Sloth

by Ella James

  His face is looser. He’s more apt to smile. Like when he sees the origami sparrows shivering over us.

  “Birds,” he whispers. “Lot of birds.” He blinks at me, a silly little smirk on his face. “Get up,” he whispers. “I want to... get up.”

  I help him out of bed without too much trouble, and we walk to the window. I can feel him trembling. He’s weak and tired. He should be sitting down.

  “You want to try to get a shower?” He nods, taking a handful of my hair and looking down at it. I giggle. “High Kellan. Sit here in this desk chair first and let me change the sheets again.”

  I put on the Batman sheets I bought him, just for silly fun, and then we get into the shower. He holds onto my shoulder, and I bathe him carefully. By the time we’re ready to get out, his dick is pressed against my thigh. His eyes are dark with desire.

  He takes my hand as we walk to the bed. He hands a condom to me—one of the flavored ones I bought—and I smile. “Yeah?”

  He nods, and tugs his pants down.

  “God, you’re perfect. If you want this, I can’t wait to give it to you.”

  I roll the rubber over him and suck him deep into my mouth. After a few thrusts, a few heartfelt moans, he stops me.

  “Not feeling well?”

  He shakes his head and puts a hand on my arm. “I don’t want to come,” he whispers. “I don’t want to fall asleep.”

  “Why don’t want to? Sleep is good.”

  He shakes his head and pulls me down beside him on the mattress. “I don’t like it…because I can’t feel you there.”

  THE MARIJUANA TINCTURE IS A GAME-CHANGER. After a good night’s sleep, Kellan wakes up feeling good. He seems so comfortable and happy when the doctors do their morning rounds, Willard decides to cut back sharply on the IV painkillers. After a pancake breakfast he attacks with comical enthusiasm, Kellan nods off in the recliner, thumbing through The Wall Street Journal. I use the quiet time to sit on the love seat near the window and have a text chat with my sister.

  Around lunch time, I move over to the bed and bring my laptop out. I’m combing through my list of favorite quotes when Kellan’s eyes flip open.

  “Cleo, fuck. My dick…” He blinks around the room, looking dizzy. His gaze smashes into mine. “Is this a wean?”

  “A what?” I slide down off the bed and stand over his chair.

  “Check this out.” He reaches for my hand and brings it down to his cock, which even through the cotton of his pants, is so hard I can almost feel his pulse in it. “Dilaudid,” he rasps. “When they cut it back... I get these crazy fucking boners. I want to be inside you…now.”

  His eyes are still a little dazed from all the tincture I’ve been giving him. I grab a condom and urge him over to the bed, where he splays out and I crawl underneath the covers. I take the head of him into my mouth and he thrusts down my throat.

  “Oh fuckkkk...” His legs tremble. I feel him throb. I run my hand along the seam of his balls and he explodes.

  He fingers my pussy expertly, stopping to pant... and then I reach for him and feel how hard his cock is. I find my own release as I close my hand around it.

  Afterward, it’s still half hard. I laugh. “Are you serious?”

  “I told you.” His eyes are wide, and brighter than I’ve seen them in days. “All day. Tomorrow too I bet. Is tomorrow the rest day?”

  “Tomorrow is your first day after transplant, baby.”

  “Fuck. So that’s today.”

  “Too stoned to keep track of the days,” I tease him. “It’s okay. I’ve been taking my pre-donation meds, and I feel fine. I’m all ready. In fact, I think I’m supposed to get a shower.”

  He’s quiet as we walk into the bathroom. I start the water, strip my clothes off, and pretend not to lust after his massive, hard cock as he drops his pants. I catch him looking in the mirror before I help him remove his shirt, while being mindful of the IV lines. The left side of his chest is still bruised. Shoulder too.

  He’s leaner. Leaner in the legs and hips. He’s still wide up top, but it’s a different kind of top-heavy. His arms are more sinewy, his shoulders squarer.

  “Mmm,” I kiss his bicep, “that’s a .gif right there.”

  He rocks his cock against my leg. “You’re a .gif. I need a file for when you’re not around.”

  “I’ll always be around.”

  I move the IV bag to its hook inside the shower and we step in, clutching each other.

  I giggle at his dick.

  He smiles a little, looking tired around the eyes.

  “You feel okay?” I touch his forearm.

  “I like being with you.” Another earnest answer. Thank you, marijuana. His hungry hands wash me. He fingers me until I come under the shower spray. Then he strokes himself until his lids are low, his nipples taut.

  “Why are you still here?” he asks as he works his cock.

  I grab his balls and kiss his chest. “Because when we get out, I get to take this home.” I grin. He smiles a little. “What a horny boy, and feeling so good too. Why don’t you sit down on this bench?”

  He does so without question. I climb up on his lap and sink down on his tortured cock. We come fast, both laughing. We step out onto the rug together, tangled in each other. I dry me, and then help him. Even though he’s feeling better, he’s still weak.

  He leans down so I can towel his hair, and when I rub the towel over it, it comes away in patches.

  He lets me shave it with some shears I ordered for this very day, and when I present him with the soft gray beanie hat I ordered my second day here, he shuts his eyes and pulls me to him. His lips move gently over my cheek.

