CW: Mention of suicide

☽ Peter ☽

I sit in Suzanna's office with candy wrappers strewn around me. She's left me alone for five minutes while I complete a self-assessment of my mental health.

It's a double-sided paper asking me to rate my feelings in the last few weeks. Do you feel that your typical hobbies are impacted? Do you feel that your typical relationships, including those you live with, are impacted? Are you looking forward to the future?

I answer these questions every two weeks, and yet, it doesn't get any easier.

And that last question—the future has been the only thing on my mind lately. It's all-encompassing; the future means this routine is going to be thrown off-kilter. And I don't like change. It's an equation with too many variables.

When I'm finished filling out the sheet, Suzanna enters the room. She looks over the assessment, sliding the sheet underneath her notepad. "How is the sertraline?"

For the sake of answering the question, I say, "Fine." Then, quieter, I add, "I did some research on its effect on dreams. I was pretty tired this morning."

"Really? About what?"

I shrug. I can barely remember the events of my dreams, but when I have them, I know they're vivid.

On Sunday, after I'd come back from the lake house, I woke up. It was probably about seven—the numbers on my phone's clock were blurred and unreadable. I climbed out of bed, tucked in the sheets, and got halfway through brushing my teeth before—with a jolt—I realized it was a dream. I was dreaming about being awake. And the cycle kept restarting, over and over, until I finally jolted into awareness, for real, unable to shake the feeling of unease that crawled through me.

I determined it was called a false awakening, which led me down a separate article, and so forth, until I found the connection.

Suzanna's pencil scratches against the notepad as she writes. "You know, from my perspective, it seems to be helping. The self-assessment shows that you're managing. It looks like there are still a few things that... that we should keep working on."

I don't speak for a moment, but Suzanna doesn't mind. I nod.

"Like those skills, we're practicing. I've noticed a lot of it is related to social skills, and that's fine. All of it isn't about anxiety. I mean, it was exacerbated by it, but it isn't the cause. A lot of mental illnesses go hand-in-hand. Feeling nervous all the time can bring out other feelings, like sadness or overstimulation," she says. "I have to ask you this question as soon as it comes to me, okay? I know it's sensitive. Are you having suicidal thoughts? Do you think sometimes that life would be better—that it would be easier—if you weren't here?"

I exhale, digging my fingertips into the palm of my hand. "No."

Suzanna considers this, flipping to the assessment and humming to herself. "To be blunt with you, I think there's a through-line here. Are you still feeling anxious about little things... for example, do you think a lot about making eye contact?"

I nod silently.

"If you know, and you feel like telling me, what is it in specific? Are you anxious because you're thinking about the person judging you, or does it seem painful to look at someone like that?"

"I don't know. Painful, I guess? Not that it actually hurts, but that I can't... I can't bring myself to do it."

We go through more examples; my repetitive movements, and how sometimes my brain gets stuck on a word and refuses to let it go. This continues for a while, and her pencil increases speed twice-fold. When she's done, she looks at me. I can feel her stare slicing into me like a scalpel. She allows me to sit in silence for a few minutes that I am acutely aware of.

"Have you ever been psychologically evaluated, Peter?" she asks, ever so softly. "I think these feelings have been here the whole time, but I admit that I was linking them to anxiety. But you've been taking medication, and those feelings have become tolerable. Sometimes, going on medication brings other things to the surface. There's nothing wrong with that, honestly."

My heart thuds in my chest. "Evaluated for what?"

She says, "Autism Spectrum Disorder. I can't diagnose you with anything, and I can't tell you what to do. But I can tell you that if you're curious, and if you want an answer, then it's worth getting checked out."

"I don't... I don't really know how—or what..."

"It's okay," she assures me, "you can take your time. It doesn't have to be right now. My suggestion is just that. I can give you a list of psychologists and refer you to the best ones. But only if you want to. If you like the sessions we're doing—and we are making progress—and that's enough, I'm okay with that. It's not about what I want. It's about what will help you."

My lungs squeeze with every breath. I tilt my head upward to prevent the tears from falling. It's not sadness, and it certainly isn't shame. It's unexpected. I'm stunned into a silence that hangs in the air. I don't wish it hadn't happened. And if this is it—if this explains everything—I don't want to make it go away.

