Flood

I am restless, tonight. I almost wish for dreams, even ones that might break me; anything to escape. But dreams require sleep, and I am as far from sleep as a person could ever be.

I turn my head to the side and look at my clock; the numbers blink at me, on and off. It is ten o'clock, and I am usually asleep by now. But tonight I am alone; I asked mum and dad to leave me by myself, and they did, looking a little worried. And now their worry has carried on into other aspects of their lives, and they are awake in the other room, and I can hear the low buzz of the television.

I try to remember the fish, in the aquarium, but all I can recall is the slow, age-old intelligence in the eyes of the turtle. And then the feel of Lance's arms around me. And then, not unexpectedly, the hurt in his voice, his eyes, the very way he held himself.

I groan and roll onto my other side, carefully, trying to forget the sharpness of his pain. Why do I have to do this to people? Why is it so impossible to live life without making marks upon people, marks that are more often than not scars?

In the other room, dad's phone rings, and the sound of scuffling feet and soft swearing muffle the bright, underlying tune of the Popeye theme song. I smile slightly, and then the sound is cut off.

"Hello?" dad says, and mum shushes him, so that the next time he speaks I can only hear the vague sound of his voice, rather than the shape of the words.

He speaks for a few moments, sounding reluctant. And then I hear feet in the corridor, and mum's angry whisper. "I'm just checking if she's awake! The boy's a mess!" I almost laugh, and then I realise what he said.

I push myself up to a sitting position, gripping my bedside table to help. My door glides open, softly.

"Dad? Is that Lance?" I ask.

The door opens fully, and dad steps in, his phone in his hand. "I told you she'd be awake," dad says to mum over his shoulder.

"Shut up and give her the phone, Michael," mum says, but there is a weary, fond amusement in her voice.

"Your boy," dad says, passing me the phone. I take it, feeling a small ache inside me at the words. But I smile, for him, and dad backs out grinning, without another word. The door closes behind him with a slight click, and then everything is silent. I put the phone to my ear.

I can hear the sound of him breathing on the other end of the line; the steady in and out, in and out. I wonder if he is hearing my breaths just as I am hearing his; mine are definitely not as steady.

"Hey," I say, softly. His breaths stop, for a moment.

And then he says one word, an exhalation. "Syl."  He does not sound like himself: the Lance I know is in control, sure and capable and contained, the only visible emotion inside of his eyes, and the slight, almost imperceptible softening of his expression. This Lance has a voice filled with emotion, and it scares me a little.

I wait. "I'm sorry," he says, finally.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I tell him.

He laughs quietly, and the sound makes me smile, because it is small and breathy and his. "I do. I'm acting like an idiot. Like a child throwing a tantrum because he didn't get what he wanted." I want to tell him that I'm sorry that what he wants is me, and I don't understand why I am who he has chosen, but I am so, so sorry. "I'm being unreasonable. Like it's only my choice, and not yours. Like you must feel the same way, when you clearly don't. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm being such an asshole. No one has the right to tell you what to feel and how to feel it. And that's sort of what I've been doing, isn't it? Trying to make you admit to something you don't feel." He is quiet for a moment. And then it stretches, on and on, and I realise that he is waiting for me to say something, but I cannot speak because I might start to cry and I don't want to do that because I am strong I am stronger than this I won't cry. "Syl?"

I shift the phone to my other hand and push the hair from my eyes. "I... I feel the same as you do, Lance." I hear him draw in a sharp breath, as if to speak, and continue on. "But I can't help what I am; I'm dying. And I won't act on what I feel if it's going to hurt anyone. Especially you."

I wait. And wait. And wait. And then: "Sylva, I don't care." He sounds pained, and his voice is hushed, and I can hear the sound of machines beeping and the squeal of shoes on the floor; he must be in the hospital. My heart is breaking, but so is his, and there are two ways that I can stop it, one of which will make me happy and him sad, and the other which will leave the both of us miserable, but him happier, I hope, when I am gone. And I refuse to hurt him more than I already have.

