But she always rolls back to Nick.
That’s where she is when I wake up, struggling to orient myself within the strange surroundings. The light struggles through the blinds, signaling late afternoon, early evening. I spend a long time there on my side, watching the shape of them as they sleep. Lavinia and Nick. He’s on his back, and much like I’ve been doing, he’s extended his arm to tuck her in close to his side, palm resting on the delicate expanse of her back. Her cheek is resting right in the nook between his shoulder and neck, arm thrown over his waist. Below the blankets, halfway to being kicked off, I can tell her leg is threaded through his.
They look perfect, like a Greek painting of mythic lovers, the woman wound around her man. It’s impossible not to remember the way they’d looked hours ago, passionate and powerful as they fucked their way to whatever little bliss is available in this messed-up world.
It’s not jealousy–not anymore.
But there is envy.
Nick can do that. He can wake her up by thrusting into her. He can let the man inside himself free and know that she won’t come out of it bleeding and crying. Nick doesn’t need to ask or plead or plan. All he has to do is roll between her legs and give it to her. Nick and Remy are allowed the heat of a moment.
I leave them there in bed, my neck feeling too heavy as I force myself to turn away from the sight. To not edit the image in my head, putting myself in Nick’s place. To not get caught up in the hardness of my cock, balls aching from a lack of release.
I check in on Remy instead, ducking out of the hallway to seek the long line of his figure reclined on the couch. His face is illuminated by the glow of the absurd flat screen on the wall, and I realize he’s already awake.
“Hey,” I say, glancing down to make sure my cock isn’t still bulging with need before I step out of the hallway. “How’s the arm?”
He gives me a look before raising his hand, pressing a tip of each finger to the tip of his thumb. “My dexterity is still solid,” he says, voice low and flat. “I don’t think there’s any damage.”
He certainly looks like there’s damage. His face is drawn and ashen, and as I observe him, his body erupts with a shiver. “Want a blanket? Another ice pack? Something to eat?”
He shivers again. “No.”
Falling into the armchair, I shrug. “Alright.”
He cranes his neck, giving me a suspicious look. That’s fair. In any other circumstance, I’d be forcing food down his gullet and hounding him into a hot shower. Berating him to take his meds. Demanding a head check. Jotting any observations down in my journal–were I to have it with me, which I don’t.
“I really want you to be okay, Remy.” My voice is quiet and worn, just like everything else in this house. “I want that more than almost anything. I think I might want it too much because I’ve been ignoring what’s been right in front of my face all this time.” I slide my tired gaze to him, watching as he pushes himself to a sitting position. “You can rely on me–you canalwaysrely on me–but you can’t be dependent on me because I’m not perfect. Sometimes, I fail.” I walked away that night, left him on his own for a week, and he crumbled. Nick told me all about it. The drugs, the lack of meds, the insidious delusions. Maybe all this time, I haven’t been helping him. I’ve just been giving him crutches. “I can’t control you.” God knows I’ve tried. “And I can’t make you care aboutyouas much as I do.”
“So it’s finally happening.” Pushing his hair out of his eyes, his mouth curls into a bitter, joyless grin. “You’ve realized you can’t win. You can’t fix me.”
“I can’t win because it’s not a game. Look at me,” I demand when he scoffs, eyes rolling. “Man, I love you. But I can’t always be there to play warden for your worst fucking impulses. I would if I could. Believe that. But the only way it’d be effective is if I locked you up and threw away the key. And then how would I be any different from your father?” Leaning forward, I prop my elbows on my knees, willing him to hear me. “This is something you need to do yourself. And the thing is? You can, Remy. You’re stronger than me. Hell, when it comes to knowing yourself and fighting your demons, no one is stronger than you.”
“I don’t feel strong.” He stares at the floor, his eyes welling with anguish. “I feel like I’d rather rot in the green than destroy one more thing I give a shit about.”
It takes everything in me to not go to him and make him impossible promises, like that I’ll make him better. That we’ll go back to the schedules and the graphs. That I’ll stick by him every day and make sure he stays level. If he asked me to do any of those things, I would.
He never actually has, though.
The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, possibly in my whole life, is say this:
“Then that choice is yours to make. I can’t stop you.” I struggle not to break when he looks up at me, eyes rimmed in red. The only reason I say it at all is because I’m confident in this one thing. “But deep down, we both know that’s not who you are.”
“Oh yeah?” He gives a mangled laugh. “Then who am I, Sy?”
“You’re an artist. A Maddox. A Duke.” I level him with a look. “But most of all, you’re my brother, and no brother of mine could be anything but the most stubborn asshole on the goddamn planet.”
His eyes flick toward the hall, where I know Lavinia is still curled around my other brother. “So you’re telling me I’m on my own,” he mutters.
I straighten, shooting him a glare. “Fuck that. You’re never on your own, Remy.Never.I’m telling you that it’s time to walk beside us instead of being dragged on a leash. Either that’s something you want, or it isn’t. You need to figure that out.”
His head bows, fingers raking through his hair. “It’s too late. Everything’s fallen apart.”
“Then we’ll put it back together,” I insist, voice brooking no argument. “It’s never too late.”
Something in his posture uncoils at my words.We, nothim. Not alone. He swings his green eyes on me. “You think?”
“If that’s something you want to put the effort into doing?” I dip my chin, my tone serious. “Always, Remy.”