we depend (I depend) on you • jayvik

Jayce - Year Seven

You came back on the first day of the first month, and on your first day of freedom, you visited me.

The first thing I noticed was that you looked smaller. Not in the literal sense – you are the same height, the same frame – but the curve in your spine had deepened, pulling your shoulders forward, making you look as though you were folding in on yourself as you leaned heavily on your crutch. As if the weight of your own body had become too much to bear. You have always been thin, but now there is something fragile about you, something hesitant in the way you hold yourself. I noticed it immediately. I took notes, and various nuclei inside of me sparked into action – searching for solutions and supports and methods of relief, for anything I had to help you – even as something much deeper splintered at the sight of you.

"Hello, Jayce," you said, and I had no words. This must be what humans feel when they reconnect with old friends. I must have been silent too long, because you continued.

"I suppose we are now even for the amount of time we have left each other in the dark."

You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes, and the shadow from your hair as it fell over your eyes made them look duller. That was the second thing I noticed. How much your hair had grown. You have always been a neat man, Viktor. You prefer your coffee a certain way, for your tools to have a place, and for your shelves to be organized, never cluttered. Ever since I've known you, you have kept a clean appearance. This look... it's so unlike you.

Now, you look tired. Your clothes hang looser, your posture is bent, and there is a weariness about you, as if you need to sit for a long while.

Viktor, my closest friend, what happened to you?

I noticed all of these things before I chose to acknowledge the tall woman who had followed you in. She stood with certainty, strong legs beneath the fabric of her pants, strong arms – one flesh, one not – and she made it look effortless when she wrapped them around me and lifted me from the floor. She didn't say much, but that was alright with me.

It's incredible how different everything looks from a new perspective - how different you look when, for the first time, we are face to face. If I actually had a face, I am sure I would have been grinning from ear to ear, but I do not. I hoped my voice was enough.

It took time, but together, with the help of a complete stranger – I was moved from the lab floor to the only table in your small apartment. You were meticulous about how I should be positioned, insisting I be placed at an angle that allowed me to see as much of the space as possible, and even out of the single window above the kitchen sink. I appreciated every minuscule adjustment you asked her to make. It proved you cared, and that felt nice.

In the end, everything was just right, though I could tell you were embarrassed by your particularity. You thanked her – we both did – then you handed her every bill in your pocket until they were turned inside-out, and topped it off with a handful of loose change and pocket lint. She closed her fist around it all and left without a word.

I was ecstatic . It felt like we had all the time in the world to catch up. I was ready to ask you everything: where you'd been, what you'd been doing, why it had taken so long for you to return... But you only turned, moving much too slowly, deliberately, to the couch. You sat down. You sank into the cushions and pulled your shirt out of where it was tucked into your trousers. You loosened your tie, toed off your shoes. You closed your eyes.

And you went to sleep.

∘ ∘ ∘

You spend the beginning of the year in bed, mostly. You sleep through most of the day, and when you're not sleeping, you divide your time between making small meals and using the walls as a guide to get yourself to the washroom. Sometimes you read, though never for long, and every now and then, you rise at the sound of the doorbell to let Sky in.

Sky comes by on the first, third, and fifth days of the week and always around noon. She brings you meals, makes sure you never run low on your medications, opens the curtains, and helps you change the sheets when they need changing. She is always at the door when she says she will be – never missing a day, rarely late – and eventually, you place the only key to your apartment into the palm of her hand.

She's a good friend to you, you know. She loves you deeply. I think we are alike in that way. If I were more human, I think I would aspire to be gentle and sweet like Sky Young.

Though perhaps, it would do her well to know you don't love her like she loves you.

Things like that can deeply erode a person's soul.

∘ ∘ ∘

It takes a long time – long stretches of waiting – but eventually, you begin to recover from whatever terrible disease has plagued your lungs. You still haven't told me what it is. Half of me believes that's because you don't want me to worry. The other half believes that you thought you were going to die.

But, Viktor, I want to worry. I want to help.

We may not work on little projects together anymore, but I am capable of so much more than conversations and equations.

You allow me to keep track of your medication. You keep it right here, on the table where I can see it – where I can tell when it's running low and remind Sky to pick up a refill. Where I can watch you take it. To make sure you never forget.

It's an intimidating concoction that you swallow every day.

Eleven in the morning. Two with lunch. Five before bed.

They're helping you .

I have to remind myself of that whenever you grimace at the bottles.

They're helping you .

I have to remind you, too.

∘ ∘ ∘

You grow stronger every day.

You stand without losing your breath. You change your clothes without needing to pause between pulling on your socks. We talk more, too. And not just about necessities, but about things that matter. You finally finished that novel, and we spent hours discussing the plot, the characters, the morality of it all. We make plans for future projects, ones just for me. We talk about inviting Sky over for dinner, sharing a meal and a glass or two of wine... It's nice.

And today, for the first time, you went back to work.

I think you were ready. But when you came home, your eagerness didn't follow you through the door. You barely made it to the bed before collapsing onto it fully clothed, your shoes still tied. Still on. You slept, and I let you sleep.

I hated waking you for your medication, but you didn't get angry. You simply blinked up at me, exhaustion weighing heavy in your eyes, and whispered...

" Thank you, Jayce."

I don't think I'll ever get tired of your voice.

∘ ∘ ∘

Viktor. This year I nearly lost you.

I'm happy you're alive.

∘ ∘ ∘