Silence

I've crossed the room and am shutting the door behind me when he finally says "Mike," but I don't want to hear the rest of it. I turn the fan on, for the white noise, then sit down on the toilet, though I don't actually have to pee, and cover my face with my hands, wondering what in the nine realms just happened. I feel disgusting, with sweat dried on my skin, the insides of my thighs all sticky, and my heartbeat going crazy. Tears start to flood down my face again, though I'm not sure if they're prompted by fear, regret at the night's events, or shame at having enjoyed it.

When I'm sobbed out, that post-crying dehydration headache already building in my temples, I stand up and turn the shower on, stepping under the stream before it has a chance to heat up. The frigid water pounding against the back of my head drags me back to my senses, and when it begins to warm, I turn the temperature down. I let the water run through my hair and over my shoulders for a while, reveling in the way my limbs go cold and numb, trying to ignore the sting of the welts on my left leg and hip.

I finally feel like I've got myself under control, so I start to shampoo the hair nearest my scalp, rinsing the lather through the rest of it, then glob conditioner on my palms to work through the knots populating the bottom two thirds. It's quiet work, and my mind wanders to the sensation of Liam's hand on my throat, his mouth against mine. How it felt when I finally let go, and he was supporting me completely. Looking down, I see my nipples have hardened again, though I tell myself it's just the cold water. I don't want to be the kind of person who would enjoy what happened tonight. But, I'm not sure I have a choice. I drag a soapy washcloth over my arms, the back of my neck, gentle near the myriad bruises rising on my skin. When it passes under my breasts, I'm reminded of him pressing the air from my lungs with a hand on my ribs. The illicit weight of it. Everything feels better when you can't breathe.

Almost twenty minutes later, clean and thoroughly frozen, I step out of the shower, stopping to stare at myself in the mirror. I look like a different person. Instead of the freckles being the most noticeable part of my face, they are overshadowed by bruising along my jaw, which in turn pales in comparison to the literal hand print over my throat, and the matching ones at the top of each arm. More purpling marks decorate the left side of my ribcage and both my hips, and red lines are visible crossing my stomach and the top of my left thigh. Turning to the side, the rest of the lash marks come into view, mostly just welts, but one actual laceration, already partially scabbed over. I look like someone beat the shit out of me. Which, I guess, he did.

Surprisingly, I'm not angry. In fact, I don't feel much of anything, just a kind of vague anxiety at the thought of leaving the house looking like this. But beyond that, nothing. I press my fingers into my temples, trying to massage away the growing headache, watching this movement in the mirror. Bruising circles my wrists as well, already sore, and makes my hands look strangely weak. Too tired to make a difference.

I wring out my dripping hair, then wrap the mass in a towel, the weight of it dragging my head backwards, and pull another cloth over my limbs and torso, collecting water, before letting it fall to the floor. Just breathe. I open the door, noticing immediately that he's changed the duvet cover to one not polluted with bodily fluids, and the carvings on the headboard show flowers again. It's almost like nothing happened, like I didn't just let Liam hit me, like I didn't just have the most intense orgasm of my life. Now, he's the one staring at the marks covering my body, not particularly regretful, but also not happy, or aroused, or anything. Just looking. My gaze meets his, a flush rising to my cheeks at the intensity of concentration evident in his expression, and I avert my eyes, turning to the dresser to find clean pajamas.

His footsteps are audible, crossing the room towards me, but I don't turn back, even when he sets his hands on my shoulders, and I can feel his breath against the side of my face. "Mike." My hands pause in rummaging through the drawer, and he pulls me closer to him, chest against my back. "What's going on?"

I lean away. "Don't, you're all sweaty." He laughs, gentle, and I go back to hunting for pajamas in the overflowing dresser. "Go take a shower."

Not taking his hands from my shoulders, he breathes "Are you alright?" against my hair, before touching his lips to the skin behind my ear, prompting tingling to flare over that side of my neck.

"You need a shower, and I need a minute, so." I pull the collar of the t-shirt I just found, which I think is actually his, but who cares, around my towel covered head, sliding my arms through the sleeves, and tug it down over my chest and back, prompting him to move his hands away.

