forthsofar | in days to come when your heart feels undone

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caleb

in days to come when your heart feels undone

At first, she'd given that late-night text from Caleb--a friend in trouble, Caleb okay but out of school for the week--a healthy amount of sympathy, but no real concern. She sought out Clint in the senior hallway and divvied up the task of collecting assignments and notes from Caleb's classes, ignoring to the best of her ability the vague sniggers about sex cults she overheard from a few of the other members of the team as she walked away.

It was all working rather smoothly, with very little room for worry--until she stopped by Caleb's apartment that night and actually saw him. Whatever had happened, it left him drawn and tired, something almost lost behind his eyes. Rosie hadn't pried, despite the flurry of questions that rose to her mind, just handed over the collected assignments and made the appropriate vague noises of sympathy before he pushed the front door slowly shut again. Still, the sight was enough to make her worry, to increase that faint concern from before to something far harder to ignore.

Clint had agreed to drop things off the next two days, leaving Rosie time to think--and to plan. By Thursday, she had at least the seed of an idea, something that might provide Caleb with a little more comfort after a situation that had so clearly rattled him. She got Clint's half of the assignments from him after school, then stopped by the small market a few blocks from Candlewood to pick up a few additional things before heading home.

That night, she loads everything into a few tote bags she and Neil had picked up from one Darrow event or another and heads downstairs. She knocks once, twice, then tries the knob, finding it unlocked and barging in before she can quite stop herself.

"It's just me," she calls, nudging the door shut with her foot.

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He feels her even before she knocks, and there's a part of him that hopes she'll just go away. He's exhausted, his empathy drawn thin from spending time with Michael — mostly just curled up with him, talking to him softly, so he isn't alone while Alex does whatever he has to do.

For awhile, everything feels blue and deep, like Adam's ocean, and he'd love to just... sink into that, and stay there. And maybe that's cowardly, but he doesn't have it in him to care, right then.

But she doesn't go away, because she's a good friend. She comes inside, because he'd forgotten to lock the door (Michael would kill him if he knew), and she announces herself as she nudges the door shut again.

He's laying on the couch, sprawled down the length with his ankles up on the arm opposite his head. He's sort of blankly staring at the ceiling, hair still wet from the shower he's taken. On his chest is a plate with a half-eaten Hot Pocket, still in its microwave pouch, like he'd just... set it there and forgotten it.

Rosie goes to the kitchen first, setting the bags down on what empty space she can find on the counter, beside stacks of dirty dishes and empty boxes of microwave food. She can see him through the doorway, the pale cross of his feet against the arm of the sofa and the blank stare of his eyes, the slow rise and fall of the plate on his chest as he breathes. He looks lost, more lost even than he'd looked at the start of the week, and the sight of it makes her all the more glad she'd decided to stop by.

"Hey," she says, coming into the living room. "There wasn't much in the way of homework, just some history readings Clint made copies of in the library at lunch and a French worksheet, but...I brought things to make dinner, if you want it." She stops by the couch, looking down at him as that plate on his chest rises and falls with each breath. "Just pasta, nothing fancy."

Caleb listens to her putter around, and he doesn't even have the energy to be embarrassed at how bad he's let it get. By the time he's back home from Michael and Alex's, he's so exhausted, all he can do is lay on the couch and cry for awhile. He'd only showered today because he knows he's going back tomorrow, and he doesn't want Michael to think he isn't taking care of himself on his account.

Neither of them need that extra guilt.

He blinks, sort of resetting himself as he feels her concern poke and prod at him. He shifts in place, like it's a physical sensation. It makes the Hot Pocket slide on the plate, and he absently reaches up to grab it. It's cold.

"You don't have to do that. I already ate," he points out, even though the thing is half-eaten.

"That's not food, and you only took two bites," she argues in turn, her eyebrows quirking up slightly as he waves the Hot Pocket at her. "I don't think that counts."

She doesn't join him on the couch, but the coffee table looks solid enough for her to perch on, if only for a moment. She sits, trying to resist the urge to reach out and take his hand, to provide a little more reassurance. "You don't have to do anything. You don't have to talk, or help, or...you can stay just as you are, but I'm not leaving until you've actually had a proper meal."

"I'm just tired," he says, which isn't entirely a lie, but isn't the whole truth, either. He doesn't really think about offering his hand over to her, resting his knuckles on her knee. Her concern is warm and orange, but it's pushing away the ocean, too, and he's not sure he wants that.

"It's... it's been a hard week," he adds, because that is true.

He reaches for her instead, his knuckles brushing against the hem of her skirt, and she moves her hand enough that her fingertips are resting gently against his. It's light contact, easy enough for either of them to pull away, though neither of them do. "It seems like it," she says quietly, to both of the things he says--even as she suspects the first isn't exactly true. The mess of his apartment, the scattered dishes and the listless way he's draped himself over the couch, suggest something far deeper than mere tiredness. Even when Neil is sad, those low dips in his mood that pervade their apartment until they pass away again, it's never quite like this.

"Can I ask if your friend's alright now? Or...getting there?"

