One More Breath

“You’re just… leaving?” Joey’s voice was too quiet, almost a hum against the insistent whine of the old refrigerator. The kitchen air, thick with summer heat and the ghost of last night’s burnt toast, pressed in on Martin. His hands fumbled with the flaps of a cardboard box, the cheap tape resisting, then tearing with a sharp rip.

Martin didn't look up. He couldn’t. "What else am I supposed to do, Joey?" He tried to make his own voice sound steady, but it scraped against the humidity, a little thin around the edges. He could feel Joey, though. The heat emanating from him, the way the air seemed to compress around his tall frame, even across the small space of the galley kitchen. It was like standing too close to a boiler, a constant, radiating presence.

A beat of silence stretched, made longer by the fridge’s persistent drone. Martin bent, jamming an old, chipped mug into the box. His back screamed at him. Maybe it was just his nerves, the way his muscles locked up every time Joey was in the room, but it felt like a real ache, right between his shoulder blades, a persistent knot.

“You could stay,” Joey offered, the words soft, almost a suggestion, but they landed on Martin like heavy stones. He finally lifted his head, just a fraction, eyes darting to the worn linoleum before snapping up. Joey was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. His dark hair, usually messy, was pulled back, exposing the clean line of his jaw. He looked… unfairly good, even now, in the wilting heat.

Martin’s breath hitched. Not because of the heat, not entirely. It was the way Joey’s eyes, a startling shade of green, drilled into him, unblinking. Like he was seeing through the mug, through the box, straight into the chaotic mess Martin’s insides had become. Martin felt a flush creep up his neck, a hot, shameful wave. He hated that Joey could still do that, could still unravel him with a glance.

“We talked about this.” Martin’s voice was rougher now. He gripped the edge of the box, the cardboard digging into his palms. “It’s… not working. Hasn’t been for a while.”

Joey slowly pushed off the doorframe, taking a single, unhurried step into the kitchen. The room, already small, seemed to shrink further. Martin instinctively took a step back, bumping against the counter, sending a glass clattering slightly. The sound was too loud in the quiet. He felt a ridiculous urge to apologize, to smooth things over, even though he was the one leaving.

“Hasn’t been for a while for you,” Joey corrected, his tone still even, maddeningly calm. “I was fine. I am fine. We are fine.” He took another step, closer still. The scent of him—something clean, like fresh laundry and a faint hint of cedar, something so uniquely Joey—drifted over, wrapping around Martin, making his head feel light. It was a good smell, a comforting smell, a dangerous smell.

Martin felt his pulse quicken, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He felt the cold pressure of the countertop against his lower back. He swallowed hard. “No, we’re not. And I… I need space. I need to figure things out for myself.” He gestured vaguely at the box, at the half-packed chaos of his life, a flimsy excuse for the real, deeper ache of needing to escape Joey's gravitational pull.

Joey stopped barely a foot away. Close enough that Martin could see the tiny flecks of gold in his green eyes, close enough that he felt the warmth of Joey's body without any actual touch. It was a form of skinship all its own, this charged proximity. “Figure things out?” Joey tilted his head, a gesture that usually meant he found something amusing. Now, it just felt predatory. “What exactly is there to figure out, Martin? We’re good together. Everyone says so.”

Martin clenched his jaw. That was always Joey's trump card. Everyone said so. And for a long time, Martin had believed it, had let that collective approval smother the tiny, insistent voice in his own head. But that voice had grown louder, a screaming siren that now drowned out everything else. He was a modern man, twenty-two, still figuring out what he wanted to do after college, working at a coffee shop, and Joey… Joey was just there, always, a constant, beautiful, consuming fact of his existence.

“I’m not… I’m not talking about what everyone says,” Martin said, forcing the words out. His hand trembled slightly, but he tried to hide it by reaching for another piece of tape, pulling it too quickly, making a loud, grating sound. “I’m talking about me. About… what I want.”

Joey watched his hands. His gaze was so focused, so intense, it made Martin’s fingers feel clumsy, oversized. “And what do you want, Martin?” The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded. It wasn’t a casual inquiry. It was a challenge. A demand. Joey’s eyes flickered from Martin’s trembling hands, up his arm, settling once again on his face, burning.

Martin swallowed, the dryness in his throat sudden and absolute. He wanted to say, 'I want to breathe on my own.' He wanted to say, 'I want to make a choice that isn't influenced by your unwavering belief in us.' But the words caught, a physical impediment in his windpipe. He felt a desperate urge to run, to push past Joey and sprint out into the humid summer night, where at least the air felt thinner, less suffocating.

“I want…” Martin started, then faltered. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, a fleeting surrender. When he opened them, Joey was still there, unmoving, eyes still fixed on him. “I need… space, Joey. Real space. Not just… a different room in the same apartment. I need to live alone for a bit. See what that feels like.”

