The Wisdom to Know the Difference...
We live a stressful life.
That's just a fact. I know that sometimes we must make it look easy, but it's usually not. Tonight it was defiantly not. We all deal with it differently. Sam makes a joke of it. Making light of it like it's nothing before he drinks like a fish to get away from it. I'm a little more explosive. Literally. I will yell, growl, stomp, kick, slap and on occasion, ignite things, to get it out of me.
Then there is Michael. He'll say he deals with things. He'll say he doesn't let them get to him, but anyone who knows him, knows that's total bull shit.
Michael is a stuffer. He stuffs every emotion he has down as deeply as he possibly can until he's stiff and tense. Right now he's wound way too tightly and we both know it.
Sam's making jokes from the counter. Michael's looking for an out. I'm looking at Michael. He hurts, I can tell by the awkward way he's sitting in his ugly green duct-taped chair, but that's not his biggest problem right now.
His biggest problem is that he has no where to go with his emotions. He's too tired and broken down to be angry, his preferred emotion for situations like this.
Sam says something, turning to me with a sarcastic smile that I'm sure at any other moment I would find amusing, but right now I haven't got any time for it. He see's my death stare and misinterprets it exactly how I intended.
"Okay.." He says warily, looking at Michael. "I'm gonna go. Good luck with that one Mikey." He chucks his thumb at me before grabbing his beer and heading to the door.
I watch him go with a glare, to keep my cover. Michael sighs when the door closes, bracing for the impact of the temper tantrum he's sure I'm about to throw. I stand up slowly, making my way across the room.
"Long day." He says absently. "Probably another one tomorrow." He's trying to get rid of me, but it's not going to work. I stop in front of the chair and his chest heaves like he might try to make a break for it. I reach out my hand, sliding it down the side of his face and wiping the blood from his hair. "It's not bad." He whispers, pulling away slightly. I bring up my other hand, stilling his head before gently examining the cut there. His breath shutters a little and he leans almost imperceptibly into my palm.
He's still looking for spaces to stuff, searching deep for an empty spot. I ignore his fidgeting and start unbuttoning the buttons of his shirt, pulling it away and wincing at the bruise I can already see around the edges of his undershirt. I loop a finger under the shoulder and lift it from his body grunting softly. His hand balls around my hip as I let my nail carefully trace the ugly mark.
"Come lie down." I say softly. He looks up at me warily, the dismissal already forming on his lips. I stare him down, my expression clear: I'm not leaving. I take a small step back when he stands up, but still keep my body ridiculously close to his, invading the space he's trying to put between us. He turns to the bed and sits down gingerly. I unbutton the rest of the shirt and pull it away before sliding my hands under the tank and hold it while he carefully tugs his good arm out before I slide down the other.
He's gone back to ignoring me, and I let him for the moment, carefully prodding his injury before smoothing some balm over it. I clean off the cut and seal it off with skin glue. He winces when I press my lips to his temple, his fingers once again gripping at my waist in an attempt to keep me away. I let my eyelashes flutter at his cheek and he sighs.
His breath speeds up and I think finally we might be getting somewhere before he pulls me in and kisses me roughly. I don't resist, but I don't kiss back. My lips part as his demand, but I remain docile.
He growls at me, yanking his mouth back as his breath becomes more and more frantic. Michael looks down at the floor, his fists clenching around the waistband of my skirt. I press forward carefully, lifting my face until his forehead rests between my eyes.
"Damn it." He breathes in weak protest before what I can only describe as whimper slips from between his lips. I bring my hands up to the back of his head to keep him from pulling away from me, kneading my fingers into his skull.
"It's okay." I whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips as he slid his cheek to mine. His flat palms skim onto my back and realize I've won, pushing him back from me carefully. "Lie down."
He grits his teeth when he lets his body slip to the mattress and I run my fingers over his back again before propping myself up next to him on my elbow and letting them trial down his side before slipping up to his hair.
He pants into my chest as I creep closer.
"It's okay." I tell him again, giving him permission to feel. Permission to break down.
The regrets, concerns, dead ends, disappointments and defeats of the past few weeks start to come unstuffed. I stroke the tension from his arms, his chest, his neck, his sides. He finally curls around me and I smooth out the creases in his face. Soothing away the last of his resolve, as I watch his defenses fall away.
His hands, no longer clenched, splay out against my back, his thumbs moving in easy rhythmic swipes as his breath evens out. His eyelids relax and his mouth slips open. I kiss his lips again and he snuggles his face into mine.
It might not seem like much. To anyone else it would seem like his control had momentarily wavered, but I know better. I lay there with him until I'm sure he's out before carefully slipping back.
"Fi." He breaths softly, his voice fogged with sleep.
"Yes Michael?" I sigh, pulling my shirt over my head before grabbing one of his from the nightstand. I wiggle into it, letting my skirt drop away. His eyes don't open.
"Stay."
I wonder if he hears my breath catch. I blink at him for a moment before slipping back down beside him and pulling the blankets up.
"I'm here." I say absently, like he didn't just admit more to me with one word that he usually does in paragraphs. His hand closes around my hip and tugs, urging me closer. I go willingly curling up flush against him, feeling his lips press against my head.
"Kay." He mumbles. I wiggle my hand up from where it was pinned and lay it against his bare chest, he closes his over it carefully before exhaling deeper into sleep.
I stare at him for a few more seconds before letting myself drift off. When I wake up tomorrow, I know he'll already be awake. He'll be going over his latest plan, sucking yogurt off of a spoon and pretending like he doesn't let things get to him.
And I'll let him.