kitten,” Eddie growls, scandalized. “I'm not one of those fucks who tortured animals.”

At least there are a few things Eddie can take pride in.

“Neither am I,” Pyro says, smugly. “But are you sure you haven't—your canvas is pretty incriminating right now.”

How can they joke about this so easily? Teasing someone about their therapy, risking the scrutiny of an orderly, it seems so fucking deplorable—but all of them are having a good time of it.

Even Eddie isn't too miffed, though he's now intent on covering the words up with a blue sky.

Well, at least Dennis and Pyro succeeded in getting Eddie to paint something. Finally.

“Pa tried to kill a kitten once—I brought a stray home and that didn't go so well. He didn't like that at all. But I saved it. Let it go free into the woods.” Dennis says conversationally. You wonder if by Pa he means one of his other personalities, or a real Pa from which the personality is derived.

“It probably died of starvation,” Pyro says, absently, leaning in again and using a dry finger to scrawl the words I HATE FUN in Eddie's freshly painted sky.

The words appear half-legible in finger-wide lines where the paint is smudged away. Eddie's whine of protest dissolves into something resembling laughter.

How can Eddie be amused by this while you're positively mortified—terrified that an orderly will walk by bear witness to the whole fiasco? What if the staff gets the wrong impression?

“There's no way that kitten didn't survive. It was a fighter. Probably ate a lot of rats. Saw it a ways later, I swear. Grown into a big thing, glaring at me from the trees,” Dennis says. You glance at his canvas, and sure enough, he's painting a cat. “I did right by that kitten. I know I did.”

“I'm sure you did, Dennis,” Eddie assures solemnly, staring defeated at his ruined painting, shoulders hunched and paint-slick fingers resting upturned on his thighs.

Pyro turns to look at you, where you're seated quiet and out of the way. His stare is intense as he reaches towards you cautiously, like you're the stray kitten Dennis made such a fuss over. Like he doesn't want you to bolt. Gently, he pokes the tip of your nose and then goes back to his painting as if nothing happened.

There is definitely cold, wet paint smudged on your nose.

“You've got some paint right here, darling,” Eddie says helpfully, gesturing at his own nose as if he doesn't have a clue how the paint got there, though he watched the whole exchange.

You just scowl.

“You should help Eddie with his painting,” Pyro tells you over his shoulder. “The orderlies won't be pleased unless it looks like he made an effort.”

Right now Eddie's painting is entirely an attempt to cover up his friend's additions.

“I'm afraid our poor Eddie isn't too skilled in the creativity department,” Pyro laments.

Before Eddie has a chance to retort—likely something about clothing design being as fine a creative outlet as any—Dennis leans back and says, “Yeah, Waylon and Eddie should collaborate!”

“Exactly,” Pyro makes no move to hide his smirk. “You two are already so good at collaboration—this should be no difficult task.”

What?

You're not even quite sure what Pyro's trying to imply, but you can feel your face heat up exponentially.

He knows. He knows how much you like Eddie—doesn't he?

Of course he knows. How could anyone not know?

(How much does he know?)

Except. He can't know.

No one knows.

It's... fine.

It's fine.

"Here," Pyro grabs your hand and squeezes some orange paint onto your fingers before you can protest.

You barely register what's happening, distracted by panicking internally at Pyro's cryptic teasing. It takes you a second to frown at the paint on your fingers. And then, in a momentary lapse of brainpower, you wipe the paint off on your shirt.

"Fuck," you say, looking down at the thick paint smeared on your shirt, realizing what you just did. "I didn't mean to do that."

Pyro's face contorts with laughter, "Wow, are you okay, Park? I'm sorry—I thought you would, I don't know, use it on the canvas."

"Yeah—I, I guess I'm kinda out of it. Sorry."

Eddie twists in his seat, staring at you with too much concern, frowning deeply at the thick paint glopped and smeared across your flannel shirt.

"I'm fine—sorry. Been kinda stuck in my head today. I guess."

"Are you sure you don't want to leave? I'm sure I can convince the orderlies to let me take you back to my room for a moment so I can lend you a spare shirt."

Lend you a shirt?

(Eddie's shirt?)

That. Short-circuits your brain even worse.

"I bet you'd like that, Eddie," Py snorts. "Waylon in your clothes."

Eddie shoots Pyro a look, a retort catching in his throat when you cut him off.

"It's okay—I'm okay. After, maybe, yeah, you can lend me a shirt. But right now I wanna watch you paint."

Eddie assesses you for a long moment before acquiescing. "I'm not sure what I could manage with these materials."

"Try."

He sighs and turns back to the canvas, rummaging through the provided supplies nestled in the easel.

Eventually, Eddie starts drawing, and Pyro and Dennis stop hassling him.

Eddie paints swooping black strokes atop the splotches of color faded and wiped away beneath.

The result is something resembling a professional fashion design sketch. A stylized person in a sweeping gown. His tongue sticks out slightly in concentration, caught between his teeth as he fills in the bold black lines with dabs of color with the sponge.

It looks good. Really good. And. Tugs at your heartstrings.

Because Eddie really is good at what he does. The sketches, the sewing, all of it. He's a professional from start to finish. Amazing, considering he was so young at the time of his incarceration. He must have been holding a sewing needle, sketching designs, since early childhood.

A talent he can't ever progress beyond a hobby, after everything that's happened in his life.

It's sad.

The rest of the session is a blur as Dennis and Pyro try to paint something that will please the orderlies. Pyro's painting is actually pretty good—fire reflected in an eye, which he claims probably won't get him reprimanded by the orderlies because it's symbolic or something.

Dennis's painting is very realistic and makes you smile. A cat and a barn. There are several different art styles on his canvas.

When art therapy is finally over, Dennis and Pyro are too busy laughing with each other to notice you and Eddie slipping away down the hall.

"Brief stop at my room, and then the bathroom to get us cleaned up," Eddie says, leading you by the wrist down the hall for a moment, letting his hand drop away before suspicion can arise from any random passerby.

True to his word, you wait in the doorway of his room while he rummages through his dresser to pick out something for you to replace your shirt with. The splotch of paint on it is still wet.

You've never actually been inside a bathroom in the patient ward before, but the one Eddie leads you into is empty, the same sort of layout as any other public restroom except with the addition of shower stalls around a partition that cuts the restroom in half.

Eddie catches you staring at the side of the room with the shower stalls as he tugs you over to the row of sinks. "Really, darling? Best not to get any ideas."

"What's wrong with wanting to take a shower with you?" The rush of the faucet turning on drowns out some of the shame of saying that out loud. You are in a public bathroom, after all. Anyone could walk in at any time.

Eddie just shoots you a look while he washes the paint flecks from his strong arms.

Sighing, you unbutton your shirt and shrug it off, unconcerned about someone walking in.

It's not like you're doing anything illicit. Just changing into Eddie Gluskin's offered sweater.

Right.

But Eddie turns to look at your bare chest—the scattering of hair, of thick scars. He stares at you like what you're doing is something illicit.

Like he hasn't really seen your bare chest before, not since Mount Massive.

And. He hasn't, has he?

Eddie turns the faucet off mechanically, without taking his eyes off of you. Continues to stare as he dries his slick, scarred arms with paper towels.

"Gimme the sweater," you prompt at his distracted stare.

"Ah, right." He hands the sweater to you—it's definitely going to be too big, not necessarily because you're small, but because Eddie is massive. It's dark green and blue and it's very, very soft.

You start to pull it over your head but Eddie stops you with a hand on your stomach, looming over you to kiss your collar bone.

The noise you make is full of too much want, and Eddie's smile is sheepish and apologetic when he steps away.

You slip Eddie's sweater the rest of the way on even though you'd rather keep it off and press your bare chest to him, push him against the rows of sinks—but, yeah, you shouldn't do that.

And the sweater proves to be baggy on you, the sleeves too long, swallowing your hands completely. But it is soft and comfortable and you love that it's Eddie's.

It even smells like him.

When you look up, Eddie has his hand over his mouth to cover whatever expression he's wearing. His face is flushed.

You beam at him and he turns away quickly.

"Those shower stalls seem pretty inviting now, huh?"

Eddie snorts. "You are simply adorable, that's all. My heart swells at the sight of you."

Your grin falters into something softer.

Right. This. Isn't all about sex. Not to him, and...

Not to you, either.

“Am I delusional?” you ask, abrupt, voice small. “Am I delusional to want these things from you? Will I just snap out of it one of these days and be horrified at myself?”

Eddie pauses. “I don't know,” he says, gently. It stings. “I must admit I've thought frequently about the likelihood of you changing your mind.”

“What,” you swallow, wet your dry lips. You can't lie to him, can't reassure him that you won't change your mind. You might. You don't know. “What would you do if I did change my mind?”

He looks you over like this may very well be the last time he ever sees you. His broad, so broad, chest heaves full with a sigh. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you change your mind about, dear.” His tone is caution and guidance simultaneously. “May I... do you mind if I refer to what's been going on between us as affection, rather than mere lust?”

Breathing is difficult. You scrub your fingers into your hot face, obscuring some of the embarrassment. “Yeah. That's fine.”

“Right, well, if you were to change your mind about the affection... then I hope I have shown enough restraint thus far to demonstrate my willingness to go without anything of the sort. That I would be more than happy—overjoyed to just receive platonic visits from you.”

That makes your chest clench painfully tight. So he would still want to be friends. “And if I never wanted to see you again?”

Eddie's face falls to something blank, detached. “What could I do about that, locked up in here?” he doesn't sound bitter, just accepting. Like maybe he's been bracing for that this whole time. “And I wouldn't be able to do anything about your decision even if I wasn't institutionalized. I suppose I would just mourn. And exist.”

The words hit too close to home, mirroring what you felt when Lisa left. What you feel when you think about Eddie deciding you're bad enough for his recovery that he shouldn't see you anymore.

(You mourn, you exist. You mourn, you exist.)

(What else is there to do, after loss like that?)

You reach out, grab his fingers, squeeze. The restroom is empty but this is all you allow yourself. It feels adequate enough, a small touch that overwhelms.

“I don't know what the hell I'm doing here,” you admit, voice choppy. “But I like this. I like talking to you, Eddie. You make me feel like a real person.” You haven't felt like a real person in so long. “Like I'm not just someone who doesn't belong—I feel, I feel like I belong, when I'm with you. Like I have a right to exist.”

“Oh, darling, oh, Waylon,” Eddie coos, squeezing your fingers now, reversing the comfort, pulling you in, leaning over your smaller body to envelop you completely in an embrace that is too careful, too precise in the pressure of his fingers on your back. “You are a real person. You are the best person, you are my favorite person. How dare anyone make you feel like you don't belong in this world?”

You press your face into Eddie's chest, body limp, unshed tears stinging. Unable to speak. Unable to explain that no one person made you feel like you don't belong. Like you're not real. It's the combined effort of everyone being so much more functional and practical than you, having such an easier time fitting into society and living life in general.

