[IC] you and i will always be my dream

[jakob]

Brendon started seeing doctors three months ago. The first two months, he was in and out of the ICU, staying maybe three days at a time until he was stable again. One day, though, he just... didn't. I honestly blame myself, sometimes. Most of the time. I had seen the signs, I just had spent so long cracking down on Brendon's relapses and seeing him in huge depressive phases already... I couldn't put him through it when I wasn't sure. Whenever I asked, and whenever I investigated, I couldn't find bottles, and obviously never heard the truth - why would Brendon tell me when I'd always been so goddamn rough about it before? I didn't want to hurt him, thinking that he was falling back into a hole and then being wrong about it, but. When Brendon seemed to have a fifth 'cold' in two months, I had to string him along to the hospital, and I knew as soon as I saw his blood pressure during the check on vitals. Unbelievably high, even for someone in recovery, and then his heartbeat - it killed me to know how slow it was. I felt like a fucking idiot letting it go on this long. I'm so close to him everyday and it just... it passed me by, because I wanted to believe he was okay. I was selfish.

That was the worst part, really, knowing that I hadn't listened to my intuition just because I didn't want to hurt Brendon's feelings. If I could talk to my past self... it didn't matter if I upset Brendon so much that we didn't talk, or there was some strain on our relationship, it didn't matter - at least then Brendon would have a much higher likelihood of living through this. At the time I hadn't known the worst case scenario was losing the love of my goddamn life. Now, though, the doctors had said if he didn't get six months' sobriety for a transplant, he was going to die. I encouraged him all the time, we read every single fucking book on recovery and cleansing and detoxing, we had a collection of pamphlets floating around the hospital room and back at the apartment Brendon hadn't seen for a month straight, and... Brendon just couldn't do it. Maybe he could, but he didn't think so, and that's where the issue was. If he didn't try soon enough, at least make the first step, he'd be too far gone to help. It was fucking terrifying. As annoying as I knew I must be, I kept on bugging him, kept on making the push to convince him he could stay clean even if he was discharged from residential care.

Other times, though, I knew the entire reality of this situation had taken its toll on Brendon. At this point, Brendon was at least still recognizable; I had seen the consequences of this disease before and it was completely disfiguring. Brendon, though, he was jaundiced, and a little gaunt, and everything that was most lively about him was a bit intact still. We at least had that. He was thin, but not too desperately skeletal - he'd lost a good ten pounds, maybe a handful more, but he could still walk some days if no other health issue was inhibiting him. As thin and pale as his face was now, he still had that charming smile (when he was able to muster one up), and his eyes still glittered when I said just the right thing, still crinkled unevenly when he grinned too widely. And somehow, his personality was still there. He was obviously miserable, but when I was around, and not reminding him of the situation (with his best interests in mind, of course), he was almost all right. When I saw those tiny moments of him coming back to me, those tiny slivers of hope... fuck, it's like falling in love with him all over again.

I thought back to when he was okay all the time. On my nineteenth birthday, he took me to the sea, a beachfront stroll near Bristol. I barely remember the water, or the dusk sky, just him in the faint light, the light from the stars catching his gleaming smile, his contentedness contagious even though I hate birthdays and the whole charade. He was clean, then, had been for a while, and he was so healthy, probably the best he's ever been. Sitting by his bedside day after day, breaking the visiting hours restrictions because I needed to be there, I needed to, I couldn't sleep without him at home and I knew he couldn't be alone - I just went back to those kinds of times, always, always stuck in memories, reaching for a time when he was better and when there was more hope than just these tiny crumbs to live off of and when I didn't have to try so, so hard to make him remember to be happy. I missed him when he was within arm's reach. Hell, I fucking missed him when I was lying right beside him, holding him in my arms, keeping him safe when I know I really do not have that capability anymore.