There's something like pity rising up where their fingers touch, and Caleb closes his eyes with a small frown, pulls his hand away even as she asks her question.

"He'll... I don't know. I hope so." Fuck, he hopes so, so much it almost hurts. "I don't... think I'm gonna be in school this week, either," he admits. "I'm sorry..." The idea of walking through those hallways, of sitting in those desks, surrounded by kids whose problems are nothing compared to what Michael's going through... It feels fucking laughable.

It stings a little, how quickly Caleb takes his hand away, but Rosie doesn't fault him for it. In the aftermath of...so many things now, the dungeon at Kagura, Nick's possession, her frightening trip to Jamie's island and the things she'd been made to endure there, Rosie had craved contact with nearly anyone she could get it from; needing to be held, to feel the brush of lips against her hair or the rub of fingers at her back as she tried to return to something more normal. It's something she's learned to want, but she and Caleb are different people. It doesn't have to be the same.

"Don't be sorry," she murmurs, still sitting there on the coffee table, staying close even without the link of their hands. "I'll talk to Clint tomorrow, we'll make a plan for next week." One corner of her mouth lifts. "Or, I'll make a plan and tell him, and he'll go a bit wide-eyed and go along with it. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was afraid of me."

"You guys are so great," he says. He looks at her again, and after a moment, reaches his hand back out to hers. "Seriously. I don't... think I'd be getting through this without you." He looks at her earnestly, but the feeling of being cared for, of being taken care of, washes over him, and he feels tears fill his eyes. He huffs out a weak sob, and he turns his face away, but his fingers tighten on Rosie's.

"We wouldn't be doing it if we didn't think you were wonderful," she says firmly, her smile broadening for a moment as Caleb's hand finds hers again. "In different ways, it seems, but we do both think you're lovely." She doesn't know if that bit of gossip is the kind of distraction he'd want at a time like this, but she's been around Clint enough in the last week that his concern for Caleb--and the reason she assumes drives it--has been more than evident. It makes her happy, if nothing else.

Her sly, playful amusement falls away in an instant as she sees the way his expression falters, his eyes filling with tears before he turns his face away. "Oh no, oh, Caleb," she murmurs, holding tightly to his hand. "I'm not going to tell you it's okay, it's not, but...I'm here."

He knows it's good, that he's crying. He needs to get this shit out of his system, and he can't if he just holds it there and floats on it. Rosie's sympathy is warm toffee in his joints, and it makes him want to curl up and get buried in it.

So he does. He doesn't let go of her hand, but he curls away from her on the couch, so his arm is stretched back behind himself, and he's this ball of emotion on his couch, anchored to this one sturdy point.

He either doesn't notice the Hot Pocket and its plate slide down between his torso and the back of the couch, or he doesn't care.

She doesn't even think about it. He turns away, his hand still clinging tightly to hers, and Rosie gets up from her perch on the coffee table, never for an instant letting go of him. The plate that had been on his chest has to have fallen, the food on it likely smearing or leaving crumbs along the back of the couch, but she's not worried about that for longer than a second.

It's a little awkward, but she gets onto the couch behind him, trying to curl herself around the tight ball of his body. He's larger than her, taller and broader even folded in on himself like this, but Rosie does the best she can. "I'm so sorry," she says, letting go of his hand only so she can wrap her arms around him. "Whatever happened, I'm so sorry you had to go through it."

He feels the sincerity in her words and it just makes him sob harder. He pulls her arm around, sort of hugging her hand to his chest. He doesn't speak for a long time, just stays there, crying quietly and accepting her sympathy, her comfort.

When he's finally cried himself out, he slowly rolls to face her, fingers still tangled, and gently arranging their hands so neither of them are twisting or awkwardly bending.

His face is wet, eyes red and drawn, but he doesn't look so lost. He traces her palm with his thumb, sniffles, and offers a weak, wet, "Thank you."

After those first murmured sentences, Rosie stays quiet, taking slow and steady breaths as she holds onto him, letting him cry. It's intimate, maybe more intimate than their relationship might have allowed on another day, but none of that matters.

As he starts to turn, Rosie gives him space, rearranges the tangle of their arms and legs as he settles again and faces her. Her own eyes are a little bright, sympathetic tears gathering that she blinks away hard. "Sorry," she whispers, a slight and wobbly smile flickering on her face for a moment. She glances down at the slow, soft brush of his thumb along her palm, a faint and involuntary blush pinking her cheeks. "And you're welcome."

He sniffles again, and when he sees the blush, he bites his lip and releases her hand. "Don't cry," he says. "If you cry, I'll cry, and then we'll just be a mess." He manages a shaky smile and holds her shoulder carefully so he can sit up without knocking her off the couch.

He feels... better... he thinks. Like a pressure behind his breast bone has released, and he wonders if this is what people mean when they call crying 'cathartic.'

Sitting up jostles the plate away from the back of the couch and behind his back. The Hot Pocket flops after it, and he's really glad it's cold, otherwise he would've ruined this couch, he's pretty sure.

"Fuck, I'm such a pig," he mumbles, managing a huffed laugh.

