“not at all, mi vida. i’m suggesting that you can trust me with whatever is clouding those beautiful eyes…” he knew how to spoke to make himself sound dramatic, charming, just like those men from telenovelas he grew up watching, except he had to say them in english. which every now and then sounded more ridiculous than not. either way, if his intention was to make tate feel better, he would either charm them or make them laugh in that very moment. “so what if i do? it’s not a crime, is it? and i’m not a bad person to be obsessed with. i’m pretty hot,” he winked at tate, laughing softly as he rested his chin on their shoulder. perhaps he was invading tate’s personal space, but there was not a single sign that tate did not like to be invaded like this. he tried to keep his voice soft, just a whisper. even the tv was louder than his speaking, but suddenly they were inside their little bubble that nothing in the world could pierce. comfort, river thought. this was exactly what it was.
river thought about getting all playful when tate started speaking. something had happened, it sounded like the beginning of a great night, but the distant look in their eyes and the strength of their hold on his hand weren’t exactly promising. river bit his tongue, kept himself from saying anything and just nodded ever so slightly, trying to encourage tate to go on. he had given them the space. river smiled for a second. the way tate spoke did it for him, he was so undeniably themself. he couldn’t even envy it, he appreciated it, but as the other kept going, a frown was drown on river’s forehead- he was clutching to tate’s hand with just as much strength. river knew what tate was talking about- that sensation of being but not being- it was the reason why he got high in the first place. for a moment, river saw his own images, the vivid scene that played behind his eyes of her mother falling off that train, but it was not about him.
river forced himself to look into tate’s eyes, even if the other wasn’t looking. he looked down at their hands at the mention of blood- he was terrified, not of them, but of the things they had to re-live that he could not take away. river was not the kind of person to ask questions- he believed firmly that the past shaped the person of the present, and that’s enough to know a person. he didn’t like to speak about the things he had seen, or the things he had done before- so he didn’t force them out of people, but sometimes he wished he could. so they could share their burdens with river, so his friends didn’t have to carry their load on their own, when river had pretty broad shoulders to help out. river looked at him and sighed, laughing a little as he shook his head. “no- no, come here,” he wrapped an arm around their head and pulled it towards him, so now tate was resting against his chest. “you’re not broken- and… you’re not possessed. just… maybe a tiny bit crazy, but that’s got nothing to do with what you… felt, or… or saw.” river kissed the top of their head. “can i ask- you can totally plead the fifth, or– send me to hell, or whatever- are those- were those memories?” he asked softly, delicately, as if his words could make a bomb go off. it was the last thing he wanted, he just wanted tate to feel supported. like they had somebody to trust and cling from if they needed to.
vulnerability is a luxury they don’t feel like they can afford, not because they’re chronically distant and emotionally constipated, but because they simply don’t want to. vulnerability is what breaks the illusion, takes one out of the carefully constructed spectacle that is their whole persona. vulnerability equals reality, and reality is something they’ve learned to resent, worked hard on distancing themself from until they’ve perfected a version of their own. only a selected few will ever get to peek behind the curtain of the vanity project that is tate thatcher. they’re the people he knows he can trust, the people who hold a special place in his selfish little heart, the people who when he says ‘i love you’ to, he genuinely means it. river, for the longest time, has been one of them. it’s not even a crush, nor anything strictly superficial. it’s not about the drugs, or the little kisses, or the fact the other pretty much looks like a supermodel from another dimension. it’s not about attraction, it’s not about romance, it’s not about sex. it’s something much deeper than that, something more convoluted, something personal. it’s about the way the other makes them feel: safe. secure. like they finally belong. tate cherishes it, holds it close to their heart, almost the same way they’re clutching onto the other’s hand in this very moment.
the absolute lack of judgement in the man’s eyes after hearing the confessions that would make any normal person look at them like a madman is enough to set off an unwarranted bomb of emotions. it washes over them faster than they could ever get onto their knees for an attractive gentleman, and before they even get the chance to react, they’re doing the one thing they’ve tried so hard to avoid: fucking crying. luckily, it’s mostly quiet. no pathetic sobbing, no hysteria, just silent tears pouring down their cheeks like beer onto the carpet after your sober friend specifically told you to be careful with the glass. it lasts about three whole seconds before they start desperately wiping their face with the back of their hand, a part of them hoping the other didn’t notice.. which, let’s be honest, is highly unlikely.
when the man pulls them closer, tate wastes no time before wrapping their arms around him, side of their face now buried in his chest. it’s like a whirlwind of emotions, everything happening at once. the tears keep streaming, persistent, soaking into the material of the other’s shirt, but the words are enough to make them chuckle. “it’s just my personality disorders.” squeezes in a little joke, figuring it might take the attention off of the fact he just exposed himself as an emotional wreck. but at this point, he’s got nothing to lose, no holding back, so when river asks, all they can do is tell the truth while trying not to embarrass themself even further. “yeah.” manages, matter-of-factly. “just.. a bunch of stuff i, like, tried to repress, i guess? like, i am over it, i swear i am, but... i don’t know. like, i never think about my father. i don’t believe he deserves to be thought of, so i just don’t. and it’s fine. i’m fine. like, i always thought i was at peace with it.. and- and that’s why it’s so weird, you know? that out of sudden.. i just see him- he’s standing there, and i’m looking him in the eye, and i’m.. feeling all these things that i haven’t felt in years. suddenly i’m fucking terrified and i’m shaking, like- like this helpless little boy, which i’m not. i’m not.” takes a deep breath, trying to regain some composure. “it’s like some... external force looked down at me and thought ‘he’s too powerful’, so they split my brain with their grimy little spirit-fingers and planted these images to, like, knock me down a peg.” sniffles, fingers tangling into the other’s shirt. “god-” lets out a weak sigh. "the underworld is fucking jealous of me, river.” a reasonable conclusion followed by a moment of silence as they take a second to gather their thoughts. hand moves up to wipe their face before falling back onto river’s chest, followed by a shaky exhale. “alright... i think i’m done being ugly now. tell me something fun. or traumatic. your call.”
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