I've accepted that it's out of my hands and all I can do is encourage him through it, pray he gets better when I've only ever prayed for one man before and those went unanswered. I know this place, this hospital that's way too bright and feels way too isolating, isn't good for him, so I ask. They give me two hours. Two hours, and that's probably all we'll have for a while. He's just well enough to leave, he was able to walk today during physical therapy, but there's no telling whether his health will degrade again and how quickly, so. We have to take advantage of this little piece of time where he's stable enough to go. I tell him I want to take him somewhere, and he's just weak enough not to jump at the idea of leaving, just strong enough to agree to come even though he's got no clue where.

You missed your exit, he murmurs from the passenger seat when I bypass the normal route home - and I've only taken it maybe three times since he was placed in the facility indefinitely, but I know where I'm going, just smile and keep my hand on his knee while I continue en route to the coast. Every once in a while I take it off, turn on my blinker, turn and let the wheel slide back just before letting my hand rest on his thigh again, making sure he's with me. He looks fucking beat, the seat at an easy recline, his head against the cushion and chin tilted up like he was close to falling asleep. I glance back occasionally - he's awake, watching the dimming sky out the passenger side window, eyelids at half mast and jaw set carefully. I have to remind myself that the nurses said he's all right for now, he's got time, he's with me, I don't have to turn around and take him back. He just looks so exhausted despite not having moved for days, and I'm so not used to this, I can't do this, I can't handle seeing him like this, I...

These thoughts have cut in so often that I'm used to stopping them myself, but the sight of the water ahead does that for me. I breathe out carefully, squeeze his thigh and take my eyes off the road for a second just to smile at him. "We're here," I say into the quiet, pulling into an empty lot until my front tires just graze the sand, give him less of a ways to walk. I turn off the ignition and get out, quickly round the car and open the passenger door, unbuckle his seatbelt and wrap an arm around his waist to help him out of the car. We have an hour and a half left, give or take. "Thought you might like some fresh air." I stop before we start the trek, turn into him and use my free hand to smooth down his hair a few times before letting it come to rest along his temple, trace my thumb in a frame of his face. "Remember my birthday, a few years back?" I smile again, reassuringly, search his gaze again before turning back to the shoreline and starting to lead us out. "I guess I missed it." I missed him. I miss him, still. Out of my periphery, I still watch him carefully, hoping to catch a glimpse of normalcy for even a moment.

[Neve]

Sometimes, I open my eyes, stare right at the blinding light above my head, and wonder if I’m still alive. I always hope so. If I am to go I don’t want to go unexpectedly and quietly in my sleep- I want to know so he can be there, so I can be in his arms, so I can look up into his eyes and he will be the last thing I comprehend before I die.

Sometimes I adjust to the light and realise I am still seemingly in a hospital room, the steady drone of machines and a constant beeping surfacing, but sounding as if drowned, underwater. And then I see him- sat beside me, like always- and sometimes, this is not enough to convince me that I am still living. When I am delirious and numb and tired he is my angel, gorgeous, astounding, and I am ready to go with him, but then- I hear my own laboured breathing and a familiar voice and I connect the voice to my angel and suddenly everything is harsh and real and I’m alive and I’m in pain.

But it’s okay, as long as he’s with me. He always has been. He’s been through so much because of me, because of my disease, and he promised when we married that he’d stay with me in sickness and in health and he kept his promise but I’ve made so many and broken them all. I’ll stay sober, I promise. I’ll try, I promise. I haven’t had a drink, I promise. I promise I’m not drunk. I promise I’m not lying. Addiction has made me a liar and either I was a damn good one or Ryan so desperately wanted to believe that I was telling the truth that he didn’t pry any further and took my word for it. And why wouldn’t he? A man should be able to trust that his husband wasn’t continuously and habitually lying to him.

