Page 157 of The Sound of Him

His chest rises and falls.

Rises and falls.

Rises and falls.

“Plenty of oxygen here. It’s alright if you can’t feel it yet. I’ve got you. See? I’m breathing just fine. You take your time catching up.”

I stare at my hand on his chest, rising and falling with him. My head is clearing. It hurts, it always hurts after my lungs forgethow to work, but it’s a different hurt. More of a tired aching. My eyes feel heavy with it. My whole body does.

“I’m gonna turn on some music, okay? I’ll be right-”

I scrunch my fingers, grabbing onto the fabric of his sweater without thinking. He freezes, his eyes going wide. They are very, very brown - but the edges are red.

I don’t want him to go. I don’t need music tonight. I just needthis. Right here. This is working. He’s breathing for me and my lungs accept it and in this one little moment, I don’t feel like a ghost.

I don’t feel like a ghost at all.

I gently tug at his sweater, not toward me, but down - like I want him to sit harder or something. I don’t know the sign for ‘stay’, so I just try to say it with my face.

“You… don’t want music?” he asks, not upset, not even really confused, just making sure.

I let go of his sweater to tap his chest instead. That might make him think I’m talking about the breathing, though, so I shift my hand up to carefully touch his throat. He swallows hard. The lump there bobs beneath my fingertips.

He hasn’t been shaving.

“You want me to talk?” he asks, and his voice is a whisper now.

Even softened like it is, it’s a good sound. Warm and rumbling and safe. I don’t know when it happened, but the sound of him has become the underlying melody of all my safest moments.

I nod and sign,Please.

He smiles, and it’s blue, the deepest blue. “I’ll talk as long as you need me to, okay? Here, get comfortable. Want a blanket? This one is nice and fuzzy. Alright. Buckle up. Metaphorically, of course. Because I never told you about soy candles.”

Ace goes quiet at some point. I’m half-asleep, eyelids heavy, everything warm and safe and calm. I stayed on track with the soy candles, and his fashion plan for Travis, and a tangent about multiple universes, but I eventually start to drift. His words continued flowing in a steady, soothing stream, even as they trailed away from me, not letting my mind grasp them.

The quiet doesn’t even fully register until it’s interrupted by his voice. He’s at his desk now, turned away from me. There’s a phone pressed to his ear, his words spoken too softly for me to make them out. I don’t strain to hear them. Just because he’s welcomed me into his space doesn’t mean he wants me eavesdropping. It would feel especially violating, too, since he probably thinks I’m still asleep.

Whatever the conversation is about has his shoulders curling in, though. Then his head hangs. The lights are dimmed, but I have a feeling if they were at their brightest, I’d find his knuckles white where he grips his phone.

The thing about Ace is that he doesn’t get upset. I’ve noticed that about him. He’s always calm and collected. When Maison and Travis fight, when Maison and Carter fight, when Bryce teststhem - he’s always steady. The two times I’ve seen him anywhere close to upset was when our dinner was on fire and after Travis barged into the office. Both times, he was more worried than anything. Sure, sometimes he’s quieter and sometimes he’s bouncing off the walls, but he’s always happy.

Ace isn’t happy today, but that could be looked over. Whatever the story is with Casey, it’s obviously upsetting. It would probably be strange if he was his bubbly self after all of that. I don’t even think it’s been more than a few hours.

Except, as I play the past few days over, I find myself thinking maybe Ace hasn’t been happy for a while.

When was the last time he played music other than the blues? The last time he drank anything but those energy drinks? The last time I got an excited ramble?

He was wearing that sweater yesterday. He doesn’t do that. Regardless of how hard he works, he always smells clean and wears clothes that are too nice for how often he just sits in his office. He hates messy things. When he tried chopping wood while the operatives were gone, his jacket had gotten all full of dust and dried leaves. I thought he was going to melt into the floor in dismay. He’d smiled and laughed, though. Between his complaints and disgruntled looks, he smiled and laughed.

When was the last time I saw that bright smile?

When was the last time I heard that booming laugh?

Ace is wearing a sweater two days in a row, with a stain on the collar and wrinkles along his torso. He hasn’t shaved. His bottom lip is chapped. His eyes are red-rimmed.

I let my eyes wander, taking in the waste bin that’s filled with empty cans that match his energy drinks and…is that a broken computer monitor stuffed under his desk?

Ace isn’t bright or warm. He’s the wrong kind of blue.Is it that he’s been overworking? Is it something personal?