Forgetting Sylva

Strength

"Aren't you going to say something?" he asks, after a long moment.

I consider a range of things I both could and should say: that I'm sorry, that I am horribly sorry for what has happened to him, for this terrible lot that life has dealt him; that I'm sure his parents were wonderful, because they must have been to produce two children like him and Tiana; that I hate that such terrible things have to happen to such good people. But I have heard all of these things, and I believe that he has, too. And to make out that I know how he feels would be lying, because I don't, and I do not think Lance is the type of person to wallow in the sympathy of others. He doesn't treat me any differently because of my condition, and I doubt he'd want me to give him the pity he denies me. If he gave it to me, he would not be the Lance I am growing very fond of. I assume it works both ways.

I unwind our fingers and legs and slowly, careful not to break myself, I roll to face him. He does not take his arm away; he spreads his fingers on my lower back, and they are long and slim and reach all of the way across. I remember Marc, his hand on my stomach, fingers stretching across to reach the other side, as well, but with him I felt small and fragile. With Lance, I feel different. Not so breakable. Stronger. Bigger. As if I am not doll-sized. As if I am not strange and too thin and childlike. As if I am something more. More than my illness. More than my weakness.

I search his eyes but, unlike his voice, they are not sleepy; they are alert and awake and bright amber, stunningly strange. I press my hand to his chest, over his heart, and simply look at him for a long moment. "You smell. Really, really bad," I say softly.

He looks at me for a moment, startled. And then he laughs; an insecure, quiet laugh that shows more in the shaking of his shoulders than the sound it makes. "Speak for yourself," he replies, once he has stopped laughing.

I raise my eyebrows, and then drop them when the pain hits, but hide the shock of it. "Excuse me?" I say. I hope he cannot hear the tightness in my voice. His eyes darken slightly, but he does not move.

He smiles a little, and then leans closer, breathes in deeply. "You smell like my car," he says, his eyes half closed. I flatten my lips into a disapproving line which is hard to hold, when they so want to smile. His lips curve up at the corner, the ghost of a smile. "I didn't mean it in a bad way," he adds. My heart jumps inside of me. He holds my eyes, and I cannot look away, and something strange is building up inside of me and soon it will explode but I do not know what it is and I am scared of it but I cannot look away I can't.

He sighs heavily and blinks. "What time is it?" he asks, breaking the strange feeling that was building in me.

I remember the time, blinking red on the clock face. "About one thirty," I estimate, a little surprised myself. But then I consider the time we arrived home, and it makes sense: it was incredibly late by the time we got here, or very early, depending on how it was looked at.

Lance frowns a little, and his fingers tap once against my back before he withdraws them. "I have to go," he says, but he says it a little sadly, and there is an odd feeling of misplaced happiness in me at his tone.

"You really do smell," I point out, watching as he sits up and leans over the side of the bed, picking up his shirt from the ground. I watch his muscles contract and stretch as he pulls his shirt over his head, and then I carefully push myself up on my arms til I sit, just watching him. "You can have a shower before you go."

He stands and turns, stretching his arms high above his head, and I force my eyes away from the strip of skin that shows above the waistband of his jeans. He shakes his head, hair stiff with chlorine falling over his eyes. "I need to check on Tatiana, and then I'll go to Greg's."