Rowan

three

Rowan was moved again. This time to public housing. It was a modestly sized apartment that came furnished for all people who lost their homes in the war. It was quiet. Rowan was still expected to see his doctor, which was officially Brayden now, not the lady he had been working under. He needed a cane to walk. He didn't completely depend on it. It was only for the bad days. He still wasn't allowed to run.

A man was at his door, one day. Asking questions, saying he was a government official. But Rowan couldn't hear. There was a sharp ringing in his ears. His vision was darkening at the sides. The world was swaying.

He woke up to white once again. And a man. Brayden. He was frowning. Rowan wanted to see his smile.

"You fainted," Brayden told him. "How long has it been since you had decent sleep? Or decent food?"

Rowan stared at his hands in his lap. He didn't remember. They were at the hospital building now. Not in a tent. Those had been taken down.

"Rowan." Brayden's soft hands were holding his. Gentle. So, so gentle. He had missed it. Rowan traced Brayden's fingers. They were beautiful. He liked the feel of them in his hands. But then again, Brayden's hands weren't meant to be in his. That gentleness wasn't his to take. Rowan only knew to kill. He pulled away.

"They are assigning you a psychiatrist. You won't go home for a while. They'll keep you at the hospital."

At the hospital. It didn't matter. The apartment wasn't his home anyways. Brayden got up to leave. Rowan didn't want him to go.

"Brayden." His voice cracked. He hadn't spoken in so long. Brayden's eyes held surprise. Rowan realised he had never said his name. "Will you be there?"

Rowan didn't have to tell him where. Brayden understood. He shook his head, "No."

"I'll try to see what I can do," Brayden replied to Rowan's unspoken question. Brayden always understood.

Rowan's room in the hospital was as bare as the apartment he had been assigned. It was smaller but similar. A cot on one side, a window on the other. A dresser and a lavatory.

His psychiatrist was patient. Their sessions quiet. She never forced him so he didn't speak. Brayden visited some days. He asked him questions that Rowan sometimes answered. His therapist said that Rowan spoke more when Brayden was around. Rowan believed her.

Brayden was with him, sitting on the couch in front of her. She had requested it, hoping Rowan would speak. He didn't. Brayden was though. He was smiling. Rowan liked seeing it. The beam of sunshine that left him squinting.

Brayden was looking at him now. His smile faltering. His cheeks reddening. Why? Rowan's hand. It had moved on its own, thumb brushing Brayden's smile, now his lips. Brayden wasn't smiling anymore. Rowan withdrew. He stared out the window.

The next time Brayden visited, his therapist wasn't in the room with them. Rowan hadn't spoken to him in so long. Hadn't seen his smile. He longed for it.

"Lena thought that it would be better if you talked to someone you knew," Brayden explained when she wasn't in the room in time for their appointment.

He turned to him, hands on his lap. He looked nervous. "I'll wait till you are ready to talk."

Under the silence, Brayden fidgeted. Rowan stared at him. He didn't know how long after, but Rowan spoke. "What do you want to know?"

Brayden looked surprised. Rowan was too. He didn't want to tell Brayden. Didn't want him to hate him too. But he didn't want him to go either.

"A--anything," Brayden rushed to answer. "Whatever you're the most comfortable with."

Rowan sat back, facing the wall. The clock ticked away, counting the time that passed. Brayden stayed. He had stayed before. He stayed now. So Rowan dared to speak.

"There is a story that was told around campfires. On a night when the moon was dark and the stars didn't twinkle, a man decided to take his life. No matter how much he cut and stabbed himself he wouldn't die. At long last he heard a voice, 'If you want to be cruel do so on a battlefield. At least then you'd be rewarded.' The man died. His soul didn't go to the afterworld. It was punished. 'To think you can mess with life and death', was what he was told."

Brayden's occurrence and Lena's absence became a constant. Every time that Brayden stayed, every time that Brayden returned, made Rowan a little bit more courageous. So he spoke. He spoke of the time he spent with his family. He spoke of his brothers and sisters, hoping someone other than him would remember their names. He spoke little of his parents and their deaths. He spoke of his companions in the army, he spoke of his rigourous training. He didn't speak of the war.

"Tell me something about," Brayden requested one day. "The war."

Lena had told him to ask the question. That topic seemingly being the one that Rowan was avoiding, and one that was sure to be traumatizing.

Rowan tensed, shifting away from Brayden, withdrawing his hand that Brayden had held between two of his. It had become a habit from the previous sessions. Brayden would hold Rowan's hand and give it squeeze or draw patterns on it, comforting him, telling him he was there, encouraging him to speak more. They felt cold all of a sudden.

"Why do you want to know?" Rowan wasn't looking at him, he was staring at the wall again.

Brayden couldn't lie to him. Didn't want to. Sighing he told him the truth. "Lena wanted me to ask you." It was the wrong thing to say. Rowan turned away completely, looking out the window, lips pursed, unmoving.

Lena had wanted to ask him. It wasn't because Brayden wanted to. It wasn't because he was curious. It wasn't because he cared. Rowan had been delusional all this time. He had gotten carried away and now there was this weird squeezing in his chest that he didn't like.

"Rowan?"

Rowan didn't want to speak. So he didn't. He feared that if he did he would spill all his secrets. He would tell Brayden everything, from the war to the hurt he felt now, that he didn't want to feel. Because Rowan had foolishly gotten attached again and really he should've known this would happen. It always did.

"I'm sorry." Brayden's hand was on his again. He hated how his skin tingled at the touch.

"Why?"

Did he know? Or was this just another pretense to get Rowan to speak. Why did he want him to speak anyways?

"Because I hurt you."

Rowan turned around so quickly his neck snapped. He knew. Brayden knew. So, why?

"Why?" Rowan asked again.

Brayden understood. "Because if you don't talk you aren't going to get better."

"Why?" He repeated himself a third time. This time Brayden was confused. "Why do you care?" Rowan's voice was nearly a whisper.

Brayden's eyes widened. He swallowed loudly. "Do I need a reason? I care because I can't see you in pain."

"Why?" No one else cared about it.

"Because you don't deserve it. You don't deserve the pain that you received. It wasn't your fault. I want to take all of your pain away. I don't want you to hurt."

"Why?" Rowan's voice was shaking.

"Because I like you," Brayden's was a quiet whisper. Words spoken softly, laid out with care, placed gently with feather like touches. Words that pierced Rowan's heart.

His throat clogged, the back of his eyes burned. They were watery as he stared at Brayden. He closed his eyes, hid his tears. Rowan leaned forward, resting his head on Brayden's shoulder.

"I like you too."

***
Continued