Alive

Chapter 20

Elle

(Thursday, May 16)

Try to breathe.

Try to breathe.

Keep calm.

And hold him.

I have to. I want to. He's warm. Maybe too warm. And he's shaking, crying like he never has on stage. Like he never could. He's got bruises on his face, and there's a Band-Aid on the right side, but all my questions are silenced with one thought.

He's alive.

He came back.

I fell asleep reading his text over and over, but I don't think I really believed it until now. And I never thought I'd be capable of something like this until I opened the door. But here I am. Here we are. He smells weird. Sterile, like a doctor's office. Sweet, like a new building. And, I guess, like him. Like the Earth, gritty and real. A smell that makes my thoughts race, my hands shake, but I still cling to him. Like if I let go, it will all end. He'll run. He'll disappear. And that's worse than anything. Worse than viruses and bacteria and germs and everything—anything else.

So I don't back away. I get closer, the moment he starts to pull back. Not yet. It's something I don't think about, just do. Clumsy movement as I climb onto his lap, wrapping my arms tighter, hoping he can still breathe because I'm not about to let go. I don't get it. I really don't. Not this, not him, not any of these sensations. Sensations I've longed for, thought about, feared, avoided. Skin, scent, warmth. Touch.

Touch. Touch. I'm touching someone. Touching him. I close my eyes.

"Don't go away," I whisper finally.

He doesn't reply, just shakes his head, burying it closer into my neck. I can feel his breath, but when I breathe out, fear goes with it—and it's just warm. Just alive. Just him.

And I want to feel him. Feel his arms and shoulders and hair. Which is new. So new to me. I don't get it, just run my hands up, lacing my fingers through his dark blonde tangles and I picture the texture through the latex. Then trail my fingers down over his face, feeling the features I've admired for so long—before coming to rest on the unfamiliar addition. The Band-Aid.

Something inside me wakes up. Fear, but not like usual. I sit back a little, meeting his eyes. They're bloodshot. I can see it now, since I'm so close.

"What happened?" I ask. The summary of a billion questions flooding my mind.

He breaks eye contact in an instant, sitting back. I slip off his lap, twisting my fingers together as I fight off the thoughts. A shower, washing my hands, scrubbing my skin.

"I got help," he says. Then smiles. I think it's only halfway, like he's fighting to do it. "Just took longer than I thought."

"Help?" I ask.

"You know," he says, crossing his arms. More like hugging them close around his body. He's still shaking. He won't look at me, jabbing a thumb against his chest. "Since I'm bipolar."

He meant to point to himself, but I'm only staring at the dirt on my sweatshirt. It's kind of brown, at least. But also a little red... It's not...

"What kind of help?" I ask, wincing as I accidentally twist a finger too hard.

He's silent. Too silent.

"What kind of help, Oliver?" I repeat. "Is that blood?"

He pulls his arms up over the stain, still staring at the floor. But his mouth keeps twitching, like he's fighting to say something. Or, I suppose as he looks up, to smile. It's quick, gone even faster.