But for the first time in years you feel like you do belong in the world—with Eddie, with his friends, with the people in this facility. It's safe here. Safe to exist as yourself, as who you've been since the riot.

"Sorry," you say, pulling away and sniffling back your welling sinuses. "I'm just. I'm glad you're my partner. My boyfriend. Whatever."

You spot Eddie's smile before he hides it behind his fingers.

* * *

You're on your way out of the facility when you catch sight of Sarah in the parking lot. She's carrying several heavy-looking bags and you jog to catch up with her.

"Hey, can I help you with those?"

She falters at your sudden appearance for only a moment before beaming. "Yeah! Hey, Waylon. Thanks—you're a lifesaver."

She unloads several of the bags into your arms and gestures towards a car in the parking lot that must be hers.

"These are heavy—what's in them?"

"Oh, just book duplicates from the Sanctuary library. I'm going to donate them to the local libraries."

"Ah."

She pops the trunk and carefully loads her own bags into it, mindful of her stomach.

You follow suit, hesitating after she closes the trunk again.

There's something you want to ask her, but...

"Oh! That reminds me, I have something for you," Sarah says. She opens up the back door of her car and rifles around in a box of folders cluttering the back seat. "From the day we went to the diner."

You know what must be inside the envelop before she pushes the door shut and hands it to you. You waste no time opening it and sure enough—several photographs are inside. Sarah took them after the trip to the diner, when everyone clambered out of the bus into the MMSS parking lot.

You had been surprised that Eddie let himself be photographed at all—but here he is in the picture, just you and him, standing side by side, squished together to fit in frame. Smiling.

You catch yourself smiling, too, as you look at the photo.

The next photo is one of everyone together—Dennis, Pyro, Val, Eddie and you.

You look a little groggy in the photos—which only serves to remind you how you had just fallen asleep on Eddie's shoulder on the bus prior to the photos being taken.

But you're undeniably happy in these photos. Genuinely. Tangible evidence that life isn't always as bad as it feels.

"Thank you for these," you say, pulling your attention back to Sarah.

"No problem at all," she replies. "I'm glad I remembered to bring my camera that day, I usually forget until it's too late."

You find yourself hesitating again. And then have to busy yourself with sliding the photos back into the envelope to resist asking Sarah the question that's trying to claw its way past your teeth.

"Hey, uh—can I ask you something?" Shit. You shouldn't be having this conversation on impulse.

Sarah brushes her thick hair out of her face where the cool evening wind tousles it. "Sure, what is it?"

"It's about Eddie."

Fuck.

"What about him?" She's still smiling pleasantly, no impatience despite your hesitance.

"If Eddie wanted to uh, leave the facility for a day trip, but without orderlies, how would he get permission to do that?" Should you even be asking this without running it by Eddie first?

"You mean leave on his own? I'm afraid none of the patients are allowed—"

"No, no, like, with someone supervising, but not an orderly—"

"Oh!" Sarah leans against the car, one arm resting over her pregnant stomach. "Legally, he already has the necessary judge approval for that, but he doesn't have any family that would be willing sign off on responsibility for him for a day. The only family he has that I know of is an estranged aunt. I doubt he would want to spend the day with her, even if it meant leaving the facility for a few hours."

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt, "So, does it have to be family the signs him out, or could it be a friend?"

Fuck fuck fuck.

If it wasn't already dark outside, she'd be able to see your flushed face and know too much. You're thankful for the dim light of the streetlights in the parking lot.

"Yeah, a friend could do this, as long as the doctors here feel they are trustworthy enough to be responsible for Eddie's care for the duration of the outing." She pauses, lifting a finger to her lips in thought. "But I don't think Eddie has any friends outside of the facility."

You stare at your feet, utterly embarrassed.

"Oh! Oh, you mean you, don't you? You're his friend outside the facility. Oh god," Sarah's embarrassed laughter draws your attention back to her. She places a brief, reassuring hand on your upper arm. "I'm so sorry, of course you were referring to yourself. Yeah—I think that would be fine. I mean, more staff than just me would have to approve that. But I don't see why they wouldn't trust you."

"Really?" Your response is much too quick, too hopeful. "Like, I could take him out for the day? Go to the park or the zoo or whatever?"

"Yeah! If staff approves it. He's already got judge approval for things like that. So it's up to staff discretion," she doesn't seem at all alarmed at all that you want to go on scheduled day trips outside the facility alone with Eddie Gluskin. "You might want to talk to Samantha about it during your next appointment. She's head of the facility, so she'd ultimately be approving the final decision."

It takes you a second to realize she means Samantha Everett—your psychiatrist. And that gives you hope, because you've been keeping Dr. Everett updated within reason about the progression of your friendship with Eddie. Of course, that's all she thinks it is—a friendship. But, still.

"Hey, is that Eddie's sweater?" Sarah asks abruptly.

You look down at yourself, guilty. "Uh. Yeah. I attended art therapy with him, just now. Got paint all over my shirt. He let me borrow this."

You expect suspicion, but Sarah only laughs. "I'm not surprised he lent you something. Eddie tends to dote, doesn't he?"

She doesn't know the half of it.

You try your best to maintain a straight face.

"I'm heading back inside, actually," She says, graciously bouncing topics, gesturing back towards the building. "If you wanted, I could speak with Eddie and put a request in about getting you approved to sign him out for home visits."

You can't keep the grin off of your face. "That would be great, actually, if it's not too much trouble. But I did kind of ask this on impulse. I haven't actually ran the idea by Eddie yet, since I didn't know it was a thing that was possible."

"Totally possible," she assures. "And okay, I'll make sure to explain to him that it was your idea."

"Thank you so much, Sarah."

It feels too good to be true, and you're honestly brimming with excitement even though maybe you shouldn't be, not when you're pretty sure the MMSS staff would be much more dubious about all of this if they knew the exact nature of your relationship with Eddie.

(Would Sarah even be able to smile at you, treat you amicably, if she knew how many rules you were breaking with Eddie?)

(Probably not.)

(Definitely not.)

(She might hate you. Be disgusted with you.)

(Shit.)

"No problem at all. I'm glad to see you and Eddie getting along. A lot of us are."

You manage to keep your smile from faltering at that. At the fact that you've been hiding just how much you've been getting along with Eddie Gluskin.

But it's okay. It's all okay—because if you get to take him out of the facility with you alone, even for one day, all the secrecy is worth it.

Chapter Text

The melodic ringtone blares from somewhere under your sheets—you must have fallen asleep before plugging in your phone last night. After several desperate attempts to find it with flailing limbs, you force yourself to open your eyes and actually look for it.

Somehow you manage to answer the call before voice-mail picks up.

"Hello?"

"Waylon—"

It's Eddie. Just Eddie. So you're allowed to burrow back under the covers, curl up and close your eyes with the phone pressed against your ear. The sweater Eddie let you borrow last night is lying on the mattress under the sheets. You can't bring yourself to feel embarrassed about falling asleep with it bunched up in your arms.

You pull the sweater against your chest now, drowning your senses in the scent that belongs uniquely to Eddie.

"Are you sure?" Eddie asks, hurried. "I just keep thinking, are you absolutely certain this is what you want?"

The barrage of questions come out of nowhere, and your sleep-fogged brain can't make sense of any of it. "Mmn?"

"I scarcely believed it when they told me last night," he's talking so fast, almost manic. "And then this morning—I called you right away."

"Eddie, what time is it?"

"Eight in the morning."

That makes you peel your eyes open and pull the phone away from your face briefly to confirm the time. It really is eight in the morning. Eddie never calls you before noon if he can help it—he knows you have trouble waking up early.

Whatever he's calling about, it must be important.

You sit up, scrubbing at your gooey eyes. "Wait—why are you calling? I don't understand."

There's a pause from Eddie, and then, more controlled, "Sorry, let me start over. How are you doing this morning?"

"Not very good," you grunt. "Because I was asleep and now I'm awake."

Eddie scoffs.

You chuckle, sleep making your voice rough. "Just kidding—mostly. I'm glad to hear your voice. Why are you calling, though?"

"My doctors told me about the request you made. I couldn't believe—"

"What request?" you squint across your bedroom, brain working slowly. "Oh, what I asked Sarah about last night? About taking you out of the facility for the day, just you and me?"

Shit. You shouldn't have even asked about that. Not without talking to Eddie first. It will be a miracle if it didn't rouse suspicion.

It was impulsive. You shouldn't have done it.

You can't take it back, and that alarms you.

"Yes—they had me put in an official request last night. Filled out forms and everything. I received an answer this morning."

That bolts you wide awake. "That quick? What did they say? Did they say no?"

It has to be rejection.

It looks bad that you even made the request in the first place.

It looks bad that you've been visiting Eddie for months as if he's your best friend in the whole world.

(You think maybe he probably is your best friend.)

(He's the first person you think about when depression laps at your heels, when you know you need to reach out to someone before the tide swallows you and fills your lungs.)

(And. When you do reach to him for support, he's solid and kind and he understands.)

(Just knowing he's there if you need him makes breathing easier. Every single day.)

(Shit.)

"Yes—" Eddie says, and then, "I mean, no, they approved it. I had to sit through an evaluation this morning while several of my doctors discussed everything with me—but they approved it. They prompted me to schedule a date for the outing."

"What, really?!"

"Yes, really." The elation in Eddie's answer mirrors the grin on your face, the wave of relief that vacates your lungs. "When is a good time for you—or rather, what I mean to ask you is, are you sure that you want to do this?"

"I dunno, let me check my schedule," you feign indifference, doing your best to hide the excitement buzzing along your skin like a welcome touch. "I kinda have this boyfriend I visit at the mental hospital every day, so I'm pretty busy..."

"Waylon Park," Eddie admonishes.

Every last ounce of your feigned nonchalance dissolves into excited laughter. "When is good for me? Are you really asking me that? Now! Tomorrow! Today. Every day!"

Eddie's laughing now, too, and there's something validating about hearing your own eagerness reflected in his reaction. He feels the same way about this as you do.

(He feels the same way about this as you do!)

"Every single day is good for me, seriously," you reaffirm.

"I don't think they'll quite allow—"

"I know! Just, whenever. As soon as they let you."

"Alright. I'll put in the word." He hesitates, suddenly serious. "Are you sure this is something you're comfortable with?"

"Uh, yeah, it was my idea?" You rake your fingers through your unkempt hair, welcome memories surfacing of Eddie's fingers tangled there. "Seriously, Eddie. I wanna do things with you. Like a normal couple. Like, go to the zoo or the movies or shopping or whatever you want."

"That sounds lovely," Eddie replies softly, and then quieter, "How am I to believe any of this is real?"

"Hm?"

"You want this from me. Real companionship." There's wonder in his voice, disbelief—hesitant trust. "It seems like a dream."

"Yeah, I do, Eddie. I really fucking do," and then, firmer, "Get used to it."

He chuckles. "I'm told they'll need you to fill out some paperwork, in the time being."

"Okay—I'll be right over. Just gotta shower first."

