Author's Note: Welcome back, and fuck technological inconveniences! That said, I apologize for the delay - it seems like every time I try to get back on my Tuesday schedule, something happens that I have to unfuck. Oh well, c'est la vie. Anywhoodles, I know the last chapter was pretty heavy, and this one is as well, but I don't believe there will be a need for content warnings, other than mentions of suicide, but more in a recovery sense. If I am mistaken, please let me know so I can include proper warnings. And in general, please let me know what y'all think, I always appreciate the feedback! Finally, the title for this chapter comes from lyrics to the song "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails, though I had Johnny Cash's version in mind while writing this. Either is good, and always very moving. Thank you all for the love, and enjoy!

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Chapter 16 - Beneath the Stains of Time

Erik

Present Day, Schaumburg IL - I tried to kill myself. There was no other way to say it; there was no nice way to say it. That was just the truth of the past, a fact that had been forged during the course of my life that I couldn't change, no matter how badly I wanted to. I was suicidal, and I acted on it, and even to this day I still cannot understand how I didn't succeed - what purpose there could have possibly been to surviving it. By all reason, I should be dead.

In time, and through counseling, I would learn to be moderately grateful for that unforeseen second chance, enough to sincerely attempt to regain control of my life. I honestly didn't like to think about any of it, yet it was impossible to forget for long - the memory was engraved in my mind, and made up a part of me that stubbornly remained two years down the road. As much as I tried to put it all behind me, so many of my decisions and actions would inevitably come to be influenced by what I'd set into motion that night. All to bring me to attempt countless times to spare Christine from my own chaos; to that moment of admission, a desperate instant wherein the compulsion to tell her everything became too strong to ignore - if only for the sake of finally smothering the illusion she still held of a future between us.

Our shifts at the hospital that day had been devastating, the evening spent together which followed was emotionally draining - we would have been wise to hold off any serious discussions until we were both in a more stable state of mind. Yet neither of us chose to do so, and thus we found ourselves as we were now. And when I initially began talking about that night in New York, I spoke of it all almost frantically, panicked by what I'd just revealed yet no longer able or caring to keep it hidden. I could no more take back the words than I could the event they described; for better or worse, I had no choice but to keep on the subject. In an unsteady voice, I said everything that I could before the memories just became too overwhelming to continue managing on my own - though calling what I was doing 'managing' was being generous. This had all occurred within the span of only a few moments, very quickly getting to the point that Christine had to recapture my attention and stall my words in order to lead me to sit down next to her again on the couch.

"Erik, slow down," she'd murmured as she took my hands in hers, mindful of the bandaging she had so carefully placed over my palm, "It's alright, just tell me what happened."

Hesitant at first, the steadiness of the demeanor she maintained became enough to keep me grounded. She spoke softly as she coaxed me to face her, her words edged with that air of determination that I had come to love about her, even as I dreaded the consequences of its presence then. She wouldn't let such a serious issue lie, and I was only just beginning to realize exactly what I was saying - the potential impact it would have on our relationship. I believe she understood that, and yet it seemed that she would do everything in her power to force me to regain my composure and speak clearly just the same; and somehow, I conceded relatively easily in spite of my renewed anxiety. She released my hands and invited me to continue, and with mingled resolution and resignation, I gave in to her request.

It was there side-by-side that we stayed, coexisting in this unfamiliar territory of my past for the remainder of the time it took me to recount the night in question. It was an immense relief that I'd stopped shaking long before then, that I could take a deep breath without fighting for it. I needed as many factors on my side as possible in order to stay calm and get through this conversation. Rex had settled down in front of us by that point, sensing my unease and dutifully remaining close by, and I tried to focus on him while I spoke.

As time slipped away from Christine and I in the following moments, I told her everything there was to know about what had happened - everything I did, everything I thought and felt was there for her to take to heart, to do with it whatever she decided was right. At her insistence, I spared her no detail of that night, always distantly wondering when she would hear enough to be unable to handle more. Yet she didn't halt my words again; she listened with a sort of stoicism that I'd rarely seen in her, had asked questions when she felt it was necessary, gently prompted me to continue when I'd needed to take a breath - and slowly, I realized that every moment she engaged with me seemed at times to serve as a means of catharsis on my behalf.

