I glance over at him and he's muttering something surely pretentious as he reads the newspaper. He likes to get angry at how stupid people can be, it makes him feel special to think he's above all of them. I'm sure he can feel my eyes on him, but he pretends not to notice, or rather chooses not to react, obviously thinking whatever he's reading is more important than turning his attention away from it and directing it towards me. I don't take offense though, because I know that's just how he works; it's nothing personal. I study the way his dark curls fall into his face, his head bent over the article he's reading. The corner of the thin newspaper flutters back and forth as he inhales and exhales slowly. It makes me smile, because it's so human, breathing. I know he likes to think himself above most of humanity, and to his credit, he deserves to be pretentious and arrogant sometimes, well, most of the time. But it's moments like these, little things, that tell just how inescapable being human is. No matter how hard he tries to run from it, no matter how brilliant he is, he is just like the rest of the human race, just like me…human…vulnerable.
He suddenly flings the newspaper away with a loud crinkling of paper. Only after 10 minutes of reading it he's bored already. He needs constant stimulation, he needs new information, new experiences, new challenges, puzzles. He sighs and I can see the unconscious frustration building in him. It's suddenly too quiet for him, too still. He glances at the screen of his phone, almost as if willing it to ring, alerting him of a new case. It doesn't ring and he turns his gaze blankly to the wall.
I don't know what he's thinking; it's impossible to tell most of the time. But I can tell what he's feeling. He's feeling frustrated with the world, at how slow it moves, how life can never seem to keep up with him. He always seems to be one step ahead of everything, and therefore in a perpetual state of waiting. It's difficult for him at times like these, lapses in between cases. Sure, he has other experiments to keep him somewhat busy, but they don't quite hold the same thrill as a case, as murder. If he doesn't have something to fixate his attention on, he will fixate on himself. I can tell because he tears himself apart, analyzing every aspect. It's enough to drive anyone insane. And it will if I let him think about it for too long. He will begin to reevaluate every mistake he's ever made, silently and bitterly hating himself. He thinks he's somehow failed himself. He defines himself by his intellect, and every mistake is a direct, fatal blow. If he screws up, then what is there to differentiate himself from the next person? His life is a waste, he thinks. He thinks of how mediocre, how painfully average it is to make mistakes. And in his mind, being mediocre, being average, is the worst sort of insult he could cut himself with. And it bleeds. The wound will bleed until there's no more blood left, until he's empty and alone with no idea who he is. I've seen it happen. I've seen him give up before. I've seen what he's capable of doing to himself. What torture he inflicts on himself. His greatest strength is his greatest weakness. He will wander around as if lost. His sense of self damaged by his own hand. He will become mute, afraid to speak, afraid of what he has become, or rather what he hasn't become. He lays on the couch for hours, days, all sense of time lost. He doesn't care. He won't eat, because what's the point? Everything will look gray to him, even me. He faintly recalls who he is, but it only reminds him of how much of a failure he is. It's pitiful and heartbreaking and painful to see him like this. But I know there's nothing I can do. No one can get through to him when he's like this, and it kills me. I try not to leave him alone when he gets like this, because even though I'm sure he'll just lie there hating himself, I also know there's a gun in the kitchen drawer and I consciously suppress thoughts of what my life would be like if he ever did something drastic.
Right now I can tell he's on the verge of breaking. He's on the edge of cliff, threatening to fall. I like to flatter myself and think that I'm the only one who can pull him back from the edge, the only one who could ever catch him. Though I think it's just me being protective, me wanting to be the only one capable of saving of him, I think it's somewhat true. And it scares me to death. His happiness, his life depends on me. If I had to do this for anyone else, it would seem a great burden, but for him I barely notice the heaviness, because I would do anything for him. And it almost seems as if it's my nature to protect him. Even if I didn't want to, I think I would still feel obligated to be his soldier, protecting him from himself. Because I know that if I didn't, who would?
There was a time that I didn't know how much he needed me though, before I knew how dangerous, how utterly unstable, and pathetically alone he was. I have seen him fall; I have let him fall. And when he does, it is with the awful grace and the devastating beauty of a fallen angel. You almost don't want to interfere, can't interfere, because you are so awestruck at the capability of the human power to destroy oneself so completely. It's as if watching an angel falling from heaven. You wonder how such a divine creature, such a transcendental being, could destroy itself. The pain, the agony, the grief, the sorrow, the hatred, all etched upon a face that was never meant to experience such things. It's an abomination to deface something so divine with emotions so human. And as the angel falls, you see the whole suffering of the human race, the whole story of humanity. It's wonderful, and it's terrifying, and it's achingly sad.
I didn't think he could ever be happy again. But he was, and it amazes me, the tragedies the human soul is capable of surviving. And I know that something about him is exceptional, because I've seen men break under lesser pressure. So how is it not my duty to protect him, this exceptional, extraordinary human soul? Aren't we taught to preserve what is beautiful, what is rare?
And so as I watch him, his brow furrowing, his eyes clouding over with silent frustration, silent hatred of his flaws, silent agony, pain, grief, I part my mouth.
My voice sounds oddly lonely as it vibrates through the space between us, "How about we go out for drinks?"
He doesn't respond for a moment, doesn't move. Then his eyes focus on me and I can see his mind shifting, his train of thought unraveling, his shoulders slightly relaxing as he exhales a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding.
"Love to," he responds shortly.
And I don't think he realizes it, but I can hear the relief in his voice, see it in his eyes, feel it in his presence. Conscious or subconscious, he knows that he is not alone. That I won't ever leave him to fight his battles by himself, unarmed. I won't let him destroy himself.