Standing By

Breakfast Conversations

(Tim)

Shoving the butterflies and panic in my chest aside with considerable force, I had to focus.  I had to focus.  Or else Chance was going to actually die.  I couldn't have him die, no way in hell was I going to let that happen.  If I ended up having to do CPR or mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on him, I would, the hell with anyone or anything else.  Nothing mattered more to me right now than my best friend.  Seeing him like this was all but killing me.  Actually, it might well be killing me.  My heart was already breaking inside of me, watching and hearing him gasp and struggle for air.

    I'd watched him for the last few minutes, that faraway stare, mind a thousand miles from where we were.  I knew in my heart there had to be some deep inner turmoil twisting inside of him, tearing up his kind heart, ripping a hole in his soul.  I had no idea where he was, what he was experiencing, what was going on in the recesses of his mind  and memories, but it was killing him.  And no matter what I did, I could not move him from the door.  He had a death grip on it.  I knew, I thought it I could just get him to let go of the door, then maybe he could let go of whatever was weighing heavy on his mind.  Then he went and had an asthma attack.  Seeing him fight for oxygen, chest spasming, to hear the little breath he could pull in rattle in his chest... it was all I could do to not have a panic attack.  I swear, it took Adam forever to find that inhaler.  And when he finally did get it and hand it to him, Chance turned into butterfingers, dropping it several times, and just shooting off medicine into the air uselessly, gaping at it with his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. I finally reached out and took it myself.  I wasn't the most steady thing in the world, but at least I could hold on to it.  I held it to his mouth while he took first a very shaky breath, then another, steadier breath, before whispering, "again."  I shot another spray into his lungs before he was breathing normally again.

    Finally, Chance plopped over his back, breathing easily.  "Oh.  My.  God."

    "Ch-Chance?" I asked nervously, watching my best friend carefully, still keeping my eyes peeled on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

    "Yeah, I'm here," he mumbled, lifting his head up.

    "Thank God," Rob murmured as Austin and Adam descended on him and brought him to a sitting position.  They wrapped him up in a hug, which I quickly joined, holding him tightly to me, so tightly I could feel his heart still racing as Rob slid an arm in for his own piece of the Home Free hug. 

    "I was so scared," Austin admitted into his hair.

    "Me too," Rob added, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes.

    "Me three," Adam added, patting on Chance's back.

    I didn't trust my voice.  I just kissed his ear, hoping it'd be enough to speak what was inside of me.  I thought it was; he lifted a hand, fanning his fingers out through my hair and holding them to the back of my head tightly with his palm.  Something on his wrist caught my eye as he pulled his hand back and I grabbed it, my heart pounding as I traced lines, faint but distinct lines—scars—across and down his wrist, underneath his black and white treble clef tattoo.  I'd never looked at his wrist this close or this carefully before; the scars had always been pretty well camouflaged under the tattoo.  Is this why he had this tattoo?  To cover scars?  Oh my God. 

    "Chance," I whispered, my voice lodged somewhere in my throat.  "What—happened here?"

    "Later," he said, finally extracting himself from what was now a Home Free and two fifths Pentatonix hug.  "Now's not the time."

    "Later, later, later," I mumbled, both irritated and scared.  "It's always later."

    "Today," Chance said firmly, looking me straight in the eye.  "I promise.  Later this morning, or this afternoon.  You have my word."