Here is Home • The Pack

Chapter Sixteen

And if he's in love with Preston, so what. It's not like he's going to start drawing fucking hearts in notebooks or carving their initials into trees or some shit. He's never let anything define him before and he's definitely not going to start now.

Lachlan starts feeling cagey, standing here staring at Preston, so he stalks into the living room, unearths the ancient laptop that shouldn't work but still does despite the numerous porn-related viruses from Rob, and sits down at the table. He opens it and stares at his reflection, the cut on his nose and the one above his eyebrow, the deep downturn of his lips and the worry between his brows.

He's never heard of this bipolar disease or whatever before, but all he can hear as the laptop boots up is Mitch's voice saying, "He could become suicidal" over and over like a needle stuck on a record. His fingers tap, nicotine craving-style, on the tabletop, like he's trying to drown out those echoes.

In Lachlan's mind, "suicidal" is about as far from "Preston Hughes" as "his life" is to "easy." But he still goes to Google, hovers over the little search bar before slowly, tentatively, typing. He starts with bipolar, lets Google autocomplete the rest.

And it's all so painfully clear, as Lachlan scrolls through website after website, eyes scanning over words and phrases that he doesn't know but that make sense, that this is what Preston has, what he's been suffering from, and Lachlan wants to kick himself. How could he be so fucking stupid? He'd been deluding himself since Preston got back that it had just been alcohol or something, some sort of substance that Preston could quit before returning to his normal goofy, overly-sappy self.

Having it in black-and-white, causes and symptoms and treatments all laid out in front of him, Lachlan knows that things are going to be permanently changed, no matter what he or the rest of the family do—and he's sure as shit not carting Preston off to some mental hospital where he'll be one anonymous face in dozens and no one will really care about him, no one will know what to tell him or how to comfort him the way Lachlan knows.

Lachlan doesn't realize he's crying until the salt in the tear burns at the still-sore wound on the side of his nose, and he angrily rubs it away, squeezes his eyes shut and takes deep breaths. There's no reason to fall apart now. He has to keep it together.

Slamming the laptop shut, Lachlan leaves it on the table, heads back upstairs towards the closed door of his room with only a little trepidation. Though he expects it, seeing Preston in the same position, his back to the door with the sheet just barely covering his hips, still hurts, and the image squeezes at Lachlan's chest until he's fighting to breathe normally.

He said he'd take care of Preston, and he is always good for his word.

He's quick and quiet in stripping down to his underwear, crawls slowly on the bed until his front is pressed to Preston's back. He splays his hand out on the warm curve of his shoulder, just for the acknowledgment that Preston's still alive, and exhales a ragged gust of air.

"I'm always gonna be here for you," he murmurs, expecting no reply and getting none. Words have never been his forte but for some reason now they're loosened, flowing out with ease as he settles more of his body against Preston's, the warmth familiar and comforting. If he closes his eyes he can almost pretend that Preston hasn't been in this bed for two days. When he speaks again his voice wavers, unsteady, and he doesn't try to hide it, figures why bother.

What Lachlan gets in response are weak, loose fingers trembling up to cover his.

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