and the silence is ringing
and i can almost feel your breath, I can almost feel the rest
night is young and we're living
hands move, moving steady
and the time is moving slower
i can feel we're getting closer
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
A warm hand gently caressing his head is the first sensation Noah becomes aware of when he comes to.
The second is the merciless, throbbing headache pounding his skull.
He opens his eyes, only to wince and squeeze them shut again as the bright, morning sun filtering through his bedroom windows only worsens the pain. Suddenly, the hand in his hair pauses.
"Oh, gracias a Dios," murmurs a voice next to him, soft and soothing. There's a rustling of sheets as Arlo shifts on the bed to sit up straighter. "You had me worried sick, bello. How are you feeling?"
A low groan is the only response Noah can manage, nuzzling the hand that has now continued playing with his hair.
"Here." Arlo shifts again and the hand is gone. "Sit up and drink some water."
Noah feels like he weighs a thousand pounds as he raises himself on shaky arms to sit up in his bed, squinting as he accepts the cold glass of water from Arlo. He notices the small, grateful smile on Arlo's lips as he tilts his head back and chugs all the contents of the cup, his throat still somehow feeling dry and parched afterwards.
"I feel like shit."
Arlo chuckles nervously. "That'll be the overdose. And the Narcan."
"How long was I asleep?"
"I found you around eleven o'clock last night," he replies. He smiles sadly, taking the empty glass back from Noah. "Happy New Year, by the way."
Noah remembers how he woke up on New Year's Day all those years ago - sore and confused and thirsty, still feeling the after-effects of the roofie and the violence the night before while Oliver slept peacefully at his side. He remembers lying there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Oliver's even breathing and racking his brain to try to gain some form of recollection of the last night's events. Did he and Oliver have sex? Is that why he's sore? Did he do something wrong? Is Oliver mad at him?
"Why are you here?" Noah asks, sinking back down into his blankets.
Arlo's brows furrow in confusion. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. I was going to call an ambulance if you didn't wake up by noon."
"I'm okay," Noah says dismissively.
"Bello..."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"I really think it'd be a good idea to talk about it."
Noah, petulantly, remains silent, staring at the ceiling while being able to feel Arlo's eyes on him.
Arlo sighs, but persists. "What did you take?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"Fuck off, Arlo," Noah grumbles, pulling the blankets to his chin to try and get rid of the cold feeling sinking into his bones.
There's a long stretch of silence, cold and uncomfortable, before the bed shifts again and Arlo stands up.
"Do you want some breakfast?"
Noah, again, doesn't respond. He's hanging off the edge of a cliff by a rope with one last thread left to hold him. And he feels it's going to snap soon.
"Noah?"
"Why are you here?"
"I already said—"
"No." Noah sits up. "Why are you here? Why were you here last night and why are you here now? What more do you want from me, Arlo? What do you want? Because I swear to God, I will do anything for you to just fuck off at this point."
He knows it's the paranoia talking, but he can't help it. It's an ugly, dark cloud of mess in his mind that just won't let up. And eventually, the storm will hit.
It's silent again. Noah's chest heaves as he watches Arlo with intense eyes, watches him take a small step back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows harshly.
"You were nearly dead when I found you," Arlo finally says, voice low and small and trembling, like he can barely fathom the words.
"Yes, that's the point of trying to kill yourself."
"You—" Arlo turns away, running both hands through his hair as he tries to take a quivering breath.
Noah keeps his eyes trained on him, still panting like he's just run a marathon. He's high on adrenaline and hot fury, begging for a fight. And yet, he can't find the right words. So, he waits for Arlo to speak first.
"Why?"
Noah scoffs. "You're asking me why I tried to kill myself? God, you really are a lot dumber than I already thought you were."
