Elias threw the deadbolt anyway, leaned his forehead to the wood, and let out a breath that felt like it took half his ribs with it.
"Great," he muttered to the empty room. "Rescued by Mafia Batman. Iconic."
He peeled himself off the door and paced a tight room. It smelled like detergent and ugh him. He cracked the window and stuck his head out for a lungful of night, then yanked it shut when a siren wailed three blocks over.
The suppressants sat on the bed where he had put it. Silver blister pack. Stabilizes cycles. Reduces symptoms. No guarantees your life won't be a mess. Ugh, he hated drugs. He filled a glass, tore the foil with his teeth, and swallowed two pills with water.
"Please work fast." he rasped
They did not work fast.
The first cramp came like a cold hand twisting low in his belly. Elias doubled over at the edge of the bed and fell to his knees on the floor, both palms clenching on the bedsheet, breath stuttering. "Okay. Wow. That's… strong." The second wave built heat on top of pain. He felt something trickle down his ass. What the...? Was that the slick thing? Slick dampened his underwear, humiliating and undeniable. He made a sound that was half laugh, half plea.
He shuffled on the bed and collapsed, curling around a pillow. The cheap linen rasped his cheek; the pillowcase smelled faintly of detergent and, God help him, pine. His thighs trembled. Another cramp knifed through, lighting up need where there should've been nothing. He bit down on the pillow edge and rode it out, eyes wet. Fuck, he was so hard.
Don't think about him, he told himself. His brain queued a slideshow of Cassian anyway: the weight of an arm shielding his head, the afterimage of dark eyes, the low murmur of "Come." His cock twitched at the thought.
"Absolutely not," he hissed at the ceiling. "We are not doing this."
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He flinched and grabbed it like a lifeline.
Mom.
A tiny, stupid relief uncorked in his chest. Warmth prickled his eyes. Okay. Okay. This is good. She'll say 'Hey, Love,' ask if I ate, tell me not to catastrophize. She'll make a joke about graduation gowns and send a photo of Dad pretending to iron. He swiped to answer.
"…Hello?" he said, voice rough.
"Elias." The voice on the other end was familiar but there was no warmth in it. No fond lilt. No nickname. Just a flat assessment: Elias.
He blinked at the wall. "Mom?"
A short exhale. Not a laugh. "I've been trying to reach you. You never pick up. I don't have time for your ghosting."
His stomach pitched. Not her. He swallowed. "I—sorry. I've been… work has been…"
"Spare me the excuses," she cut in, brisk. "My landlord is on me again. You could transfer something. Two hundred would help. Three would be better."
The cramp that hit then was pure cruelty. He curled tighter, one arm wrapped around his middle. "I—I don't really have—"
"You always say that." The cool impatience sharpened. "You're not a child, Elias. You can contribute for once. I did everything for you. I raised you, ungrateful boy. Is this because I gave the loansharks your contact and previous address?"
His gaze snagged on the corkboard across the room: Call Mom (or don't. Not your problem anymore?) Fuck, he should not have answered the call.
He tried again, softer. "I'm—Mom, I'm not feeling well. Can we talk tomorrow?"
A pause. "If you don't want to help, just say that."
"I—" His throat closed. He heard himself from far away: "Okay. I'll… I'll send what I can."
"Mmh. Do it tonight. Don't make me find you." A click, and the line went dead.
For a second, he held the phone to his ear like maybe the universe would rewind and give him the right mother. It didn't. He lowered the phone and stared at the black screen until his own face dimly stared back; eyes glassy, mouth pinched.
He laughed once, hoarse and stupid, and then the laugh broke and he was just breathing too fast. Another cramp rolled through, cruel and low; slick pulsed, humiliating. He curled on his side and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes until stars danced.
"Cool," he whispered into the pillow.
