Promising that Summer believed he could do this.
Even if Fox didn’t.
Even if Fox’s breaths were coming shallow and thin, his chest binding up horribly as each rapid wash of air came in and out without giving him enough oxygen, his head swimming as Summer guided him around the corner of the pool and toward the steps, the railing, leading down into the shallow end.
It was only three feet of water, if that.
It wouldn’t even come up to Fox’s waist.
He had nothing to be afraid of, he told himself.
Nothing.
But he felt sick to his stomach, as he watched Summer step backward into the pool—the water closing around his feet, his ankles, his calves, and he was so perfectly calm when Fox just wanted to snatch him back from that insidious, falsely innocuous horror before it could rise up, swallow him down, take him away—
His fingers tightened convulsively.
Stop.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly, counting to three on each inhalation before counting to five on each exhalation.
It was an indoor swimming pool. Safe. Sheltered.
Summer was fine.
Fox was fine.
But still his breaths seized, as the first cold lapping edge of water touched the tips of his toes.
He closed his eyes, and told himself it was no different from stepping into the shower, the thin skim of water accumulated on the bottom of the bathtub, something so ordinary and commonplace he never even noticed it.
But the shower was never this cold.
And the shower never made his pulse turn into a roaring river, a rushing, a horrible thing screaming in his ears until he couldn’t hear Summer, only knew he was saying something in soothing murmurs as his grip drew lightly on Fox’s hands, pulled him down, guided him down the steps as the sucking embrace of the water rose up around his calves and thighs and hips like the wet fluid mouth of the dead.
He reached the bottom step, eyes still squeezed shut, and stood there, hating how his bones shook inside his flesh, hating how everything inside him rattled and roared in a clattering cacophony of fear, all the brittle bits of himself tossed around inside his trembling shell.
So icy, clinging to him, and he couldn’t breathe, his chest caving in as he sucked desperately at the air, but the air was too thick and he couldn’t open his eyes; if he opened his eyes he would be underwater, would be staring up not at the ceiling of the annex but at the dark sky and the loveless moon receding away through black waters, and he—he—
“You’re doing fine,” Summer soothed softly. “You’re okay, Fox. You’re okay.”
He wasn’t okay.
And with a strangled sound he ripped his hands free from Summer’s, turning to claw away.
That had been a mistake, letting Summer go.
Because without those hands to ground him, he was free-floating, surrounded by water and nothing else, his arms sweeping out and hitting nothing but frigid wetness that pushed and pulled at him with the force of his own movements, reflecting it back at him.
He snapped his eyes open.
The railing, the steps, were right there.
And a thousand yards away, when he lurched forward and only went down hard, feet slipping out from beneath him.
The water rushed up to claim him.
Before strong arms wrapped around his waist, hauling him back, and pulling him against the warmth and strength of Summer’s body.
And the cold couldn’t compare to the heat of him, the solidity of him, Summer becoming Fox’s solid earth as Summer wrapped him up tight, held him, walked with him in quick steps to the edge, up, up, and the water was gone and Fox was clinging to Summer, gasping, burying his face against his damp shoulder and struggling to draw in as much air as he could possibly manage in needy heavy gasps.
“You’re safe,” Summer whispered, steady and warm in his ear. “You’re safe, Fox. I’ve got you.”
Fox let out a desperate sound, wrapping his arms around Summer, digging his fingers into his back, holding fast when he couldn’t stand being ripped away, thrust back into that floating nothingness.
He had spent years insulating himself against feeling this kind of fear.
Against feeling anything.
And he couldn’t let himself give in to that awful, cracking feeling again.
“I couldn’t,” he gasped against Summer’s skin. “I... I couldn’t...”
“That’s okay.” Long fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of Fox’s neck, subtle sweet tension grounding him to earth, nearly tugging loose the knot weighing heavy against his scalp. “You don’t have to be ready right now. You just...don’t. It’s okay to have fears you’re not ready to face. It’s okay to take your time. You still tried.” Low words, murmured against his ear, washing over him in sweet-soft waves of quiet, surrounding him in the warmth and vitality Summer exuded like a scent, slipping down inside him with steadying calm. “When you’re ready, Fox...when you’re ready.”
It felt like Summer was saying so much more.
So very much more.
As if he knew...
The thing that frightened Fox the most was Summer himself.
Summer, and the way he made it so very impossible for Fox to stop himself from feeling all these riotous and wondrous and monstrous things—the brightness that made him laugh, the exasperation that masked his affection, the way his entire body drew tight and hot every time Summer stole his daily kiss, sometimes sweet, sometimes searing, sometimes submissive, sometimes so insistently needy.
Because every last one of those feelings whispered that Fox could learn how to be happy again.
But if he dared to claim happiness, to grasp at it with all his heart...
Then it could be torn away from him again in a single crashing instant.
He didn’t know if he could face that ever again.
And he couldn’t think about it right now, couldn’t grapple with the ongoing battle between his yearning...and that dark, ugly thing inside of him that was so convinced he would lose the very thing he reached