"A referral would be good."

☆ ☽ ☆

I hardly have to knock on the door to Evan's room before he flings it open and gently pulls me inside by the collar of my shirt.

"I missed you," he breathes. "Oh my god, I missed you."

He pins me against the wall, kissing my neck and the bridge of my nose.

"I was barely gone for an hour." My hand flutters across his broad shoulders as he leads me to the bedside. He props an assortment of watercolour paints and a blank canvas against the mattress.

"I know, you idiot. I counted." He drags a hand through his hair; attached around his wrist is a bracelet from Nicole, similar to the one she gave me this morning. "How was your session?"

He leans over me to stir his paintbrush into the bowl on the nightstand.

"It was, um... it was good. Suzanna got me a referral to be evaluated. But it could take at least a month, or maybe longer, before I get an appointment."

"Like, by a professional?" Evan lifts an eyebrow at me. "Shit, can I help? Is there something I can do?"

I move forward, pressing my hand against Evan's back. The other wraps around his shoulder as I draw circles against the nape of his neck. "You could distract me."

"I think you are the one distracting me," he says with a satisfied half-smile. "As you can see, I'm trying to work."

"Right. What you're going to end up doing is getting paint on those white sheets I just cleaned."

His paintbrush splays across the canvas, swirling lines of blue against the bottom half. I can see the reference picture pulled up on his phone, but it doesn't make it any less of a surprise to see what flair he'll add to it.

"I keep telling you that you don't have to do that. I can clean my own sheets, and get my extra linens, and whatever else. Got it?" He waves the paintbrush at me. "Stop cleaning up after me. It makes me feel like you're doing too much."

"Not happening. I have to do my job. And, anyway, you don't have a key to the laundry room."

I feel the ripple of his muscles through his shirt. I catch the tint of yellow bruises against his back—I noticed them earlier, too—tiny smudges of irritated pink skin that are too far down to be self-inflicted. Slightly underneath his shoulder blade, he has a jaded scar. When I linger my touch over it, the hair on his arms raises. Like we both know I can't fix it—but that maybe for a few seconds, we can have some respite.

"Seems like the solution to this problem would be to give me the key," he taunts.

"You don't want to do that. The moment you offer to help at the hotel—"

He sets the brush down and turns halfway towards me. "I want to help at the hotel. I've been staying here for free for a while. At least try to let me make it up to you."

I shake my head, lowering my head next to his. He hooks his arms around my waist and laughs as our lips connect. If this is his idea of a distraction, it's working. I can't help but picture how much better working the night shift would be if I had Evan to keep me company.

"If you want to, you can. I won't stop you. I just don't think you have to make it up. It wasn't about that. I didn't let you stay because I wanted you to pay it back. You needed a place to go, and really, if you hadn't left that apartment yourself, I would have kidnapped you. It wasn't safe there."

He chuckles and guides my hands to his sides. "Kidnapped?"

"Okay, maybe that's not the right word. I didn't want to say saved."

He must be reading my mind, since he says, "You have a thing about being saved."

"It's not a thing." My lips press into a thin line, recalling the last time I said those words to him.

Evan seems to recognize it as he smirks and tilts my chin upwards, kissing it with a tenderness that makes me relax woozily into his arms. His leg interlocks with mine, sending shivers down my spine.

"Is it such a bad thing if we save each other?" he whispers.

I smile up at him, tangling a hand through his hair. "No, just a reckless thing. It implies that we need to be saved by someone other than ourselves. I don't like being two halves of one whole, either. It's romantic, maybe, but..."

He lets me trail off. "I'm saving myself, then. Literally, metaphorically... in just about every sense?"

"Very funny." I lean into him, and he kisses me, his lips against mine. His hands on my chest. His body searching every inch of mine.

When his lips graze my cheek and he breathes, he says, "Not a joke, Pierre."

He returns to painting, handing me a brush to help him. I don't bother reminding him how terrible my art skills are, and instead opt to drag the brush across his cheek.

