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“Because they care about you.” He said it like it was normal to have people care about you.
“And you care about them.”
He shrugged, turning his attention to the window.
“After all these years, you’re still friends.” I wondered what that was like. Every relationship I had was conditional—or completely one-sided. I didn’t think I’d ever have something like they had.
“What was your dream about?”
Just like that, I was back there—on the marble, struggling against the weight of a god. It had felt real, every blow and scratch. But it wasn’t.
It wasn’t.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I replied.
He huffed a breath, offended, but I didn’t want to think about it anymore. It was too much.
But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings either.
“It was too real,” I whispered.
This wasn’t a discussion I could manage in calm tones or daylight. It had to stay here, in the dark.
I touched my wrist, reaching around with the fingers from one hand. “I dreamed about a god.”
“A god.” Not a question. His voice changed, got deeper and more serious. “A god appeared to you?”
It hadn’t been to me, exactly. I had inhabited a body, but it hadn’t looked like mine. It was more gold than cream, and lither, stronger.
“It was just a dream,” I said.
He didn’t reply, instead he shifted so his back was against the headboard and his shoulder touched mine. There was a dull thump as he kicked his shoes off, and then he was stretching his long legs next to mine.
He smelled clean, like he’d been walking against the wind. My bed was wide enough to fit us both, but just barely. His warmth seeped into me, and I began to relax back against my pillows.
“When I was alive, the gods appeared in dreams all the time.”
“When you were alive?” My voice came out a croak. “What do you mean?”
He reached out an arm. “May I?”
I eyed him nervously. After all, he was the one to try to pitch me into the next life, but his gaze was steady, and serious. Slowly, I shifted so his arm was around my back, then he pulled me against his chest.
Instinctively, I braced myself with one hand as my head came to lay above his heart.
“Do you hear that?” he asked.
My breathing was loud, too loud, so I held my breath and listened. I heard traffic and the wind, the creaking building, my pipes. The water dripping in my sink.
“Listen,” he whispered.
I closed my eyes, concentrating. It was then I realized what I didn’t hear.
His heartbeat.
I moved my head, positioning it a little closer to the center of his chest.
Nothing.
