Sloth

by Ella James

  IF YOU’VE NEVER BEEN HERE, you can’t understand. How much it hurts to watch someone you care for suffer so much.

  That first day, we don’t ever really talk. I hold Kellan, my arms encircling his shoulders, as the transplant team bustles around us, coming up with plans, adding and subtracting to and from his bloodstream via the three IV lumens that dangle from his chest. Arethea works around me when she checks his vitals and changes IV bags.

  And Kellan sleeps.

  I’m told they’re giving him a strong painkiller called Dilaudid. It makes his breathing weird and unsteady. Sometimes his eyelids flutter and he blinks at me with glassy eyes.

  Sometime later in the day, Arethea brings a wheelchair and I’m inducted to this hell as we take Kellan—and his IV bags—to a “procedure room” where he has to lie on his sore chest, his face in a pillow, his hands in mine, while a doctor does a bone marrow biopsy, digging into his back with this awful little metal rod until Kellan’s body tightens and he grips my hands. The doctor murmurs “almost there,” and Kellan starts to tremble and he moans into the pillow. When they help him off the awful little cot, his face is bone white, his hair is sweaty, and I think he almost cries moving back into the wheelchair.

  Back up in his room, it takes both Arethea and me to help him up onto the bed. Right after I crawl up beside him and start tucking the blankets around him, a whole team of new faces comes into the room. One of them, a tall, wide-shouldered man with salt and pepper hair and a blunt-featured face, is Dr. Willard, the leader of the transplant team, a native Texan who managed the pediatric ward when Kellan had his first bone marrow transplant here in 2011.

  He prods Kellan’s sore hips, eliciting a single, punchy sob from writhing Kellan.

  “What the fuck?” I gape, then glare at him.

  “Move over a little,” Dr. Willard tells me in his slow, low, Texan drawl. I scoot down by Kellan’s feet, sweating with rage.

  But then I watch the doctor crouch beside the bed and talk softly to Kellan. Dr. Willard clasps his forehead with a gentle hand and urges him to try another transplant—and another chemo trial.

  Kellan reaches for the doctor, and the doctor clasps his hand, and as they talk in murmurs, I realize how much I don’t know. It’s difficult to believe that the guy curled up in the bed is Kellan who disarmed me, strung me up from ropes, made me spiked hot chocolate.

  How the hell did he do all that with cancer running rampant, and the awful weight of not planning to treat it?

  I’m wondering what made him agree to fly to New York this time—if he even had a choice—when I hear the doctor talking about the different chemo drugs. Kellan asks something I can’t hear, despite being right by him, and the doctor murmurs, “Two are different. One’s Bleisic.”

  “Will... it be... like last time?” Kellan’s words are hoarse and slightly slurred, just barely loud enough for me to hear.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll put you in a Dil coma and this sweet girl—” the doctor nods at me—“will rub your back.”

  Kellan says something. The doctor looks around the room, at several younger people in white coats, and Arethea and a woman changing out the garbage can. “Everyone, we need a minute, just the two of us. And maybe her.” Dr. Willard nods at me.

  Kellan says something about, “hurt her,” but I can’t hear him as the room clears out.

  “She came here on her own, right?” the doctor asks him. Willard’s eyes flick to me, and Kellan nods once. “If she’s half as tough as you, she’ll do alright,” the doctor tells him.

  “You’re late to the ballgame,” Dr. Willard says, “and I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, but once I get you in remission all the bone pain will be gone. If it goes real bad, I’ll make sure you’re comfortable—but I think you can do this.”

  A few soft words from Kellan and the doctor presses Kellan’s hand between his, arches his brows at me, and wipes his eyes. And I know I should go.

  I’m scared and I should go. Protect myself. But that’s not what I do.

  THEY START CHEMO WHILE he sleeps that night. Arethea tells me he’s getting a huge dose of steroids with it, and I should expect him to be restless. I guess restless for someone on a Morphine-like painkiller is occasional twitching and a few soft moans.

  Sometime after Arethea’s 2 AM vitals check, he stirs behind me. He runs his hands over my arm and sides, the motion light and reverent.

