Strength

In my dreams, I am whole. I am floating in the water, just hovering in space. Everything is lit by a blue light. The water is endless in every direction. I am not breathing: air is held in my puffed up cheeks, but I do not feel the need to return to the surface for more. My lungs do not ache from withheld breath. I feel no pain, no ache in my bones.

I spread my arms and kick my legs, and I am moving through the water, I am swimming, as if I do this all the time, and my strokes are strong and sure and practiced. My dreams are so different from life, because when I am awake, I do not know how it feels to be strong, to be durable. But in my dreams, I have never felt anything else.

I push through the water. It is infinity, but I am tireless. I swim and I swim and I swim until the word holds no meaning and my strength is the same as weakness and everything is nothing while nothing is everything. And still, I swim on. And then the light changes. Everything fades to darkness, and I am trying to outswim it, but an indigo ink swells through the water, sluggishly stretching towards me. I push faster, but the air hisses from my parted lips and water rushes into my mouth and I swallow and it fills my lungs and I need the air now but there is none there is none not here. I am choking; gasping; thrashing for air and a surface that does not exist. When the ink overwhelms me, I wake.

I do not open my eyes, as I usually do. I keep them closed and let my body wake before my mind. I slowly become aware of legs wound between mine, my feet against jean-clad calves; an arm around me, fingers curved against my ribs, holding me close; a chest at my back, so warm I feel almost feverish. I don't mind; it is pleasant. I feel lips against my neck; the soft release of breath on my skin, gently rustling my hair. I breathe it all in: chlorine and deodorant and Lance, and I let the sensations flood into my body. I gather them together and hold them tight, like a fistful of balloon strings that I do not want to let go.

Sometime during the night, Lance pulled up his knee, tangling our legs together, and his jumper pulled up. I tug it down, careful not to wake him, and settle back against his chest. I open my eyes and stare at the clock on my bedside table, and I listen to his breaths. When he wakes, it is easy to tell: his heart speeds up in his chest, beating against my back, and his breaths are slightly quicker against my neck.

"Lance," I say quietly, "why weren't your parents at the hospital for Tiana?" It has been plaguing me since he put me in that chair at the hospital; since he walked out of the room alone, and we went to the car. Since mum asked if he needed to call them, and he said no.

His breathing speeds a little, and he shifts slightly, but he does not move away from me; he holds me a little tighter, in that controlled, exact way that I like, the way that says that he knows what he is doing, knows how not to hurt me without treating me like glass.

He is quiet for a moment, but I know he is awake, and so I wait for his answer as only I can wait. "When I was young," he says, his voice slow and heavy with sleep, "my dad passed away." I keep my breaths steady and listen as he continues, though something stabs at my heart when he says it, so full of a longing note that is not present when he usually speaks: he misses his father. I would, too, but I don't have to. Mine is one door away.

"A few years later, mum remarried. She had Tiana." I can hear a slight smile in his voice, and it makes me wish that I had a sibling: someone I could love in that way. Someone to fill the void I will create when I am gone. Someone to comfort my parents, to keep them company, to console them with the fact that at least they have another child to pour their love into. I'd hate for them to be lonely when I leave.

"Then mum joined dad, and my second father went a little later. Tiana and I were shipped away to some relative, four times removed, or something like that." He pauses, clears his throat, but when he speaks again his voice is still slow and drawling, raw from disuse. "Greg is an old man, in his late seventies. He hardly stands up from the chair he sits in. I doubt he remembers I live there anymore. His world is his carer, sleep, food, and that damned chair." He shifts slightly, his knee fitting into the back of mine like a puzzle. "He doesn't know I exist. I doubt he remembers that Tiana's even sick." There is no bitterness in his voice, merely the tired statement of fact. I open my eyes and wind my fingers through his, our hands a tangled bundle against the sheets.

"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."

His guardian, I remind myself. Old man. Loves a chair more than the children in his care. Overall, the picture in my mind is not a nice one, and my feelings are less than fond. He leans forwards with a small smile and presses a kiss to my cheek. His breath is warm on my neck as he stays there for a moment, a second longer than he should, and then he pulls away and stands. "Thanks, Syl," he says. He doesn't have to explain what he is saying thank you for, and so he doesn't. "I'll see you later."

He turns and walks away, slipping on his shoes at the door. And then I remember something. "Your hair. You promised me."

He turns and smiles, looking a little startled that I remembered or that he neglected to remember. It is as if yesterday was another world, but today is a better one. He pushes his hair from his eyes, showing me the flash of dark skin above his cheek before he lets the hair drop again. "I'll come by," he says.

I level him with a stern look. "Don't forget."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, with a grin, the taste of his easygoing one from the formal back on his face. And then he is gone, walking down the corridor. I strain my ears: hear the sound of him saying 'goodbye' to mum and dad, and 'thank you' for letting him stay the night. Dad says that he is welcome any time, and mum says the same in a way that means, 'but not in my daughter's bed,' and I cover my mouth to hold in laughter at her tone. Lance still responds warmly, and then I hear the front door open and close, and the sound of his car rolling down the driveway. And then he is gone, and I am alone in my room with his scent of chlorine and the phantom of his body beside me on the sheets. I breathe in deeply for a moment.

