EVEREST
Ever watched the little acorn emerge from the folds of silk, glass catching the lamplight in soft greens and golds. Something in his chest tightened—habit, preparation for disappointment—but Mateo’s words filtered through, precise, unmistakable: Takes away all your anxiety.
He drew in a slow, deliberate breath. The air felt sharp at the top of his lungs, but he didn’t flinch. Carefully—thumb and forefinger exactly opposite—he lifted the acorn from Mateo’s palm. The glass was cool, smooth; there was a faint hum beneath it, like static just before a storm.
The effect was immediate and astonishingly gentle.
The constant, invisible weight behind his sternum—that low‑grade pressure he’d carried for as long as he could remember—eased back. It was not erased, but siphoned away, as though a valve had opened and let the air hiss out of a sealed chamber. His shoulders settled a fraction lower. The buzz at the base of his skull dimmed to a tolerable thrum.
He became aware of the lamp’s glow on Mateo’s cheek, the faint sweetness of cherries and honey in the air—details, not threats. For the first time in months he realized he was breathing through his nose and not counting.
Slowly, Ever lifted his gaze. It reached Mateo’s eyes—didn’t skitter away—held there. "Mateo," he said, voice steadier than he expected. "It’s… quieter." He flexed his free hand, testing. No tremor. The familiar compulsion to check the door latch, straighten a picture frame—still there, a structural part of him—but no longer driven by panic. Simply there.
He exhaled, a soft, almost disbelieving sound. "Thank you." The words came easily, without the usual choke of uncertainty. His thumb traced the acorn’s curve once before he stepped to the small desk against the wall, retrieving a velvet‑lined box. "I’ll suspend it in resin in the morning," he promised, already tucking the delicate charm inside its temporary cradle.
Closing the lid, he turned back, allowing himself another brief, direct look at Mateo—dimples mirrored faintly in his own tentative smile. "Stay awhile? Now that I can actually make conversation again?" A beat of wry humour slipped through, genuine, light. "There’s tea, or—" his brows lifted in something like mischief—"we could open the good Torchline rum you hid in my cabinet last Longheat and pretend it’s not the middle of the night."
He drew in a slow, deliberate breath. The air felt sharp at the top of his lungs, but he didn’t flinch. Carefully—thumb and forefinger exactly opposite—he lifted the acorn from Mateo’s palm. The glass was cool, smooth; there was a faint hum beneath it, like static just before a storm.
The effect was immediate and astonishingly gentle.
The constant, invisible weight behind his sternum—that low‑grade pressure he’d carried for as long as he could remember—eased back. It was not erased, but siphoned away, as though a valve had opened and let the air hiss out of a sealed chamber. His shoulders settled a fraction lower. The buzz at the base of his skull dimmed to a tolerable thrum.
He became aware of the lamp’s glow on Mateo’s cheek, the faint sweetness of cherries and honey in the air—details, not threats. For the first time in months he realized he was breathing through his nose and not counting.
Slowly, Ever lifted his gaze. It reached Mateo’s eyes—didn’t skitter away—held there. "Mateo," he said, voice steadier than he expected. "It’s… quieter." He flexed his free hand, testing. No tremor. The familiar compulsion to check the door latch, straighten a picture frame—still there, a structural part of him—but no longer driven by panic. Simply there.
He exhaled, a soft, almost disbelieving sound. "Thank you." The words came easily, without the usual choke of uncertainty. His thumb traced the acorn’s curve once before he stepped to the small desk against the wall, retrieving a velvet‑lined box. "I’ll suspend it in resin in the morning," he promised, already tucking the delicate charm inside its temporary cradle.
Closing the lid, he turned back, allowing himself another brief, direct look at Mateo—dimples mirrored faintly in his own tentative smile. "Stay awhile? Now that I can actually make conversation again?" A beat of wry humour slipped through, genuine, light. "There’s tea, or—" his brows lifted in something like mischief—"we could open the good Torchline rum you hid in my cabinet last Longheat and pretend it’s not the middle of the night."
Oh I'm just a house of stones
Somebody hold me steady
Somebody hold me steady
Code stolen from Queen Sky