  I’m breathless for a long moment as he settles around me. I think I understand. Why all great things are sad. Why silence aches. Why people lose their way. Why when I see a lone figure, I wonder who she’s missing and not who she’ll meet. Why babies die when they’re not touched. Why young girls cradle letters from strange boys with nameless pain upon their hearts.

  We’re not meant to be alone. We’re made with holes inside our souls. The only way to survive is to fill them. I think the catch is, you don’t get to choose with what.

  I open my eyes. I think I opened my eyes... but I guess I’m dreaming. Because I’m back at Memorial Sloan Kettering. I blink slowly in the dream and look around the room. The wrong room. The corner room. But dreams are like that.

  I inhale. I shut my eyes. It smells like... antiseptic. And the sheets. Hospital sheets with their smell... the stale, papery smell. That fucking smell sends a jolt of terror through me.

  Breathe.

  I have these dreams sometimes. I have to close my eyes and breathe.

  It’s not real, Kelly. It’s just a dream. My inner monologue is always Ly’s voice. Thinking of him...

  I open my eyes. There’s the wall, TV, rocking chair.

  Cold fear sweeps me. My body tightens and... my legs. My hips and back... They hurt.

  Fuck no. Fuck me. All the sweat and... I’m wet. Water. I can see it spray over the windshield.

  Cleo. Cleo... water.

  I look down, but I know already what I’ll see. It’s not my old line. Not my old line. This central line is new.

  I start to pant. I can feel the pain of each breath in my aching ribs. My sore cheek. I’m on my side. I’m in a bed. Hospital bed.

  “Oh God.” I think I’m going to be sick. I try to get up off the bed. I try to throw my legs over the side but something’s—

  “Kellan?”

  Cleo.

  Her hands cup my cheeks. My chest pumps, each deep breath a lance of pain. I look down at my central line.

  “Oh Kellan... Damnit.” Cleo grabs my face. The left side throbs under her fingers.

  “Oh.” She moves her hand. “I’m sorry.” Her fingers skate over my sore jaw. I realize she’s straddling my lap. “Are you okay?”

  “Fuck.” I inhale against her hair and pull her closer. I don’t mean to, but I moan... “This room.”

  My fingers play with the silky fabric of my jersey... I feel my brother climb into bed. His thin hands on my neck and shoulders. “The day before...” he died “he said he loved me.” He was worried... about me. Lyon was better. I was sick.

  I lock down at Cleo, pressed against my chest, and raise my knees around her, holding so she won’t go yet.

  I don’t know whose mouth finds whose... but our lips, our tongues are mingling. I stroke her velvet cheek and tangle with her tongue and clutch her head and pull her closer. I can smell her breath, it smells like peppermint. Her tiny fingers play at my nape. I deepen the kiss. I’m damp with sweat, my eyes are wet... I can’t stop. Can’t stop kissing her. She can’t stop kissing me. I’m dizzy.

  My mouth closes over hers. I breathe her breath. Warm breath until my head stops spinning.

  Still spinning.

  I let my breath out.

  “Baby...” Tender fingers find my cheeks. Her eyes. I love her eyes. Her brows pull down, as if she’s sad. Her thumb traces under my eyes. “You had a bad dream?”

  “Yeah.” I lean my cheek against her hand.

  I feel her hand behind my shoulder, rubbing my back.

  It makes me think of Lyon. I like the pain.
Being here... I want to feel it.

  I try to remember what she just asked, and what I said. The Dilaudid is making me fuzzy.

  I lean away from her. Her face is blurry. I can only see her silhouette, a dark blot on the blue-tinged room. The blue is coming from the window. Curtain drawn. The city lights. I remember those cold lights.

  I look down at my chest. Only one IV working right now.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she whispers.

  “I’ve gotta get up.”

  She nods. “I brought you a bunch of longue clothes but they’re in the dryer right now. Our nurse is going to bring them. Until then, I got you this.”

  Our nurse...

  She slides down off the bed and gets back up with something. I can’t see it.

  I blink. It’s a robe.

  I push toward the bed’s edge with sore arms.

  “Here—” She’s standing by the bed. “Slide down and you can hold onto me.”