"Okay." I can hear the smile in his voice as he steps back, then the mechanical click as the bathroom door shuts behind him.

As he turns the fan on, and then the water, I realize how perfectly audible everything that happens in there is from the bedroom. I'm sure he heard me crying, even my quiet gasp when I stepped under the cold stream, but I can't tell if I'm embarrassed or not. What is there to hide anymore? There don't seem to be sweatpants or pajama bottoms of any kind in the dresser, so I just step into underwear instead. Not that it really matters. I'm not sure this strange, exposed feeling would go away even if I put on every article of clothing in the apartment.

I unwind the towel from my hair, though the bottom is still fairly wet, and I can feel moisture bleeding into my shirt, then open the bathroom door to hang the sodden thing on a hook. Catching sight of Liam in the shower, I pause, taking in how his hands are pressed to the wall, and his neck is bent, eyes squeezed shut, letting the water hit the back of his head and run down his face. He's got the tap set to cold too, though he already seems used to it, and appears not to notice as I exit, closing the door as quietly as I can.

Leaning against the wall, I start braiding half my hair, just something simple so it'll dry in even waves. That expression on his face, as the water streamed over him. Empty. It looked exactly how I feel now, like it's quiet in my head. My body is quiet. Maybe this is the point. Maybe the climax is just gravy, and he craves this because of the silence that comes after. I switch to the other side, not tying off the end of the first. It can manage itself. My wrists are tired from trying to hold my torso up earlier, and they begin to ache as I near the end of the second braid. I think I want some ice. Going to the kitchen seems like a lot of effort, though, so I crawl into my side of the bed instead, pulling the duvet up to my throat as I lie on my back. I'm not sure I'll ever look at this patch of ceiling the same way again. "Lights."

By the time Liam emerges from the bathroom and steps into clean boxer shorts, I'm curled up on my side, facing the middle of the bed, with my eyes closed. I've been half drifting off to sleep, lazily focused on the burning stretching over my left leg where the welts rub against the sheets. He crawls under the covers next to me, touching my cheek with two fingers. "You awake?"

I blink my eyes open, stifling a yawn with one hand over my mouth. "Kind of."

He reaches to cover his answering yawn, then tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear, leaving his palm cupped over the side of my face. "Can I get you anything?"

I flex my wrists surreptitiously, hiding the motion under the sheets. "Maybe an ice pack?"

"Sure." He kisses me, quick and gentle, then gets up, presumably heading for the kitchen. That's nice of him.

While he's gone, I think about what I want out of the rest of this situation. Whether I want this to happen again. What the hell I'm supposed to wear to lunch with Francesca tomorrow that will cover all the bruises, and also not give me heatstroke. By the time he returns, carrying an ice pack and what looks, in the dark, like a shot glass, I don't feel much closer to answers. "Hey."

He sits down next to me, careful not to spill. "Sit up for a second." I do, and he presses a pill and then the drink into my hand, guiding the edge of the glass to my lips. "Your anxiety meds."

I tip it back, then swallow the pill.

"You want this now?" He takes the glass back, setting it on his nightstand, and holds the ice pack out to me.

I take it, lying down again, before pressing it between my wrists. It's freezing, but the cold seeps into my bruised skin, slowly numbing me to the residual pain of his grip. "Thanks."

There's a pause, and then his voice breaks the darkness, all quiet surety. "It's fine if you don't know, but did you get the chance to sort your thoughts out? Are we doing this again?" Are we doing this again. I almost don't know, but the thought of losing the opportunity to feel like this makes my stomach drop.

I don't tell him he should have listened to the safe word, even if he thought my reasoning wasn't valid. I don't tell him I'd rather not end up with quite so many bruises, especially ones in hard to cover spots. I don't ask if he's been saving that kind of penetration to persuade me his control is worthwhile. Because, honestly, the sex was so good. And this feeling now, like what's between us is the only thing that matters, the absence of my regular thoughts and memories. Silence. I'm not ready to give up the possibility of experiencing this kind of silence. We can talk about the other stuff later. But for now, "Yes. We're doing this again."