Joey's perfect lips thinned. The small, predatory smile vanished, replaced by something colder, sharper. “Live alone. You mean, without me.” It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, etched in stone. He took another step, closing the distance completely. Martin was backed against the counter now, nowhere to go. The heat from Joey was undeniable, a physical force. His arm, still crossed, brushed Martin’s shoulder, a light, unintentional touch that still sent a jolt down Martin’s spine, a spark of familiar, electric discomfort.

Martin shivered, despite the oppressive heat. He could feel Joey’s breath, warm and soft against his cheek. It smelled like mint. He closed his eyes again, just for a moment, wishing for an escape hatch. This wasn't how he'd imagined it. He'd imagined a quick, clean break, a polite goodbye. Not this. Not this suffocating intimacy, this quiet, insistent battle.

“Martin.” Joey’s voice was a low rumble now, vibrating through Martin’s chest, through the shared space. His free hand, the one not crossed over his chest, slowly reached out. Martin’s eyes snapped open, watching the movement, mesmerized, terrified. Joey’s fingers, long and elegant, brushed Martin’s cheek, then settled gently against his jawline. His thumb stroked lightly, a possessive, tender gesture that made Martin’s entire body lock up. It was a touch that had once brought him so much comfort, now it felt like a brand, marking him, claiming him.

“You don’t want to leave,” Joey whispered, his gaze intense, searching. “You just think you do. Because someone put the idea in your head, didn’t they? That you’re not strong enough to be with me. That I’m… too much.” His voice dropped, became almost mournful. But there was a glint in his eye, a flicker of something calculating, something that made Martin’s stomach clench.

Martin flinched at the implied accusation. He pushed his own hand up, hesitantly, to grasp Joey’s wrist, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't. His fingers felt weak, useless. “No one put anything in my head, Joey. This is… this is me. I just need… I need to grow. And I can’t, not like this. Not when…” He trailed off, unable to articulate the full, heavy truth: Not when you consume all the air in the room.

Joey’s fingers tightened slightly on Martin’s jaw, a gentle pressure that wasn’t painful, but was undeniably a hold. “You think leaving me will help you grow?” He scoffed, a soft, disbelieving sound. “You’ll just be lost, Martin. Adrift. You’ll miss this. You’ll miss me.” His thumb stroked again, slow and hypnotic. “You always do.”

The words were a direct hit, straight to Martin’s deepest insecurity. He did get lost sometimes. He did rely on Joey for direction, for validation. Joey had always been the stronger one, the one with the plan, the one who saw things clearly. Martin was the artist, the dreamer, the one who easily got overwhelmed. It had been a comfortable dynamic, at first. A shelter. Now, it felt like a cage woven from comfortable threads.

A wave of something like despair washed over Martin. He couldn't articulate it, couldn't fight against the current of Joey's unwavering certainty. He felt his resolve, so painstakingly built, begin to fray at the edges. His gaze dropped, unable to meet Joey’s intense stare. He felt a deep, pervasive heat spread through him, not just from the summer air or Joey's proximity, but from a profound internal surrender. His body felt heavy, his limbs thick and unresponsive. He wanted to curl into himself, to disappear.

Joey took his silence as agreement, or perhaps, as resignation. He leaned in further, his other hand coming up, cupping the back of Martin’s head, pulling him gently but firmly closer. Martin’s entire body tensed, a desperate, final resistance that was already losing. He could feel the soft brush of Joey’s lips against his forehead, a light, possessive kiss. It was both a comfort and a threat.

“See?” Joey murmured, his voice a low, soothing purr against Martin’s hair. “We’re still good. Just a little misunderstanding. A bump in the road. We’ll get through it. We always do.” He held Martin there, pressed against him, a silent, unyielding anchor. The scent of him, the heat, the unwavering certainty, it all enveloped Martin, seeping into his skin, into his very bones.

Martin’s eyes were open, unfocused, staring at the chipped paint on the wall above Joey’s shoulder. He felt like a doll, limp and pliant in Joey’s arms. The box, half-packed, lay on the floor, a testament to an escape attempt that was clearly failing. The summer hum outside, the distant siren, the oppressive heat, it all seemed to fade, replaced by the thumping of his own heart, echoing Joey’s quiet, confident breathing. He could feel a single tear trace a path down his temple, not from sadness, but from a profound exhaustion, a feeling of being utterly, completely overwhelmed.

He closed his eyes again. The light pressure of Joey’s lips lingered on his skin. He didn't pull away. He couldn't. He felt a strange, dizzying mix of despair and a sickening, familiar comfort. It was a whimsical sort of dark, he thought, this perpetual cycle, this beautiful, dangerous trap. He was the bird, and Joey, the exquisitely gilded cage.

The refrigerator whirred on, a low, constant presence in the humid kitchen, a backdrop to the quiet, unfolding drama. Martin just leaned into the warmth, the pressure, feeling the last vestiges of his will to break free dissolve into the summer air. His next breath felt like it belonged to Joey, too.