Yet while she helped me, I was certain that I was overwhelming her with information I would have preferred to keep hidden - and I would be lying if I didn't say that a part of me wanted to scare her away with the truth, even as another couldn't stand the thought of her leaving. I could scream about misfortunes and destroy everything around me and act as obnoxiously as I wanted - and God knows I had. But the truth of it was that I had been terrified at every turn that she'd leave in response to what I'd done, more now than ever. But still, once I started speaking, I couldn't bring myself to stop no matter which side of me won the battle of willfulness and logic - in the end, I didn't protest either mindset. I simply gave her what she asked to hear. Because when the subject was finally broached between us, I realized how tired I was of keeping it all away from her, sick to death of suffering on my own when she had repeatedly insisted that I act otherwise. I wanted her there with me. But it was an unsettling story, and it wasn't something I was proud of sharing; as time passed, as my voice droned on with my memories, I continued to wonder exactly what her breaking point would ultimately be.

But that breaking point never showed itself, if it ever even existed at all. Christine stayed with me, and that fact alone was perhaps more astonishing than it should have been, all things considered. By the end, she knew almost everything, at the very least every part of me that I had tried for so long to hide. If she passed judgment against me, she made no indication of her thoughts. And anyway, I wouldn't hold it against her if she had. If she had ever wanted another chance to run from me during the course of this evening, then this was the best opportunity I could've given her - in my mind, she certainly had more than enough reason to do so by then. But she stayed. She had cried as I spoke, as each recalled instant became more bleak and steadily more graphic - but between her questions and softly spoken reassurances, she otherwise remained determinedly next to me, silent and nearly motionless throughout.

That was, until I reached the end, until I described to her what was going through my mind before I lost consciousness - the terrifying juncture that I'd believed would be the end of my life. With those hushed words, as I attempted to break eye-contact with her, thoroughly convinced that she wanted me to, she instead pulled me into her arms before I could even begin to protest. And although I was surprised by her sudden movement, I did nothing to push her away from me; I didn't want to then. She maintained her silence as she held me, but her gesture spoke volumes regardless. Her relief that my life was spared was almost tangible, her gratitude that I was there sitting next to her - the fear in the face of what else I could still have to say - absolutely broke my heart, and I considered that it would be wrong to draw this embrace out longer than I deserved. But after a brief hesitation, I returned the embrace, slowly and tentatively wrapping my arms around her, tightening my hold on her as she did her own; and it was there that we remained for countless moments. In so many ways, we were lost there together.

When we finally parted, I immediately regretted the ceased contact, feeling incredibly empty without it.

But for a time, I still couldn't meet her eyes, couldn't quite bring myself to acknowledge what I might find there - whether that turned out to be acceptance or rejection, I truly wasn't sure if I could handle either just yet. Rather, I sighed and glanced down at my hands, stubbornly refusing to look up and once again noting the bandage against my skin. And with its presence glaring there before me, I considered then exactly how the injury happened - why it had happened at all - though the images that swiftly followed the memory itself were hazy. But even so, I couldn't dismiss the embarrassment I felt for buying the whiskey that afternoon, for letting Christine see me get drunk and react so badly to my meds; nor could I let go of the regret that grated at me for treating her the way I had. If I'd been in my right mind - or had at least been sober - I would certainly have carried myself differently. I might not have been wholly welcoming, but I sure as hell wouldn't have gotten so violent, so out of control. I hated myself in those reflections for getting to that point to begin with. Nothing that I'd done even felt like a part of the same day I existed in now, yet I felt that remorse deeply.

Christine, however, wouldn't let me remain in that somber distance from her, unwilling once again to be deterred by my behavior. In that spirit, she refused to let me avert my gaze any longer than I had already, clearly not wanting the discussion to end where it had. And once again, I allowed her to make that decision for me - I owed her at least that much.