  I get down, and my legs and hips ache so much I feel tears burn my eyes. I can’t believe I’m back here. My throat is so full, I can barely breathe. Cleo’s arm comes around me.

  She kisses me. She wraps her hand around the IV pole. She walks me to the bathroom, pointing out a giant, blow-up palm tree.

  “There’s more of that type stuff coming to decorate your room. Hope you don’t mind.” Her voice is static.

  She pushes the bathroom door open. Light spills out. I look down at myself. These scrubs. They came untied... are sagging. Fuck.

  She leaves me and I stare at the sink. The toilet.

  Memories...

  I piss, then try to squeeze one out. I think of Cleo, and I get a halfie, even though I’m numb as hell. Okay.

  I look in the mirror. That’s a big mistake. My face is bruised. My lips are dry. My eyes look desperate and strung out.

  I put on the robe. I don’t know how it got in here. Did Cleo hand it to me? I’m shaking. The longer I stand up... the more things hurt.

  I open the door, fast because I’m scared that she’ll be gone. She’s right there. We go to the bed. I lie down across it, on my side. My legs hang off. The robe is soft. It covers me. Good.

  Cleo climbs up on the mattress, leans over me. She holds up... some kind of towel? I watch a smile light up her face. She looks... proud. Her hand is on my face again. “You can’t get a bath yet, not for a little while longer, because of your central line. But I don’t think you’ve had one since the wreck. I thought it might feel good.”

  I BLINK, AND CLEO DRAGS a warm cloth over my calves, and... it does feel good. I clench my fist, because I want to touch her.

  Someone knocks, and Cleo leaves. Fuck. The water dries cool on my skin. My dick stirs.

  She comes back into my plane of vision with an armful of... clothes. From the laundry. “I bought some things before I left Atlanta, then I ordered some other stuff from a 24-hour delivery service.” She’s smiling. I think I should smile, but I’m too tired.

  She sets the clothes beside me and strokes my knee. It’s too much. I scurry off the bed before I realize that’s crazy. Then I look around, searching out an excuse for it. But I can’t think straight. I turn back toward the bed and right my IV lines.

  Damnit...

  She acts like she doesn’t notice I just freaked out. She lays a pair of boxer-briefs and long, dark gray pants over the bed’s rail. I manage the underwear, but my hips hurt. I feel my heartbeat in the bones. My hands can’t seem to hold onto the pants.

  I get back on the bed and turn away from her. I cover my face with my arm.

  “I can help you get your pants on,” she says in a voice that sounds like sunny clouds. “You helped me out of mine so many times, it’s only fair, right?”

  “I don’t need them,” I rasp.

  “Okay then. No pants. I’m going to untie this robe if that’s okay. Get your chest bare. If you don’t mind?”

  I grunt, because that towel’s on my thigh—and I can feel my dick throb, somewhere...

  She washes my hips and belly, gently. I can’t feel myself like normal, but I can pay attention to the rhythm of her movement. And it’s slow. I’m not embarrassed. I would be—if not for this.

  My balls... They feel... full. I’m surprised to find I want to touch them.

  I want her to touch them.

  Can I ask her? Would she jack me off like this? Or is it too fucked up?

  She drags the towel over my sore ribs. It feels nice.

  Last time I was here, I tried so hard to forget my body. To pretend it wasn’t really there, and neither was the pain. But this... it’s good. Tears brim in my eyes as my dick stiffens. I love her. I just want to be inside her.

  I would ask... I just... can’t.

  She’s beside me now, leaned over me. She’s close to... fuck. The line. She can see my central line up close. It’s called a line, but it’s a tube. A little tube that goes into my chest.

  She won’t want to touch me anymore. My dick forgets its gladness. I try to be still.

  Cleo... steady. Soft. The cloth goes up my arms, my neck, my face. I want to cry. I want to ask her why she’s doing this. There’s... my robe off me. A towel. Then my hair is wet. She’s stroking... I can hear the bubbles by my ears. So nice and cool.

  She tucks a towel around my hair, and I look up into her eyes.

  Her gaze softens against mine. “Am I doing okay?”

  She strokes my forehead.

  I inhale slowly through my nose. “Why... are you still here?”

  She sits down by me, takes my hand. “Because you’re here.”