Ryan is sat to my left and he catches the light, illuminated, celestial, and I cannot look at him directly. There are a lot of things I can’t do now, at least without assistance- walk for a long time, sometimes I can’t walk at all, have showers, go anywhere by myself. If it were anyone else looking after me like this- anyone else saw me so vulnerable but fully conscious of my terrifying fragility- I’d have broken down by now. Being helpless is the worst thing about this and he makes it so much easier and I couldn’t love him any more than I do. I have never deserved him and nothing I can do in the remainder of my life will ever make me deserving of him and I consider and accept this as I stare out of the window quietly, too tired to sit up but more or less fully conscious.

What could have been minutes or hours ago, for I have lost track of time completely due to an immobilising fear that I will start counting down the hours and days until I am no longer here, Ryan told me that he wanted to take me somewhere and elaborated no further- at first I thought he meant, like, the hospital visitor’s café, or something, and therefore I was both reluctant (because the food there was depressing) but simultaneously eager (I’d finally get some time in surroundings that weren’t so jarring). Not bothering to ask questions I agreed and he helped me out of my hospital bed because though I am ell enough to walk today I still need assistance just in case. My condition is not exactly stable, and the doctors take great care in telling me this pretty much whenever I’m conscious- and since Ryan never leaves my side, he hears it to and is therefore extra paranoid, holding me like I am glass and I will shatter if he handles me too roughly, which I always try to reassure him that he has never done. Ryan has always been gentle with me when I needed it and he is always in tune with me and knows exactly what I need- and this is why I have faith he is taking me somewhere I will like when, to my surprise, he leads me out of the hospital and into his car.

This short journey takes it almost completely out of me and I am now slumped in the passenger seat, slack but with my jaw tense, eyebrows twitching as if about to raise but then giving up halfway through when I expect Ryan to take the exit towards home but he doesn’t, we carry on. ”You missed your exit,” I murmur, blinking at him and finding it in me to smile, but I’m confused and I feel my blood pressure begin to rise from the disorientation, but as his hand tightens only gently on my knee I exhale, relax, trust him. I always trust him. I let my eyelids droop and for the rest of the journey I lapse in and out of consciousness, and I have no idea where we are going until I feel the car pull to a stop and I open my eyes.

The sea. I smell it before I see it- the first thing I see is the dashboard of Ryan’s car and I ease myself up properly against the seat, turning my head to smile at him as he squeezes my thigh to get my attention. We’re here. ”Where’s here?” I ask, blinking rapidly- then I glance out of the window and see sand, hear the tides, see them lap against the shore. My breath hitches. I know this place. I feel my throat begin to close from the association. Before I realise Ryan has even gotten out of the car he is opening my car door and I immediately try and do it without any assistance but he evidently has no faith in my independent motor skills (I don’t blame him) and helps me out of the car, his arm- so, so strong, now, or maybe since I’ve lost weight it’s all relative- wrapped around my waist to steady me. I lean against his side and I breathe, trying to time it with the ebb and flow of the tide.

Thought you might like some fresh air. Damn right I do. I spend 95 percent of my time stuck in that stupid hotel room- 4 percent other parts of the hospital- the remainder of my time I spend supervised just outside, on the grounds but outside of the building just so I can get some fresh air. Except, it’s never fresh, because people smoke outside anyway. Nobody listens to the signs. Out here, though, I look around and we are the only ones at the beach; I recognise it as the one I brought Ryan to for his nineteenth birthday and I automatically go to bury my face into his chest but he holds me at a certain distance, safe and close in his arms but far away enough so he can frame my face with his hands and I meet his eyes, immensely thankful that he would do this for me. Of course he would. ”Thank you.”

Remember my birthday, a few years back? Immediately, I nod, but I don’t look around and drink it in, I am fixated on my husband and I figure that he could have taken me anywhere and I would still be just as choked-up-emotional. ”Yeah,”, I breathe, returning his gorgeous smile with the brightest one I can manage, completely disarmed. Suddenly I am a teenager back on the beach with the love of my life and I am strong and healthy and I have been sober for some time and things are looking up. Then I shiver, despite it not being cold, and suddenly I am again sick and weak and reliant on my lover. Oh well, I tell myself. There’s nobody else I’d rather be reliant on. ”I remember, you’d never seen the sea before.” A fond smile briefly crosses my face. Mourning the loss of being able to stare into his stupefying golden-brown eyes, I bite my dry bottom lip and feel the skin crack but I don’t react, just stare out at sea. I guess I missed it.