"How did you…" she began to ask before she hesitated, seemingly to collect her thoughts before she could continue, "How were you found?"

I shrugged tersely, the gesture conveying an indifference that was decidedly feigned for the sake of staying calm, "Nadir knew something was wrong with me. When I didn't answer my phone again, he said that he got in touch with the sheriff somewhere near my apartment, and had someone sent out there for a wellness-check. The cops found me on the floor, sent me to the hospital, and Nadir came out from Chicago the first chance he got."

"I don't understand why you didn't ask him for help when you had him on the phone."

"Because I'd thought I was beyond his help. And any help. It was...that was hard on him," I said softly, shaking my head at the memories.

Why did you do this, Erik? Nadir had yelled after a nurse had shown him into my room, You lied, you said you were fine. What the fuck were you thinking? And he'd been loud enough to make me flinch against his reaction, but there was no genuine anger in his voice then, even as it broke distinctively with his distress - only fear could be found there, bright fear and a terrible sadness that stayed with me long after the worst of the storm had passed. And as I apologized to him - as I repeated how sorry I was in a hoarse voice from my own strangulation - I realized that beyond his justifiable concern for me, I'd in turn broken his heart.

He was my friend, had become my brother after so many years, but I wouldn't let him act in that capacity and save me; I'd never even given him the chance to try, and I carry the guilt for that even now. He had been the first person I'd called after I was injured and sent home from Afghanistan - nevermind the countless times I'd reached out to him after the fact - yet I couldn't bring myself to ask for help when my life had actually depended on it. By then, I truly believed that there was no help to be found, no shred of hope left for me - but that line of thinking, that weary surrender to my depression, had just barely softened the blow that our friendship sustained immediately after the incident. I had scared him as badly as I had myself, and I was sure that I'd never be able to forget any of what I'd done - at any rate, it was a credit to Nadir's character that he'd forgiven me once the shock had worn off, that he could still advocate for me and compel me to act in my own best interest when at times I could hardly do so myself.

I owed him everything - just as I'd begun to see Christine in that light. She fought to build me up as much as Nadir had. Yet once again I sincerely felt that I had let them both down, and spectacularly so. I believed, not for the first time that night, that I hadn't deserved any of the sympathy or understanding that was so graciously being extended to me, namely from Christine now. I'd simply allowed too much damage to be done.

But before I could dwell on that notion further, her next question pulled me back from the past, from my bitter reflections against myself, "What happened after that?"

"It's pretty straightforward. I woke up in the hospital, then spent a couple of weeks in the behavioral health unit there. I felt like I was in the cuckoo's nest," I explained, smiling sardonically and trailing off as I did so. There was a crucial reason, only months before, that I wouldn't allow Nadir to entertain the idea of sending me to an inpatient treatment program when I'd started drinking again. I'd been locked up too many times before that for my liking, and my last stint was more overwhelming than I cared to consider. It was obviously a requirement for the sake of my recovery after the suicide attempt, and I was aware of the benefit of the stay - years of medical training and experience necessitated that I was aware of that. It would've been wrong not to acknowledge the need, even grudgingly - but even so, bitterness made me want to reject it; I hadn't handled it well. Like so many other instances in my life, I didn't like the near-total loss of autonomy I faced, didn't want to remember the weeks I had spent under lock and key if I could possibly avoid it.

"And then you came to Chicago?" Christine continued, pointedly ignoring that last bit of sarcasm and entirely unaware of my thoughts then, and I was silently grateful for the obvious distraction that her questioning offered, uncomfortable though it was.

I nodded, "Nadir brought me back here with him after I was released. He helped me get established, and I got Rex through one of the VA programs, got work after about a thousand psych evaluations, and moved out here for good."

She seemed satisfied enough with that response, and for a moment I believed that the conversation had reached its conclusion. The silence carved by the sudden absence of words formed heavily in the air between us, a tense anticipation painting the quiet around us for a time, though neither of us immediately made any real effort to break away from it. But then, she asked hesitantly, "Why hanging?"