You can practically hear him raise an eyebrow. "You're willingly vacating your bed before noon?"

"Hell yeah, you ass. Tell the staff to get the papers ready."

* * *

When you arrive at MMSS, an orderly leads you straight from the lobby to a small room where you're left alone at a long table surrounded by chairs. Apparently it's an evaluation room, where the doctors have meetings with patients about their progress. Other than motivational and informational posters on the walls, the room is nondescript.

A few minutes pass before you're joined by Sarah and Eddie.

Eddie greets you with a smile that is perhaps too overjoyed as he slips into the seat beside you.

(It's not the smile that startled you as The Groom blocked a door in the Vocational Block.)

(It's just as wide but not as strained. It's uneven, lopsided, a bit goofy.)

(You adore this smile.)

(You adore him.)

Your heart swells, and even if you were to cut the unruly organ out of your chest still-beating, you're not sure that would rid you of the overwrought fondness flooding your chest at just the sight of this man.

You have to resist the urge to jump into his arms in glee, to celebrate in some way. Because though you suppose you're allowed to be happy about this, anything more than mere happiness would be utterly suspicious.

(Would the doctors even let you check Eddie out of the hospital for the day, if they knew the extent of your relationship with him?)

"Okay, so," Sarah sits across from you at the table, picking through a folder full of documents. "I have some things for you to sign, Waylon."

Your guilt is a stray bracket in an otherwise functioning line of code as you smile and accept the paper and pen Sarah slides across the table. Your fingers tremble visibly.

The words on the page blur together, you bury yourself in them to conceal your nerves, eyes scanning the same line multiple times before registering meaning.

The document is fairly straight-forward, asking for information like your current address and phone number, typical emergency contact stuff. Your hand is still shaking as you fill in the blanks, so you take it slow, make sure every number and letter is legible.

"You can read that block of text on the next page yourself," Sarah says while you turn the page and skim the words. "But basically it says that you're accepting responsibility for the patient, and that for the duration of the out-of-facility visit, he'll be under your care and supervision."

"Okay." There's a lot of legal terminology written across the page, mostly absolving MMSS of any fault should there be any sort of incident while Gluskin is under your supervision.

"So, essentially you're not to leave the patient alone under any circumstances—no more than you would a young child," she shoots Eddie an apologetic smile at this metaphor. "You are to know where he is and what he's doing at all times."

"Got it," you mummer, still scanning the list of conditions and responsibilities listed on the page.

"Eddie specifically isn't considered by facility standards to be a flight risk, or at risk of self-harm, so he doesn't need to be monitored for restroom use or anything like that," she continues. "But again, you should know where he is at all times and be nearby."

Are there any patients here that are that dependent? That really can't be let out of sight for one moment, even to use the restroom? Maybe in other wards. Did every patient endure that kind of strict supervision when first brought to MMSS? You can't imagine what it's like to have your privacy taken away to that extent on a daily basis.

"We'll provide you with emergency contact numbers for guards and doctors here at the facility, in case something should happen." Somehow Sarah sounds completely neutral as she says this.

Emergency contact numbers.

In case something happens.

"Though of course," she continues, "in the case of any sort of emergency that could result in injury, you should call local law enforcement directly."

Excitement drains as cold, hard reality settles onto your shoulders. You feel unreal. Numb.

What are you getting yourself into?

You can barely be responsible for yourself, let alone another person. Isn't that why you don't let the boys visit on weekends?

"But generally since this is an inpatient facility, staff will be here twenty-four hours a day to answer any non-emergency questions you may have, so you can just call the main line as well."

You nod stiffly, pen hovering above the last empty line for you to fill out—to sign your name, to sign your consent to all of this.

(Are you getting into this too fast?)

This whole thing is so new.

For several months now you've felt safe with Eddie here at the facility. You've enjoyed your time with him. But when you asked Sarah about taking Eddie out of the facility alone, it had been pure impulse—driven by your bursting feelings for him.

And your emotions do feel like something bursting, straining at rough seams, constantly brimming, changing, squirming delightfully and uncomfortably all at once.

You glance at the man sitting beside you, posture rigid and hands folded neatly in front of him on the table.

Your feelings have been overflowing for him.

And.

You really do feel so much loyalty to him for the care he's given you in these last few months.

You don't want anyone else.

(But should you want him?)

(Are you allowed to want him?)

(Signing your name on this consent form makes wanting Eddie Gluskin real. More than just a fantasy enclosed neatly inside this building—something you can walk away from without anyone ever knowing.)

"You'll be responsible for seeing that Eddie takes his medication if your outing overlaps with his medication schedule."

"Of course, yeah, I can do that." This is all quickly becoming much too real. Too soon. Not soon enough. It's overwhelming.

But. If this doesn't go well...

If you find you don't like being alone with Eddie outside the facility, it never has to happen again. You never have to schedule another outing with him.

(And. Something about that horrifies you—that you have so much control here, control that Eddie doesn't have. He's stuck inside MMSS no matter what. The only reason he's even allowed out for a single day is because you're agreeing to it.)

(It's uncomfortable. To hold that much power.)

(You don't want it.)

(You don't want it at all.)

"And Eddie," Sarah says, addressing him directly with the tilt of her head. "We discussed your crisis plan this morning."

"Crisis plan?" you ask.

Sarah waves a dismissive hand. "It sounds more dire than it is, and it's not specific to out-of-facility visitation. It's just individualized coping and support systems that can be relied on should a patient find themselves in a bad place emotionally. It's important for Eddie to remember his crisis plan, especially when outside the facility."

"Ah." For what seems like forever now, your own crisis plan has been to break down in front of Eddie Gluskin and let him be your emotional crutch. To run off to visit him when you're feeling antsy and lonely and vaguely suicidal.

Is that what a support system is? Someone to rely on when you can't rely on yourself? Eddie has helped you so much recently, even though he can't offer much more than a willing ear and a shoulder to cry on.

Being able to sort through your grief out loud, rid yourself of the shame by sharing it with another person, by giving that person the chance to accept you when you don't accept yourself...

It's been so important to you, lately.

And it's Eddie who has provided that stability for you.

Only Eddie.

A wave of affection for the man sweeps through you as you sign your name on the line and slide the papers back to Sarah.

"Awesome," she says, tucking the documents back into the folder and pulling out another sheet, which she places in front of her, pen poised to write. "And now I have to ask you a few questions—mostly just a formality."

"That's fine." You fidget in your seat, fingers twisting beneath the table. You have no idea what kind of questions she's going to ask.

"Okay, I know you already filled this information out, but we have to double-check, so I'll need to you recite your full name, address, and phone number."

Easy enough. You oblige, spelling everything out clearly for her.

"And what would you describe as the purpose for your out-of-facility visits with the patient?"

The way she keeps referring to Eddie as the patient makes you nervous.

"Uh? Just, spending time together, I guess?" And then, because that doesn't feel like enough, you add, "I think it will be good for him to experience life outside of the facility without doctors around. Maybe it will make him feel like he can be independent?"

It's total bullshit that you just made up on the spot—because of course you can't say that you want to take the man out on dates.

Beside you, Eddie chuckles quietly at your formal response.

You resist the urge to kick him under the table.

"Okay, perfect," Sarah smiles, scanning the paper in front of her. "One more question—how would you describe your relationship to the patient?"

You freeze.

You're glad Sarah's looking down at the paper because you're sure the color just drained from your face.

You're absolutely staring at her like a deer awash in headlights.

You feel. So guilty. And. You should have expected this question, been ready for it—it should be easy to lie.

But you flounder, and then Sarah's looking up at you, and you snap your attention to Eddie, helpless.

"Friends," Eddie answers easily in your stead, managing to not even shoot you a concerned raise of his eyebrow.

"Good friends," you correct hastily, eager to cover up your floundering and the fact that Eddie had to answer for you. "He's helped me a lot since I started visiting him. Got me through some of tough times. He's my best friend."

Shit, shit shit—that was all far too much information. Why did you keep talking?

You should stop talking.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You jump slightly when you feel Eddie's hand squeeze your hand under the table—a fleeting touch gone as soon as you register it.

It's a risky, rebellious act of reassurance when Sarah is sitting across the table.

You appreciate it so much.

(You appreciate him so much.)

"Alright then, good—we're basically all set," Sarah says warmly. "I just need to go over some specifics with you before we schedule a date."

You can't bring yourself to speak, anxiety still buzzing from the over-sharing you just did. Instead, you nod, trying your best to look attentive.

"So, we call this type of visit a home visit, even though you aren't required to stay at your residence," she says. "However, Eddie is restricted from traveling more than fifty miles from the facility."

"So, basically anywhere in town is fine?"

"Right," she affirms. "And the duration of this home visit is at your discretion, though it cannot be longer than twelve hours at a time, as that's the standard duration for a regular home visit."

"Alright. Do I need to specify how long I plan to have him out with me—within the twelve hours—before I take him?"

"No need, actually," she says, waving a dismissive hand. "Just bring him back before the twelve hours is up. Though, we will be calling the phone number you provided at intervals throughout the day to check in. Usually every four hours or so. So be sure to keep that phone nearby. If for some reason we can't reach you on that number, you'll need to call the facility as soon as you can."

Ah. There it is. Some of the invasive structure you've grown used to seeing Eddie endure. Well. It's not that bad, you suppose. A phone call every few hours.

"What happens if we miss a call?"

"Nothing drastic at first, as long as it's an accident and not symptomatic of a larger ordeal. It will just be a strike against approving more home visits in the future."

That makes you deflate a bit. It doesn't feel good to be under that kind of scrutiny. You don't like that there's anything that can be a strike against approving more home visits in the future.

(You're almost positive now that the MMSS staff wouldn't relinquish Eddie into your care at all if they knew you were blowing him in his room between orderly checks.)

You try to remind yourself that there is nothing morally wrong with keeping the nature of your relationship with Eddie secret. You're entitled to some privacy and so is he.

(But isn't it wrong, when his doctors only have his best interest in mind? When, if they were to disapprove of your relationship with him, it would only be because they were looking out for his recovery?)

(Shit.)

"So, uh," you clear your throat, do your best to staunch the anxiety before it bleeds into your words. "I don't have to like, specify where I'll be taking him? It can be spontaneous?"

"We would like to be given a general idea of where he'll be before you check him out, but yes, spontaneity is fine. Ultimately his care is under your discretion during the home visit."

"Alright." Well. It's not like they can track you or anything. And it's not like there are many places you would take him in the first place. There's only so much to do in a small city.

"Good!" Sarah beams, sliding the rest of the documents back into the folder and rising from her seat.

You and Eddie follow suit, trailing after her as she leads you back into the hallway and locks the door behind you with a clinking set of keys.

"So that's it. The date's scheduled for two weeks from now, just so we have time to process this paperwork."

"Thank you," you blurt, much too emphatic.

"No problem! You can come pick Eddie up first thing in the morning on that day. Or whenever. He just has to be back before lights-out here at the facility."

"Thank you so much, Sarah," you repeat, offering her a parting handshake.

