Free-Jones Apartment
New York City
United States of America
July 2121
For the first few days after his breakdown, Ansel refused to come
out of the bedroom. He stayed curled up in bed, not quite moving or making
contact with anyone, including Elena. Ansel expected that Marion told her that
his refusal to interact with the world was one of his ways to recover (despite
how shitty it was); he was simply too tired to have to explain to anyone else
why his defence mechanism was as effective as wrongly-assigned medicine.
During the next three days, he kept in bed, not really moving unless
he had to go to the bathroom or unless Elena brought him something to eat. When
he ate, he ate slowly in bed, feeding himself whatever the brunette had brought
into the room. Whenever he was not eating, he tried to sleep as much as he
could. When sleep was too much, he simply shifted in bed and stared at whatever
his eyes landed on, mind too hazy to navigate through.
Part of him felt guilt for going off and neglecting Elena while
staying under the sheets. The other part of him merely allowed itself to be
dragged down even further.
Whenever she came in to gently put the tray of food on the nearby
table, she would always sit nearby and stroke his hair for a couple of minutes.
In those minutes, Ansel felt his mind clear a little bit; her touch and her
presence pulled him away from the waters slightly to the point of him wanting
to open his mouth and talk.
But instead, he only kept to himself, staying in bed and letting her
touch his hair, his forehead. He would hear her sigh, feel her warm lips
against his forehead. After, her presence would leave the room and it felt a
little more colder than it was before she came in.
He kept to himself for days, silently eating and laying down and
constantly drifting in and out from his own thoughts. His spectacles lay on the
table, his body remained underneath the sheets and his head propped on a
pillow.
Ansel would hear Elena from outside their bedroom; she would be busy
cooking or watching TV or painting or talking to Marion on the phone. When she
had to leave for work, she would always kiss his cheek and quietly tell him
that she’d be back in a couple of hours. Ansel couldn’t do anything to make her
stay; he just stayed in bed and gave the briefest of nods.
It was one of the rare times he would acknowledge her in those three
days.
He wondered what she thought of him.
At this point, she had to know—Marion (and Kyle)
had probably told her what was wrong with him after they came by the apartment.
At the same time, Elena must have had her suspicions. She had probably thought
that something was up when she caught him in their office working tirelessly
with his fingers itchy because of caffeine. Hell, the time she discovered his
love for red wine she probably thought that there was something wrong—
He curled up even further and shut his eyes,
shivering.
All the thinking made his head hurt.
Ansel half-expected for Elena to disappear. As
horrible as it sounded, he expected himself to get up, stagger out of the room,
and quietly ask for her to come in because of his want to talk, to explain.
However, she’d be gone—she’d probably leave a note or wouldn’t leave a note,
but the apartment would be barer and colder and just as empty as he felt, and
he would know.
But Elena remained.
On the evening of the third day, Ansel staggered
out of the bedroom in his rumpled white shirt and dark maroon pajama pants,
clutching to the doorframe for support. Elena was on the couch, watching the
news, but as soon as he came out, her eyes were on him. He had barely managed a
croaky “Lena” before she was by his side, an arm wrapped around him as she
led him to their couch. “Lena,” he tried again.
“Are you hungry? Kyle stopped by a while ago
with food from Marion, she made some pasta for both of us. Your favorite.” The
smell of alfredo filled his nostrils and Ansel felt the slightest pang of
hunger for the first time in days. He managed to sit on the couch and Elena
looked at him, studying his expression before leaving to the kitchen to fetch
him (and hopefully herself, he wanted) some of the pasta the wavy-haired female
had cooked.
Ansel closed his eyes. The television was too
loud despite having a volume of twenty, the lights were too light despite it
being nighttime outside, and everything felt overwhelming; the couch was
undeniably soft and there was a mix of different smells from the food to the
faint vanilla Elena tended to spray—
“Hey, hey…” a warm pair of hands landed on his shoulders
and he jolted, eyes opening immediately and seeing her. Elena looked worried
and she tightened her grip on him slightly, “Is it too much?”
He managed out a whisper, a half-weak mutter of
“it’s too much” and she understood. Eventually the television was put to mute
and the lights were dimmed even more, if that was possible. His other senses
bugged him, but at least he could look and hear and not be overwhelmed. “Thank
you,” he said, quieter, feeling her push the bowl of food into his hands.
“Eat.”
He ate. Elena leaned her head against his
shoulder while he ate and he didn’t complain; he drank the water she left on
the coffee table and finished the meal within minutes. Elena noticed and she
attempted to get up, fetch him more food, but he reached out and grabbed ahold
of her wrist loosely.
She looked at him with a startled expression; he
looked down.
How could he ask her to stay after nearly
ignoring her those past few days? He opened his mouth but couldn’t speak, his
hand eventually falling limply to his side. There was a lump in his throat that
he couldn’t shake off. Ansel knew he was shaking again at that point; that he
was close to breaking and crying.
Eventually he felt her presence next to him; she
gently wrapped an arm around him and he sunk into her, pressing his face to her
shoulder, still shaking. “Do you want me to stay?” she whispered, rubbing his
back in circular motions.
Ansel almost forgot how it felt to have her
touch him like that—no other intentions aside from comfort and wanting to help.
“Yes,” he whispered back. “Please.”
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