Resolve

I feel filled with a restless sort of energy. I am like a battery; I am energised by resolve. In a bad way. I feel jittery and frightened, and I fear I might move too quickly and hurt myself, and I would not like to constantly be in pain when there is time for that, later, and hardly any time to live at all.

Lance met me in front of the hospital, looking wary. Marc waved from Hannah's car, and I waved back, and then they were gone.

Lance looked at me for a moment, saying nothing. I told him that we needed to talk. And now we walk, very slowly, side by side, to the park across the road. A man pushes his daughter on the swing, and she laughs when he pushes her. When she reaches the dizzying heights, the limits of the swing, she kicks and screams and squeals her way down, but once she has reached her father's arms, she collapses into giggles again. I smile at the cycle and slowly swing my arms at my sides, feeling free and unfettered by the world. Lance isn't holding my hand, or pressing his hand to my back to hold me up, because he knows I do not need it, not now. And I feel strong and capable, though a snail could go faster than I am going, but I don't care.

I open my mouth to speak, but Lance does first. "Syl?" he says.

I look at him curiously. "Yeah?"

"What do you want from life?" he asks. If the question came from anyone else, it would be cruel. But I consider it.

"Why?" I ask, finally.

He watches the little girl on the swing: up, scream; down, laugh. "Tiana seems to take you as a model for her life, now," he says, softly. "And it sounded like she was repeating something you said, when she told me that all she wanted was everything, but she would not confine her wants to a word, anyway."

I am surprised, a little, because I said that to her a long time ago. But I love the capacity people have to surprise me, especially when one of those people is Tatiana. I smile. "'Confine' is a tad refined a word for a little girl," I tell him.

He hums softly in agreement.

"What do you want?" I ask.

He kicks at the ground as he takes a step, nudges a scarlet leaf from the path as if saving it from something. "I've told you what I want," he says, lifting his gaze from the ground. And we have been over this, again and again, and I have said the same thing, because I won't hurt him, I will not. At least, I will try my best not to, but there will always be some things that I cannot avoid doing.

"Lance," I start, then stop. "I'm not worth it," I say. My voice is so quiet it is almost a whisper. "But-"

He stops walking, and I look at him, startled to silence. Because there is a certain violence, a fury, to his stance; a helpless hopelessness that he cannot change or contain. And it is bright in his eyes and I cannot look away, because he is alive alive alive and so bright, burning with life.

"Why do you always say that?" he asks, quietly. "Why do you think you're not worth it? Why do you think you can just decide that you don't want me to want you, and that's it, there's no chance?" His voice gets louder as he speaks, and the man with the little girl looks over at us worriedly.

"Lance-" He cuts me off with more words, and they pour out as if he cannot contain them, not any longer.

"You are the most amazing person I have ever met, Sylva. You're beautiful and you're strong and you're so smart, you don't even realise it. And you bite your lip when you're thinking and there's a scar next to your nose that I haven't had the chance to ask you about, but I want to ask you, because I want to know everything about you, everything you want me to know. And you're so damn stubborn, trying to convince you that this is right is like trying to talk to a rock!" He is shouting now, and from the corner of my eye I see the man take his daughter from the swing and leave, but I don't care; I can't take my eyes from him.

"You're annoying and you're calm and you don't know how to see what is right in front of you, and you can ignore something as well as Greg can, if you want to, and it's infuriating. Because I practically scream in your face that I want you and you won't accept it, won't believe it. You're like the moon to the sun, Syl. You're like the sand to the ocean, like religion to the peasants during the French revolution! You're my opiate, Syl." His voice has fallen, again, and he takes a step closer, and the air feels charged with the moment. His palms cup my elbows, fingers lightly pressed against my arms as he looks at me, seriously, suddenly breathtakingly quiet.

"The sand to the ocean?" I ask, because that is all I can think of saying. I am wordless.

"I can't get enough of you, Sylva," he says, and his voice is hoarse and low. "I don't want to."

And then he kisses me.

It is soft, controlled, as if he knows what he wants and there is no backing down, because this is it, this is what he needs. And I feel like I am drowning in the soft pressure of his lips on mine, even though it is only for a second. He pulls back a tiny bit, rests his forehead on mine, ducking to do so, and looks into my eyes with his, clear and shining like rose gold.