I take a breath. "But I do." I hear a machine, beeping strongly and steadily with the life I don't have. "And I don't want to lose you, as a friend, but I don't see how we can be anything more."

He is quiet for a moment, thinking. "I'll give myself to you in any way you'll have me," he says. "And if that means we'll just be friends, I can live with that." I almost cry, or laugh, or both. But no. I won't. I will not. I refuse to break.

"Me, too," I say.  Not really, I think.

"Ok," he says.

"Ok."  I don't want to live with this decision.

"I guess I better go; Tiana's waking up." There is indecision in his voice, and I hate that I have put it there.

"Give her my love," I say, my voice a whisper.

"I will," he says. He says goodbye, and so do I, and then he hangs up. I stare at the phone, in my lap, for a long time. And then I put it on my bedside table, and I curl up on my side on the bed, and think about what I have done. I school my thoughts to rhymes. I imagine my desires, my wants and needs, all pulling themselves free of me and fluttering up to the ceiling. I imagine them, there; a gallery, a menagerie of all I have given up.

"Just friends," I repeat in confirmation, and then inside my head, silently, over and over again to make myself believe it. And, long into the night, long after mum and dad have gone to sleep and the world is drifting and silent, I am still awake. Because I am memorising all I am giving up; all I never had and all I never will have.

"Just friends," I whisper. But my voice sounds unsure, because I cannot even convince myself.

I wake to the sound of the phone ringing; I reach, unthinkingly, onto my bedside table and grab it, silencing the tune with the press of a button. I hold it to my ear, and only then do I remember that this is my dad's phone. Inside, I swear a little, thoroughly awakened by my stupidity.

"Hello?" I say, cautiously.

"Hey." It's Lance, and I hold back the sudden need to sigh in relief; I am not up to talking to one of dad's work friends again. The last time I spoke with one, they kept going on and on about the strangeness of my medical history, my unidentifiable illness, how unusual I am, how lucky to be alive, on and on and on til I hung up. They haven't spoken to dad since, but I refuse to be held responsible.

I don't quite know how to speak to Lance, now; what to say and what not to say are all a whirling mass of the same words in my mind. I settle on, "Good morning."

There is a brief silence that is bordering on awkward, but then he speaks again. "So, I'm in your kitchen."

"What?" I struggle to sit up, and the alarm must be clear in my voice, because he laughs.

"Relax. Your parents let me in before they left." I look at the clock.

"Lance, it's twelve. They've been gone for three hours. Have you just been sitting there?"

"I didn't want to wake you up," he says. Footsteps are soft outside my door, and then it opens, and he stands on the border of my room, a small smile flickering at the edges of his mouth, his hair an adorable rumple. "Plus, it wasn't like I had nothing to do," he says, still speaking into the phone. "I made breakfast."

"You took three hours to make breakfast?" I ask, a little incredulous. And then I realise I am still speaking into the phone, and it is faintly ridiculous, so I hang up and put it on the bed. Lance's smile flickers the tiniest bit wider, and he hangs up his phone, too, and puts it into his pocket, leaning against the doorframe.

"No. I watched a little TV for the first hour, and then debated on whether or not to wake you for the next one, and then decided that I'd wake you at twelve and in the last hour I stumbled around your kitchen, trying to find things." The image makes me smile. I fold back the mess of my sheets and carefully swing my feet to the ground. When I look, Lance is watching me, his gaze unreadable. "I'm not sure how to be your friend," he says, and I am startled, because those are my thoughts exactly. "You'll have to help me figure it out."

"Ok," I say.

He doesn't blink, and his gaze is becoming disconcerting, because the longer I look at him the more I remember what we agreed on last night, and the desire to change what I said is bordering on overwhelming. "Is it friendly to help you to the kitchen?" he asks.

I think about it. "Marcus helps me," I say.

He smiles a fake, sarcastic smile. "It's friendly, then," he says. He comes over to me, and lifts me easily into his arms; I link my hands around his neck, and try not to think about how close he is, and the smell of chlorine and deodorant and soap and Lance make it awfully hard.