When mum comes in, she helps me to the shower and then changes my sheets, commenting on the faint odour of chlorine that won't seem to go away as she braids my hair. She offers to get some air freshening spray, most likely something along the lines of 'Mountain Pines' or 'Forest Berries' or 'Riverside Cod,' a personal favourite of hers for the name and not the scent. But I tell her not to bother. Because it reminds me of Lance and his car and his chest against my back, his feverish warmth. But I don't share that bit of information, because I am not quite sure of what it means, and it frightens me a little in a way that makes my heart thump wildly in my chest, fast as a gazelle's.

I joke with dad as we watch a horribly bad movie, and we point out everything that is wrong with it, including the plane in the background and the slight ring of a mobile phone in a movie which is meant to be set in the 1600's. I talk to Olivia and Tom over the phone, their voices overlapping in their haste to be heard over each other, and wait for Marcus to call. He doesn't.

In the back of my head, there is a part of me that is simply waiting. Waiting for the growl of Lance's car as it crawls up the drive; waiting for the doorbell to ring; waiting for the deep timbre of his voice and the look of his slight smile that hardly shows on his lips but is more in his eyes. I remember the sharpness of his profile in the darkness as he drove us to the hospital, and then the grim look of his smile, as if he was scared to be too happy, to show the outward signs of it, because then something bad would happen and everything that was good would disappear. I remember the warmth of his arm around me; his fingers on my back; the way that, when I am with him, I do not feel small and broken and inconsequential. I feel strong.

And so I let mum feed me and dad talk at me and time wear at my patience as I wait. And when the sound of a car breaks the silence in my mind, and the doorbell rings, and my heart thuds in my chest, I realise that I am changing. And I do not know if that is good or bad, but it only makes my heart beat faster, and a smile tugs at my lips for no reason in particular. And I like the feeling.

"I'll get it." Those are the first words out of my mouth, before the echo of the bell has disappeared. Mum looks at me and dad looks at me and then they look at each other. Mum frowns. Dad shrugs. I roll my eyes.

And then I use the arm of the couch to pull myself to my feet, and I walk slowly, slowly, slowly, holding onto the bar along the wall, installed for my convenience. They don't follow me, though their eyes do.

And then I am hidden by the wall and I go to the door and I open it. And on the other side is someone who is decidedly not tall enough, broad enough in the shoulder, amber-eyed and sharp faced, or shaggy-haired enough to be Lance. Disappointment settles inside me, heavy and unexpected. I grip the door handle. "Marcus?" I say. My voice sounds strange. "Why are you ringing the bell?"

"I forgot my key," he says, awkwardly. He shifts from foot to foot; slips his hands into his pockets and then takes them out. I raise my eyebrows slightly, and then wince at the pain in my temples and let them drop. And that is when I realise that he is not looking at me. And that is when I remember that I heard a car come up the drive. And Marcus doesn't have a car.

I glance behind him: there is a red Mini Cooper in the driveway, small and cute, and it matches the tall, slim girl in the car. I remember her from the formal, hair a stunning red. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel and taps out a text on her phone. I look at Marc.

His eyes flicker between me and my shoulder. "I have to tell you something, Syl," he says. Still not looking at me. He shoves his hands into his pockets again, then takes them out. His fingers move at his sides.

I let him twitch nervously for a moment, and then I sigh heavily. Because I know what he is going to tell me, and, once, I would have hated both him and her for it. But I realise that I am not jealous of the girl in the car. I am not jealous, not even a little, because I don't feel what I thought I felt for Marcus. Or maybe I do feel it, but it doesn't mean what I thought it meant, before, when I had nothing to compare it to. But now I think I do. I think I have something to compare it to. But I cannot be sure because it is just beginning to grow, and I do not want to destroy it by doing something stupid like noticing it.

"Stop acting like I'm going to shoot you, Marc," I say. My voice comes out stronger than I thought it would, and I continue, charging forward with no thought of what will come next, the words spilling from my lips as if I have known them all along. "I can see what you have to tell me: I'm not blind. And her car's red as a skittle. It isn't as if she blends in." I pause. He is looking at me now. "I want you to know that, whatever misguided assumption made you think that you had to hide this from me, it's exactly that. Misguided. I hope that you two can be very happy together, but in the open instead of as a secret, like it's some illicit thing you're doing instead of trying to have a relationship. This isn't Nazi Germany. You can do what you like." I enunciate the words carefully, making sure to hold his eyes.

"Whatever made you think you had to hide this, make it go away. I want my friend back." My last words are soft and tired. And then I raise my hand slightly in a small wave at the girl. She looks startled, but warily waves her hand back with an unsure smile.

"She seems nice, Marc," I tell him, smiling at her with as friendly a smile as I can muster as I drop my hand to my side. "Get in the car." And then I step back, and I close the door in his face. It is the most powerful I have felt in my whole life.