"What are you—"

I grin, doodling a star around the indent of his dimples. He chuckles and tries to redirect me back to the canvas, but it doesn't work. A chuckle pulses out of him, and he raises his knuckle to swipe across his face.

"Don't touch it," I warn, glaring at him with all the playful seriousness I can muster.

He points back to the watercolour palette. "You're supposed to be helping me with this, you know. I didn't think the canvas would be this big."

"Yeah, big. That's the word."

"Would you shut up!" Evan replies, his cheeks flaring pink. His hand lowers, and he outlines the trees around the border. "Here I am, trying to be sweet and adorable, and you decide now is the perfect time to be bold."

I have to suppress my smile. "You are sweet and adorable, sunshine."

He gives in, knocking his shoulder against mine. The softness in his eyes tells me he's only pretending to be annoyed with me. "Oh, my god! Pet names are my thing!"

"Since when?" I tease, picking up the paintbrush. A splotch of olive green falls onto the canvas and layers over the bubble of water he places for me. The colour spreads in concentric circles and twirls like a ribbon. "I'm pretty sure I recall that you couldn't come up with a name for me."

"It doesn't mean I'm not trying," he says with a huff.

We work in silence. He doesn't seem to mind when I mess up the colours and shows me how to mix the colours properly. His hand covers mine as he shows me the brushstrokes. By now, his version of the painting in the lobby is one-quarter filled. Contrary to that painting, which is practically a replica of the town, Evan adds shrubbery where it isn't supposed to be, and scatters buildings alongside the train tracks.

He glances at me sidelong and inscribes a figure on the sidewalk. It is not at the centre-stage, but somewhere in the shuffle of faces. At a single glance, I almost don't notice that it's me.

But it is. I'm heading towards the far left corner, dodging into the sidewalk. I'm carrying a clear umbrella stained with rain, extending it over the head of the person to my side. The second figure's hair is coloured lavender, and their shoes are a vibrant red.

My eyes scan the different faceless shadows; sometimes, he uses the people from the original and sometimes supplies his own. The other students of North High earn their place in the shuffle, one by one.

I press a kiss into the crook of his neck when he isn't paying attention. Flecks of paint blot onto his clothes and appear on my sleeves.

"Have you heard about scholarships?" he asks as he takes a break to stretch.

"Ah, I... I'm procrastinating." I shrug like it doesn't matter, but we both know I don't qualify for student loans. "I'm going to apply, but not right now."

He sighs. "You want to go, right?"

Are you looking forward to the future? The question chases me like a storm cloud, ready to split open and bleed with thunder.

When I try, I can't imagine the future; I can imagine it happening, but the specifics elude me. The future is like the blank pages of my journal.

And my latest entry read something like this:

Pierre du futur,

You did not miss out on anything. Senior year has been a whirlwind and will probably continue to be until it ends. It's nothing like I expected it would be.

I told Evan that I didn't know what time it was. I know, however, how many days are left in his countdown, and I wonder if this explains why I keep dreaming of waking up. I keep dreaming of losing time.

To Pierre of the past, let it be a good dream.

To Pierre of the future, let me know.

I say, "Of course, I want to go. I'm just... I'm not used to so much change."

"Change," Evan replies, "is all I have to look forward to. Like a caterpillar going into its cocoon, or something like that... do they even remember what happened to them before?"

"I think so. It's not a fact from my blog, but I feel like I've read that butterflies can remember to avoid certain scents associated with shocks somewhere, if exposed when they were young," I say. "And, I mean, the metamorphosis reorganizes the nervous system, so... that's kind of impressive."

A smile spreads across Evan's face. "Yeah, that." He pauses, deep in thought. "Papillon! That's your nickname!"

"That's... really sappy, but in an adorable kind of way."

He grabs my hands and his fingers weave through mine as if mimicking the wings of a butterfly.

My gaze strays down to it, and my heart thuds like the melody of a rainstorm. I can't take my eyes off myself, standing like that, preserved in history. That is what he must imagine my future will look like.

At the end of his countdown, he's going to leave. He belongs off the edge of the canvas, somewhere in the vast white pages of the universe beyond this town. But I will always belong here.