Arlo turns again. "Why are you like this, Noah? Why do you— Why—" He lets out a frustrated sound as he rubs his eyes. "I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do. Because I care about you a lot, Noah. I do. I know you think it's stupid and superficial and not worth your time, but I genuinely care for you. In our own way, I love you, Noah. I want what's best for you. I want to help you. But all you do is push me away, Noah. And I've always believed in fighting for the people you love, but you make it hurt—"
His voice breaks as the first tear falls. "Loving you hurts so much - so much, bello. And I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do. It's all so fucked up and—" A heavy sob racks through his body and he gasps, eyes squeezing shut as he rubs a large hand over his chest like he's trying his best to soothe the heartache. "Loving you shouldn't hurt this much. I don't want it to hurt this much. Please."
Arlo looks at him - truly, looks at him. His green eyes, wide and uncertain, sparkle with tears as he looks at Noah like he's the answer to all his problems, like he's waiting for guidance and wisdom from a suicidal junkie.
"God, that was fucking pathetic," Noah sneers, a look of pure disgust on his face. "Pull yourself together, you idiot. Love?" Noah mocks. "You think you love me? Get over yourself, you asshole. Coming to my house and deciding to throw a fucking pity party for yourself because your poor, self-righteous heart can't bear being around me. You want to know what to do? You want my advice?" Noah asks. "Fuck right off. Go. Lose my number. Lose the PIN to my apartment. Forget I even exist. Honestly," he scoffs, "what is it with grown men making their own adult choices and then coming back to me to give me their sob stories?"
"And you're fine with that?" Arlo asks, sniffling. "You're fine with never seeing me again?" His brows furrow as he barely whispers, "Do I really mean so little to you?"
"You mean nothing to me," Noah corrects him, finding sick amusement in the pained expression that flashes over Arlo's features. "And it would do you some good to remember that every now and then."
Arlo purses his lips together as fresh tears spring from his eyes. He blinks them away and nods to himself. "God, I'm a fucking idiot," he murmurs. "Maybe this isn't the right thing to say to a person right after they've tried to kill themselves, but you don't seem to care about sparing my feelings so I'll say it anyways." He takes a deep breath. "Noah, you are an objectively bad person. You treat people like objects that are meant to entertain you when you want them and then fuck right off when they no longer serve a purpose. You're stubborn and self-destructive and arrogant. You're a hollowed-out human being, a fucking psychopath. And you've lived your whole life alone and you will die alone. In fact, you'll probably kill yourself and actually get it right the tenth time you try. And it'll all be your fault."
Noah would be lying if he said every word wasn't a dagger in the heart, every syllable out of Arlo's mouth like a hand tightening ever-so-slightly around his throat until he can't breathe.
He needs to retaliate. Needs to make Arlo feel as small as he just made Noah feel.
"Oh, yeah? And what about you?" Noah asks. "What kind of person are you, Arlo? Your fame is built on nepotism and generational wealth that was stolen from people who actually deserved it. You hate your daddy so much, but he's the first guy you call when you need anything- money, favours, private fucking islands. You waste away your life drinking and partying and fucking and spending money that you didn't earn.
"Of course you got bored," he laughs like it's the funniest thing in the world. "Of course you eventually got sick of it and found a hobby, a little puppy that needs rescuing. Someone you can party with and fuck and tell them you love. Someone you cook breakfast for and tend to during their episodes and hold while they cry. Someone to make you feel like you've accomplished something in your pathetic lifetime. Well, I won't be that person for you any longer, Arlo. Go find another charity case to give your life some purpose."
"'Charity case?'" Arlo asks. "You think that's what I think of you?"
Noah raises a brow. "Is it not?"
Arlo watches him for a moment. "Noah, I think that's how you view yourself. If every guy you're with makes you feel like a charity case, like they pity you, maybe it's because you're convinced you need to be pitied to be loved. And I don't know who hurt you in your past to make you feel this way, but it's not something you can blame me for."
Snap.
"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Noah's voice is low and dangerous and dripping in venom.
"All I'm saying is—"
"What the fuck did you just say to me, Arlo?"
"Oh, here we go again," Arlo mumbles throwing his hands up and turning away from Noah again.