"Seriously, Waylon. It's no trouble at all," she laughs, obliging the handshake. "If I don't see you again before then, I hope you two have a good time!"

"We will," you assure at the same time as Eddie.

You recoil, sheepish, but Sarah only laughs again and waves a goodbye before turning to leave.

You stare after her as she disappears down the hall, leaving you alone with Eddie.

"Waylon," Eddie breathes, quietly, restraint clear in his voice. "Two weeks."

"Two weeks," you repeat, numb. When you look up at him you can't hold yourself back anymore—you practically leap into his arms.

Solid as ever, Eddie doesn't even stumble when you slam into him, instead coiling his arms around you and lifting you off your feet. His arms hold you tight in a warm embrace that muffles the rest of the world, drowns it out until there is nothing but Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Your squeak of surprise devolves into breathy laughter, a reflexive attempt to force the nervous energy out.

There's a moment where you're staring down at him—where you want to dip your head and kiss his grinning face so badly. Or nuzzle your face into the heat of his neck.

But you shouldn't.

And so you don't.

Even hugging like this—allowing him to sweep you off your feet—is much too telling.

And Eddie knows this, too, so he sets you back down on the ground without incident.

"I cannot tell you how excited I am," he says, more emotion than just excitement packed into that sentiment.

"Me too, Eddie. Me too."

* * *

Eddie's free for the rest of the morning, so you decide to wait around to have lunch with him in a few hours.

When he leads you back to his room he's the one that closes the door. A silent indication that whatever is going to happen next he wants to be as private as his lifestyle will allow.

Your heart pounds in anticipation, and his hands close around your upper arms—for a panicked moment you think he's going to whirl you around and pin you to the closed door—but no, he leans heavily against the door himself, pulling you into him.

You push your body flush against his, stand on your toes to reach his mouth. Press a firm, chaste kiss to his lips, no tongue, no teeth, no impatience—just warm pressure.

Your eyes search his and he searches right back, as if your face is a rare fleeting moment he wants to commit to memory, take residence in.

Eddie looks at you like you are a sunset, an important moment of contentment, a once-in-a-lifetime view of the ocean over a cliff-face, a foreign country he'll never visit again.

Eddie hums contentedly, a deep, rumbling noise that reverberates against your chest. He winds his arms around you loosely, enough to comfort but not constrain.

And you stay with him like that for a while, holding him, studying his face between soft kisses. Memorizing the gentle emotion splayed vulnerable and naked across his face.

"As much as I love this," you say, eventually, dropping down to the flat of your feet and resting your forehead against his broad chest. "We should probably stop taking risks now."

"Hm?" He's dazed, eyes half-lidded as he absorbs this quiet comfort.

"You know, no more sex. Or anything like that. No public displays—not even hidden ones." It actually pains you a bit to suggest this. "Just—I can't risk them taking away home visits, now that we're close to it. I can't have them take it away before it even happens."

"It's true that we have no way of knowing how the staff will react to our... relationship." It causes Eddie some difficulty to say the word relationship. Like it's new vocabulary he's not sure he's using correctly. "I suspect they will react poorly if they find out through catching us breaking facility rules."

"And if we tell them ourselves, officially? Confess?"

"I'm unsure," he admits, cupping your face and stroking a thumb across your cheek. "I can imagine an array of scenarios. It could end positively for us, or very badly. Very, very badly. I really have no evidence to support either outcome."

So he has no idea. It figures—it's not exactly like this is a common situation.

"You agree then? No more fraternizing in the ward? Keep affection to a minimum?"

Eddie nods. "We should keep most visits within the public eye. Either spend time in common areas or in my room with the door open."

You sigh. "It's going to be a difficult two weeks."

"I can restrain myself if you can."

You look up at him, raise an eyebrow.

"It's very difficult to say no to you, darling. As long as you see fit to behave, the two weeks will pass without incident."

You shoot him a grin and step out of his arms. "I'll show you how good I can be. So much restraint. You'll see."

His hum of acknowledgment is skeptical, but his pupils are dilated, gaze almost predatory as you shoo him a way from the door and open it wide.

"There, now we're totally not being suspicious."

"Right," he agrees, settling in the chair at his sewing table as you sit across the small room on the edge of the bed. "Nothing awry at all."

Your chuckle dissolves into a wide yawn.

"Poor thing," Eddie coos, checking the watch on his wrist. "It's ten-thirty in the morning. Much too early for my dear platonic friend."

"Shut up," you shoot, and then, "Actually, would you mind if I took a nap before lunch?"

Lunch is served around noon in the facility's cafeteria, so you've got at least an hour to kill.

"Not at all," Eddie says, watching you from across the room as you kick off your shoes and pull back the covers.

Eddie's bed.

Eddie's bed.

There's something exciting about crawling under his covers to settle yourself against his pillow. You lie on your side to face him, blankets pulled up to your ears.

Sure, it might look a little odd that you're taking a nap in Eddie's bed. But the door is open, so you have nothing to hide. The orderlies can't fault you for being weird.

"Would you like the lights off?" Eddie asks casually, a stark contrast to the way his eyes are roving over your burrowed form.

"Nah, it's fine. You can leave them on so you can read or whatever."

"I think I might work on some sewing projects—though the machine may be too loud."

"It's okay, you can do that if you want. I don't mind."

"Alright." He still makes no move to start working on his sewing project, instead gazing studiously at you from across the room.

It feels nice to curl up on Eddie's bed, to breathe deeply and let Eddie's presence in the room soothe you. But it felt so much better that first time you crawled in his bed with him, surrounded by his body heat, nerves short-circuiting under his touch.

"Come here," it's a needy plea half-whispered, half-whined, muffled by the blanket against your face.

Eddie's eyes flit to the open door—when they land back on you, they're full of constrained reluctance. "Now, now. You promised to behave."

You grunt, coiling tighter under the sheets, relaxed and lazy and unable to shut your eyes when Eddie is right across the room for you to watch.

"Have a nice nap," Eddie says like a suggestion, before turning away to busy himself with sewing supplies, pulling cuts of fabric from drawers.

It almost feels intrusive to watch him set up his work station, running his hand over fabric, smoothing it across the table, sticking pins through it seemingly at random.

Fondness swells like a bee-sting inside your chest, pulsing, growing, leaving an itch.

You want to sneak up behind Eddie and envelop him in a hug, rest your chin on his shoulder, close your eyes and feel him warm and alive inside your embrace.

But you stay where you are, and ask, "You're allowed to have needles in your room?"

"Both sewing and knitting needles, yes." Eddie doesn't turn to look at you as he replies. "Technically I'm supposed to sign them out from the orderly station with every use—but I requested them so frequently that the staff started letting me keep them. Though they're to be kept in a locked box in my drawer when not in use."

That's good. You imagine it would be difficult for Eddie to avoid suspicion and blame if one of the other patients were to steal his needles and use them as a weapon of sorts.

"I do still have to sign scissors out from the orderly station when I want to use them, however," he adds.

That makes sense. Scissors are definitely more dangerous than needles. Probably.

You watch Eddie pin fabric together for a while longer before asking, "Do you think if your life went differently, you would have ended up becoming a tailor?"

Eddie only pauses for a moment, tossing you a brief look over his shoulder. "I think so, yes. It's difficult to imagine any other outcome. It's what I love to do."

"You must have gotten good at it pretty young."

"The customers in my family's shop called me a prodigy."

You chuckle at that, imagining a tiny, child Gluskin running fabric through a sewing machine. "I wish there was a way you could sell the stuff you make now."

Eddie shakes his head. "Who would buy it?"

That's a good point... well, actually, a surprising number of people would probably be willing to pay for something hand-made by a murderer, for the grim novelty alone. But you can't tell him this. "You don't have to sell it under your name. It could be nearly anonymous online. A lot of people do it."

"Can you imagine the scandal it would cause if my identity was discovered?"

You guess he has a point.

"Besides, we don't have internet access here. And frankly, after the Murkoff lawsuit, I don't need the money. Not that it's any good to me in here."

"Neither do I. But wouldn't it feel good to know people like the things you make?"

"...I suppose."

"This is something we can think about now that you're allowed home visits."

Eddie eyes you over his shoulder. "Waylon, you're doing that thing again."

"What?"

"That thing you do."

"What thing?"

"Where you try to save me." Before you can protest, Eddie adds. "And don't say that's not what you're doing unless you can tell me with sincerity that you're not bringing this up out of pity."

You snap your mouth closed, cage in your protest.

Because yeah. He's right.

It pains you to think about all that Eddie has lost. All that he's continuing to miss out on by being confined to a mental hospital.

"You're supposed to be napping, darling," Eddie reminds you.

Whatever protest you manage is grumbled and illegible and makes Eddie chuckle.

You watch him languidly for a while while he works, but eventually sleep overtakes you.

* * *

You wake up to the sound of Eddie's watch beeping. The mechanical stuttering thrum of the sewing machine fills the room. Eddie doesn't immediately turn the beeping off, ignoring it to continue to guide a line of fabric through the sewing machine.

For several quiet breaths you watch his back as he works, let yourself imagine that this is what it might be like to share a life and a living space with him. Waking up to the sound of his sewing.

There's an instant where you can envision your boys at Eddie's side, peering over the desk, watching as he smiles gently and explains the sewing process to them. Answers their questions patiently.

Squeezing your eyes shut rids you of the intrusive image, but doesn't shake the confusing, melancholy longing that tugs at your heart.

You can't.

Think like that.

About that kind of thing.

That's not. What your life can be like.

You've always known that being with Eddie meant giving up a lot of things.

But...

"Ah, good, you're awake—" Eddie tosses you a glance over his shoulder as he shuts off the sewing machine and silences the alarm on his watch. "Sorry about the beeping. I tend to lose track of time when I work. I set the alarm for right before lunch."

"That's alright." You force yourself to push the covers away and climb out of bed, otherwise you won't want to get up.

You yawn, stretching your arms far above your head to coax the stiffness out of your body. And then, even though you never do this at home, you straighten Eddie's covers and make his bed. When you turn back to Eddie, he has his fingers slanted over his mouth to obscure his expression.

"What?" you ask, suspicious.

He takes a measured breath and schools his face into a mask of nonchalance. "Nothing."

You shoot him a skeptical look as you let him lead you out of his room and down the hall. "No really, what?"

"I was simply admiring the view, that's all," he says much too casually as an orderly nods in acknowledgment when passed. Eddie ushers you through the double-doors that lead out of the ward and towards the cafeteria.

Your face burns, confused, thinking maybe he's referring to the way you had to bend over to make the bed. "What view?"

Eddie hums, staring forward as he strolls down the hall, hands folded tamely behind his back. "Napping. Household cores like fixing the covers on the bed. Seeing you do such tasks for the first time—it makes me sentimental."

Fuck.

You know exactly how he feels.

Too well.

"You give me so many precious memories, darling," he says, quiet and fond, head dipped and angled to look at you.

Your blush burns hotter at this, somehow, than it did when you assumed he was only ogling you.