Nodding slightly, I follow as he leads me across the sand and suddenly I am eighteen again, head over heels, willing to do absolutely anything for him within or without reason. My fingers intertwine with his as tightly as I can. I still barely look at the sea. If my days are numbered I want to fill them with the most beautiful things on the planet but I am yet to think of any more than one.

”I missed it too.” A pause. ”I miss everything.”

[jakob]

Where’s here? I spare a glance at him. He figures it out. I can’t help the tiny victorious smile that arises.

Brendon, he’s all about rhythm. He lives it. When he was in his studio, he produced instrumental tracks back to back, seemingly no end to his feverish talent, his head brimming with ideas on a constant. He walked with a full-body swing, jaunty, timed by his own natural beat, never stunted like the rest of us. He played piano without having to read the sheets, without the stupid stickers on the keys I still need after a while without practice, beautifully, flawlessly, effortlessly. Brendon, he’s all about rhythm, and as I help him from the car, I watch his chest start to rise and fall with the sound of the waves crashing ashore, and I have probably never loved him more than I love him in this moment.

He’s barely himself these days, because it’s hard to be him, and this is just. So Brendon.

He goes to hide away in my chest, but I take the opportunity to look at him for a moment, careful. Barely himself, but it’s him. I’ve memorized his face by now, have had it for years, but I still have to take a minute, appreciate him in an environment other than pure white and plastic grey again. Thank you. It’s then that I pull him in, fingers curling around the back of his head, hold him close where he’d intended to go moments earlier anyway. I haven’t properly hugged him in a while.

He’s colder than I anticipated.

I remind him about my birthday while I pull away, shrugging my coat off while he nods, and he’s smiling, radiant, brighter than day, more hopeful than life. It’s not cold, and he’s probably covered up enough, but I still gingerly wrap my coat over his shoulders before throwing my arm around his waist again. I remember, you’d never seen the sea before. I laugh softly at the irony. ”Despite all of the songs about it. And growing up on the West Coast. I’m a walking contradiction.” It takes willpower to look away from his fond expression, the most tender man I’ve ever known. I’m not saying it’s not going to happen, I just thought the stakes would be lower. But. I always figured he’d outlive me. It takes more willpower to pretend this is not what occupies my mind on a 24/7 basis.

I walk us forward.

I’m not sure why we’re relying on my uncertain, unsteady steps, my shoddy guidance, but I’m more carrying Brendon than I am holding him. So it makes sense.

We’re getting closer to the water so I start kicking my shoes off, one heel helping the other, and after a moment I’m barefoot, stooping and rolling up mine and Brendon’s jeans’ legs to avoid the water. Our fingers are locked with no chance of breaking and I can feel his gaze on me, most of the time, comforting but somewhat a source of pressure. I can still only think, if only I’d have fucking said something. If I’d have asked. If I hadn’t brushed it all under the rug, because Brendon said he’s okay, so he must be okay. This isn’t all his responsibility, still, and I knew that. I learned that in my first round of Al-Anon groups, forever ago, when my dad said he wanted to try. The first time, anyway.

I missed it too. I blink, once, twice, finally turn my head to see him again. I miss everything. Everything. Because now he has nothing.

I look away reluctantly. The upside-down ‘V’ of a seagull flies in the distance, wavering, inverting with every flap of its wings. The sand, it’s greyer than pictures depict, the water touching it closest less foamy and cerulean and more green, soapy looking. There’s can tabs everywhere, but otherwise the litter’s not so bad. No one else, not a soul, is around, though I suspect the two misshapen figures far, far in the distance may be someone walking their dog. Any footprints they may have left near us, washed away. It’s almost as if Brendon and I are the first ones here, the first generation, Adam and, well. Adam.

