Good Things Fall Apart

Trine

Light cuts through the curtains and burns bright in Victor's eyes. He wakes with a start, the whispers of a dream still echoing in his mind. He'd been falling, sinking, everything pressing in. Sweat pools in his collarbones and his hair is damp. Victor collapses back into his pillow, the collar of his dress shirt cool against the back of his neck. His pillowcase is dark with moisture.

With a small groan from the back of his throat, Victor pushes himself out of bed and peels yesterday's clothes off. He never wants to see this damn suit again.

What time is it?

He picks up his phone, low on battery—he'd forgotten to charge it last night—and sighs at the numbers. 8:15. While he would much prefer to shower and crawl back into bed, spend his whole weekend consumed by sheets, he knows there's a conversation that needs to be had. Multiple conversations.

His heart jumps when he sees there's a text from Benji.

Benji: hope you sleep well. can't wait to talk tomorrow. :) [2:32 AM]

Victor wants to smile but something in his chest is still tightly wound, pulling down. He can't untangle the emotions, the bright soaring joy when they kissed, the frozen pierce of guilt and regret that followed in Mia's eyes.

Mia. Right.

He hadn't had the energy to respond last night, but he needs a few more details if this conversation is actually going to happen.

Victor: what time? [8:17 AM]

It's not likely she's awake yet, so Victor plugs in his phone and goes to shower. He's wide awake, mind racing. In the bathroom he stares at himself in the mirror, strands of hair matted to his forehead. Does he recognize himself? This person existing in some kind of limbo, straddling happiness and fear? Things had somehow seemed simpler when uncertainty was all there was, when a kiss with one person only made him crave the touch of another, when a label fluttered before his eyes but never affixed to his skin.

Now, the future barrels towards him like an avalanche but he's stuck, up to his waist in a snow drift.

Victor turns up the shower as hot as it goes and forces himself in, the steam clouding his vision, scalding water prickling his skin. His own body feels foreign; someone has taken over and all he can do is sit idly by as his life is lived out in front of him.

He eventually forces himself to actually bathe, scrubbing too hard, trying to keep what's good but buff out the shame. What he finds is that it's all sort of interconnected, and ultimately he can't rid himself of either.

The towels have just been washed, white and fluffy, a trivial luxury but a comfort regardless. Victor wraps himself tightly, hair dripping in front of his eyes, and looks in the mirror again. The slight red glow of his skin feels justified; this is what he deserves for what he's done.

Back in his room, Victor is surprised to find a response from Mia.

Mia: 10. See you then. [8:31 AM]

Not horrible. It'll be out of the way at the very least, and then he'll have the rest of the day to...clean up more messes. Victor gets dressed, forces his legs into jeans, drags a gray shirt over his head. He even brushes his hair for good measure, if anything just to indicate that he cares, that he's taking this seriously.

And then he sits. And he waits.

Even though spring has bloomed in Atlanta, the morning is cool as Victor hurries down the sidewalk; he almost wishes he'd brought a sweatshirt. His heart rate is galloping, partly from his pace, partly because he's practically holding his breath as he power walks. The destination is further than he remembered, but last time he was there, the trip had been with Mia, full of dumb jokes and laughter and fingers brushing.