"I can walk, you know," I tell him, as he settles me against his chest and turns towards the door.

"I'm being friendly. Friends help their friends," he says. He stares straight ahead as he walks out of the room, turning slightly to the side so my head and feet don't hit the doorframe, being careful not to jolt me in his arms. "Although, you're making it pretty hard to be your friend. Have you had a change of heart, since last night?" he asks, hopefully.

"No," I tell him.

He sighs. "Fine. I'll just have to be the best damn friend you've ever had." He frowns. "And now I'm trying to emulate Marcus. Great."

I laugh a little as he sets me down in a chair. "Hey, he's not that bad."

"I know, but who would you rather me be: myself, or Marc?" I let go of his neck, but he doesn't lean back.

"That's not a friendly question," I say, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.

He sighs and leans back, running a hand through his hair, messing it up more. "Sorry." He turns away, and I watch his back retreat across the kitchen to the counter. He leans against it for a moment, head bowed, his back moving as he takes a breath and rolls his shoulders. Then he straightens, and picks up something from the bench, turning and carrying it over to me. "Breakfast is served."

I laugh and then force myself to stop. "You spent an hour making cereal?" I ask.

He points at me as he takes his seat across the table, his own bowl in front of him. "I spent an hour finding the cereal. It took about a minute to pour it."

I laugh again, a little helplessly, and he picks up his spoon. "An hour?"  I repeat.

"Prep time is crucial," he says, and his tone is a little hurt, but it is false; I can see the slight spark of amusement in his eyes. I take a breath to calm down, and start to eat my cereal.

"So, why are you here?" I ask, after a bite.

He raises an eyebrow at me as he swallows. "I believe I promised you a haircut."

"I almost forgot," I say, a little surprised at myself.

"Lucky I'm here to remind you, then," he murmurs.

We finish our cereal in silence, and Lance brings the bowls to the sink, telling me to get changed while he washes them. I stand beside the table, for a moment, watching him stand in front of the sink, hands braced on either side of him on the bench, knuckles white, shoulders high, head bowed. I admire the curve of his neck, and the smooth lines of muscle in his arms and on his back, visible through his t-shirt, straining against his shoulders. This feels dangerous. This feels too close to what I forbade myself from.

I turn and make my way to my room, and change as quickly as I can, brush my teeth and plait my hair. I discover, when I pull on my t-shirt, that the back of my neck is a place of blazing pain. I hold a mirror in front of me, my back to the mirror in my room, and see the shape of a blossoming bruise, growing darker as I watch. I sigh and put down the mirror, put on my shoes, and leave the room, holding on to the rail on the wall for balance.

Lance waits by the front door. "Ready?" he asks.

I nod. He opens the door and pulls his keys from his pocket, waiting for me to make my slow way out, holding his hand out to me as I go; I take it gratefully as I step down onto the drive. Then he lets me go, and turns back to the door, locking it with a key that is no longer the only one on his key ring.

I watch him lock my house, leaning against the car, and get in when he opens the door for me. I do up my buckle with careful hands, and he climbs in on the driver's side. "Who gave you a house key?" I ask. It seems like something important. Like something I should know of.

"Your mum," he says. And I think of the tone of mum's voice, when she spoke to him last, and think that it is strange that she gave him a key. But I do not remark upon it. We are quiet as Lance drives. At one point, he taps at a button on the console, to turn on the radio, but nothing happens. He slows to a stop at the traffic lights and pushes at it more aggressively, before running his palm along all of the buttons. The radio turns on with a small pop of sound, and I look at it, a little astonished. Lance smiles with a grim amusement at the traffic as he eases into the next lane. "It may be a piece of crap, but it's my piece of crap," he says, "and I know its quirks."

"What other quirks does it have?" I ask, interested.

"The window," he says. "You have to wind the handle forward three times, and then when you wind it backwards, it'll open."