And.

This is a kind of ogling, too. In a way.

A dangerous kind.

Long glances filled with too much intensity.

Lingering eyes betraying gentle thoughts.

How often did he catch you looking at him like that, before he finally acknowledged it?

"I know what you mean," you assure, as emphatic as a whisper will allow. You need to change the subject because this is one you can't help but wear dangerously on your sleeve. "Did an orderly do their check while I was asleep?"

"Yes, we discussed your presence briefly."

"Oh?" Your heart pounds in anticipation—what does that look like to an outsider, Waylon Park curled and sleeping in Eddie Gluskin's bed?

Fuck. Maybe. You shouldn't have done that. You should have just stayed awake. You must have been pretty tired to have convinced yourself that you had no qualms with the staff here seeing you asleep in Eddie's bed.

It was a mistake.

Everything you do is a mistake.

"Yes, she was amused. She commented on how early you were here and how you must be exhausted. Called you a poor thing."

Oh.

So she didn't think it was suspicious or weird she just—

She thought it was funny that you can't stay awake this early.

Fuck. "Does the whole facility know I don't wake up before noon?"

Eddie smiles slyly, a restrained humor lacing his voice. "I have to give them some sort of explanation for why I insist on calling you between very specific hours, darling."

"You told them? You told the staff?" It's redundant and aghast but it's all you can manage. You bump into him pointedly with your shoulder, nudge him for emphasis. "You jerk!"

Eddie chuckles. "Several orderlies would also ask me why you never come for breakfast. I merely told them the truth."

You can only scoff in response.

"I'm not supposed to lie to the staff," Eddie says in a display of mock-innocence.

You laugh at his gentle humor, laugh at your own mortification. "Fuck you."

Eddie only hums, as if in agreement to that sentiment.

You laugh harder and somehow manage to fight the urge to throw yourself into him, to paw at him and kiss him and study his smiling face up close.

Luckily the moment passes, drains to a familiar dull longing that you grew used to when these feelings were new, when you weren't allowed to touch him, when he didn't know you felt this way and you couldn't find a way to tell him yet.

And when you arrive at the cafeteria, the crowd of patients and staff isn't so bad. The bustle and chatter melds together in the large room and creates the illusion of anonymity.

And before you know it you're through the lunch line with Eddie and setting your tray down at a secluded table in the corner of the room, sitting across from Pyro, Dennis and Val.

The cafeteria is full of seated patients, empty spaces at tables scattered throughout to separate various friend groups.

You're thankful that Eddie's table is secluded to his small group of friends.

"Eddie, Eddie—say it isn't so," Val drawls stoically as soon as Eddie sits across from them.

Eddie raises an eyebrow.

"Py says you're trying to leave us," Val accuses, though they're smiling.

"I didn't say that, I said he's trying to get a home visit—" Py interjects.

"He's trying to leave us for an entire day!" Dennis exclaims.

Val ignores Py and slides their tray to the side to drape their arms over the table, fixing Eddie with a sideways pout.

These three know about the home visits already?

You.... you guess that's fine. It's not like it's a secret.

But.

You aren't prepared for the scrutiny at all.

Dropping your head, you busy yourself with eating and try your best to look inconspicuous so Eddie will take the reins on this conversation.

"I told you Eddie was trying to get a home visit, people. Fuck. Doesn't mean it's actually gonna happen. In fact, staff probably denied the request, right?"

Eddie doesn't falter, staring boredly down at his sleeves as he rolls them up. As if he has no investment at all in this conversation. "They approved it, actually."

Pyro slams his hands down on the table, wide-eyed. "What!? They did what?"

"They approved it," Eddie repeats, still feigning indifference. "It's scheduled for two weeks from now."

"The horror," Val deadpans.

Dennis actually sounds pleased when he says, "That's great you guys, I'm happy for you."

You make the mistake of glancing up to see Pyro looking wildly between both you and Eddie, disgruntled and possibly genuinely upset.

"Really? Eddie of all people gets to leave? He didn't even want to until Waylon showed up!" Pyro gestures wildly at you, as if your existence proves some sort of point.

"It's only for one day, Py," Eddie says, firm and serious.

Is Eddie downplaying his excitement about the home visit for the sake of his friends?

...Friends who probably don't have anyone on the outside to visit. Friends who are stuck in here.

Or is this part of the charade both you and Eddie are acting out? The facade of extremely platonic friends for whom a home visit is no big deal.

Both, maybe. Probably.

"One day! One day, he says!" Pyro's voice is a shrill hush—he's trying not to be too loud but he's clearly very worked up over this. Beside him, Dennis is rubbing circles into his back in attempt to soothe. "One day where you two can fuck like rabbits or whatever the hell you're going to do—"

You choke on your juice, have to wipe frantically at the portion of it that spills down your shirt, wide eyes snapping to Pyro in horror. The demanding buzz of shock numbs your limbs, makes it hard to concentrate on reality when your brain just keeps repeating Pyro's words over and over.

Did.

Did he really just say that?

You two can fuck like rabbits.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?

Why—why would he think that?

Why, why would he just assume—

Did Eddie tell them that he's dating you?

Did he tell them what you've been doing with him in his room with the door closed?

No. Eddie wouldn't violate your privacy like that without asking you, would he?

But. It's his life, too. His business. He's... got a right to tell them. But.

But it doesn't mean it was a considerate thing to do.

"Meanwhile," Pyro continues, "Meanwhile, Dennis and I have to sneak around like—"

"Kevin Conagher," Eddie scolds, cutting Pyro off.

By the way Pyro freezes at the sound of it, you're guessing that must be his full name.

"I will not have you talking like that in front of Waylon," Eddie continues, firm but quiet. Genuinely vexed, you think. "Can't you see you're making him uncomfortable?"

Pyro opens his mouth to protest, but Eddie cuts him off again.

"And as I've frequently had to remind you, Waylon and I are simply good friends. Nothing more."

It feels like you can breathe again for the first time in several excruciating seconds. Because. Eddie didn't tell his friends anything about your relationship with him after all. Good.

That's. Really good.

Not that you mind Eddie's friends knowing a G-rated version of events, if he thinks they can be trusted with the information. But it's something you would want him to make sure is okay with you before he tells them.

And. He hasn't told them yet so.

It's okay.

Your anxiety leaves as quickly as it came.

It's still extraordinarily embarrassing that Pyro is even joking about speculating that you and Eddie are inclined to fuck like rabbits. But. You can deal with that. You can deal with teasing. That's normal, and you don't fault Pyro for it.

Pyro glances at you and then back at Eddie, growling in acquiescence and scrubbing his fingers through his mess of dark hair.

You smile at that, slightly. He reminds you of a scrappy, moody puppy, protesting even while he's submitting.

Pyro frowns at you. "Look, I'm sorry, I know I can be a little..."

"Overexcited," Dennis offers.

"Manic," Val says.

"Intense," Eddie supplies.

"Jumpy," Pyro finishes, ignoring them. "About things. Mood disorder. Impulsivity. Whatever. I'm sorry, Waylon, I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"It's alright, really," you say, because it is, because you of all people understand what it's like to speak emphatically on faulty impulse.

Pyro flashes you a thankful look. "And, please—please don't start calling me Kevin just because Eddie went and blabbed my name for everyone to hear. Please."

"Wouldn't dream of it," you assure.

"You forced my hand," Eddie says, and then, gentler after a sigh, "My apologies."

"I'll forgive you if," Pyro lets the beginnings of the ultimatum hang in the air for a moment. "If and only if, you smuggle us in some condoms when you come back from your home visit."

Eddie only sighs heavier this time, exasperated.

"What? It's unfair!" Pyro exclaims. "And it's basically a health code violation that the staff doesn't give us protection here—what? I'm not joking! Val, stop laughing."

Val, for their part, is doing their best to hide their laughter in the crook of their arm.

Dennis is blushing so hard his ears are pink. "Py," he hisses at his unruly boyfriend.

Somehow, despite being almost as red as Dennis, you're chuckling, too.

Pyro glances sympathetically at Dennis, squeezing the other man's hand before leaning across the table and whispering conspiratorially, "Just because I'm stuck in here doesn't mean I don't wanna fuck my boyfriend."

Val laughs harder and then stops abruptly, lifts their head and looks across Dennis to fix Pyro with a serious stare. "I'm going to need you to say that last part again, but this time with more detail."

Pyro mock sneers and sticks his tongue out at Val.

"It it a valid point that discouraging sexual relations within the facility only promotes unsafe sex," Dennis adds, still bright red.

"But providing condoms would promote sex between us lowly inpatients. So much sex!" Val admonishes sarcastically. "And we can't have that. Not at all. Crazy people don't have sex."

Eddie surprises you by actually chuckling at that, when this whole time he's given the impression that he wants no part of this conversation.

"It's true—I've been crazy my whole life and I've never once thought about sex," Val says, all haughty smugness. "In fact, just last week I absolutely did not go down on that cute new orderly—"

"Val!" Dennis squeaks, wrapping Val in a hug and shushing them with a hand over their mouth.

Val leans into Dennis, nuzzling against his smiling face, mussing their sleek blond hair in the process.

Embarrassing banter aside, it's a friendly and intimate display that makes you feel a bit like an intruder. These people are so close. Like family.

(Eddie's family.)

(Does Eddie see his friends that way—does he consider them his makeshift family?)

When Dennis releases Val, sure that they'll behave, Val turns to you.

"So. Two weeks, huh?"

You clear your throat, try to manage a smile when your face already hurts from laughing so much at their antics. "Yeah. Two weeks."

"You'll take care of our Eddie?" Val asks, suddenly dour.

Our Eddie.

"Of course." Maybe you sound too serious about this. Maybe you don't care. "I'll take care of him as much as he'll let me."

Val brushes blond bangs out of their face and smiles at that. "Good. Then I'll allow it."

"So glad to have your blessing, Val," Eddie says pleasantly, likely relieved that the conversation has shifted away from the topic of patients having sex in the facility. Is Eddie just a prude in general, or is it difficult for him to talk about facility rules he's guilty of breaking?

"You have all of our blessings, Eddie," Dennis assures. "We're all happy for you. Even Py."

"Think about the smuggling in condoms thing, though," Pyro adds, jabbing his fork towards Eddie for emphasis.

Eddie just rolls his eyes and goes back to finishing his lunch.

* * *

The rest of lunch passes comfortably, and afterwards you find yourself alone in a restroom just outside the cafeteria. It's just a one-room restroom, the kind that are normally called family restrooms in stores. So Eddie and the others are waiting outside for you.

After you wash your hands and shut the sink off, you're about to push open the door to leave when hushed voices outside stop you short.

Your fingers pause on the door. Blood rushes in your ears, but you still manage to hear Pyro's hissed words over the pounding of your heart.

"If it's bothering you this much, don't you think it's something you should tell him?" Pyro sounds exasperated. Upset, maybe. "Besides, I think you're right that he should know before he decides to be your babysitter for a whole day."

That.

