Page 6

6

Atlas

I watch as Henri kneels in front of me, swaying like I’m sitting on the deck of a boat. My head feels like it’s stuffed full of wool, my brain sluggish and heavy. It feels as though my neck might break from the strain of holding my head aloft.

I feel a strange sort of disconnect from my body as I watch Henri get the laces of one shoe undone before moving to the other one. Maybe it’s because I’m wasted, but I feel like I can see a thousand shades of brown in the strands of his hair. I’ve never seen his head from this angle before. His hair looks shiny, and is a strange mix of wavy and curly. I like it.

Almost as though my arm is being controlled by a puppeteer, I watch my hand lift from my lap and my fingers touch his head.

“Soft,” I say, threading my fingers through. He doesn’t say anything, just finishes with the laces of my shoes and grasps the heels to pull them off. When he stands up, my hand falls to the bed and I feel oddly sad. He walks over to the door and places my shoes next to his, all lined up in a row. I laugh, even though I’m unsure why it’s funny.

“You should get some rest,” he tells me, drawing my attention to the bed.

Obediently, I stand up and grasp the hem of my shirt, meaning to take it off. The room jolts and my knees give out, but Henri catches my arm and directs me back to sitting. The bed sways as well, but gently.

“Your room is nuts,” I tell him, meaning the way everything is moving. His hand is on my shoulder, putting his forearm in my direct line of sight, and reminding me how muscular they are. “You have nice arms.”

Another laugh escapes at that, but Henri doesn’t join in. I peer up at him, leaning backward with the motion and feeling my stomach slosh dangerously.

“You should lie down,” he says.

Good idea . I let myself fall to the side, legs still off the bed. The room still rocks, but it’s better this way. I close my eyes.

“Move up, Atlas.” Henri’s voice has me cracking my eyes back open to find him bent over me, one hand warm on my arm. He helps me slide up the bed until my head is on the pillow, and my legs aren’t hanging off.

His face is so close to mine, with him bent over me like this. It’s a nice face, I realize. I reach out and press my fingers to his cheekbone.

“I like your face,” I tell him. My mouth is dry and my words are garbled, like I tried to speak around a mouthful of rocks. He sighs.

“No, you do not. You are drunk.”

“I do,” I say, momentarily distracted by the scratch of his facial hair against my fingers. It feels good. Flattening my hand against his cheek, I repeat the motion with my palm. That feels good, too. “I like looking at you.”

“Atlas.” He sighs again. He makes that noise a lot. It must be his favorite sound.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bent over me slightly. I feel as though I can see all the blues of the ocean in the color of his eyes. I love blue eyes, I decide. They are my favorite eye. I laugh, because having a favorite eye is strange.

“I can’t sleep in jeans!” I exclaim suddenly, realizing I’m still fully dressed. My hand isn’t touching Henri’s face anymore, but I can somehow still feel the scratch of his scruff against my skin. I rub my fingertips together, marveling at that.

“I can help you, if you wish,” he offers carefully.

“I wish,” I say, mimicking his accent and then laughing. “You talk so funny. You are so funny. You are so weird .”

“Are you sure you want me to assist you?”

“Yes. I like it when people take my pants off—don’t you? Oops. Shhh.” I make a motion like I need Henri to talk quieter even though I’m the one who just shouted. “People are sleeping.”

He stands up, and slowly reaches for my waist. I lift my hips helpfully off the bed. He barely touches me as he unfastens the button and loosens the zipper. The moment the waist is loose, he moves his hands down to the legs and tugs them down that way. I pout, disappointed that I didn’t get to feel the scratch of his knuckles on my abdomen.

I watch as he folds my pants and lays them on his desk chair. He moves the trash can over and sets it next to the bed.

“If you must be sick, use this, yes?”

“You going to sleep with me?” I ask .

“Use this to throw up,” he repeats, pointing at the trash can. I nod and pat the bed next to me.

“Time for sleep,” I tell him, trying to focus on one of his faces. There are at least three. He’s too far away, though, and the room is spinning too much. I flail an arm out, colliding with his stomach, and grasp his shirt.

“No, Atlas,” he says, untangling my fingers and resting my arm back on the mattress. I don’t understand why he’s being so difficult. Doesn’t he want to snuggle?

“You don’t want to sleep with me?”

“You will be very embarrassed about this, I think, in the morning.” He sighs again , grabbing my hand before I can tangle my fingers in his shirt once more. “I do not think you will be wanting to sleep with me, if you are sober.”

“Just sit.” I pat the bed again. “I won’t be mad, I pinky swear.”

He sits down with his back to the wall, but he’s all the way at the end of the bed and I can’t reach him with my hand. I poke my toes against his leg, tucking them underneath his thigh and chuckling. He makes a small noise, but doesn’t push me away.

“You’re like…super fucking nice,” I tell him, closing my eyes and pulling his pillow toward me. I remember suddenly that I don’t actually like him. Strange, that I forgot in the first place. I hasten to remind him. “I don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“People are going to walk all over you if you be nice like that.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I don’t know why I asked, but now that I did, I want to know. I bet girls love him. Girls love guys that look like him, and have sexy accents. “I bet you do because you have an accent.”