I balked at the question, sincerely wishing that she hadn't gone down that path. My reasons behind my chosen method were somewhat complicated, and very likely more information than was strictly necessary to share for the time being. She'd already heard more than enough of my sordid past as it stood. But I couldn't ignore the question altogether, either - and so I responded bluntly, opting to give at least a portion of the truth, "I thought it would be fast," I said, then laughed humorlessly, "Had I done it right - "

" - Don't say that," she snapped, finally losing quite a bit of the carefully exercised calm that she'd held throughout our time together. When I met her eyes again, I saw a brief flash of anger there, likely in response to my even mentioning the possibility of my death, the implied consideration of what might have happened had I acted differently.

I hadn't meant it that way, but in the face of her reaction I instantly regretted my words, "I'm sorry. Do we need to stop talking about this?"

"No, I don't think so," she shook her head, adding helplessly, "I just…"

"Take a minute," I offered slowly, the steadiness of my voice surprising me even as I understood firsthand her need for a break. By then, I needed to step away as badly as she did, and I found my excuse to do so easily enough, "I should stoke the fire anyway."

And I stood up - muscles stiff after too long spent in one place, too long spent with so much unreleased tension. I walked toward the fireplace without another word for Christine, trusting that my doing so wouldn't be considered to be a slight against her.

When I knelt in front of the hearth, initially intending to set to work, I paused for a moment and turned around to look at her again; she sat looking away from me, seemingly at nothing specific, but rather lost again in her own thoughts now. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them in a way that was likely meant to bring comfort. And while I didn't want to continue overwhelming her, it still felt wrong to leave her there alone after everything that had transpired in the span of that day - even if she was by herself only briefly. But I didn't want to return to the couch, preferring the immediate warmth of the fire behind the metal screen to further steady my nerves. So I sighed at the thought, caught her attention, and motioned for her to come sit beside me, hoping that she might find some comfort in the change of location as well. I was immensely surprised when she actually rose to join me; I was sure that she'd want to stay as far away from me as possible now. But I couldn't deny that I was incredibly relieved to have her so close to me again.

Once she sat down and I'd brought the flames to life again, I took her hands in mine as she'd done for me before, not allowing myself to even begin to second-guess what I was doing. I didn't want to stall the gesture before I could follow through with it. Selfishly, I would admit that just wanted the contact with her once more, that unmistakable physical reminder of her presence - but moreover, she had shown me far more compassion that night than I deserved, had told me that she loved me in spite of my outward refusal of the idea; the least I could do then was show her my gratitude somehow. I couldn't find the words - whether straightforward or sentimental - to do so otherwise, but she seemed to understand what I'd needed to extend to her without my having to do so explicitly, or fight for clarity in the effort. Noting that, I tightened my grip on her hands, just for an instant of acknowledgement, before finally letting go.

We both stayed in our places in front of the fire, as settled as we could possibly bring ourselves to be under the circumstances, and remained in silence again for a time before she asked, "Do you regret it?"

I didn't need to confirm exactly what she meant. And although I was slow to speak again, my answer was honest, "Yes. Very much."

She nodded, though didn't respond directly then. But she did reach out and touch the scar on my neck - the strange scar left behind by the belt-noose cutting into my skin, now indistinguishable against so many others over my body for what it truly was. Most people assumed - few though they were that even opted to look more closely to begin with - that the injury, this odd line near my throat, had occurred around the same time as the burns had. I'd found absolutely no reason or desire to correct that assumption. But now Christine knew the truth, and she clearly saw the long-since healed marking in an entirely new light. I could see it in her eyes, and I froze then, just waiting...though I didn't even know anymore for what. When considering everything that had happened that day, I was having trouble keeping up with and understanding it all. And so I just sat in front of her and waited; she ran her fingers gently over my skin for a moment, with a sad sort of reverence all the while, before pulling away again.

"I'd wondered what this was," she murmured, her eyes still on my neck as she clasped her hands in her lap, doing so as if in a silent promise to keep her distance. I wished that she hadn't felt the need to, but I said nothing on the subject regardless.

Instead, I only nodded in return, "Now you know pretty much everything," then scoffed, "The worst of it, anyway."