That has to be about you. He has to be talking about you.

What does Pyro think you should know about?

What is he upset at Eddie for not telling you?

This.

Shit—this isn't something you should be listening to. But you're frozen and it's all you can do to stay upright when the unsolicited information is so dizzying.

"Py. Now isn't the time." Val, equally hushed.

"It is the time when it's affecting Eddie's self-esteem to hide it." Pyro sounds genuinely distressed. "He should tell him—if he's actually a good friend he won't care anyway."

At this point you're probably taking a suspiciously long time in the bathroom. But you can't move.

Eddie grumbles. "I detest the implication that Waylon might somehow be insincere about his intentions."

"Exactly! He's an angel!" Pyro exclaims in a hush. "So just tell him. You'll feel a lot better after."

"I'm going to have to agree with Py for once," Dennis mutters, barely audible through the door.

Your heart is still pounding sickeningly hard with confusion.

What hasn't Eddie told you? What's a big enough deal that his friends are confronting him in the hallway as soon as you walked out of earshot?

Val grunts. "Frankly, it's none of Park's business. Eddie's entitled to privacy."

"Yeah but, Eddie's clearly miserable keeping it from him," Pyro complains.

Fuck.

You've...

You've got two options.

You can go out there and pretend like you didn't hear anything. Play dumb. Hide the anxiety away to be dissected until it swells, festers, balloons like internal bleeding left unattended.

Or you can go out there and ask what's up.

(You know this will eat you alive if you don't figure out what's going on.)

(But what if Eddie lies and says that there's nothing to tell?)

(You. You won't be able to... to come see him again. If he lies. You. You like him so much but—your bond with him is precarious by nature. It relies so heavily on trust. You have no connection to him without trust.)

(Eddie. He doesn't have to share everything with you. But. He at least has to be honest about needing to keep some things from you.)

"I understand your concern," Eddie's muffled voice filters in through the door, knocking you back into reality, making you fidget. "And I have two weeks to tell him."

"Good luck," Pyro says skeptically.

You push open the door, running on pure impulse, adrenaline making every moment feel rushed and too slow all at once.

"Tell me what?" you ask, because really if you wait one more second to figure out what the hell is going on, you'll be a nervous wreck. And you're already a nervous wreck.

All four of them snap their attention to you. Val's the first to look away, lounging languidly against the wall, pretending to check their cuticles for imperfections.

The hallway is empty apart from some patients lingering out of earshot down the hall, talking to some orderlies.

Eddie stares at you for what feels like an eternity with how fast your heart is beating. How sick you feel. Eventually he sucks in a breath. "Waylon—"

"Nothing, it's nothing," Pyro cuts in, rushing to save face, clearly feeling guilty for putting Eddie in an awkward position despite his earlier protests. "We were just uh, talking about—"

"No, no," Eddie says, effectively making Pyro back down. "You were right, Py. I should tell him."

"Do you want us to leave, Eddie?" Val asks, sighing.

"Would you mind staying, please?" Eddie asks, surprising you. You had expected him to want to sort this out privately. "This subject is a difficult one for me."

All three of Eddie's friends make no move to leave.

And that scares you. That Eddie doesn't want to talk to you privately.

Is he afraid you'll lash out at him?

(Could you?)

"I'll tell him if you want," Dennis offers. "It won't bother me to tell him."

"I would appreciate that, Dennis. But first, Waylon—I... I'm afraid I have downplayed some of my symptoms a bit."

You swallow. Stare. Can't think of anything to say.

Because. Yeah, he sure as hell has done that before. He told you the medication basically stopped all symptoms of his schizophrenia. And then he told you he still gets hallucinations the other day when you were out in the yard with him.

So.

There's more?

It made you uncomfortable before when you realized he had downplayed his symptoms. But you hadn't called him out on it. You regret that now.

You wait for Eddie to say more, but he doesn't, and when you fold your arms over your chest and wait, he gestures at Dennis.

Taking Eddie's cue, Dennis says, "Eddie still gets visual hallucinations. It's pretty severe, as far as hallucinations go, but it doesn't effect his daily life. I hope that makes sense."

Pyro pats Dennis on the back as if to tell him he did a good job.

"Wait—you mentioned that already," you say, anxiety deflating rapidly at the familiar subject. Heart pumping easier, pulse not as thick and demanding as it was before. "You told me that day in the yard, that you still get auditory and visual hallucinations. I mean, you kinda lied to me before, saying the medication stopped your symptoms. But. You told me the truth recently—I noticed that and decided not to give you a hard time."

"Yes—however," Eddie's breathing is still so measured, full of hesitation. "I did not specify the severity or go into detail. It's not something I can easily talk about. In fact, I am terrified to mention those symptoms at all."

"Schizophrenia is only one of the most demonized mental illnesses," Val says sardonically. "You're right to be cautious about how others might react. And no offense to you, Waylon, but it really isn't anyone else's business."

"I want Waylon to know." So much desperation seeps through Eddie's attempt at calm and collected that the simple statement ends up sounding more like I want Waylon to understand.

"I want to understand," you assure, gently. The spike of anxiety is still on its way back down. This isn't as bad as you thought.

"After my father and uncle died, I started to see them everywhere." Eddie's voice is quiet, he stares down at the ground, as if he's afraid of how your expression might change. "Dressed in their best tailored suits. Just standing there, a distance away. Staring. When I was young—when I didn't know better, I believed them to be spirits haunting me. I only later, after my arrest and subsequent therapy, learned that there's no such thing. That what I was experiencing were complex hallucinations."

That. It's. It's awful—you can't imagine living with something like that. Can't imagine seeing things that aren't there. Well, you can imagine that—but when you're startled by a shadow or perceived movement out of the corner of your eye, nothing is there when you look, when you flip on the light switch.

"This—this happens in broad daylight? Like, realistic enough that you really believe someone is standing there—"

"Yes."

That's awful. You're horrified. You can't imagine... "And this still happens? When—where? How often?"

"Frequency fluctuates. In a dark room, always. Low light especially seems to cause the hallucinations. And of course other things can be hallucinated, typically insects or animals. It's difficult to tell hallucination from reality with those. Mostly I can differentiate by the behavior of the hallucination, they're mostly stagnant. Movement is erratic and unnatural."

You blink, glance briefly at the others—Pyro and Dennis are listening quietly. Val has their head tipped back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

"So," Eddie says, gently, like you're a timid thing that might spook at the slightest movement. "If I seem to be staring into the distance, or become momentarily distracted or distant, this is likely why."

"The doctors would have warned you about it when they interviewed you for the home visits, if they thought it was an issue," Val says, arms crossed, still staring at the ceiling.

Eddie nods. "This is true. I function adequately despite these symptoms. To me, it is simply an annoyance. One that's easy enough to ignore, at this point in my life. It has occurred frequently in your presence. It could be happening right now, and you probably would not be able to tell."

His father and uncle. Haunting him. After all they've done to him. How cruel, unfortunate, that his brain has taken something that must frighten him dearly, that must be a huge source of anxiety, and presents him with visions of it regularly.

Your brain does something similar, intrusively demands you think about things that cause you anxiety and grief, things you can't change. Things that logically you know are pointless to worry about. Provides persistent flashes of memories you want to forget at times where they don't belong, disrupting any hope of functioning like a normal person.

But this. What Eddie has to go through—what he's been going through his whole life. It's so awful.

And. Shit.

Tears well up in your eyes at the same time as your expression fractures, breaks from intently passive to something that mirrors the heartbreak stinging in your chest.

"Waylon—" Eddie starts, growing increasingly anxious at your reaction, but whatever he wants to say, you don't hear it.

Instead you barrel forward and bury your head in his chest. Wrap your arms around him in a tight embrace—clutch at the back of his shirt like something's trying to take him from you. Like you won't let it. Like Eddie is yours and you are going to protect him, cover him bodily, growl at anything that approaches.

"Waylon," Eddie breathes, too much emotion in your name. His body is rigid, refusing to melt into yours the way you know he wants to—hands tense at his side, not wrapping around you like they should be.

Because his friends are here.

There are orderlies down the hall.

Anyone could walk by at any moment.

And.

Hopefully everyone in the whole facility just thinks you're a big crybaby, because you're not going to let go of Eddie right now. Fuck it. You don't care what anyone thinks of you.

"I'm so, so sorry, Eddie. That—fuck," you squeeze him impossibly harder, listen to his heart pound inside his chest. "I'm just so sorry. That you have to deal with that. That's awful. I'm so sorry."

"I..." Eddie pauses, manages a shaky breath for composure. "I thought you might be afraid. I thought you might reconsider visiting again."

"Afraid?" You pull away slightly to frown at him, search his face, brows knitted. "Afraid that this hurts you, yeah. Afraid that you're miserable because of this, yeah. Afraid for you—Eddie. Not. Fuck, I'm not afraid of you—why would—I would never—"

You stumble, disgruntled by the implication that you might be afraid of him for this, want to leave him because of it—that. That horrifies you. You wouldn't. Never. You.

You couldn't abandon someone because of their brain chemistry, the trauma they endure, have endured—fuck

That's—

Lisa, she.

She didn't want to stay. With you. You were.

Too much for her.

(She was afraid of you. Afraid of your depression. Your lack of progress. Afraid you would never be yourself again. That you would always be broken.)

Eddie. He. He's not broken. Not to you. Even with this. Even if he has these symptoms forever—that's okay.

Who he is. That's irreplaceable.

You. You can't imagine throwing him away.

"I thought it might be too much to handle. On top of everything else." Eddie is pale, disbelieving, clearly unsure what to make of you.

"No—this, this is part of who you are. And I'm fine with that—I like who you are, Eddie, dammit," you pull away, suddenly too warm, overwhelmed, frustrated with yourself for failing to find the right words. "This doesn't bother me at all."

Eddie's expression is still fretful. "I would understand if it did bother you. I would understand if—"

"Hey, just stop it. It's okay. I like you—I like you so much, this doesn't matter at all. Please understand that."

A short laugh from Eddie's right—Pyro—snaps you back to reality.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

You've—you've been acting so erratically. And. Suspiciously. And, you shouldn't be saying these things in front of other people but...

Fuck it.

Just.

Goddammit.

Eddie's dazed attention half turns to Pyro. "What?"

"It's just," Pyro laughs again as he chooses his words. "It's just funny, that's all. You two fuckers are so damn tedious—so tedious that even Waylon's annoyed by it now. Just accept what he's telling you, Eddie, god damn. The man fucking cried in your arms just now—of course he's being sincere."

"The crying was a nice touch," Val adds. "Difficult to argue with."

"And yet Eddie's still arguing," Dennis points out.

"I was not—" Eddie's mouth snaps shut, killing whatever reply he briefly considered and then vetoed. He instead flicks apologetic eyes onto you. "Forgive me, Waylon. I believe you. I'm sorry if I gave the impression that I didn't."

"It's okay—just, please know I'll never abandon you over something like this. And. You can talk to me about it if you need to."