"Hey!" Noah lifts the blanket covering him and gets out of bed, ignoring the way his entire body feels like one big bruise. "Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you."
Arlo turns again, his lips pressed into a firm line. "What do you want me to say?"
"You have no fucking clue what my life is like. You have no fucking clue what my past looks like, so don't you dare," he jabs a firm finger into Arlo's chest, "make comments about my past when you don't know shit. You don't know shit, okay? So, shut the fuck up."
"I don't know shit because you don't tell me, Noah. We've known each other— what? Three years now? I don't know anything about you. You don't tell me anything."
"You want to know? Is it really that important to you that you know?"
Arlo shakes his head. "I'm not—"
"No, shut the fuck up," Noah interjects sharply, absolutely tired of the bullshit. The walking on eggshells. The carefully selected words for the sake of his feelings. "Stop trying to be so fucking considerate. You want to know. You can say it."
Silence. Green eyes meet blue.
"Fucking say it!"
"Yes, okay?" Arlo gives in. "Yes, I think it's strange that we've been... whatever the fuck we are for three years," he chuckles, "and I don't know the first thing about you. I don't know anything about your past yet I'm here taking care of you through the consequences."
"My mom left when I was about ten years old and my dad was an abusive, alcoholic piece of shit," Noah deadpans, meeting Arlo's eyes directly. He wishes he still had the energy to be emotional about any of it. "He beat me nearly daily. He was one of the reasons I developed a fatal eating disorder at sixteen. When I was seventeen, he raped me. I tried to kill myself that same night, but Elijah found me. He took me to the hospital. I saw a bunch of doctors and psychs, I was diagnosed with a million physical and mental disorders and I was put on even more medication. I stayed in the hospital for two weeks and when I was discharged I went to live with a foster family because my dad went to jail.
"A year later, I cheat on Elijah because I'm an alleged fucking psychopath," he taunts, "and we break up. Just my luck that the man I cheated on him with was also an abusive asshole - I really thought I would have developed a sense for these things by then. He started beating me about four months into our relationship. He didn't ask for consent before he fucked me. Sometimes," he chuckles humourlessly, "if I was lucky, he'd drug me before he literally dragged me into bed.
"Oh yes, the drugs. Totally forgot about those," Noah rolls his eyes sarcastically. "He was really good at keeping me consistently high so that he could do whatever the fuck he wanted to me at all times. He had to keep me constantly destabilized so I wouldn't be able to fight back or even remember what it was he did to me that would make me want to in the first place. He literally pushed the needle into my skin the first time he convinced me to do heroin. I'm pretty sure he fucked me afterwards but, hey," he shrugs, "what does it matter? Oh and remember the big, ugly scars on my back? Yeah, those were him, too. Threw a glass at me and then pushed me into the shards and raped me on the kitchen floor. Really left a mark, that one, didn't it? Oh, I bled for days. Not even two weeks later, he beats me to the brink of death - again - and I'm in a fucking hospital bed again. I'm scared and I'm all alone because I pushed everyone in my life away, so I pack up my shit and I leave the country. I ran away and I found myself here. Three years later, here we are."
Arlo goes to say something but there's a lump in his throat and his eyes sting and his brain is operating at a million miles an hour trying to assimilate everything that just came out of Noah's mouth with the man he knows today.
"Is that what you wanted?" Noah asks, the question sounding absolutely genuine. "Are you happy now?"
"Jesus Christ." Arlo turns on his heels - again - like he can't even stand the sight of Noah.
"Well, fucking say something!" Noah shouts, taking swift, angry steps around Arlo so he's facing him again.
"I don't have anything to say to that other than that I'm fucking sorry." Every word sounds like it pains Arlo to say, like he can barely muster them. "And that you're the strongest person I know."
Noah thinks those words are very insulting; nonetheless, he smiles and nods. "Thank you for your opinion, which I obviously value very deeply."
"Oh, what the fuck," Arlo gasps, running a hand down his face. "What the fuck was that?"