"So much more makes sense now," she said thoughtfully, almost more to herself than to me, before asking candidly and impressing me with the bluntness of her renewed confidence, "Do you still think about killing yourself?"

"No. The depression's still a problem, but that night was the worst of it. I don't want to go through it again."

A pause, and then, "I wouldn't leave if you did," she said gently, before adding, "I'd want to help. I need you to understand that. My regard for you hasn't changed...But you told me you're an alcoholic, and you're having issues with your drinking again. I'm worried about that."

I sighed at her words, realizing that, although she had just clearly told me that she still regarded me in the same way she had before, she now had all the more reason to be concerned as we carried on - if we carried on. And that concern now applied especially to how each facet of my mental health and behavior affected each other, now that she had the proper context for it all. In her mind, if the drinking and depression were still issues, then what did that mean for the future if they worsened? It was statistically unlikely that I'd try to kill myself again - but not an impossibility. The acknowledgement that ignoring those issues, only for them to pose a threat to anything positive they touched, was a fair enough conclusion to reach, and certainly part of a running list of factors that had constantly influenced my own actions. Christine would try to help - I believed her when she said that - but she was understandably uneasy. I truly was grateful for her attempt at reassurance, even as I couldn't blame her for expressing that caution as well.

But still, I was more than a little embarrassed that the topic even had to be addressed at all as I replied, "I know. And that's a problem, too. But, that doesn't mean I'm suicidal."

She nodded, seemingly accepting that I was telling the truth, then asked, "Are you going to do something about the drinking?"

"Yes. I knew I relapsed even as it was happening, but I never planned to hide it from my social worker," I explained, and at her questioning glance, continued, "I see a social worker for therapy, not a physician. It's easier for me. And I will deal with everything in therapy, alright?"

"I just want you to be healthy," she said, pausing again before asking, "What happened since coming to Chicago? I mean, what threw you off?"

I shifted uncomfortably, once again handed a question that I didn't particularly want to answer in full - I knew well enough from the outset where that conversation would lead, and it presented several paths whose implications I'd wanted to prevent. But we had already come this far, and pressing forward tentatively was better than keeping her in the dark altogether - I didn't doubt that much. Moving to cross my legs in front of me, I answered with as much brevity as could be polite, "When I got settled here, I just tried to stay out of trouble, and that was fine. It worked for a while, but then a lot of things changed at once. I wasn't expecting to get transferred to the ER, for one thing, and I reacted badly."

"How so?"

"I didn't manage the stress like I should have. By the time I was able to, anxiety was leading to depression, and I was in denial about the drinking. I was working on all of it, but that only started back in December, and I'm still catching up. Then I get days like today," I went on, glancing at her meaningfully and quickly determining that she was remembering just what I was. I wouldn't need to go into detail to sum up that day's events and mistakes, "I get reminders of everything I hate about the world, and I just wanted it to stop. I wanted instant gratification."

"So you came home and got drunk, and have to start all over again," she finished.

"Right. I know what to look for, but I can't always stop myself. I try, but it's still like I don't even see it coming," I admitted. Then, wanting to vary the subject, I continued along another vein, half-smiling then at the sudden return of the memory of meeting Christine for the first time, "I never saw you coming either, you know."

"I could say the same about you. Though I don't consider that a bad thing."

"It wasn't bad," I replied, and my smile broadened for just a moment before gradually faltering, "But then everything happened between us, and before I could do anything about it, I'd fallen in love with you."

She looked away sadly - likely at the idea that I'd actively tried to prevent feeling any affection toward her - before a thought seemed to occur to her. Turning her eyes back to me, she asked, "Did you know on New Year's?"

"Yes, I did."

"Why didn't you say anything then?"

"Because I knew nothing could come of it. We've had this conversation before. You should have something better than this mess," I said, I gesturing hopelessly toward myself, "It's too much baggage to expect any one person to accept, and you really don't deserve to have to put up with me."