That sounds a little strange to me, and it must show on my face. Lance raises an eyebrow. "Try it, if you don't believe me." I do. I wind and wind and wind til my fingers cramp, but nothing happens. Then, feeling a little stupid, I wind three times forwards and then backwards; the window opens with a soft sigh, and I look at it strangely.

"What else?" I ask.

And, for the rest of the drive, Lance tells me about the idiosyncrasies of his car. The speedometer reads up to eighty kilometres an hour, but after that, it stops, and he has to gauge the speed by instinct. Basically, he guesses. He doesn't think it's dangerous, as long as he's the only one driving. The switch for the windscreen wipers actually turns on the lights, while the switch that is meant for the lights squirts the windscreen with water, and the button that is meant to squirt the windscreen with water turns on the air conditioner –or, it would, if the air conditioner were not broken. He doesn't actually know what turns on the windscreen wipers: usually, when it rains, he has to pull over and wait for the weather to calm down, because the glass goes streaky and leaves him unable to see anything at all. The wheel pulls slightly to the right, and the passenger-side door jars a little, but then opens grudgingly. The clutch needs to be balanced just so, or the car will stall; it's finicky like that. The centre console doesn't open; somehow, it's been bolted shut, and he hasn't had the time or inclination to get a screwdriver to open it up. There could be a murder weapon in there, I argue. He argues that there could also be a thousand dollars in there, but it's a case of Schrödinger's cat, and he doesn't plan on finding out if it's alive any time soon. I agree that this is a good idea; it lends the car a certain mystery. We spend the rest of the time guessing what might be in there, and I really want to open it by the time we get to the shopping centre, but Lance likes not knowing. So we leave it.

He parks the car close to the hairdresser, and I feel almost back to normal with him, if there ever was a 'normal' between us; as if I can talk to him without remembering what he wants from me, and what I can never give.

I get out of the car, and he waits for me, patiently, before locking it and slipping the keys into his pocket. Then we walk, side by side, to the hairdresser. The woman at the counter looks delighted with the prospect of cutting Lance's hair: she's only a little older than the two of us, and I eye her suspiciously as she runs her hands over his head, ruffling his hair, and asks what he wants. Lance looks at me in the mirror, sitting in the chair beside him. "Anything she wants," he says.

The woman looks at me, clearly a little disappointed. I hide my smile and tell her that it needs to be short, and she nods and goes to get her equipment, leaving a long black smock for Lance to clip on. He puts it on and does up the button at the back of his neck, and then watches me in the mirror.

"I'm a little scared," he admits. "About people seeing me. This." He gestures vaguely at his face, seeming a little unsure.

I smile and stand, leaning on the arm of his chair, and brush the hair from his face, my fingers lingering on the mark beneath his eye, because I cannot help it. "No more hiding, Lance," I say.

His eyes soften, and he puts his hand over mine for a moment, on the arm of the chair. "No more hiding," he repeats. And then the woman is back: she fusses around him with her scissors and a comb, and I settle back into the empty chair and watch the hair drift down from his head as she chatters at him, brushing and cutting. And then she gets out an electric trimmer, like the ones they have in barber shops: to neaten it up, she says. I watch her frantic, professional movements. I see the moment she notices the birthmark on Lance's skin; her eyes dart away from it, her smile faltering, but she continues to chatter. And I hate it. I hate that, because of that small imperfection, people are going to judge him. But people will judge him, anyway. People are always going to judge. And it is better to be honest about yourself, proud of yourself, so that they can see all that you are. Because if there is nothing to hide, they have nothing to talk about. Lance sits stiffly in the chair, responding a little emptily when the woman asks him questions, making all the right sounds to make it seem as if he is paying attention, though, clearly, he is not.

And then she is finished, and she steps back, pulling the smock away from him. "Why don't you take a second, and come up to the counter when you're ready to pay," she says. Lance nods, but he is not looking at her, he is looking at me, and I at him.