The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up. The shortcut to closing the door is to bury yourself in the details.

This is how we must look to God.

”Brendon,” I say distractedly, muted, and my hand is so, so tight on his. I’m not talking directly to him, I’m addressing the sea, the one that has no telltale facial expression or hollows in its cheeks from a disease I ultimately contributed to. ”Brendon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything sooner, I just.” Self-deluded. I take a breath. It is nowhere in tune with Brendon’s, the sea swells, just a lone, panicked, misplaced chord in the middle of an easy rhythm. He must have thought I didn’t even care, when I wasn’t stepping in. ”I let you down, baby.” I hear my voice falter, and that’s a good point to shut up.

[Neve]

Though to many I’m aware that I seem a free spirit, eccentric, unpredictable, only Ryan knows me well enough to have figured out that I live by a rhythm and I put all importance in having control over everything. It is from this that sometimes in the past we have argued; I felt threatened later into our joint musical careers and due to feeling an intense need to be in control of the music as we grew older, it caused a rift in the band and that is why, for years, I have worked alone. Or, I did work alone- I can’t remember the last time I sat down to write or play the piano or even dared to sing a note for fear of it not sounding like the voice I am used to.

I am terrified, because I am not in control. I have never really been in control. Every time I seemed to be getting better I was just fooling myself when really it was just my addiction creeping into the shadows for a while, pulling me into and uneasy security, until it crept out and took its tight hold on me and decided to go back to ruining my life.

And Ryan’s life. I glance at him almost distantly, feeling my throat close up. He deserved- deserves- someone so much better than me. His entire life has been spent looking after me, walking on eggshells around me like I’m some kind of helpless case. Which- well. I suppose I now am. Inhaling and exhaling shakily, I feel my heartbeat quicken only slightly and I make a move to hide my face in Ryan’s chest but he holds me before him and I hesitantly meet his eyes. But only for a second. I know what I look like. I don’t like that he can see me like this, I’m sick and ugly and though I avoid my reflection these days it is all I am aware of when I gaze into his- gorgeous eyes. Honey-gold. They are the last thing I want to see before I die, I decide, not that I had ever considered anything else.

He pulls me in and I choke back the feeling of being close to tears against his shirt, wrapping my arms desperately around his waist, clinging to him like he is my lifeline. My heart only beats for you, I think, and he is breathtaking enough then to stop me from being all somber and depressing as I am all the time now. Instead I grin, stay stood there swaying slightly as he shrugs of his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. He always did this, even when I didn’t visibly show signs of being cold or ask for his coat. He just knows. I remember what I look like and drop my eyes to my feet, but I am still smiling. Despite all the songs about it. ”Well, you always were a romantic,” I offer, raising an eyebrow just a little as my fond smile wavers gently.

And growing up on the West Coast. I’m a walking contradiction. Laughing, I shrug one shoulder weakly and lean into his side as he wraps his arm around my waist, and we fit together so naturally, so easily, we’ve walked like this thousands of times before. ”I’m just proud to say that I’m the one who took your ‘seeing the sea in real life’ virginity.” I try to joke but it’s lame and I shake my head, smiling at myself all the same. At least I haven’t lost my shitty sense of humour yet, right?

We aren’t really- both walking. I thought I was strong enough for this and I grow frustrated that I have to lean most of my wait into Ryan, but I say nothing, unwilling to show weakness even now as I stand, a dead man walking. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I begin to taste blood and it is like metal on my tongue, bitter and sharp. I grimace at the sand but then Ryan is kicking his shoes off and I realise we are by the shoreline and Ryan brings us to a stop. Watching as he stoops and rolls our pant legs up in turn, when he finishes I seek his hand and lock our fingers together, butter again that I must rely on him so much. He is the only person I would let take care of me like this and even with the only man I have ever loved it is mortifying.

