Greatest

13: but let me die, my love; yes, let me die

I wake up in airport seating, with an icepack on my head.
"Oh, hey," I mumble sitting up. Shane and Jonesy are literally standing over me.
"What the fuck was that?" Jonesy is not polite.
"Who? Me? Where's Bradley?"
"You had an epileptic seizure," Shane practically snarls, "When were you planning on telling me you have epilepsy?"
"Did you read my medical alert bracelet?" I ask, holding up my wrist. My medical alert bracelet says 'if you're reading this I'm already dead'.
"I shouldn't have to!"
"Where is Bradley did we—,"
"He went back, we said you were having a migraine, you're damn lucky we didn't call an ambulance," Jonsey says.
"How long was it?" I ask.
"Ten minutes, you've been coming around. I take it those pills you're forever swallowing are for seizures?" Shane asks.
"Yeah?" I wince, my head is pounding. And I feel really weird, like, weak. "Fine, are you happy? You found me out. I have epilepsy that's it; that's the big secret."
"Nope. Happy is not a word I'd use right now," Shane snarls, "We protect you kid. Next time you have one I'm calling 911, he convinced me not to said you were probably already on meds and that would only alert your parents who probably don't know. I take it they don't know?"
"Nope," I say, folding my arms arrogantly, "And they're not going to."
"Christ, Cryrus—the man has you sprint ten miles a fucking day, and swim and all else he can think of, you don't need to be doing half of that if you've got that going on," Jonsey says.
"Are you a doctor?" I ask, innocently.
"No, nor are you, but I've been alive long enough to know you don't need to jump off buildings and into rivers on like a weekly basis when you're having fucking seizures!" Jonesy cries.
"Do you think—do either of you think—for even one minute, a single part of my dad's expectations or behavior towards me would change, at all, if he knew this?" I ask, holding up hand, "Honestly now, as the people who found me at the edge of death valley with no water, walking on a two day old broken leg? Or do you think he'd just have you removed to prevent you from caring for me the little you're able?"
"This is blackmail, this is emotional blackmail," Jonesy says.
"You know I'm right," I say.
"Is there anything else I should know? Look at me, Cyrus," Shane sighs, "Is there anything else I need to know about your health?"
"No," I say, sweetly, "Now I don't feel great. I want to go home. By which clearly I mean Rose and Swan."
"I'll get your bags," Shane says, picking them up.
"Was Bradley okay?" I ask, shifting to sit up.
"He wasn't having an epileptic seizure in the middle of landing after throwing up twenty times for unknown reasons, no," Jonesy says.
"He asked after you I said it was a migraine at that point we weren't sure if it was a seizure or a part of those surprisingly strong meds they've got you on," Shane says.
"Okay, was he—," I stand up and immediately fall down. I knew something was weird. I have no feeling in my left leg.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
"What the hell?" Shane picks me up very easily, an arm around my chest.
"Um—" I need to lie, now, I also can't really stand, "Ow, my leg hurts, I must have hit it when I had the seizure, feels like I strained something, ow."
"Cyrus Laine," Shane is furious with me and knows I'm full of shit.
"Ow, ow, pain, um, pain, can we get me a cane or something? Do stores sell canes?"
"Is he faking?" Jonesy asks.
"You're going to be the death of me kid," Shane mutters, physically picking me up off the ground.
"I can walk."
"Cyrus, you literally just fell down you clearly cannot."
With a cane the airport lends us, I can barely walk. Shane hauls me to the rental car, and on the way determines we are going to the doctor whether I like it or not. I do not like it. Jonesy is not as sensitive to the situation as I personally think he should be.
"Ha, try rolling out of the car and sprinting five miles away from me on THAT leg," Jonesy sniggers, as he puts the child lock on the doors.
"This is kidnapping," I snarl.
"Yeah. You're right. Fucking is, we should call your parents and tell them you suddenly can't walk THEN it wouldn't be kidnapping—," Shane is very sick of me I think.
"I've strained it. I'm sure. I've just strained it, no need to call anyone or anything drastic," I backpeddle quickly.
"Thought as much," Shane says.
