Page 32 of Seen
“You mean why have I suddenly had a meltdown about it and started head diving off the stage?” I let out a dry laugh. “You heard her—I’ve lost some more peripheral vision. Quite a chunk. I didn’t realise that was the issue until the last time I fell. Obviously, it’s more apparent in a dark environment, such as the club, than a bright one. A couple of times when I was on stage, I thought maybe the corners of the bar weren’t lit right.”
“So poor lighting is a problem. Unless it's too bright, which affects your cataract.”
“Yeah, how great is that? Too dark or too bright. Just call me fucking Goldilocks. Anyhow, then I had a couple of jump scares, which sounds ridiculous. I remember one when Jess had probably been standing next to me for a while. Because the music was loud, she leaned into my ear and shouted a question at me. I nearly shit myself. You don’t realise how much you rely on peripheral vision for general awareness of life around you. I’ve lost count of the number of beer glasses I’ve swept off the bar.”
Something's different about talking in bed. Maybe it’s a lying-down thing, or a late-night thing, but the usual rules get suspended. It’s weirdly intimate, more intimate than sex, in some ways. I’ve never set foot in a Catholic church and probably never will, but I wonder if a confessional booth feels this way.
My fingers walk across the gap between us until they find Luke’s. “A few months ago, I started tracking the deterioration of my visual fields by following a little crack in the ceiling plaster above my bed.” I nudge my chin upwards. “Just there, to the left of the light shade. I can’t see it in this light; you might be able to.”
The room’s quiet enough to hear my own heartbeat, which is inconvenient, as telling Luke this has made it suddenly very loud. I focus on our entwined hands, bridging the gap between us. “I stare at it in the mornings when the daylight comes in through the curtains, before I get out of bed. The crack is getting shorter as my peripheral vision fades; when I lie on my back looking straight up at it, the corners of the room have already disappeared.” I blow out a breath, hating the break in my voice. “That’s what scares me the most.”
God, I’ve actually said it. Out loud. My pulse throbs everywhere, even in my fingertips. I feel flayed wide open andstupidly vulnerable over the silliest of things—a fucking crack in the ceiling plaster, for fuck's sake. Why does it even matter? Next I’ll be telling him I’m scared of monsters under the bed.
Yet Luke simply nods, like it’s perfectly reasonable pillow talk. His outline fuzzy in this light, I wait for his verdict, a comforting answer, a question.
“As I see it, Neil,” he begins in his calm, serious voice, “you’ve got two options.”
Brow furrowing, he shifts a little closer. Not close enough. Ideally, I’d prefer him under me, doing what I do best. Flaying someone else open, with my dick and my mouth, putting an end to this self-fucking-flagellation.
I blink rapidly. If we carry on like this, I’ll start to cry.
“What are they?”
The cute frown lines disappear, replaced with the tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of mischief. He squeezes my fingers. “Either you buy yourself thicker curtains or invest in a small tube of Polyfilla.”
In an instant, I’m glad I’ve told him about the stupid ceiling thing.
Warmth rises up through me. I grab his wrist, pulling him closer. He thinks I’m going to kiss him, and I almost do, but then I pounce on him instead. My fingers find a spot between his ribs. Suddenly, he’s squealing and twisting under the duvet, trying to wriggle away.
“Get off!” He’s breathless and helpless, laughing and protesting. The mattress shakes beneath us as we tussle and tickle. Then, suddenly, his wrists are trapped under mine, and we’re chest to chest. He’s warm and solid underneath me, flushed and pouty. I’m semi-hard, and what’s the betting he is too?
I could easily turn this into something; I could rut against him, get myself off, get him off too.
Reluctantly, I flop back, letting him go. He’s more precious than that, much, much more.
“Now it’s your turn to tell me what scares you the most,” I gasp. “Seeing as I’ve confessed my irrational bedroom ceiling phobia.”
“Being suddenly pinned down and tickled,” he shoots back. “In someone else’s bed.”
I huff a laugh. “Tell me really.”
“Okay.” He nods, just once. “Falling into the void.” No hesitation, no wavering. “And not being able to haul myself out.”
Falling into the void. I’m kind of in awe. How does someone learn to be so in touch with their feelings? Mine are basically hungry, thirsty, tired, mischievous, horny, happy, and sad. Less Goldilocks, more the seven dwarves all rolled into one.
“I don’t know what that even means.”
“Becoming so ill again I can’t trust my own brain,” he elaborates. “It’s the bit about mental illness they don’t talk about, but for me, that fear is always there in the background. What if my depression comes back? What if it’s even worse? I’m forever second-guessing myself. I never know if I can trust my thoughts. Am I really happy, or is it the pills? Am I sad because I watched a sad film, or because I’m slipping?”
“Are you thinking like that now, here with me? That’s like worrying about the hangover while you’re still at the party.”
Eight dwarves. I should add hungover to the cast list.
Luke shuffles a tiny bit closer. Already, our hands have reunited. “Is this what we’re having?A party?”
“Sure it is, rash whisperer. A private sleepover party, just for two. And I’m asking if you’re enjoying it.”
He bites down on his pouty bottom lip, considering. “I think so. I’m trying not to worry about being here with you. I’m still anxious, though, because I’m doing stuff I haven’t done sinceI’ve been ill. But under the anxiety, I’m pretty sure it’s making me happy.”