I stare at him until he looks away and we walk on a little, stepping into the wet sand and then into the shallow line of water is it ebbs up and down the shore, the tide soft and gentle on my skin. It’s cold. I’m so cold. I say nothing, I suppress a shiver and grit my teeth and stop again when Ryan comes to another halt, leaning into his side. I barely notice the birds, or the people further along the beach. He is all that matters to me. He is all I have left.

Brendon. I know what’s coming and look sharply at him, my eyes narrowing, still somehow mustering up some defiance. I don’t need his pity or misplaced guilt. I just need him to be with me. ”Don’t.” My voice is not as harsh as I intended it to be, more hoarse. Brendon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything sooner, I just. I let go of his hand and move to stand in front of him, the water now lapping at our ankles and the light breeze stirring his hair. My eyes search his face intently. He is so beautiful. I need him to know that this isn’t his fault. ”Stop,” I insist, pressing my hands against his chest and leaning against him again, tilting my head back slightly to look at him. I let you down, baby.

”No,” My voice is faint, distant. I’m tired, weak, I can’t muster any more fire than this. Instead my voice is hushed, but pleading. He can’t watch me die thinking it is his fault. ”I have nobody to blame but myself.” I can’t die knowing he blames himself. ”All you’ve ever done is love me, and- and you stuck to our vows, can you believe it, in sickness and in health- I love you-“ I start to choke on my words and to try and suppress that I lean in, moving my arms to wrap desperately around his neck, and kiss him. Gentle. He is so, so gentle. He can’t live the rest of his life after I die thinking what if, what if. I won’t let him. I pull back and rest my forehead against his. ”I love you.”

[jakob]

We probably look a little out of our minds. Brendon's holding onto me like I'm the last person on Earth, like I'm his lifeline, and maybe I am a little bit that last one, but really. We're not even thirty, and here we are, Brendon close to tears in my arms, both of us so, so conscious, all the time, that this could be our last year together. Maybe we won't even last that long. I hate everyone who's never doubted they'll grow old with the person they love. Since high school, neither of us had that guarantee. When we promised each other we would, when we made our confident vows, I'm fairly sure both of us knew the truth. Hey, at least for a while there it looked like our chances were good, but evidently wellness was a fickle thing. Happiness, almost, except with our situation, I'm happy he's even here. I'm happy I got him out to the sea, this salty air, and I guess my standards have lowered considerably.

We're a picture of, 'what troubles might young lovers have?' And here's the answer. We're not invincible. We never were.

He's smiling at his feet. He's perfect. Well, you always were a romantic. I'm proving him right as he says it, my fingertips cradling his jawline in a gentle effort to bring his face up, catch a glimpse of his smile. Whoops. I smile back at him and shake my head fondly. I’m just proud to say that I’m the one who took your ‘seeing the sea in real life’ virginity. I half laugh, watching the skyline and then eyeing him in my periphery. Shockingly, Brendon was usually the one with jokes filed away, despite everything. "Charming way to put it," I mumble, then wait for the next obvious punchline, and surprisingly Brendon doesn't say it. After a moment I go for it myself, try to meet his goofy humour. "...You took a lot more than just that, though?" I'm grinning so hard I can't even say it with confidence, nudging him as lightly as I can without having to worry about making him lose his balance. We're so stupid.

I know he's annoyed by my help, or frustrated at the very least, not at me but the circumstances themselves. But I catch his hand anyway, gaze dropping from the dim horizon to our feet as we meet the water, our skin stark against the foam, sand swirling as we knock it out of place. I can tell he's cold, too proud to say a word about it, and there's no room to move closer to comfort him. All of this, though, even if it's chilly as hell, is better than the dismal hospital room he's trapped in, so I hold out rather than taking us back quite yet out of worry. We've got a little less than an hour and a half now. Not all the time in the world, but I take what I can get.