  “The water was cold.” Did I say that out loud?

  Cleo’s breasts press against her shirt. She’s talking. Emory. Her hand is on my shoulder. The hurt one. I don’t know why... I feel my balls draw up.

  Dilaudid. God... I’m fucking glowing. My dick’s hard. I need to fuck her. She’s talking... about papers. Signing papers.

  She asks, “Is that okay?”

  A nurse comes in. I think I get more Dilaudid, because Cleo goes away. I grab my dick. An anchor. It’s the only thing I feel. My hand or her hands... ?

  His face is somber and his eyes are shut. I don’t think he’s touching himself the way I think he—oh. The blanket slips off him and I can see his hand definitely stroking his cock.

  It sends a bolt of lightning through me.

  I watch his chest move up and down. The motion makes his face go tighter, even as he pumps his long, thick shaft. My hands yearn to join in his rebellion. Would he like that? Would he like my help? It might just be a comfort thing. Something he can do to distract from the pain.

  The more I watch his fingers curve around his cock, the more I see the strength of his hand moving in its practiced rhythm, the more I watch him pump his perfect cock—the more I understand why he needs this right now.

  Heat begins to rise in my chest, gathering in a thick sting. I’m breathing deeply too, but he has no idea. I’m not sure he even knows I’m here. I watch his hand, the thickness of his shaft, the smoothness of that skin. His breaths come longer, louder and his balls draw up. And I can only stand here, feeling need unfurl between my legs.

  Can I touch him? He would want it. I think he would.

  I climb onto the bed. I trail my hand up his calf, then up his firm, hair-dusted thigh, so he can feel me coming. I hold my breath and stroke his balls. His hips jerk. He moans as I cover his hand with mine.

  His eyelids lift. His eyes are glossy, but instead of vacancy, all I see are seas of need.

  “Can I... ?” Shit. I can’t even say it.

  “Please. I wanna feel... your hand.” His eyes slip shut. I feel his thighs tense as my hand replaces his hand on his cock. I tighten my grip. I try to keep his rhythm.

  “Oh God, Kellan.” His legs spread out. His ass lifts off the bed.

  I move up and down his thick shaft, pumping his base and gliding all the way up to his swollen head, where I find a bead of slick pre-cum. Kellan’s breaths are h
oarse and shallow.

  “It feels good?” I whisper.

  He groans. I see the mottled bruising underneath his jaw as his head tips back, his blond hair pressed into the pillow.

  “Good,” he moans. “It’s good.”

  I bring my other hand under the blanket tossed over his thighs, cupping his warm balls. I knead them as I pump him hard and fast, with steady, knowing strokes. He groans. My hand slows, tugging his thick shaft toward me.

  “Faster. Pull... harder.” He reaches down toward me, his fingers spread. He banks his hand over his lower abs. The fingers quiver, but he doesn’t touch me.

  I pick up the pace again. His cock is swollen, huge and hard and hot. He lifts his hips and groans, a ragged, mindless sound. I cup my palm around his head. He’s slick there. I trace the rim of him with delicate precision.

  “Squeeze,” he growls. “My balls. Squeeze hard.”

  He thrusts his hips. “Harder,” he begs. “Please... fuck, Cleo.”

  With one hand wrapped around his sac, I take his cock between the base of my thumb and the inside of forefinger. Then I jack his rigid shaft. Up and down. I pump as my hand fists his balls with measured force.

  He writhes. “Cleo—fuck... oh fucking shit.” The words are low and hard. He thrusts his hips. “Oh God...”

  I want to take him further. Take him away. I struggle with my idea for a moment, then decide to take a risk. I lean under the blanket and lick up and down his thigh, my hand still holding his firm sac, my fingers grasping the base of his cock.

  I pick up the pumping on his dick and guide one swollen testicle into my mouth. Good move. His hoarse voice fills my ears. “Oh fuck... Cleo... Ohhhh... I’m gonna blow... inside your mouth...”

  Kellan groans. His legs tremble. I leave him like that, panting. I race over to my bag and grab a flavored condom I bought for this purpose.

  I can’t suck him bare; one of the rules. He twists his hips, moaning, as I roll the condom on.