"I wouldn't be doing anything alone, though," she countered, "You'd contribute as much as I would. And besides, I'm not perfect either. Don't put me on a pedestal to justify what you think I deserve. That's completely unfair, and anyway, this isn't about deserving anything, good or bad. I make mistakes, too. Even with Raoul," she said, ignoring my obvious annoyance at the name as she continued, "That was my most committed relationship, and I still made trouble for it. Just as much as he did. So don't assume what I can handle, because I've already learned we'd have to do that together."

"There won't be anything for us to do together, Christine," I said evenly, meeting her eyes and seeing the flash of disappointment there as the energy of her appeal to me faded. I wondered then if she could see the pain in my own. She had to know I resented that the conversation had come around to this deadlock again, as it inevitably always did one way or another; I was so tired of doing this to her. If she would just listen to me and forfeit the idea of a relationship between us, then she would benefit in time. But she had to be the one to accept it and go on her way, because I sure as hell couldn't do it on my own - I loved her too much to be able to anymore. I had to believe that if we stopped at friendship and found a way to reconcile with that, then we might both be spared the fallout of my problems later on.

She rolled her eyes, giving a groan of frustration before asking, "Why are you still trying to push me away?"

Absentmindedly indicating the scar on my neck, I responded dismissively, "I just told you why."

"You just told me about a suicide attempt," she said, holding up a hand to interrupt my protests, "I'm not going to condone what you did, or try to romanticize it. I know how serious it was, and how complicated it's made your life. I know a lot of things have. But I don't think those are enough reasons to stop us from having a relationship."

"I do. I'm barely treading water on my own, and I don't think it's fair to expect someone else come along for that," I said, keenly aware of yet another variation of the same lasting argument, "Believe me when I say it's a lot for one person to handle."

She raised an eyebrow in a challenge, "Nadir handles it."

"I'm not romantically involved with him. That changes everything, the dynamics are different. And anyway, he and I have known each other for a long time. You at least have the choice of knowing what you're getting into."

"You're not giving me any choices though. Do you realize that?"

"Fine, maybe I'm not. But that doesn't change my mind."

"But - "

" - No. We're done here," I snapped, before standing up abruptly and walking away toward the kitchen, hoping desperately that even just moving to a different room would settle me down again. My own frustration was escaping the barriers I'd tried to set around it, and I didn't want to say or do anything I'd come to regret - I'd made the situation difficult enough as it stood. Once again, I had said too much and allowed myself to get overwhelmed by everything that was happening, by the nature of our relationship and what my consistent denial of it was doing to us both. I was certainly not satisfied with the present circumstances - I absolutely hated what I had to do - but as far as I was concerned, my reasoning was still sound. It wouldn't be wise to waver on that position. If there was even the slightest chance of breaking Christine's heart because of my actions, because of any problems I brought to the table, then I wouldn't take the risk.

The problem remained that I couldn't quite articulate any of that to her. I was well aware of that flaw - every attempt thus far had been a resounding failure, the words I put forth always reduced to a redundant mess and barely a fragment of what I actually needed to say. But I didn't know how to change that, and I was steadily losing ground every time we had this fight.

"Erik Riley, don't you dare do this to me again!" Christine called out as she rose from the floor and followed my quick retreat, her determination matching my own as she appeared at my side. Refusing to be ignored, she remained indignant as she spoke, "I'm so sick of you making this decision for us! Give me some fucking credit. I have the right to give my input, and I'm perfectly capable of making my own choices."

"I know that, but - "

" - No, let me finish. You don't get to decide what I react to or how, or what I can take on between us, alright?" she asked sharply, but when I refused to acknowledge the question, she continued, now softening her tone a small degree, "What you went through was awful, but you're not doing yourself any favors by keeping yourself from the world because of it. If you don't want to be with me because of some other fundamental flaw I have, then that's fine. I'll accept that."

I sighed, "You know that isn't it."

"Then your argument doesn't make any sense. You have to stop doing this," she demanded softly, though stubbornly holding my gaze with her own all the while, "If you love me, don't force me out."

"I'm doing this because I love you."

"Then stop making excuses and let me return it," she said evenly, her voice measured, a challenge for me to respond.