He looks at me like he is waiting for an answer. He looks at me like he loves me.

"I'm sorry," I say. And then I start to cry.

He makes a distressed, small sound and his hands move, one skimming along my arm til it reaches my neck, his long fingers pressing against my cheek. His other hand moves around my waist, pulling me to his chest, and I hold on to him so tightly that I am scared I might break myself, because that is how my tears are making me feel; as if I am falling apart.

His murmurs, after a while, dissolve into words. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he is telling me, over and over.

"I do, though," I say, through my tears, into his chest. "Because I came here to tell you what you just told me, but I also always said I'd never do this to a person, and I hate it, I hate that the only one I'm fighting with is myself."

"You'd never do what?" he asks, after a moment, his voice achingly gentle, as are his hands, his fingertips against my cheek.

In response, I pull back a little, and reach into the pocket of my jacket, pulling out the paper on which I scrawled my thoughts, a while ago.

I give it to him, and he leans away from me a little to accommodate the paper between us, but the fingers of his free hand still curve around my ribs.

I know what he is reading. In the largest, most carefully rounded letters on the page, are some words that I used to think, all the time, when I was younger. After that, they became so constant that I hardly realised they were there. They were a comfort. They were a condemnation.

He reads the words and his expression clears. He looks down at me, his hand dropping to his side, the paper held loosely between two of his fingers. "You shouldn't love someone who is always leaving," I sob. I don't even care that he hasn't used the word; it's what I feel, what I see in his eyes. "It isn't fair. It isn't fair to you. But I want you to."

His fingers move up to my shoulder, and they trace a line along my neck til he holds my face in one hand, gently, perfectly, his fingers buried in the silver tangle of my hair.

"I don't care," he says, simply.

"You should have chosen someone else, someone better, someone who's not dying." My voice is choked, and I hate myself, what I have done to him, what I am doing to him. I should have stopped this a while ago. I should have stopped this before it started. I can't look at him. I won't.

Firmly but gently, he tilts my face so that my eyes meet his. "Sylva," he says, and there is something strange in his voice. "There was never a choice; not for me," he says.

My breath catches in my throat, a sob stuck between my heartbeats. He looks at me for a moment, closely, convincing me with his eyes, with this silent conversation that we are able to have. No words involved, just feeling, just emotion.

And then he kisses me again, deeper now. I feel his other hand come around me, hear the paper crumpling, feel the crush of it against my back, between my shoulder blades. His mouth slants across mine and he is so controlled, and I feel so safe, with him, in this moment, and he knows what to do and how not to break me. He knows what I want.

I wrap my arms around his neck, run my fingers across the few centimetres of hair left on his head, and he runs his tongue along my lip and I don't know what I am feeling but I cannot control it.

He pulls back, and looks down at me, and my strength leaves me and I rely upon him to hold me up.

He pulls me into his arms, the paper still in his grasp, and walks silently to a bench in the park, sitting down and holding me on his lap, as if he refuses to even think of the concept of putting me down.

"Do you understand, Syl?" he asks. His voice is low and rough and completely exposed, and I can hear everything he feels and wants and needs inside of it, as clear a statement as words upon paper.

I smooth the fabric of his t-shirt against his chest, pushing out the wrinkles in the pale blue. He waits. He has always been patient.

I consider what I should say, and what I want to say. I wonder if they are the same thing: an age-old thought. And then I look up at him, and my palm presses, flat, against the skin over his heart, and I can feel the staccato beat of it against my hand.

I nod.

He sighs heavily and pulls me close, and I rest against his chest so that I can feel his heartbeat on my cheek. He wraps his arms around me, his face against my neck, head bowed. And I can honestly say, in this moment, that I have never been as happy as I am now, in this strange, explosive way.

"This is what I came here to tell you," I whisper.

"Tell me what?" he asks, his voice low and rough.

"This," I say, simply. It does not need to be explained.

"Really?" he asks. "And I thought I had to convince you. Now I feel stupid."

I laugh a little, and use the sleeve of his t-shirt to dry the tears from my face. "I needed it, a little. I almost convinced myself I was wrong."