He and Jonesy nearly protest when we get to the medical center and I order them to wait in the lobby, as usual. When I can't walk a nurse is nice enough to bring a wheel chair. Shane is rightfully suspicious I won't let him come up, but he technically just has to watch entrances and exits of a building. A doctor's office itself is private. And he knows it.
The nurse wheels me up which is very humiliating, but not as humiliating as the total lack of surprise on my anti-alien-brain-goop buster squad leader's face when he checks my leg.
"I did tell you there would be neurlogical effects, Cyrus—,"
"I think we both know I was not listening—,"
"I'm going to suggest you bring a friend or parent here with you to your appointments—,"
"Just, can't we like, make it better? Give me a steroid shot or—,"
"Cyrus, at this point, you're not going to get better. You may regain some movement but more than likely your mobility is going to decrease as the weeks go on. The tumor is affecting the part of your brain that controls movement," he sighs, taking off his silver horn-rimmed glasses.
"Okay, okay, great, do you have a crutch or something I can borrow? How about a lil' cast—?"
"Cyrus, if you keep lying about your condition—,"
"My condition. Mine. Mine to lie about. Now about that crutch or cast thingy?" I ask, hopefully.
"Cyrus, you need to go home. You don't need to be walking around school feeling the way you do."
"I absolutely need to be walking around school. Have you ever fallen in love for the first time? Or gotten kissed? Or stayed up all night getting drunk with your friends? Or had a picnic in the moonlight? Or gone out dancing? Well, I fucking haven't. And I don't have very much time left," I snarl.
"I understand you have end-of-life concerns that's why I recommend you do see a counselor who can help sort out things like saying your goodbyes—as you said a bucket list—,"
"I don't have time for a counselor! And I know exactly what I want to do!" I say, slamming my fist on the table, "Now, I need a crutch. And a cast. And some sort of note that says I have to stay off my leg while it heals that does not mention alien brain goop."
"You can call it cancer."
"Interestingly enough, no. No I cannot," I say, taking a deep breath, "Now, about that note? As we've said I'm running out of time."
"Perhaps you're not running out of time. Maybe this is the time you're meant to have, have you thought of it that way?"
"Well, I still need to get on with it, because I know it's running short. The steady running of the hour waits for no man, certainly not any boy, certainly not me."
In the end, I get my note and my crutch. And I throw up before I have to leave the hospital, but thankfully not in front of my agents.
"Pinched nerve," I show Shane the note.
"Did he give you anything to feel better?"
"Nope."
I send my parents the note that I'm to stay off the leg. My father predictably reminds me I'm already behind on my activity tracker. My new one is waiting in the dorm. I rip open the box resentfully, strapping it on and powering the thing up with utter disdain. It does me no good though. I still log on, getting it set up with my stats. I sigh. How am I ever going to get up to form? I can work through pain that's fine, hell I'm used to it. But this? I can't even feel my fucking leg.
"Are you okay?" Bradley walks into our room, carrying a couple of boxes of pizza. He ordered food, dinner of course. Better than the dining hall. Technically we're not supposed to eat in our rooms. Technically Coach Nashe has never really cared.
"I'm—," in the past few days I've grown accustomed to not lying to him. But I must. Back to normal now, I suppose. It's not as though he'd ever fall in love with me. "I'm just feeling rotten. That's all."
"What happened to your leg?"
"Pinched nerve," the lie comes out, smooth and practiced, "I'll have to be off it for a while."
"That sucks. Did the headache from the plane get better? I was going to stay, but Ben and Jerry out there, they said to go on. Here, I got us dinner," he says, setting down a pizza box.
The smell makes me want to vomit. It's all grease and cheese, best stuff on earth. And I can't eat a bite right now.
"Thanks, the pain, I'm not very hungry, I'm sorry," I once fenced an entire match with a broken arm and insisted my coach take me to the promised Burger King before the hospital. I was seven. The arm was a complex fracture and the whole thing was black and blue when we got to the ER. I was trying to stuff fries in my mouth while they x-rayed it. I'm never not hungry. Not till now.
"Don't be sorry! I'm sorry you're sick."
"I'm not—," I am sick. I'm so sick, "Just a bad day. Tomorrow will be a better one." I force a smile.
"Of course," he smiles back. And that makes it all worth it.