When I once again refused to do so, she sighed deeply, seemingly to take an impossibly long moment to weigh the decision that followed - and finally, before I could entirely comprehend what was happening, she stepped forward quickly and pulled me close to herself, her arms an indomitable force over my shoulders. And after what felt like only a heartbeat later, she kissed me, the insistent contact of her lips against mine effectively reversing the roles we'd once held wherein I was the one to make that heated decision, her own movements in this instant serving now as a forceful entreaty for me to just listen to her. She wouldn't be swayed; I knew her well enough by then to immediately understand the meaning behind the gesture. But initially, I just stood frozen there in her arms, my own hovering around her but never quite able to return this renewed embrace. Every part of me warred between wanting almost desperately to respond in kind, and the now-steadily waning idea that I shouldn't allow myself to - it was for her own good, I had to remember that.

Except...I didn't want to remember any more of those denials. Not then.

Finally, I moved once again before I could bring myself to question the choice. I held her tightly, returned her kiss, deepened it, lost myself in that singular moment. It was an oddly powerful feeling in contrast to our overlying circumstances, and in the time following my reaction, I forced myself to focus on that alone. Thinking quickly as a result, I backed her up until she reached the edge of the counter, lifting her to sit on top of it and moving her legs on each side of me so that we could meet on equal ground, could stay as close together as possible. The position held more of an emotional intimacy than it otherwise would have in the physical sense, and I used the solidity of her body against mine to anchor me to her, and only her. I didn't want to retreat into my own mind in those moments and decide whether what we were doing was right or wrong; I didn't want to even begin to consider the aftermath that was sure to come. I just wanted to love her and take anything she offered me in return, to kiss her and keep her close and pretend that this would be our reconciliation until the rest of the world fell away.

I wanted this to be reality for us.

God help me...

We parted after a time, but otherwise made no attempt to pull further away from one another. Rather, I stood before her place on the countertop, and our arms remained carefully around each other, eyes meeting in the instant before I wearily touched my forehead to hers. I closed my eyes tightly then, just trying to remember how to breathe. My mind was absolutely reeling by that point - so much so that I'd grown tense, nearly shaking with that tension, and it was several minutes of a shared and deliberate silence before I could rein myself in again, fearful all the while of what I might allow to happen going forward in that uneasy state of mind.

"I'm sorry," Christine whispered suddenly, "But I had to make you hear me."

"Don't be sorry," I said, standing up straight to look at her and brush her hair behind her ears, "I do love you, honey. I do. But you really don't know what you're asking, and I don't know how else to make you believe that."

"All I'm asking for right now is for you to trust my judgement. Everything else can be dealt with in time. I told you earlier that everything is manageable, and I still mean that. But that'll never happen if you refuse to participate with me."

I shook my head, unwilling to give a direct answer either way - I honestly couldn't. So I asked instead, "How can you still want this?"

"Because I love you. And because what you told me isn't all of you. Your character doesn't end at your flaws, Erik."

I scoffed, "You don't know that."

"Things need to improve," she replied with a warning look, otherwise choosing to ignore my interruption, "But I'd want that for you regardless of what happens for us. That's still no reason not to be together, though."

"I can't fix this overnight," I said, wanting more than anything to impress upon her exactly what the gravity of our situation was - that she still might come to regret staying with me in any capacity, simply for the fact that I was still extremely unprepared to accept her optimistic words. Love might not be enough, and that prospect was terrifying. I couldn't see myself the way she did; she hoped for potential and believed I was capable of it, yet I couldn't function or remain at peace for the longterm, I isolated myself in spite of knowing its risks, I was slow to accept help - nevermind anything else that was the matter with me. It was the continued practice of so many bad habits regardless of knowing their consequences, paired with the always-reluctant adjustment to wellbeing, that made me extremely wary of trusting myself to manage almost every aspect of a relatively normal life.