The suppressants made a sluggish attempt at mercy, edges of pain dulling, heat ebbing from a boil to a simmer. He stacked pillows and burrowed, building a sad little nest against the headboard because instinct didn't care about his dignity. The scent of his own skin, sharpened by stress, pushed back and forth across the room like a tide. He fought it, grabbing the clean hoodie from the bedfoot and shoving it over his pillow. He took in sharp gulps of Cassian and wondered if he could... The internet did say he could touch himself, ease the ache between his legs a bit.
His phone buzzed again. He flinched, then glared. Book Mom, round two? He flipped it over.
Kenzie.
Relief hit so fast he didn't trust it. He stared at her name like it might evaporate, then thumbed the green circle.
"Hey, crazy," Kenzie said, softly. "You alive?"
He made a noise that was almost a laugh. "Define 'alive.'"
"So, no," she decided. "Do I need to stage an intervention? I can hear you whimpering from my place. Because I have snacks."
He breathed out, shaky. "I'm fine."
"And that," she said, "is your lying voice."
Silence stretched. He didn't fill it. A radiator somewhere clanked. Finally he said, small, "It hurts."
Kenzie didn't rush in with platitudes. She exhaled, a soft okay, I hear you. "Suppressants?"
He swallowed. "I took suppressants. They're… helping. Maybe."
"Good. Open the door. I'm coming over."
"I don't think I can stand."
"Hurry up."
He struggled but he reached the door, opening it and breathing in her buttercream scent. It was sweet and he wanted to bury his face in her. She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him in, closing the door behind her. She tucked him back in bed, patting the top of his head and cheek. Then she turned to the kitchen and filled a cup of water. Once she had him drinking water, she opened the curtains and rummaged through his wardrobe.
Cool night brushed his face. "What are you looking for?"
"Toys."
"I'm sorry, what?" Heat filled his cheeks.
"You should have a dildo or vibrator somewhere here."
He shot up from the bed. "Okay. I think you should go."
She sat back, a box in her hand. "Okay, I found it."
Elias' eyes bulged at the careful wrapped sex toys and pornographic materials in the box. So book Elias is a little freaky. He would not be putting that anywhere near his body.
He closed his eyes. "Kenzie… Kenzie, I don't want that."
"Fine, we'll cuddle then," she added quickly, almost businesslike. "I've got soup on the pot. You want soup?"
"Um, yes." It came out sounding like a question.
"Copy that," she said, "I'll be back in a bit. You really should consider using the toys."
He gave a full body shudder and waved her off.
"Hey, Elias?"
"Yeah?"
"It's okay to feel embarrassed about this," she said simply. "I'm glad you let me comfort you during your first heat. You usually put me at arms' length."
He didn't trust his voice, so he pressed his mouth to the sleeve of the hoodie and nodded like she could see it. "Thanks," he managed.
She left. The room fell back into the soft hum of plumbing and far traffic. He could her moving about in her kitchen next door. Elias propped a second pillow beneath his lower back and slid down until the weight pressed right where the ache lived. The suppressants kept chewing at the edges of the heat; the cramps spaced themselves out. He breathed with them. In four, out six. (He refused to admit it helped.)
His mind wandered where he didn't want it to: the snap of a tackle, the slap of metal on pavement, Cassian's forearm braced between his skull and the ground. You can go now, he'd said, because he was an idiot who loved pushing away the exact thing that might make him feel safer.
Maybe if he did touch himself...
Elias yanked the blanket over his head and exhaled into the muffled dark until the thoughts thinned. The last thing he felt before sleep took him was the faint throb of pain easing under the weighted press of pillows, and the lingering, infuriating echo of pine smoke in his lungs.
He woke once at seven and found his hands in his pants. He took his hand away with a grimace, took another suppressant per the label, drank lukewarm water, and texted Kenzie a single word: Alive.
A typing bubble popped up, then: I left soup for you outside your door this morning. Heat it up.
He smiled, loving the comfort he drew from his odd floormate and co-worker.