Eddie nods stiffly, a soft look of wonder passing over his face as he stares at you in disbelief.

You want to reprimand him teasingly, tell him that he better get used to you being there for him, tell him to stop looking so surprised whenever you show any sign of treating him with respect.

But.

You're also aware of all the eyes on you. Aware of how your shameless display of emotion must look to the others—your feelings for Eddie overgrown, spilling over the box labeled friend, obscuring it.

And luckily, Dennis saves you and Eddie both by changing the subject.

Chapter Text

This time when you visit Eddie, you don't have to go past the MMSS lobby. He's there, waiting for you with the orderlies behind the reception desk.

"I can't believe it's really been two weeks." You lean over the reception desk, pen poised over the paper the orderly gave you to fill out—this is it. This is really it. All you have to do is sign Eddie out and... and he's yours for the day.

The whole day!

"I know." Eddie's smile is restrained for the orderly's sake. "You told me that several times last night."

"Shut up." You toss him a grin, not caring if the orderlies see how excited you are. Fuck it.

You hand the clipboard with the sign-out sheet back to the orderly, so giddy you could burst out laughing at any moment. But. You do try to contain yourself. Sort of.

"All set," the orderly says, smiling and gesturing for Eddie to join you on the other side of the desk.

And he does. He fucking walks through the metal detector to stand besides you. It's just. Out the door. Into the parking lot. Into your car, through the security gate and then—

Then the road. And.

And.

Eddie will really be out. Free.

He'll be yours. Completely. Unsupervised. For twelve whole hours.

"Alright, you two are free to go. Just bring him back by," the orderly twists to check the clock behind her. "Eight in the evening. That's twelve hours from now."

"I know," you say so quickly that you realize belatedly that you may have sounded rude. Sheepish, you add, "Thank you so much."

She laughs and gestures a shooing motion towards the exit. "Go on. Have fun, Eddie."

"I intend to." Somehow Eddie manages not to sound lurid. "Farewell for now."

"Bye!" you say to the orderly, turning on your heel and making for the door, because. Fuck. Eddie's yours for the whole day, the whole day.

(The whole day!)

"Thanks again," you manage to add before you push the door and hold it open for Eddie, who follows you outside into the cold morning air.

The door swings shut behind Eddie. And.

For a moment you and Eddie just stand there on the front steps of MMSS, looking out at the parking lot beyond, the wide lawn that hugs the building.

"Fuck. I'm so excited." You can admit that out loud now, because you're alone with him out here with only the wind as your witness.

"I know, you told me that several times last night as well." Eddie pauses. "Also, language, darling."

You grin at him despite his teasing—find yourself gazing too fondly at the mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Okay, fuck, yeah, let's go."

He allows you to walk a step ahead as you take the front stairs two at a time and practically jog towards your car.

"Waylon," he laughs. "Slow down."

"No." You reach your car and swing the passenger door open for him.

Eddie freezes, staring into your open car. "Good heavens, this is really happening."

You laugh at his broken composure and tug him toward the open door. "Just get in the car, you dork."

Eddie raises an eyebrow at the insult but complies, climbing into the passenger seat and allowing you to shut the door behind him.

You're in the driver's seat in a flash, door slamming behind you.

And.

This.

Feels so private.

You're not even out of the fucking parking lot and you feel like you have more privacy than you've ever had with Eddie inside MMSS.

Looking at him directly is too much.

(He's in your car—he's in your car!)

You watch out of the corner of your eye as he fumbles with the seat-belt, eyeing it like it's some foreign object. Eventually he manages to buckle it without your help.

"Fuck. I want to crawl into your lap so bad right now," you breathe, forcing your eyes forward out the windshield, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard the color saps from your knuckles.

"Please refrain until we're out of the parking lot, darling."

"Yeah—yeah. Okay. I can do that."

Eddie makes a skeptical noise. "Are you certain you're okay to drive?"

"Yeah, just, uh—don't distract me."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"You're doing it right now."

"Not intentionally, I assure you."

"I'm so distracted right now. So fucking distracted." Groaning as if his presence pains you, you start the car and focus on driving through the lot towards the gated exit, which is automated even though it's stationed with a guard—the gate lifts as soon as your car approaches.

And then you're out. Driving down the secluded two-lane road surrounded by towering, molting trees on all sides. Brittle leaves skitter across the road to gather like a colorful collage on the strips of dying grass that frame the road.

Free. Eddie's...

Free. For now. For the day. With you.

Eddie's free.

For the next handful of hours he's really free.

Your excitement manifests in nervous energy that bubbles out as laughter. "Eddie, we're really doing this."

"Indeed," he replies, trying to sound reserved but he's laughing, too—nerves and excitement and happiness all in one.

(Your feelings mirrored by his feelings.)

When you glance at Eddie, he's looking around your car's interior, and out the window, and watching you drive, like he's in shock, like he's not sure what to take in first—as if he's scrambling to find something that will ground him, make this feel real, and finding nothing.

"I'm so happy," you say, redundant and clumsy and you wonder if you'll be fumbling through this entire day unable to do anything but lose yourself in how good this feels.

"There are no words for how much this means to me," his response is quiet inside the car, the only accompanying sound the rush of the tires against the road, the wind whipping by the car. "Thank you, Waylon. For agreeing to this."

"For wanting this," you correct.

"Yes. "

"Fuck."

"You keep saying that," Eddie points out, and then asks with feigned innocence, "Is there something on your mind?"

Fuck.

His teasing—the easy way does it, the feigned innocence. It's... it's all too endearing.

"You better stop being so fucking cute or I'm going to pull the car over and—and—"

Imagining exactly what you want to do makes you falter. The. The road is empty this early in the morning. And you're out of sight of MMSS. There's just thick forest on all sides for miles. The town, your apartment, it's a ways off.

"You'll do what?" Eddie prompts, unable to contain his amusement at your floundering.

"Fuck." It's still an exclamation of frustration at being so lost for words—not an answer to Eddie's question.

"Do you always curse this much when you're antsy?"

You slow the car and pull over on the side of the road, put it in park and scramble to unbuckle your seat belt—

"Waylon?"

The words come out in a rush, more a reassurance for yourself than for Eddie, "It's okay, this road is always deserted, and if anyone does question it I just pulled over to check some directions on my phone."

"Darling, are you sure—"

You cut him off by leaning across the armrest as much as the cramped car will allow, pressing your lips to his. His mouth opens readily despite a grunt of protest, and the soft slide of your tongue in his mouth has you moaning much too loudly in releif—

Except.

Except it's not too loud. Because you're in your car. And not in MMSS. And no one is around to hear it.

That bolsters you, turns the kiss much more frantic than it has ever been and Eddie grunts again when your teeth find his bottom lip—but it must not be a protest, because he twists in the passenger seat to weave an arm around your side, clutch at you, tempt you closer.

"Fuck," you say again, helpless, when you pull back for air.

You don't have any words—just that one.

Just, fuck.

Fuck, this is really happening.

And fuck, you can't believe it.

And fuck, you're so happy.

And fuck, Eddie's really here in your car and it's such a wonderful sight.

Eddie doesn't tease you for the suggestive expletive this time. Doesn't laugh. His face is serious, icy eyes intense. He lifts a hand to rub his thumb across your lips, damp from the kiss. "If that's how you would like to spend our time together, I would have no qualms with that."

Your brain screeches and stutters to a halt, struggling like a noisy hard-drive to load your thought process.

Did he—did Eddie just.

Did Eddie just proposition you?

For how excruciating the past two weeks have been, you both tried to avoid thinking about the approaching home visit as much as possible, tried to will it closer by looking away from it. As if the day you both wanted so badly was a pot of water that would refuse to boil if watched too closely.

"I guess we never really talked about what we would actually do today," you say, fingers still clenched in Eddie's sleeve from the kissing. "We—I mean, we don't have to go back to my apartment. It would probably be a waste to have you cooped up inside all day when you basically never get to leave the Sanctuary."

Your own words disappoint you. But it's diplomatic. Pragmatic. Considerate. Eddie probably wants to do something adventurous on his first day out without the scrutiny of hospital staff. Go to the park. Explore the town. Go shopping. The zoo, something—

"I would be delighted—no, I would prefer to go home with you and simply bask in your company. We can do whatever you're comfortable with." His thumb slides across your cheek as he speaks, voice deep and confident. "If it makes you feel safer to spend most of our time in a public setting, I am overjoyed to do this with you, too. Your choice is my preference."

Py's right—you and Eddie are tedious. He's being so careful right now, making amply sure you don't feel pressured. Making sure you feel safe.

He's taking care of you. And.

You need this care, this consideration.

You needed it with Lisa, and it just wasn't there, not after Mount Massive.

Maybe not before that, either.

But you've been so desperate for it for so long—for someone to look at you and know you, to know what subjects to be gentle with, to care enough to handle you with caution. And his movement is gentle, too, the way his fingers caress your face. Even the way he looks at you is gentle.

"Whatever I want?" you repeat softly, numb. "I want you in my bed."

Eddie's mouth quirks at that, his eyes lighting up.

"I'm sorry—" you say, deflating. "I'm so selfish, this is your first day outside the facility without staff breathing down your neck. Who knows if they'll approve more home visits, we should really do something more productive, like—"

"Waylon," Eddie says abruptly, stopping you short. Waiting until you flash your guilty eyes to his face before continuing. "This is already the best day of my life. Please, I want you to take the reins today. I prefer it that way. I always have."

There is enough sincerity there to make your eyes well. You rush forward and kiss him again, chastely this time. And when you pull away, you settle back into your seat and swallow your emotion with a shuddering inhale. Buckle your seat-belt again.

"Take the reins. Right," you repeat, huffing a sigh and shifting the car back into drive. "Okay."

"Just to clarify, we are going back to your apartment, correct?" Eddie asks, casual tone forced as you pull back onto the road. "Because I really do agree wholeheartedly with your suggestion to spend the day in your bed. I've been looking forward to, ah, what was that excuse you used in my room, again? Test the springs? See how comfortable it is?"

That makes you crack up all over again, amusement draining some of the lingering emotions from the serious conversation. "I hate you so much."

"You say that, darling, but I can't imagine that's really what you mean."

You just flush bright red at the accusation and ignore him in favor of turning on the radio.

* * *

It's not until you're a block away from your apartment that you remember that you're forgetting something.

"Fuck."

"Hm? What's ailing you this time?" Eddie asks, eyes locked out the window, watching the neighborhood pass by.

"I forgot to get groceries. I've been meaning to get them all week—there's basically nothing for you to eat in my kitchen."

"Basically nothing?"

"Yeah—like, rice, basically. That's it."

Eddie hums, parroting you, "Rice, basically."

"I know, I know. It's easy to make, okay? And uh. I guess I could just get food delivered, but..."

"There's something else you need from the store?"

"Uh."

You...

You really don't want to say it out loud. It's. Embarrassing, for some reason.

It has too many implications. Very presumptuous implications.

God damn it, you're an adult. This shouldn't be embarrassing in the slightest.

