The Religious & The Damaged

31

Elias

I walk into the apartment, Joseph following behind me. I look around as I walk to the bathroom—dad isn't around.

I'm surprised he's in any state to even get out of bed.

I thought he'd be immobile for at least a week or two.

I remind myself that he's only readjusting to his medication, and I should be glad he's out of bed.

I drop the bag I held onto the sink and take out the bottle that's inside.

I turn around and Joseph's watching me, seemingly waiting for direction.

"We have to get your hair wet, so-"

He interrupts me with a nod and walks over to the tub, and he sits at the edge—just below the shower head.

I walk over and reach behind him to turn the shower on, and I feel as my body brushes against his.

I lean back and meet his flustered gaze.

It's hard not to smile at how easy it is to get him flustered—even when I don't mean to.

A light laugh slips as I say, "Alright, lean back."

He stares at me for a brief moment before tilting his head back and the water hits his hair, and I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and pull his head back once it's wet enough.

He tenses underneath my touch.

"Is this okay?" I ask, and he nods wordlessly.

I smile and nod, and take the bottle from where I placed it on the floor and start rubbing it into his hair.

He noticeably winces at my touch and grasps my sweater subconsciously. I pause.

"Does it burn?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "No, it just hurts a little. Keep going. I'm fine."

My gaze reverts to his head and I make effort to lighten my touch and move slower.

His grasp loosens and his hand settles to rest on my side—it makes me smile.

"Is this okay?" He asks, his voice gentle.

My chest flutters at his consideration and my smile grows. "Yeah, it's okay." I reply.

His other hand takes my opposite side, and it makes my heart race—in a good way.

I want to tell him I love when he touches me, that it makes me feel safe and warm inside, but my anxiety stops me.

He may think it's weird, and I don't want his touch to leave.

After a while of just rubbing it into his hair, I tell him to lean back again, and he does. I begin rinsing his hair out.

"You're getting your sleeves wet." He comments.

And my heart drops.

"It's okay." I reply, hoping he'll let it go after that because I don't want him to have to see the condition of my arms again.

But he reaches out and pushes up my sleeves, and this time I'm tense.

He says, "You don't have to hide your arms, not from me."

A smile tugs at my lips as my heart melts at his words, and I'm not so tense anymore.

I feel the urge to cry, but I shake away the feeling and focus directly on his hair.