“No, Atlas. Perhaps it is time for sleep, yes?”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Me either. But if you weren’t so weird, I might try to kiss you. You have a nice face. Nice lips, too. They’re just better when they aren’t moving and saying odd shit.”

He rests a hand down on my calf, patting gently. “Time for sleep.”

“All right,” I say, turning my face into the pillow. It’s a nice pillow, and it doesn’t seem to be moving. I like this pillow. “But tomorrow maybe we could try the kissing.”

I wake up when the contents of my stomach start making their way up my throat. With barely a second’s notice, I lean over the side of the bed and vomit into the trash can. It’s hardly more than bile, but it burns my throat so badly tears spring to my eyes. I wait until I’m certain there isn’t anything more, before rolling onto my back and squeezing my eyes shut against the pain and nausea. My head feels two sizes too small, like my brain is being squeezed to death and is pounding for release against the inside of my skull.

I lie there until my stomach starts to protest once more. Carefully pushing myself to a seated position, I shakily walk to the bathroom, making sure to keep a hand on the wall to steady myself. Bending over the toilet, I dry-heave until my stomach muscles are screaming in pain.

The bathroom is clean, and not one I recognize. There is a tidy row of skincare products sitting on the vanity, and a washcloth lying next to the sink. I try to avoid looking at myself in the mirror, knowing that if I feel this bad, I probably don’t look great either. Arm wrapped around my stomach, I shuffle my way back into the dorm and look around.

It’s practically empty. Nothing but a desk, a bed, and a wardrobe—standard for a dorm room, but doesn’t exactly help me figure out where the fuck I am. Trying to think over the pounding in my head, I walk over to the desk. There’s a water bottle sitting on the corner next to a bottle of ibuprofen. I down four before my eye catches on a picture taped above the desk.

“What the fuck,” I mutter, squinting at Henri Vasel’s smiling face, his arms around two sweaty guys I don’t know. Given that I’m not wearing pants, and I can’t remember a single thing that happened after I left the stoner house last night, I almost hope I’m in the dorm of one of those strangers and not Henri’s. I can’t imagine a world where Henri and I ended up at the same party and left together. Hell, I can’t imagine him at a party at all.

Picking the water bottle back up and taking a few sips, I start to sit back down on the bed before my eyes catch on a piece of paper also taped to the wall. It’s a schedule, broken down by time increments and very detailed. Even “stress release” has a scheduled time, although I’m not altogether certain what that entails. I read through it twice, stomach beginning to flip unpleasantly once more. Why do I get the impression that this is something fucking Henri would do?

Feeling like I might pass out if I don’t sit back down, I half collapse onto the bed and rest my forearms on my knees. I need to get out of here before the occupant of this dorm comes back. I need to take a shower, eat something greasy, and sleep for the next twelve hours. Unfortunately, I can’t manage to do any of those things right now, because I feel like I was hit by a car. Twice.

The sound of a key turning in the lock almost has me throwing up again. I look down at my bare legs and curse the fact that I didn’t think to put my damn pants on. God, I really hope I was too drunk to hook up last night.

Henri walks into the room, paper bag clutched in his hand and a wary look on his face. When he sees me, he smiles carefully and holds his arm up.

“Good morning, Atlas. I have breakfast.”

“Hey,” I croak. My throat feels like someone took sandpaper to it. He approaches the bed slowly, arm held out as though the food is a peace offering and I’m a wild animal.

He looks unfairly good in sweatpants and an SCU hockey shirt, hair still damp from a shower and face freshly shaved. When he gets close enough to hand me the paper bag, I get a whiff of something fresh and clean, like laundry detergent. The way his shirt fits a little tighter than his usual polos holds my attention. He’s pretty muscular from what I can tell; certainly not as soft as me. Swallowing roughly, I look away.

“Thanks,” I mutter, opening the bag and groaning as the smell of bacon grease wafts out. Inside are two breakfast sandwiches—perfect hangover food. I pull one out, take a bite, and only just remember to chew before I swallow. Henri sits on his desk chair, facing me. He leans forward and places my folded jeans on the bed next to me. I flush, embarrassed. I can’t believe I have my legs out in front of this guy right now.

“Do you feel all right?” he asks.

“I puked in your trash can.” I nudge it with my foot and he nods.

“Yes,” he agrees, likely because he was able to figure that out by the smell. Feeling unmoored and defensive, I take a bite of breakfast sandwich and point a finger at his wall.

“What is ‘stress release’?”

His eyes track over to the schedule and his head angles to the left slightly, like he’s thinking. He fidgets a little bit, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth like he’s embarrassed.

“I like to stay organized,” he says slowly.

Obviously , I think, glancing around at the nearly sterile room. The dirtiest thing in here is me.

“That is when I will sometimes…” He trails off, closes his eyes, and sighs. Lifting his right hand off his leg, he does a short jerking motion before dropping his hand back into his lap. Swallowing my half-chewed bite, I raise my eyebrows.