"That's my story," Noah shrugs. "That's the reason why I'm a hollowed-out human being. I fucking had to be if I wanted to survive."
"Noah, bello, you—" Arlo shakes his head. "You had an eating disorder?"
"I don't think speaking about it in the past tense is incredibly accurate but yes," he nods. "Explains a lot, doesn't it?"
"And your father—"
"Oh, he's not in jail anymore. They let him out after serving one year out of his thirty-one-year sentence for 'good behaviour.'"
"What the fuck. What the fuck."
"Sit down if you feel the need to," Noah mocks. "I can bring you some water."
"You're not... emotional," Arlo remarks, looking at Noah with bewildered eyes. "At all."
Noah shrugs. "It gets tiring after the first couple of years. Hey, or maybe you're right and I'm just a fucking psychopath. Who knows?"
"I'm sorry," Arlo says. "I'm sorry, I really didn't mean all that. I just—"
"Oh, spare me," Noah rolls his eyes. "You meant every word, don't chicken out now."
"Still, I shouldn't have— Fuck!"
"Take all the time you need," Noah says, before walking around Arlo and out of the room.
"Wait."
"You may have taken back what you said," Noah says, "but I still mean every word. You're nothing to me, Arlo. I could live the rest of my life with or without you and I wouldn't really notice a difference. Whether or not you decide to stick around is entirely your choice, so don't you ever go off at me like that again when your own choices come back to bite you in the ass."
"I'm sorry," Arlo says, and Noah thinks he might be apologizing in the same way people apologize at funerals. It doesn't help to ease the anger in his blood, coursing in his veins, waiting to burst and never quelling.
"You better be gone by the time I'm out of the bathroom," Noah threatens before walking away.
When Noah leaves the bathroom, he does so with an emptier stomach and a heavier heart. And Arlo is nowhere to be found.
And this should appease Noah - he asked him to leave after all. Instead, panic bubbles in his chest as he searches room after room in this house that's too fucking big for one person anyways, searching for Arlo and hoping he hadn't listened and stayed.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no, no. Stay, Noah thinks nonsensically. Please, stay. Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay.
Noah picks up the phone and calls Arlo.
You asshole. You worthless, pathetic piece of shit. Look what you've done. The last person in your life who could fucking bear you and you pushed him away, scared him off with your sob story.
"Are you okay?" is the first thing Arlo asks when he picks up.
"I'm sorry, Arlo, okay? I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said, I just— Please, don't leave me. It does make a difference to me whether you're here or not and I'd much rather live my life with you in it. Okay? I need you. Come back, please. I'm so fucking sorry."
It's quiet for a long moment before Arlo heaves a deep sigh. "What do you expect me to do, Noah?"
"Come back," Noah begs, all the anger from five minutes ago completely dissipated; so much so that it leaves Noah wondering where it came from in the first place.
"Noah." Arlo's pleading, too. Pleading Noah to not hurt his heart any further, to let him keep his sanity.
"Fuck, I'm so sorry - I didn't mean to. I— Please, don't leave. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry. Please don't be mad."
"I can't do this anymore, Noah. I don't know what you want from me. Fuck off, come back. You're nothing, I need you. I can't keep up anymore. Please, for my sake and the sake of my heart, stop."
And what Arlo is saying makes perfect sense. But Noah is panicking, so every word goes in one ear and out the other. "Please, Arlo. I promise I'll be good, just don't leave me alone. I'm all alone and I fucking need you."
"No."
It's a single word, short and simple, but it knocks Noah's world upside down. Because no matter where or when Noah calls him, Arlo always picks up, always shows up.
"No?"
"I used to think it was worth it, putting my heart on the line for you," Arlo explains. "And you looked at me like I was crazy for it." He laughs, "And you were right. I was a fucking idiot, bending over backwards for someone who didn't look twice my way until he needed me. Setting myself on fire just to keep you warm. So I'm saying 'no', Noah." After a moment of silence, his shaking voice comes through the speaker again, "Please. Don't make this harder than it already is."
Noah hangs up.