Starts with a Match

You are Invited to Attend...

Don texted Gracie as soon as he was in the car, said he'd drive me to my place and go back to pick her and Toby up. Still took us ten minutes to get started cause I was dry heaving, his hand moving in circles on my back.

Toby came crashing into the house, I heard it by the way they didn't take their sneakers off before running down the hall. They stopped short of my door. Could hear their heavy breathing. The way they held their breath. The hesitant knock. I didn't answer. And they left.

Two hours ago.

I looked on Google for a bow and arrow set. More expensive than I thought, super fancy, nothing like the nice wooden one the range had. Guess that was an older model or something; all the ones I'm finding are too over the top, scopes for hunting, gages for checking wind speeds. I don't want to hunt. I just want to shoot cans and shit.

I fall asleep just to wake up with aching, swollen eyes and a stiff neck, face in my pillow. My phone vibrates by my arm. I unlock it and close out of the Google search I had open about how to get past night terrors and hallucinations, and I see Toby's texted me.

-you okay?

When I send back a 'yes', I hear their phone go off right outside my room, and I sit up on my elbows.

Apparently, Toby's new favorite thing is sliding notes under my door. I think they've picked up on my love for their handwriting at this point.

A paper slips underneath my door with enough gumption it nearly flies under my dresser. I hear a soft 'oh, fuck' on the other side of the door, and I smirk. "Did that...did that go too far?" comes their voice.

"No, it's good," I chuckle, staring at it. I can see from here it says, 'big birthday boy'.

"Read it in—in your own time."

"Thanks, Fritzy."

Their steps don't pad off like I thought they would, so I roll off my bed and crawl to get it, reading it on the floor.

You are cordially invited to attend an apology campout in the living room.

We will be eating ramen and watching Ponyo. Please respond at your earliest convenience.

Your Toblerone.

I have to squeeze my eyes closed to keep a tear from slipping free, and I reach for my work pants on the floor by my hamper, grabbing a pencil to check the box that says 'yes, I most definitely would love to join you'.

The alternative is 'nah'.

They don't need to apologize for anything, today wasn't their fault. It was thoughtful and sweet of them to think I'd have fun, and for a bit, I did.

What happened after was. No one's fault...

I slide the note under the door, wait, and grin when there's a muffled whoop! on the other side and slipping footsteps down the hall.

I take a hot shower just to calm the last of my panic attack down.

—

Dinner was amazing. Toby even poured me the teeniest cup of sake. Surprised to find an alcohol I didn't like.

So many times they started a conversation about the gun range. What they and Gracie bought in the store, how Gracie was with her new handgun, how Toby got a bullseye almost every time, how was Don, did I like the bow and arrows—and so many times they stopped before they got to what happened that made me lose it and have to get taken home.

Bless Donovan, he didn't say anything to Toby and Gracie besides me not feeling well. That and, 'we need to go slower' or something.

I don't really want to talk about it. I think Toby gets that, I hope. They don't push. That's all that matters.

They set up the couch cushions into a tent, covered it with a sheet and faerie lights from their room, and decorated the rug with pillows. We got through Ponyo and just started up Spirited Away. I'm hardly keeping my eyes open anymore. Flood of stress will do that to you.

On the floor, I try to exchange which hand I have tucked under my head, when I hear a soft grumble at my side. Before I can tease Toby for falling asleep first, I get their arm over my chest, their leg over my thigh, and their face on my collarbone.

One thing I've discovered since we've occasionally ended up in each other's beds: they're a cuddly sleeper. And I'm all about it. It's like a hug that lasts four to six hours.

"Toby," I whisper, afraid to move. My hand is still raised, shit I even have one foot lifted an inch off the floor for some reason. "Fritz, do you need to go to sleep?"

"No," comes a sigh. "M'good here. You're warm."

"It's the blood flow," I say. Toby hums into a chuckle and just snuggles closer, tucking their fingers under my ribs, squeezing my torso with that arm.

I chance moving, in hopes that they won't jump up and leave, and I bring one arm behind their shoulders, the other hand landing on their elbow.

They squish their forehead more into my neck when I run my fingers under their shirt sleeve. "You're warm, too, Toby," I tell them. They nod in silent response. And I nod, too. Or I play it off like I nod. But I do it again, and again, until I'm tilting my head down and running my mouth over the top of their head, nose in their hair, closing my eyes and breathing them in.

Even though I don't wake up in the middle of the night to a sleep paralysis devil sitting on the floor with us, watching Studio Ghibli movies on repeat, it still feels like I'm being watched in our campout with twinkly lights.