Somehow he can read my mind. I can feel his defiant look, even when I keep my eyes straight ahead. Don’t. I continue anyway and suddenly he's in front of me, I'm forced to look at him, his pale skin illuminated by the blue all around us. After a moment of his close inspection I drop my head a little, eyes slipping shut, letting my hair fall over my forehead. 'Stop.' His hands cover my chest and I place one of my own over them, lifting my head and sucking in a heavy breath. No. His voice... we speak as if he's already gone. I tighten my grip around his hands. He's still here. With my optimism, I'm still sure he's never going to be gone. That, or it's just too unimaginable an idea to grasp, him not being in my life. Whatever the case, I'm naïve enough, in love enough, to still have hope.

I have nobody to blame but myself. I purse my lips and shake my head at him slightly.

It kills me to even think about, but I'm almost angry at him, way back in my subconscious. Why did he have to... A relapse - multiple, contributing relapses - is out of an addict's control, I know, I know that better than anyone. But why, that's all I ask. Why Brendon.

All you’ve ever done is love me, and- and you stuck to our vows, can you believe it, in sickness and in health- I love you- I fumble with him, a tiny sound escaping me as he moved to embrace me again, and I weakly catch him in my arms. When we kiss it's hard to stay straight, and both of us sway because I'm supposed to be the pillar of strength and I'm not nearly strong enough to uphold that role. I recover after a moment, holding the back of his head close, his waist flush to my body. I love you. I search his gaze, and this close up, I know there's still life there. He looks sick, but he's still Brendon, still the same person I've known my whole life. My best friend. I don't even have to say it back. I just breathe out, more steadily, and I turn us around still holding him close until he's the one who can look out at the fading sky. I bury my face in his shoulder, press light, whispered kisses to his skin.

Close to his ear, I try to speak again after an extended pause, my voice as hushed as his had become. "You're going to be okay," I say, and I fully believe it. I've never felt so strongly about anything in my life. "I know it. Trust me. I'll be right there next to you, the whole time." I round him until I can hold him from behind, arms round his waist, keeping him secure and hooking my chin over his shoulder. I study the skyline again. I can barely see the sun anymore. "It's beautiful."

[Neve]

Not even thirty.

Ryan is a year older than me and neither of us have yet turned thirty- that’s why it seems so exceptionally cruel that when he holds me in his arms it feels like he’s trying to protect me from something he just can’t. We can’t be just lovers anymore; we can’t kiss without my thoughts inevitably slipping away to ‘what if this is the last time I kiss him’, and I know he can’t wrap his arms around me without noticing how fucking thin I am. I’m not just his husband, I’m his sick husband. Dying husband. He’s going to be a fucking widow before he’s even thirty and it kills me to think about so I cut my thoughts off forcefully before they get a chance to spiral; I try and distract myself by listening to his breathing, steady by my ear. When I pull back slightly I’m smiling despite myself because here is the man I have loved all of my life, by my side even now, when things look so hopeless. Though I didn’t expect any less from him. Ryan would never leave, even if I asked him to. Overwhelmed, I resist slightly when he cradles my jaw and tilts my head up to meet his eyes- again, I am constantly aware of how sick I look, it’s written on my face, plain as day. It used to be something I was able to manage- appearance wise, anyway- now, I can’t fool anyone. So I’ve stopped trying. My hair is overgrown and I barely do more than run my hands through it, somedays not even that. Reflectively I run my hand through it as I hesitantly meet my husband’s eyes.

I try to stop worrying so much, for him.