The woman leaves. I stand, step closer, and run my fingers over the few centimetres of hair that remain on his head, dark and soft. I put my hand against his jaw and turn his face, and he moves it obligingly to the side as I examine him anew. Because he is so different to the Lance of moments ago, but also the same. The short hair makes him sharper, somehow, and more real. He looks like a young man in the army, from one of mum's old black and white photographs of her dad and his comrades. He looks cutting and dark and, if I didn't know him, he might be a little frightening to me. Even now he frightens me, but it is the intensity in his eyes that scares me, and nothing else. He is scathing and lovely, like shards of glass that are just as likely to cut as they are to shine.

I take my hand from his face and step back, and he watches me go. I force a smile. "It looks good," I tell him.

After a moment, he stands. "Yeah," he says, but he doesn't even look at himself in the mirror. He walks to the counter and pays, and then waits for me, holding the door open as I go out. I can feel the eyes of the woman on my back, but I ignore her: I am used to being stared at. And it isn't as if I don't give people time or reason to look.

"Does it feel strange?" I ask him, anything to break the silence.

He shrugs and absently runs his hand over his head. "My head feels lighter, I guess."

"Mentally, or physically?" I ask.

"Hush," he says, but he is smiling slightly, and he takes my hand as we make our way across the car park.

He unlocks the car and helps me in, and I feel his hand, on my lower back, stiffen slightly as I slip into the seat. "Syl, what's on the back of your neck?" he asks.

I flush slightly as he leans closer, easing me gently away from the seat and looking closely at my skin, his fingers lightly brushing my shoulder as he pushes my hair out of the way. His breath is hot on my ear, and he is so close, and this is not friendly, not friendly at all. "I have fibromyalgia," I mumble.

"Which means?" he asks, patiently, his fingertips tracing the area around the bruising, so close but not touching it.

"I'm extremely sensitive to pain, on some days. It's just one of heaps of other illnesses I've been blessed with, most lacking names. And they all basically combine to mean that I'm extremely fragile on some days, not on other days, and on days such as these, I have sensitive spots on my body that bruise extremely easily. Like the back of my neck."

"Nameless illnesses?" he asks, his hand on my shoulder, still looking at the back of my neck.

"Like the one that's killing me," I say, quietly. He leans away abruptly and looks at me for a moment. I look back at him, startled by the suddenly furious look on his face, the set to his jaw. I lean back in the seat. He closes the door and goes to his side of the car; gets in and slams the door behind him.

I watch his hands as he attempts to start the car, and they are shaking, shaking too much to put the keys in. After a moment, he swears and throws the keys onto the dashboard before crossing his arms loosely on the steering wheel and resting his head against them.

"Lance-" I say, softly.

"Why do you have to talk about it like that? So casually? Like there's no chance it won't happen?" he interrupts, cutting me off.

The inevitable fact of my death, he means. I sigh. "Because it's the truth. It's going to happen."

He turns his head to the side, still resting it on his crossed arms. "How do you know?"

"Because it's in my head," I say. He blinks. I don't want to have to explain this. Hearing it, myself, was hard enough. Hearing excited medical students chatter about it whenever I go in for my half-yearly check-up is more than enough. Explaining it to him makes the constraints I have put upon it seem nonexistent. "It's like cancer, of a sort. But not," I say, haltingly. "It's growing bigger every year. Every month, actually. Nothing we've tried has stopped it."

Lance stares at me for a moment. "Have you-" he starts.

"When I was eight, we went overseas," I say, cutting him off. He falls silent and watches me unflinchingly. "We went to thirty-seven different medical clinics, most in different states and countries. Not one knew what was wrong with me. Not one knew how to stop it. I've been in medical trials for most of my life. Had millions of head scans and been knocked out on an operating table so doctors could look inside my skull and try to take out the thing that's been growing in my head for the past seventeen years. Nothing worked. There was not a single thing they could do about it; it's too close to the parts of my brain that make me myself. To take it out is to kill me as surely as leaving it in there is. But at least this way I live longer. So we stopped looking. We stopped searching. Because I made mum and dad stop. They don't understand, but they listened to me, at least. A fourteen year old girl deciding how she wanted to spend the rest of her life. They didn't think I'd have this long. And I was different, then." I pause, look down at my hands in my lap. "I was stronger. Strong enough for travel. Strong enough for lots of things. But the doctors say it wore me out. I've been like this ever since. Good days and bad days. Mum and dad still haven't forgiven themselves. For the fact that I made them give up. For the fact that I've stopped trying."