"When did you become so indecisive? I feel like I missed it." His thumb traces small circles on the back of my neck, and my fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.

"Only in this," I say. "I don't want to hurt you. Or anyone."

"Don't make yourself into a martyr, Syl," he says.

"That's what Tom told me."

"He's a smart guy," Lance says.

I nod. We are quiet for a while. "Lance, what do we do?" My voice is small and lost in his chest.

He leans back, and his hand is hot against my neck, skin burning like the light in his eyes. "Anything we want," he says, and his eyes on me are soft; feather-light and gentle as a memory.

I smile a little and let my fingers rest against his birthmark, beneath his eye. His face is so sharp and so alive, I cannot believe the difference. This is what he is like when he is happy. This is what it looks like. And I have done it. I have made him this way. I cannot imagine what I look like, cannot imagine the same startling beauty and life that he exhibits in my frail body. I cannot possibly be so lovely. But, with him so close, and the memory of the feel of his lips on mine, his hand on my neck and his arm around me, I feel alive.

I run my fingers along the line of his jaw, experimentally, feeling the rough texture of growing stubble beneath my fingertips. He watches me unflinchingly, in the same sure way that he does everything.

"I fell out of bed," I blurt.

He looks at me, a bemused amusement colouring his voice when he says, "What?"

"The scar next to my nose," I explain. "I got it when I fell out of bed."

Slowly, his lips pull up at the corner, until he is smiling. Not just with his eyes, but with his mouth, too. A real smile. One that is lovely and crooked and a little frightened of being seen, like his laugh is frightened of being heard, but it is no less lovely for its fear. "Really?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, and I trace the shape of his curved lips with my fingertips, scared to blink for fear of this moment disappearing. "You should smile more often," I tell him.

"There usually isn't much to smile about," he says, and the smile fades, but his eyes are sad.

"There's Tiana," I say. "And me." I thought he'd point out my 'modesty,' but his eyes only become sadder. Because it isn't likely that I'll outlive the year, and his sister's fate is just as uncertain as mine, and we both know it, and I can't bear it. I can't bear the sadness in his eyes, the knowing.

"You said we can do anything," I say, hurriedly.

"What do you want?" he asks, his voice soft, and I know that he is playing along for my sake, even though I was trying to distract him. And it makes my heart hurt, this strange game that we are playing. But I don't want to acknowledge the truth, right now. Don't want to acknowledge the fact that I am dying.

"Take me home," I say. And he does.

The car is quiet. The world outside seems separate, a place of speeding cars and traffic that becomes a blur of colour and light with the tears in my eyes. But I won't cry. I will not.

Lance unlocks the front door with his key, and carries me inside. Mum and dad are having dinner and will be out late; they told me this morning, before I went to Marc's.

I close my eyes so Lance won't see the tears inside of them as he carries me in. He asks me where I want to go, and I calm my voice. Tell him I want to sleep.

He brings me to my room and gently puts me down on my bed. He kisses my forehead, and says goodbye, and I hear his feet, soft against the floor.

"Wait," I say, and his feet stop. I don't open my eyes. "Stay, please," I say.

He hesitates for a moment. And then I hear him moving around my room: the soft sound of his phone being placed on my bedside table; his jacket on my chair; the thud of his shoes on the ground. I roll onto my side, keeping my eyes closed. And I feel the bed compress as he lowers himself onto the sheets beside me. I feel the heat of his body as he shifts closer, his chest against my back. The warm weight of his arm as he wraps it around me and pulls me closer, his fingers curving around my ribs. I settle back against him, and his breath stirs my hair, his lips against my neck.

"Ok?" he asks.

I nod.

And I close my eyes so tight that it hurts and focus on the fact of Lance, on the solidity of him behind me. The heat of his body and how safe I feel, with him here.

And the tears I have been holding back, the inexplicable and unexplainable sadness inside of me, bursts forth.

And if he notices the slight hitch in my breathing, the way that my shoulders shake as I cry softly, the tears slipping down my face and soaking into the pillow, he says nothing. But he holds me tighter, in that perfectly controlled way that he has, with that clarity that makes him Lance. And I realise that I love this boy more than I thought possible.

I cry until I fall asleep.

And he stays with me.