Charming way to put it. I can’t help the reluctant smile that creeps onto my face, reluctant even though I was the one who cracked the joke. I wonder if he can tell how desperately I try to pretend things are normal- when he’s beside me in my hospital bed I ignore the sounds of heart monitors and whatever other crap is wired up to me (I’ve stopped fucking caring what they connect to me from one day to the next, Ryan knows more than I do at this point and we’ve had a few minor fallings out over just that) and I shut my eyes and I pretend we’re back at home, in our bedroom, in our bed. I fancy that we had spent the whole evening watching TV, maybe, curled up together on the sofa, and then I’d pretended to be asleep and he’d picked me up so gently and carried me up to bed, laid me down so tenderly and climbed in beside me. Sometimes I wake up from such fantasies and open my eyes expecting to be met with sunlight streaming in through the blinds and illuminating Ryan’s skin, the crispness of our own sheets, drowned in the hoodie I sleep in because it smells just like him. I’m wearing that now, funnily enough- I have stolen countless items of clothing from Ryan over the years but this is my favourite and when Ryan isn’t around, and I let myself break down in private, I cry into it, chest heaving desperately until I calm down and tire myself out and I am too dehydrated to cry any more.

”What can I say,” I laugh, but barely. Charming, that’s what I’m supposed to be. I crack these jokes because if I stop, who am I anymore? I might as well be dead if I lose the part of myself that is immortal. I don’t want to be a shell. ...You took a lot more than just that, though? He nudges me and I elbow him right back, but I can’t really muster enough strength for it to be more than a gentle nudge. ”Damn right I did.” My voice is laced with amusement, but distant. Not really my own. ”I thought that was a sensitive spot, baby, I’m surprised you brought it up of your own accord.” I’m smiling, and he takes my hand, and it’s so warm and the callouses are so familiar, our fingers lace together like they have hundreds of times. Clockwork. We’re stood in the water and I try not to shiver and suddenly he turns to me and I can tell the stupid bastard is about to start blaming himself for something that is not his fault. Used to this guilt from Ryan by now I turn to him, smile fading, and will him to stop, I can’t bear that he blames himself. I know he can’t bear to hear me blame myself either. But I’ve accepted that I’m the only one that can- or could- help myself.

But I’m breaking down, of course I am, these days I’m constantly on the brink. We’re flustered and stupid and chaotic and in love and as I lean forwards Ryan catches me easily in his arms and I kiss him, leaning against him. When I pull back he’s looking right me and my chest swells with sorrow and affection and then I remember what I look like and stubbornly drop my chin to my chest, swallowing. As I do this, Ryan bodily moves us so I am facing the horizon. It’s not really that impressive considering the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen is holding me secure in his arms right now. The sunset could only dream of matching that. Even so- he presses kisses against my skin and I sigh, appreciative. You’re going to be okay. Why would I believe him when he just sounds like he’s trying to convince himself? Holding my tongue, I rest my chin in the crook of his shoulder and my eyelids start to droop. Fatigue has set in already and I’ve barely even walked anywhere. I’m weak, I’m worthless, it’s like he’s my fucking carer, not my husband. I hate it. I hate it so much. I’ve been on the edge for a while but before I can start shaking and before any tears start to fall I’m stopped when he starts to speak again.

I Know it. Trust me. ”I trust you.” My response is immediate, unfaltering. There’s nobody I trust more. I’ll be right there next to you, the whole time. ”I know.” My voice wavers and I clear my throat to try and disguise it but I know he will have noticed. Ryan is so observant- he only doesn’t notice things when he intentionally and actively tries not to. ”I don’t know what I’d fucking do without you.” Well, I did- but if I said so, Ryan would kill me before I’d even get a chance to die from my disease. The macabre nature of this business brings a mirthless smile to my lips and I stare still at the horizon while Ryan moves around me, wraps his arms around my waist. Here is the one place I feel safe. Home is a person and that person, for me, is Ryan. Automatically I relax back into his arms, confident that he can hold me. It’s beautiful. My head dips in a lazy nod and after a few beats I reach one of my arms up to curl into the back of his hair, turning my head fully to the side and guildimg him awkwardly but sweetly into a short kiss. ”You’re beautiful. Baby, I- I love you more than anything. I wanted- to be with you forever. Find our first grey hairs, and now-” I shut my eyes tight and clench my jaw. Breathe, Brendon, breathe.

[Neve]

F