I needed to say that, to repeat the long list of reasons we couldn't be together - yet all at once I didn't want to even try then. Not anymore. It was exhausting to love someone so much, yet always have to keep them at arm's length, and I just wanted to finally be done with the constant denial of happiness and let us move on alongside one another. And for one brief and insane moment, I almost gave in entirely. That kiss and every subsequent whirling thought had all but shattered my resolve, had effectively crushed in minutes what I had spent months convincing myself was right, and it was jarring. It made me weak and vulnerable, and I had no idea what to do, no way of knowing how to move forward.

If Christine suspected just how close I was to losing that battle, she made no indication of it. She simply pressed on, with a patience that contrasted so much with the fights we'd had throughout the day, "This isn't about fixing anything, Erik," she said, then attempted a smile, "I'm just asking you to calm the fuck down and stop putting your life on hold."

And despite my conflict, I actually laughed at that, shocked and shaking my head at the things she chose to say sometimes. She could be so goddamn endearing; it was impossible not to be drawn in. Still, indecision persisted, "Honey, I - "

" - You don't have to answer anything tonight," she added in a haste, "I'm not asking for an absolute commitment right now. I just need you to consider my side. Really consider it."

I think I have to now, I thought wearily as I processed her words, unsure if what I felt in the immediate wake of that notion was resignation or relief, I need to try, I owe it to her.

Once again, I touched my forehead to hers. It was easy enough to determine that I would take this request seriously, regardless of my remaining concerns - but nothing could be properly decided that night, that much was clear. So instead, I just held her tightly, hoping that I wasn't dreaming, hoping that I could find an answer somehow that wouldn't keep breaking our hearts. Sighing, I closed my eyes and debated just how to word my response - I needed to say it without raising either false hope or absolute disappointment for her. When I believed I could do so competently, I moved to rest my head against her shoulder, turning enough for her to hear me before I finally said, "I'll consider your side. I will, I promise."

Christine only nodded at the agreement when I pulled back to look at her. But gauging her reaction, it seemed fairly certain that she was satisfied that we'd managed to reach some sort of understanding at the end of that exceedingly difficult day - at the very least, we were closer to something significantly more defined for us than we had been before. It wasn't ideal, but it was a sort of progress that we'd yet to accomplish, and we needed to take that in stride.

"Thank you," she said, her voice almost a whisper in the otherwise silent room.

I just sighed, bowing my head in exhaustion. I was very much feeling the effects of the long hours then, demanding hours spent both at the hospital and at home, and it was safe to assume that she was as well. So, for better or worse - and, quite frankly, unwilling to pause and question myself anyway - I leveled my sight with hers again and asked, "Will you stay with me tonight? I want you there in my room with me, in my bed. Nothing has to happen, but - "

" - I know," she responded quickly, "Yes, I will. I'll stay with you."

And I couldn't speak after that, once more couldn't find the words to convey exactly what I felt. But she appeared assured of my silent gratitude just the same, and I was confident in leaving it at that.

Very little else occurred between us that night. We simply maintained our agreement to save the rest for later, once again opting to just exist together for the short time we stayed downstairs and focus only on those moments. I certainly felt my share of lingering dread for what as-yet unseen determinations would have to be made, and I could only imagine what she was going through for her part. Still, neither of us voiced any despondency, assumed or not. What further conversations remained for us that needed to be worked out could wait until morning, at the earliest. We were otherwise content to remain in one another's company, tentatively encouraged by the fact that we were treading on relatively better footing - whatever that meant for us at present. Unlike the last night we'd spent in my house, our definite and unwilling separation didn't loom ahead of us now - when we woke up the next morning there in Schaumburg, we would at least be together, will have bought more time; regardless of questions yet to be answered, we took some comfort in that. We had little other choice.

Some time later, when Christine and I were settled upstairs and getting ready to go to sleep, Nadir sent me a text asking how I was faring - one of many from him throughout the evening, each containing some variation of check-ins, reprimands, and reassurances, to which I had responded in varying states of outrage and apology. Finally able to find a middle ground, I sat on the edge of the bed and turned the brightness down on my phone to reply. After a brief promise that all was well - as much as could be expected, and without going into any great detail - I concluded that part of the conversation with him by sending one last, short message.

Goodnight. And thank you for sending her.