Page 72 of Pages of My Heart
Thomas’s hand covers his mouth, the pain of watching almost unbearable as Charlie curls into the fetal position, murmuring, “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry . . .” His husband’s body is shaking, face tucked into his own hands. Thomas dashes back inside, ripping the heavy blanket off their bed and returning as quickly as possible. Placing the blanket over Charlie, he sits beside him, watching, waiting. Ten minutes pass before Charlie appears to fall back into a normal sleep cycle. Thomas then crawls under the blanket with Charlie and gently places a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t know how to handle this, and his greatest fear is someone coming to take Charlie away from him.
The six days since Charlie has been home have seen Thomas in a near constant state of worry. One minute Charlie wants him, the next he rejects him. They make love, but Thomas can tell that Charlie is not fully there, his mind adrift in some unreachable place. Thomas tries to be gentle and patient, allowing Charlie to choose the position that is best for his shoulder, but no matter how close they get physically, an impenetrable wall seems to remain between them. They say, “I love you” and kiss and climax and cuddle, and yet something is missing. It seems as if Charlie is guarding his pain, a prisoner trapped behind steel bars. Thomas is frustrated and hurt that Charlie doesn’t seem to trust him or doesn’t think he’s strong enough to handle the truth. Or even worse, that Charlie thinks Thomas won’t love him if he’s anything less than perfect. Thomas doesn’t give a damn about Charlie not being able to use his arm, and he doesn’t give a fuck about what Charlie did to survive. Thomas will carry Charlie’s burdens for him, if only Charlie would let him.
Thomas figures at least thirty minutes have passed before he chances waking Charlie to get him back inside the house.
“Charlie . . .” He rubs lightly up and down Charlie’s arm, trying to coax him out of sleep. “Wake up, my darling. Charlie, look at me.” He gently shakes him.
“What?” Charlie blinks, brow furrowed in confusion.
“Listen to me and let me hold you.”
“Tommy?”
“We’re outside, and you’re okay. Don’t worry. But I want to get us back inside, okay? Back to bed.”
Charlie sits up, his voice climbing in pitch. “What? What the hell? Why am I out here?”
He pulls Charlie into his arms, stroking his back. “It doesn’t matter right now. You’re safe. Let’s stand up and get inside.”
As Thomas helps him up from the ground, Charlie begins to cry. “What did I do? I didn’t hurt you again, did I? H–how did I get out here? Tommy, I don’t remember . . . I don’t remember . . .”
Thomas cocoons them both inside the blanket, placing kisses to Charlie’s cheeks. “You did nothing wrong. You must have been sleepwalking. Come on, let’s go inside now.” They slowly make their way back into the house and Thomas gets Charlie back into bed, then fixes their sheets and blankets before climbing in next to him. With Charlie pulled tight against his chest, he repeatedly strokes the hair off his forehead like his mother used to do for him when he had nightmares as a little boy.
“Get some sleep. I won’t leave you.” Thomas continues running his fingers through Charlie’s cropped hair, setting a slow, steady rhythm while he whispers reassuring words against his skin. Hours later, a new day dawns, and Thomas finally surrenders to sleep.
Day 8: Charlie
Charlie is done talking by the time they make it to bed. Thomas keeps pushing him, wanting him to talk about the fucking war, about his nightmares, about why he isn’t doing his useless exercises every day. It’s as if he’s been stripped of his role. For their entire relationship, Charlie has looked after Thomas, protected him, been someone Thomas could lean on. Now Thomas has to come into the bathroom and help him get his boxer briefs up after he shits. At dinner he has to cut the meat on Charlie’s plate like he’s a fucking child. It’s humiliating, and he just doesn’t know who he is anymore. He’s not a soldier. He’s not a mechanic. He’s barely a fucking man.
As Thomas moves in behind him, his half-hard cock pressing between Charlie’s ass cheeks, he grunts, “Not tonight. I’m tired.”
“Are you sore?”
After more than a year of celibacy heissore, but that wouldn’t stop him if he wanted it. But lying is the easiest way to say no without hurting Thomas’s feelings. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Thomas doesn’t reply, so he closes his eyes and waits for Thomas to turn off the lamp. But the light remains on.
“Charlie . . . would you like to . . . swap?”
Charlie rolls onto his back so he can look Thomas in the eye and see what’s behind this. They have swapped before, but only a handful of times in all the years they’ve been together. A couple of times, Thomas wanted to after he recovered from an episode. Charlie couldn’t really understand why, but Thomashad been insistent, and Charlie couldn’t deny that it was nice to be the one in control occasionally.
“You’d enjoy that?”
“I enjoy everything with you. And if you’re sore . . .”
Thomas moves on top of him, kissing him twice before disappearing under the blanket and taking Charlie’s length into his mouth. Charlie is still soft but hardens quickly under Thomas’s articulate tongue. He could finish like this, in Thomas’s mouth, but the more he thinks about pushing into Thomas’s body, the more he wants it. But can he manage it with only one working arm? Thomas could sit atop while he lies on his back, but that would make him feel just as passive and weak—everything he doesn’t want.
“Fuck!” It comes out harsher than he intends.
Thomas pulls off, throws the blanket back and looks at him, confused. “Did my teeth get in the way?”
Charlie shakes his head, bringing his forearm up to cover his face. “No, I want to, but . . .”
“Charlie, talk to me. What do you need?”
“I need to fuck! I need to fuck hard. Do you have any idea how frustrating this is?”
“No, but I’m trying. I’mtryingto give you what you need.” Thomas gets out of bed. “Come on.”