"Syl-"

"I just want to enjoy the time I have left," I tell him, my voice soft but still cutting over his. "I haven't got long, but every day is another I get to live, to spend with my parents and friends. And you. And I'm grateful for it. And I won't ruin it by trying to convince myself that there's more than what I have, than what I've been given. I've accepted it. And I'd love it if you could at least try to understand why I talk about it like I do. Because I know it's going to happen. And I don't want to hide from the truth like you've hidden your birthmark for so long." I reach out and brush my fingers beneath his eye, and he winces as if it is as painful to him as it is to me. "Please try to understand, Lance."

"I don't understand why you're doing this to yourself," he says, and the conversation has changed, somehow, from being about me to being about us, and I don't know how it happened, but maybe I started it by touching his face. Which, admittedly, was a stupid thing to do, considering I told myself that this cannot happen. That I don't want it to. A lie in itself. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

"After that whole speech on hiding, Syl, how can you justify what you're doing?" I drop my hand from his face, and he watches me, watches me, always watches me, with those eyes that see right into my head.

"This is different," I argue, looking away.

"Not really," he says.

"Take me home, Lance," I say. My voice is shaking as I do up my seatbelt and cross my arms over my chest, because my resolve is faltering and my argument is looking weaker and weaker by the second, and I need to be away from him so that I can think without him clouding my thoughts.

Wordlessly, he starts the car, and where before it was filled with the low cadence of his voice and his soft, breathy laughter, now it is filled with a silence that presses in around me, making me feel smaller than I have ever felt before. Because, in the face of my feelings, I am small, and scared, and unsure in this world in which I never thought I could have what he is offering. What I want so much but cannot condone, because it would be selfish, and I don't want to be that person. Don't want to be someone who hurts everyone. I want to minimise the hurt I cause. And this is not right, this is not ok, this is not good.

When I get home, Lance opens the door for me and walks in with me, waiting til I lie down on my bed. He doesn't touch me. Not once.

And then he comes over and crouches by the side of my bed, a hand on my bedside table to steady himself, his keys tapping against the wood as they dangle from a finger. "I know you don't want to hurt me, Sylva," he says. "But I think you should really consider the fact that every day I spend with you makes me a better person. You make me want to be better. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, along with Tatiana. And I wouldn't want to give up a single moment. Even fighting with you is better than being without you. I can't just be your friend. I've tried, and I know it was only a few hours, but it's killing me." I open my mouth, but he shushes me, the sound a soft hiss in the quiet. He tucks a tendril of hair behind my ear, and leaves his hand against my cheek, cradling my face. "Please," he says. "Try to understand." It is a dirty tactic, using my own words against me. I have no choice but to say yes.

I nod, a slight dip of my chin. He looks at me searchingly, his features sharp but his expression soft. And then he rises, slightly, and leans down, and presses his lips to mine, so quickly and so softly that I don't have time to protest, or to process what is happening.

"I've made my choice, Syl," he says, his voice gentle. "Let me know when you've made yours." And then he walks out of the room. I hear the front door being locked by the key my mother gave him, the key to our home. I try to recall the feeling of his lips on mine, but it happened so quickly that I hardly remember it.

I hear the sound of his car, pulling away. And remember the way that, when he walked away, he did not look back. Sure in everything. Confident and controlled.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Roll over and press my face into my pillow, focusing on the pain in my neck so that I don't have to think about anything. But the pain fades, and the thoughts flood in, stronger than ever. And I feel his hand against my cheek and hear his voice in my head, an echo of everything I've ever wanted. And I know what my choice is. And it terrifies me. But I have to make it.