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“Yeah... oh... fuck... Cleo.”
I feel a pearl of moisture on the head of him.
His thighs flex as he pushes himself into my hand. “Oh God... mm... underneath... my head again. Like that. Fuck.”
I feel his hips tremble. I stroke his balls. I jack him for a few and return to his head, to the silken rim, where the barest stroke of my fingertips has him snarling in my ear and threatening to blow all over me. I wrap both hands around his thick shaft. He thrusts as my hands pump, and when he comes he groans, “I love you.”
“And if you are not a bird, beware of coming to rest above an abyss.”
–Nietzsche
My hands shake just a little as I fold the square of bright red origami paper into a sparrow. I kind of suck at origami. None of the sparrows look the same, but I don’t care. I’ve got to stay busy...lest I go completely nuts.
I’m sitting at the desk, over near the exercise bike, which is right by the room’s two big windows. Kellan’s lying on his left side in the bed, eyes on his iPad.
He’s lying on his left side. The side where he has two broken ribs and a fucked up shoulder. The side that puts him facing away from me.
I grab another square of yellow origami paper.
I’m folding that into the shittiest-looking sparrow yet when he gets off the bed and pushes his IV pole slowly to the restroom. After a few minutes, he comes back out. From halfway across the room, I can’t see him very well, but I’m pretty sure he’s going out of his way to avoid looking at me.
This time, he lies down on his right side like a sane person, but he’s quick to get the iPad back in front of his face.
Fury spreads its fingers through me. So he loves me, does he? Or maybe he just loves my hands around his dick. It feels wrong to be so pissed off at him, considering the situation, but I can’t help it. I want to saunter over to the bed and let him have it, but that isn’t fair. I tell myself that’s why I take my own vacation to the bathroom.
For Kellan’s sake.
Yeahhh.
I strip out of my clothes, pull a pair of loose gray sweats and a long-sleeved red t-shirt out of my bag, and seek refuge under the luke-warm stream of shower water. I don’t know if cancer patients can’t get over-hot or what, but this shower sucks.
Still, I stand there in the muggy, not-quite-steamy space a long time after I’m finished shaving and washing my hair.
Even if he really does love me, he’ll never say it again. I bet he won’t. I dry myself slowly and dress more slowly, then stash my bags back in the bathroom closet.
I hang my head upside down to dry my hair, so it’s got a little more body than it has since I got here, and brush and floss my teeth before I brave the room again.
I’m surprised to find him on the stationary bike. His blue eyes flicker over me, then quickly come back to the bike’s small digital screen. I watch his legs move for a minute. I can’t help admiring the way his body moves, the way he looks, even with the IV lines in his chest. He’s just…perfect.
I sigh. Fuck me. I thought this would be so different. I thought he’d be glad to have me here. I thought at the very least, he’d share his feelings. Fess up to liking me at least. Is that selfish? Maybe I’m not being understanding.
He has cancer, after all. The other day I came across the thick stack of consent forms—just for this one particular hospital stay—and learned a little more about what that means for him. Trials usually don’t promise specific survival statistics, but I’ve read the stats for repeat bone marrow transplants online…with a reduced intensity radiation regimen (as Kellan had, the day before I got here) and—yeah. They’re not so fab.
God, I really am an asshole. Obviously, he’s scared. Who wouldn’t be? He’s scared and feeling bad and I’m here, all up in his space, demanding things. Even if I don’t say I am, I’m sure he can feel it. How I want him to talk to me.
I go to the recliner with my cross-stitching and watch him through the forest of my lashes.
A masochist. He must be. The IV pole stands beside him, and he’s not wearing a shirt. Two IV lines pump chemo into his chest. His eyes are sad and tired, his handsome face perpetually tight. I know it now: his look of pain.
I’m so fucking helpless, I can’t stand it. I prick my finger with my cross-stitch needle. It stings more than I think it will.
I murmur, “Fuck.”
His eyes shift to my face. I roll my eyes. “Pricked my finger.”
I’m surprised to see his legs slow their cycling. To see him move down off the bike, his motions slow and desperately careful. He walks to me in his longue pants, pushing the IV pole. My heart beats like a drum the entire time. And then he’s standing right in front of me. Just standing there.
I want to scream.
