Never

I am recording Tom's present. Olivia by my side. Leaving the shop. A scream. Pain; raw and scathing. Blood. So much blood. It is everywhere it is exploding out of me it is-

I wake to the beeping of machines, a little erratic. I breathe, and the sound steadies.

A hand is holding mine, and there are tears against my skin.

"Lance?" My voice is dry and broken. I swallow and lick my lips, and I hear a sharp intake of breath as he presses his lips to my fingers, the touch soft as a moth's wings.

"God," he says. "It's like you're trying to kill me."

"Why on earth would I do that?" I ask. I stretch a little, and my stitches pull. I frown, take my hand from Lance and carefully lift the sheets, look down my hospital gown: there are tubes leading into my chest, my stomach. I drop the gown. My other hand has two tubes threaded into it, one thin, the other thick. A clip on my finger measures my heart rate, as do small patches attached to my chest by fine wires. I am a mass of tubing and wires, a mess they are trying to hold together.

He raises his head and looks at me, and I can tell he sees the tubes, but not really; he has seen them too many times, for too long. His face is sharp and tired and sad. I wonder how long he has been here for, where mum and dad are, and Marc and Olive and Tom.

He looks like he has aged a few years in the span of hours, days, or however long I have been asleep for. "It shouldn't be like this," I tell him, quietly. I run my fingers over his short hair, soft against my skin, and rest my palm against his cheek. "I shouldn't have let this happen. You, falling in love with me." I try to joke, to make him smile.

"I'm not in love with you," he says, as if he's trying to reassure me, his lips attempting a small quirk of a smile. It falls from his lips, and he leans into my touch; I smile sadly.

"I'm being selfish, even now," I tell him, and my arm aches from holding up the weight of my hand; I start to drop it, but he holds it to his face with his own hand, large and warm over mine, lending me his strength.

He presses my skin closer against his and leans over me. "Don't you dare say that as if it's not a virtue," he says, his voice careful and slow, so I don't miss a second of his drawling, rough timbre. I love listening to it, even when it is warning, almost threatening with its intensity.

"You have never once been selfish for a single second of the time I've known you. Not once. You haven't asked for anything but help, and that you don't even want. You need it. Need is not selfish. And neither is want: not from you."

I look at him for a moment, and then look away. "How long have I been here?"

"Two days," he says, leaning back into his chair.

"Where are my parents?" I ask.

"They're talking to the doctors," he tells me.

I pause, and then steel myself. "What happened to me?" I ask.

Lance grits his teeth, then stands and takes the chart from the end of the bed and passes it to me. I scan over it, and then put it down. He leans against the rail at the end of the bed, his back to me, hands gripping the metal so tightly his knuckles look white; bloodless. "Lance-" I start.

"Don't, Syl. Don't tell me you're fine." His voice sounds broken, choked.

"I wasn't going to," I say, after a moment. He turns and looks at me, his eyes dark. "I was going to ask you to come here and kiss me, because I don't think I'll be strong enough to handle it, soon." The joke is weak, and so is my smile.

He looks at me stonily, and then comes over to the side of the bed, the side where my hand is unencumbered by medical equipment. He takes the clipboard and puts it on the chair behind him, and then leans down, and rests one of his hands on the bed, by my shoulder, slipping the other beneath my head, into my hair. His thumb sweeps across my jaw, brushing the bottom of my earlobe, his fingers strangely hot. Or maybe I am cold.

He looks at me for a moment, and then he closes the gap between us and presses his lips to mine. It is a deep kiss. A desperate kiss. A kiss that I know will leave me with bruised lips and little breath and a broken heart. But I don't care. My free hand skims his arm, his shoulder, and grips his neck, holding him closer. Even when my arm hurts. Even when my hand feels leaden. Even when I start to cry.

He pulls back a little, his forehead resting against mine, and I keep my eyes closed, because I cannot open them, can't. My hand drops from his neck, and he brushes his lips across my closed eyelids, over my cheeks, taking away my tears. "What's wrong?" he asks. "I mean, apart from the obvious." I laugh, and the sound is hiccupping and quiet.

"Nothing," I say. I open my eyes. He is so close that his eyelashes brush my skin, his nose touching mine. "Nothing at all." His mouth quirks at the corner, and his eyes glow at me, familiarly amber, still startlingly brilliant. "I'll miss you, when I'm gone," I whisper.

He half-closes his eyes, those small beginnings of a smile disappearing. "You'll never be gone, Syl," he says. I feel the infinity charm burning against my neck, the only thing that seems colder than me. "I lied, when I said I wasn't in love with you," he says, after a moment.

I smile a little, and tilt my head, kissing him softly before lying back down, aching and exhausted. "I know," I say. I close my eyes. "I love you, anyway."

He pulls back, disentangling his fingers from my hair. "Do you want your parents, Syl?" he asks.

"Please." My voice is worn and tired, and I am happy and sad and broken and empty and full. I am everything I could possibly be. It is a pity I am trapped inside of this body.

Broken body. Whole heart.