"It can't be that dire. Surely whatever it is, we'll be fine without it. Really, I know you want to be a good host, but all I need is your company—"

"Condoms," you blurt, cutting him off. "I need to buy condoms."

Eddie's surprised when you glance at him, his mouth forming in a silent oh.

"Just in case," you say, face bright red at how presumptuous it is to buy condoms before you even bring him home. "Trust me, even if you think we won't go that far, even if we swear we're not going to, uh, it's always better to have them."

"Am I really and truly receiving a crash-course in reproductive health education in Waylon Park's car?"

You chuckle at the absurdity of it all. "Sorry—uh. I just. I mentioned to you at some point that I met Lisa on the internet, right?"

"Yes."

"The night I flew out from California to meet her in person for the first time, I thought, you know it's our first time meeting in person. Of course I already liked her, but I thought things wouldn't progress that quickly but—"

"They did progress that quickly?"

"Yeah."

"Ah." There's an awkward silence for a moment. Eddie's never seemed particularly jealous of Lisa, just politely cautious about the subject, considerate of your early reluctance to broach the topic of your family.

"So you don't mind if we stop at the store?" you ask, already flipping on your turn signal to change route.

"I'm... fine with this."

Another long silence as you drive.

Eventually, Eddie says, "Those aren't something of a... household item?"

You tilt your head, confused. "Condoms?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean?"

"They aren't generally kept on hand?"

Well. He's lived in a series of mental hospitals since he was a teenager. And he didn't exactly grow up in a progressive decade. Of course that makes him extremely sheltered in some ways—it isn't something readily apparent when you were visiting him at MMSS, that place is his whole world. He's adept to life there.

But. Life outside the hospital. He doesn't know the first thing about it, does he?

"Uh—yes and no. Some people keep condoms around, I guess. But I'm not exactly out having a lot of casual sex so, I don't need them."

"Ah."

You don't need to tear your eyes away from the road to tell that he's embarrassed.

"You have mentioned that you don't leave the house much, but it's still surprising to me that you don't have many suitors. I had just assumed you would, I suppose."

You crinkle your nose at that, half confused, half amused. "Suitors?"

"Yes, I know you don't carry yourself as if you have any awareness of this—but you are very desirable. Not only physically attractive, but who you are as a person is incredibly alluring." His attention is locked out the window as he speaks, color showing on his scarred face. "It's why I have some difficulty believing you're really wasting your time on an old man like me."

"Old man? Come on," you feel a little bad for laughing when he's being so serious. "You act like I'm some sort of hot young trophy boyfriend."

Eddie just grunts at that.

"I'm a father. Trust me, the only people that think I'm attractive are single parents and people with a functioning biological clock."

Eddie's small growl of frustration is almost funny. "I'm sure many people would be eager to date you. More than you know."

"Eddie, you're the second person I've had any sort of sexual or romantic relationship with. Ever. In my whole life." Is he really insecure—or does he just feel guilty that he's keeping you from moving on with someone else, in a relationship that has less baggage? "And you're probably right that a lot of people might be willing to date me. But you're not stealing me from them—I'm just not interested in casual dating, I never have been. Lisa used to joke that I'm the kind of guy that mates for life. Serial monogamy, or whatever."

Eddie's suspiciously quiet, but you can't worry about that right now because you're pulling into the grocery store parking lot.

The lot is pretty devoid of life, and you easily find a spot close to the entrance and park the car, cut the engine.

You unbuckle your seat an turn to Eddie, cautious that you might have said the wrong thing, somehow, telling him you prefer long-term relationships. Had you not made that clear enough, when you discussed being in a relationship with him before?

You comb over the memory of sitting on Eddie's bed, talking about this subject.

Maybe... maybe you weren't clear?

"Did I say something wrong? I'm sorry if it freaks you out that I consider this long-term."

"No, no," Eddie says, absently, distracting himself with his own seat belt. And then, pausing, "Am I really only the second person you've..."

That's what he's caught up on? Of all things? It's almost laughable. "Dated? Yeah. Kissed? Yeah. Ground my dick on? Yeah—"

"You've made your point, darling," Eddie says, flustered, before pulling the handle on the door. "Shall we?"

You roll your eyes and exit the car, circling around to meet Eddie just as he shuts the passenger door behind him.

"Hold on one sec," you say, backing him into the side of your car, weaseling your hands under his jacket to rest on his hips.

His eyes are half-lidded, and he's looking at you like you're the only one in this public space, like being seen with you pressing him against your car doesn't bother him in the slightest. Like he wouldn't have it any other way. "What is it this time?"

"I know you're not used to being out in public like this. I just wanted to make sure you're okay with me holding your hand while were in the store. Can I kiss you whenever I want?" Perhaps it's a cruel question to ask while your hands are stroking firm lines above the waistband of his slacks. Perhaps you're being unfair. "I understand if you'd rather keep your distance, y'know, pretend we're not a couple."

The unlikely possibility running into and being recognized by acquaintances or off-duty staff at the hospital aside, Eddie may not be comfortable publicly displaying affection for another man.

"I was anticipating how to ask you the same question," Eddie says, cupping your face in both of his hands, marveling at the way you nuzzle into his palm.

"So public displays of affection are okay? You're sure?"

"Within reason," he says. "I'm afraid I can't have you behaving insatiably in the shopping aisles, darling. My ability to say no to you has never been very impressive."

You chuckle and stand on your toes to give him a quick kiss before pulling away and offering your hand. "I promise I'll be good. Come on."

He takes your hand and laces his fingers with yours, falling into step beside you. "I can't say you have a very good success rate with keeping that promise, darling."

You press your cheek against his shoulder and shoot him your most innocent smile, lean into him as you walk into the store, unable to remember the last time you felt this good.

* * *

It turns out that Eddie is a born shopper—you spend most of your time leaning on the shopping cart, slowly inching it down the aisles as Eddie frets over the array of products adorning the shelves. He's much more bubbly than anyone doing grocery shopping has any right to be. There's a spring in his step as he flits from aisle to aisle, excited enough to frequently unglue himself from your side, walking ahead to scan the products on the shelves.

(But when he comes back with something to add to the cart, he always saddles right up to your side again, linking his arm through yours—and god, there's a certain kind of contentment in this domesticity.)

While you usually don't like to spend so much time inside the store, it's fun to watch Eddie comb through the store's entirety, engrossed in such a mundane activity. He grows excited at little snack foods or products he remembers from his childhood re-branded but still familiar, or when he recognizes something his friends at MMSS might like.

The store is mostly devoid of life apart from the stray clerk or tired mother dragging along several toddlers. And when strangers end up in proximity, you don't have to inconspicuously avoid them anymore by fleeing the aisle, not with Eddie here. Instead you inch closer to Eddie, who senses your flighty demeanor and wordlessly wraps a protective arm around you while you hide against his side and bite your nails until the stranger wanders away.

By the time you're almost ready to check out, Eddie has added enough food in the cart to fully stock your fridge (and promises to either send you home with recipes or call you daily to give you instructions on how to cook the meals he's planned for you for the next week). He also picks out several trinkets and snacks to take back to MMSS as gifts for Denis, Py and Val.

You suggest he choose an extra tooth brush and soap and shampoo to keep in your apartment—a suggestion that makes him go speechless and breathless and all he can do is grin lopsidedly and plant a kiss on the top of your head.

While Eddie's busy looking at the rows of toothpaste and aftershave for no discernible reason, you wander away from him a bit, to the end of the aisle where you know the small section of condoms and lubricant are.

You mean to be quick, pick something and toss it in the cart without Eddie noticing, but you only manage to sneak the lubricant into the cart before Eddie wanders back to your side. You're still scanning the condom boxes.

"Darling, are you certain this isn't too much?" he asks for the fifth time, even as he adds three more things to the already brimming cart. "I imagine it's going to be quite expensive."

"I already told you not to worry about it—I'm your host today." You absently scan packages for something that claims to be non-latex, frowning at the lack of diverse selection.

Eddie grunts in acknowledgment, probably all he can do to keep from protesting. "What are you looking for, do you need assistance—oh."

You almost laugh at the way Eddie falters when he finally notices what section of the aisle you're looking at. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him glance nervously around the area, as if embarrassed that someone might see him shopping for condoms with his boyfriend. A slight blush floods his cheeks.

It's... oddly endearing. That he's vaguely shy about this.

"You're welcome to add your input, but I'm just trying to find something non-latex."

"Non-latex?" he asks with feigned nonchalance, but the way he whispers reveals how embarrassed he is to be having this conversation. He clears his throat and avoids eye-contact with both you and the shelf of condoms.

You second-guess yourself at this question, pause, glance at him. "Wait—you do have a latex allergy, right? For some reason I thought you did—"

Now that you think about it, you have no idea where you got that impression. Did Eddie or one of his friends mention it at some point during your months of visiting him at MMSS?

No... you don't think so.

Actually—wait...

"Yes, I do indeed have a latex allergy," he says, brows knit with confusion. "But, forgive me, I can't remember ever mentioning it to you."

"Uh—fuck," you know where you remember it from. "I think. I think, it was implied in one of the psychiatric reports I read in Mount Massive—they were strewn all over the place, I would read them while I stopped for breath. Just to, have something to focus on. It helped me calm down. Shit, I'm sorry—"

Eddie waves a dismissive hand. "There's no reason to be sorry. That makes sense." He pauses. "You remembered a detail like that? About me?"

"Uh." Why did you remember that Eddie Gluskin has a latex allergy, of all things? "I guess I did. Oh—here we go."

You finally spot a package that boasts non-latex in tiny font under the brand name. You grin and pluck a few packs off the shelf, toss it in the cart.

"Two boxes?" Eddie questions, cringing afterwards like he didn't mean to inquire out loud.

"Yeah, they don't expire for forever." You know you should keep your mouth shut, but can't help it, Eddie's such a prude, he's too easy to tease. "And, unless you're only ever planning on fucking me once..."

Eddie holds up a finger to his own lips, shushing you anxiously while glancing around at the deserted aisle. There are hardly any other shoppers this early. "Language, darling, please."

You only feel slightly guilty for cackling at his mortification—to which he responds by trapping you against the cart and pressing a kiss to your lips as if to quiet your unruly behavior.

The kiss is closed-mouthed but forceful, and you're gripping the metal shopping cart and molding your body to his in a way that he seems to relish in.

That is, until another customer rounds the corner into the opposite end of the aisle, shopping basket in hand—which has Eddie pulling away and shooing you out of the aisle while you can't do anything else but steer the cart and try to contain your laughter.

"Quiet, darling, please," Eddie hisses, though he's chuckling too. "Behave yourself."

When you finally reach the self check-out, Eddie marvels at the automated machine, breathing a quiet, oh, thank heavens, when he realizes the automated check-out means a store clerk doesn't have to bear witness to the condom boxes in the cart (which earns him another fond eye-roll from you).

Pushing a heavy cart full of shopping bags out of the store with Eddie at your side hits you with a wave of longing pooling into a void—