Night Watch

"Michael?" Jay yelled again. Then he heard it, a slow, steady pounding coming from the bedroom. He ran inside, following the noise. It seemed to be coming from the closet. "Michael?"

Raff, Michael's counselor, had warned Jay to be cautious when approaching during moments of anxiety, because Michael might not be entirely in control of his actions. Thump, thump, thump, continued from behind the partially closed closet door. Jay eased into the opening. "Michael? Oh…Michael…"

Sitting in the dark, long legs splayed in front of him and bare feet poking out the door, was Jay's lover, rocking back and forth. The back of his head bumped the wall on every backward swing, the source of the rhythmic knocking. His eyes were tightly closed and tears streamed down his face. "Oh, Querido," Jay murmured, crawling into the cramped space. He shoved a hand behind Michael's head, protecting it from the next impact. "Don't do that. You might hurt yourself."

Michael opened one eye. Heartbreaking agony dwelled in its blue depths. His piteous pleading of, "Make it stop; please, make it stop," had Jay wishing, if only for a moment, that he'd abandoned the Hispanic family and gotten home faster. Right now he and Michael could be laughing their butts off while nestled together in a double-seat at the movies, comfortably full of Italian food. But, no, he couldn't have left that family in need, either. Why had he had to make such a choice tonight of all nights?

From outside, chaser fireworks whistled and whined. In Michael's mind they were probably morphing into missiles. His big body began to shake.

"Did you take your pills?" Even without Michael's disgusted snort Jay knew the answer was no. Michael despised what he called "my fucking weakness," the words spat with clench-teethed hatred, and taking the medication designed to control it would mean acknowledging the problem existed. They'd made such headway in the past year of therapy that Michael wanted to believe he was cured. That is, until he suffered another episode.

From all Jay had learned of post-traumatic stress disorder, "manageable" was about all they could hope for at this point. There were good days when Michael smiled and laughed, seemingly unhaunted by the past. Then there were bad days, like today. At least with therapy there were more good days than bad now.

Well, if he couldn't lead the horse to water or make it drink – or, more accurately, make it take a pill – they'd have to do this the old fashioned way. Jay would just have to talk him down. "I'll be right back," he said.