Here is Home • The Pack

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Lachlan's been scared before, practically runs on the feeling and isn't sure how to function without it, figures he'd probably keel over or some shit from the lack of adrenaline-fueled motivation. But being scared of probable death threats, of what people will think when they know—which is jack shit, apparently, which Lachlan still doesn't understand—is nothing compared to this kind of fear that eats at his bones like a disease.

He stands in the doorway to his room, one hand on the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him upright, and maybe it is; Lachlan keeps swaying on his feet every time he tries to walk away, so he isn't necessarily ruling it out.

Preston hasn't moved since he got up last night to piss. He told Lachlan to leave him alone when he had tried to talk to him. Lachlan wasn't looking closely, wasn't finely attuned to Preston's body—as gay as that sounds—he'd think he was dead, the rise and fall of his side under the thin white blanket is that unnoticeable.

The word stirs up something sour in Lachlan's chest, sourer even than the cheapest whiskey he's ever had. He'd been afraid Preston was dead, once, weeks after he left for college and didn't text him back for a week, but that was because Preston had no connection, no way to contact him. Now it's scarier, because now Preston is here and Lachlan still can't do a goddamn thing as Preston lies in bed like a zombie, speaking only enough to get his point across, his voice a hoarse, hushed whisper that reminds him of the way the leaves scrape and scatter on the sidewalks in the fall.

Tears sting at Lachlan's eyes and he wipes them quickly away before they can actually fall, sets his jaw against the rush of emotion that's painful like when he eats something too sweet. He's been taking care of Preston since he came back, and it's made him feel vindicated, like all of that awful shit he'd been doing for years has been wiped clean and he can start over being what Lachlan had been trying so hard to deny. Preston's never brought it up, has been going-going-going for whatever reason, full of endless energy that makes Lachlan's head ache just trying to think about keeping up.

But this Preston is so different from that Preston.

Those few days seem like a lifetime ago, the wrestling for the last pop tart and those words coming out of his mouth too-loud and almost like a foreign language.

In between the days after Preston got back, when they'd gone back home, when they'd fallen naked into bed because they could now, didn't have any reason to hide and were pumped up on post-fight adrenaline anyway and the only way to exert it was to fuck like they normally did. Lachlan had fucking loved it, had felt less like there was a semi on his back and more like—well, he didn't know what carefree felt like but he could hedge a guess that this was as fucking close to it as he'd ever get; those few days they'd gotten, where they could be freely open with each other, had been the best of Lachlan's life.

But somehow, in between falling asleep and waking up to Preston's arm draped over him, fingers loosely clasped on Lachlan's wrist, the world had shifted drastically on its axis and jumbled everything up.

Lachlan wants to yell at Preston, tell him to get the fuck up, what is his fucking problem, but it just doesn't seem right. He chews on his thumbnail, digs the nails of his hand against the frame into the wood. His heart sinks just a little bit lower in his chest as every minutes go by without Preston moving, without him saying anything or even acknowledging Lachlan's presence.

Lachlan has fucking fallen in love. It wouldn't be the worst thing that's ever happened to him. Besides, love in the southside basically just means you'd kill for that person, maybe save them before saving yourself. Love always involves a certain amount of self-sacrifice, and Lachlan knows this, has lost count of the punches he's fielded to protect Jerome; here, the stakes are just higher.