“You schedule a time to jerk off?”

He looks embarrassed by me saying it out loud. Normally, I’d probably balk at having this conversation—or any—with him. But I’m hungover as fuck, my puke is between us in the trash can, and I’m not wearing pants. We’ve gone beyond modesty, and now I’m curious.

“Porn guy?” I ask, smirking around my bite of sandwich as he blushes.

“No. I do not like that so much.”

I take another bite of sandwich and a swig of water. This conversation is doing more to perk me up than any greasy food ever could. Who knew talking to prim-and-proper Henri about wanking would be so much fun?

“What’s wrong with porn?” I ask.

He stares at me for a second, clearly trying to decide whether or not to answer me. Seemingly deciding that he wants to take advantage of my apparent chattiness, he crosses an ankle over one knee and leans back in the chair .

“Porn is distracting, because I start to wonder if they are fairly compensated and having a good time. It is not so enjoyable for me. Also, it is not…I do not…well, it does not work for me, that is all. I do not like it.”

I laugh, but immediately have to stop when my head threatens to explode. “Christ, only you.”

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, deftly changing the subject. I shrug, reaching for the second breakfast sandwich.

“Not really. Sorry, by the way, for…you know. Calling you,” I mumble around a mouthful.

“It is fine. But I do not like your friends or the place you were at. It was not safe.” He pauses, thinking. “Or clean.”

I don’t remember where I ended up last night, so I stay silent. There’d been a party at Foggers—that much I remember—but parties there didn’t always stay there. I hadn’t been having a great day yesterday, which means I probably made some questionable decisions about what I ingested and whom I ingested it with. I’m not known for having good judgement when I’ve been drinking, which would also explain why I called Henri, of all people, to pick me up.

“Where did you pick me up from, anyway?” He taps through his phone before holding it out to me to show me the map app. Squinting down at the screen, I try to decide if I recognize it or not. “I don’t know that address.”

“Atlas!” Henri protests. “You should not be going to strange houses when you have been drinking. What if something bad happened to you?”

Nobody would have given a fuck. I shrug. “It’s fine.”

“No, it is not fine. I am thinking your friends are not really friends at all and they should be taking better care of you. There was alcohol and drugs at that house. It was filthy! ”

Feeling strange about the turn this conversation has taken, I look away from him. Why the hell does he care so much? He’s not even faking it. Earnestness rolls off of him in waves, and the air is thick with his concern. Taking another sip of water, I nod toward him and change the subject.

“No polo shirt today, I see.”

“It is the weekend,” he replies, as though this matters at all. Setting the bottle back down, I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. I’m feeling better, whether from the water and food, or from the strangeness of this encounter. I’m also feeling oddly glad that I called him. There isn’t an ounce of judgement in his eyes, nor does he seem unduly put out by me sleeping in his bed or emptying the contents of my stomach into his trash. Apparently, Nate was being truthful when he said nothing can phase this guy.

“I do anything crazy here last night?” I ask. “I can’t really remember.”

“No, you were fine,” he answers, but averts his eyes in a way that tells me it’s a lie.

“Did I hit on you?” His gaze snaps back to mine and I shrug. “I’m a flirty drunk and you’re hot.”

His eyebrows wing upward at my admission that I find him attractive. I roll my eyes. Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean I’m fucking blind. I’m not going to act on it, but I can certainly enjoy the view.

“You did, but nothing happened,” he reassures me hastily.

“I still don’t like you,” I tell him, even though I have to force the words. It’s hard to hate someone who fed you, and took care of you when you were sick. Crumpling up the empty paper bag, I drop it into the trash can. Finishing off the water, I toss that in as well. “I’ll hit on anyone and anything when I’m drunk. It doesn’t mean anything. ”

“I understand.”

Feeling like I’ve had about as much of this as I can take, I stand up. Immediately, Henri follows suit and raises his arm as though to catch me were I to fall. Biting back the inclination to slap his hand away, I glare at him until he drops it. He looks away as I shakily pull my pants on. Even so, I angle my hips away to try and hide how difficult it is for me to get the button done.

“I shall give you a ride home,” he says once I turn back around and meet his eyes.

“I’m fine.” I’m not, but I’ll be damned if I ask him for more help. Relying on people is a good way to be let down.

He frowns, but doesn’t argue. Silently, he slides my cellphone and wallet toward me from where they were resting on his desk. I’m surprised when my phone lights up as I touch it, assuming that it would have died. When I check the battery, it shows 100%. Henri must have charged it. Tucking everything away in my pockets—and trying to ignore the churning in my stomach that has less to do with alcohol and more to do with Henri—I take a step toward the door.

“Thanks again,” I mumble, trying to look anywhere in the room but at him. My eyes catch on the trash can. Fuck . “Uhm…do you want me to take care of that?”

I point at it, but Henri is already shaking his head without even looking to where I’m indicating.

“No, that is fine. Are you sure I cannot give you a ride?”

“Positive,” I say firmly, turning for the door. “See you in class.”