"It's catching like that sometimes, isn't it?" she says, sniffling once, then again. "I won't cry, I promise." When he lets go of her hand, she scrubs at her eyes, letting out a short, centering breath.

Caleb levers himself back up into a sitting position, his hand on her shoulder, and Rosie does the same once he settles, shifting to the other end of the couch and pulling off her boots before drawing her feet up beneath her. She sees the plate go wheeling behind his back along with the half-eaten frozen turnover that had been resting on it, and though it's not funny she still lets out a faint and unladylike snort.

"Do you want the honest answer to that, or the tactful one?" she murmurs, looking up at him with an easy, fond grin.

He makes a face and looks over at her, and maybe it's because he's tired, or maybe it's because Rosie makes him feel safe, but before he can check in with his own brain, his mouth says, "You know I'll know if you're not honest."

Then he closes his eyes for a second, and turns to busy himself with the plate and the pastry and the small mess it'd left on the cushion, because he's too drained for panic, but not too drained for self-recrimination.

Maybe she won't get it. Maybe she'll assume it's that weird, perceptive thing he does at school.

She hadn't known she was putting a puzzle together, but when he says that in such a weary and matter of fact tone, it's as though the last piece of something starts to slot itself into place. Rosie thinks back to French class, the way he'd almost guessed when Ms. Guillaume was about to pass by; remembers how she'd almost instinctively started trying to project a calm on the first day they met, there at the train station, and how readily he'd glommed onto it.

"What do you mean?" she asks, even as he turns away to deal with cleaning everything up. "You're not a mind reader, are you?"

"No," he says, and it's an honest answer, at least, even as the nervous laugh he follows it with sounds incriminating. "No way."

He places the plate and Hot Pocket on the coffee table, then rolls his shoulders a little. He can feel Rosie puzzling him out, feeling another certainty slot into place. Fuck, he's sloppy.

He wants to say 'mind readers aren't real,' but that'd be a lie, and a disservice to Chloe, besides. So he doesn't, just offers Rosie a lop-sided smile that's a little tight at the corners, then stands.

"What was that about pasta?" he deflects.

He denies it, but the strain in his laugh afterwards and the tight set of his smile seem to suggest something different. He's already so upset, and she knows that maybe that means she ought to let it go, but her curiosity's been piqued and that's a difficult thing to ignore. "It'd be alright if you were, you know," she says, as nonchalantly as she can manage as she gets up from the couch, picking up the plate and the ruined Hot Pocket and taking both into the kitchen. "Lots of people here have...powers, or magic, or whatever you want to call it. Nick and Sabrina are witches, I've got one friend who can talk to animals, and another who's from a terribly stupid-sounding world where everyone's immortal or something."

As she talks, she cleans up the counter a little, putting plates and glasses into the sink, flattening empty boxes and sticking them into the recycling bin beside the trash. "And then there's other people who just had something mad happen to them even before they showed up in Darrow."

She grins, thinking of Anterwold and wondering vaguely if Caleb will pick up on the fact he's talking to one of them now.

He feels exposed and vulnerable, standing in his borrowed apartment while his friend putters around, cleaning up the messes he'd been too exhausted to bother with beyond adding to it. He frowns a little, listening to her, and he has... no fucking idea what to do with any of this.

On the one hand, he should feel relieved that she's already got some precedence for this, right? But he's still so afraid of just telling people. But... she's not people. She's Rosie. He swallows, then sighs.

"I'm not a mind reader," he says again, and this time, there's no nervous laugh, no strained smile. Because that's the truth. "I'm an empath. I... can feel people's feelings."

Even though she'd been hoping for it, when he so readily tells her what she has to assume is the truth, it almost takes her by surprise. She puts the dirty plate in her hands into the sink, then goes to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, looking at him as she leans against the frame. "Really?" she says, with a quiet, amazed little laugh. "Goodness, that's...it's got to be useful and terrible all at the same time."

She studies him for a moment, thinking, then decides to take the chance. "A secret for a secret, then. Darrow's not the first time I wound up somewhere different and didn't expect it. Back home, my neighbor had this...I thought it was some stupid sculpture thing in his cellar, but it turned out to be a doorway to another world."

"That's what that was," he says, thinking back to the way she'd felt when they'd first met. "You were so comfortable talking about this place, I thought maybe it was just because you'd been here awhile. But it's because traveling to other worlds is something you're used to."

He drifts closer, hugging himself a little. "You believe me," he says. "Just... Like that."

"It was a little of both, to be completely honest," Rosie says, shrugging one shoulder. "I've been here longer than I was ever in Anterwold, anyway. That's what it was called, the place I found in the Professor's cellar." It's such a strange way of putting it, even now, that she laughs a little.

Caleb drifts closer, some bright surprise flickering on his face as his arms wrap around his middle, and she grins. "I believe you. And you believe me?"

"I mean, yeah," he says, nodding. "I'd feel it if you were lying. You're not."

It feels weirdly good, that she knows, now. He doesn't have to fight to keep that secret, to be careful and not do or say certain things.

And maybe she'll be a good ally, like Mr. Burgess.

"Oh. Do you know Mr. Burgess?" he asks.

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