  He sits by the windows as the sun goes down. After a few minutes cleaning up the room and rearranging the pillows and covers, I join him on the little love seat, which we have pointed toward the window.

  “So…no hair,” he murmurs.

  “No hair and a lovely boner.”

  There’s nothing we can do but laugh.

  “I UNDERSTAND SHE’S IN RECOVERY.” I puff my breath out, wrap my hand around my iPhone. “What I’m asking is if you can have Arethea call me. Right away.”

  The nurse in outpatient surgery makes a growl-like sound. “I don’t know this woman, Arethea,” she snaps. “She may work at this hospital but she doesn’t work in our department. I told you everything I can. Our system shows that Autumn Whatley is no longer in surgery, but is now in recovery. That’s more than I should tell you, Mr. Whatley. You could be anybody. Especially since Mrs. Whatley did not check the ‘married’ box on any of her intake forms.”

  “We were separated. Back together now. It’s not my fault you don’t have current information.”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Whatley. Can I help you in any other way?”

  I hang up the phone and walk from the window to the dresser. It’s true, I swore I wouldn’t leave the room, but Arethea swore she would fucking call me. If Cleo’s been in recovery for more than an hour, something’s wrong. I’m going down to find out what it is.

  I have to hold onto the arm of a chair to get out of my black longue pants and into a pair of jeans that Cleo bought me. I don’t have time for underwear.

  Even though I know I’ve lost some weight, I’m shocked by how easily I can wear the smaller size. When I button them, I’ve got about an inch of slack. Well, fuck. That’s why I brought a belt, I guess.

  Threading the belt through the loops is fucking hard as shit with my hands shaking like this. Drives me fucking crazy. Everything is so damn slow. And it’s so cold in here. What the fuck is that thermostat set on? I pull on a button-up—in case I get stupid and decide to make the trip down to outpatient surgery with just a mask and not the full biohazard shit. I hold my breath as I button it. This is the real test of whether the weights I’ve got hidden under the desk have helped me retain any muscle mass.

  It’s not snug, like it was. But it’s not that loose.

  I hope tomorrow I can lift aga
in. Maybe ride the stationary bike, or fuck Cleo from on top. Other than hugging porcelain right after Arethea came with a wheel chair for Cleo, this detox hasn’t been so bad. I feel like shit, of course, but that’s to be expected. Feeling lousy, jacking off all day.

  The feeling shitty isn’t new for me. I haven’t felt great since January at least. I’m actually better now that all the blasts have been killed off by the preparative regime.

  My heart pounds as I think about the next few weeks. If I remember right from last time, that’s when things get really shitty. I hate it when my counts are this low. Always tired. All the fucking rashes and other stupid problems that go along with having no immune system.

  I finish buttoning the shirt and look over in the corner where my shoes are. The door opens and I whip around, so fast I almost lose my balance. I see the front end of a bed wheeled in, and glee and anxiety hit me all at once.

  I feel a deep trough of grief from out of fucking nowhere, that she had to go through this without me. Someone numbed her lower body and dug around her bones, and it wasn’t my hands she was squeezing. I had Arethea give her a letter to read while they prepped her, but that’s nothing. I should have been there. My presence at the surgery is one of many things I can’t give her. I’m such a selfish shit for what I’m doing.

  Arethea smiles as she wheels the bed through my door. I stalk over, finding Cleo on her side, facing away from me. She’s covered with these horrible white blankets that must be made in some third-world dungeon. I can see her hands clasped loosely out in front of her.

  I’m too afraid to walk around the bed and see her from the front, so I flick my eyes to Arethea’s brown ones. “Why is she on a bed?” I snap. “Is that a hep lock?” I ask, nodding at the IV in her hand. “I thought she would be discharged. What went wrong?” My heart pounds desperately as I walk around the bed and—Cleo’s smiling.

  “Hey you,” she whispers.

  My chest flares with heat. The room tilts. My cock throbs. Fucking withdrawal.

  Arethea starts rolling the bed again, over toward a corner of the room where a guest cot could go.

  “Not there,” I snap. She turns. I wave at my bed. “I don’t want her in that crappy cot at all. It looks like shit. It’s a fucking slab of metal with a lumpy mattress and four wheels. Put her in my bed.”

  Arethea smirks at me, and the smirk turns into a smile. “I see mama bear,” she teases.

  Cleo’s eyes are on me. “I want to stay here for right now. It’s okay. Just come and see me. I want to hold your hand.”

  I feel like an ass for not being by her side already, but I want this right. I move my bed over, so Arethea has room for Cleo’s cot between my bed and the wall, so if we’re both lying down, she’s facing me.

  I realize I can’t see her now unless I’m on my bed. I sigh, then run my hands over her hair. I lean over and kiss her forehead.

  I give her the pink fleece blankets that I used to wrap the brick that time, and then her pillow from the Tri Gam house, and then a small, stuff sloth that makes her grin.

  “I love him. And you.”

  “I love you too.”

  I wish I didn’t. I wish more that she didn’t. But who the fuck can change these things?

  I JUST GOT THE NEWS THAT Cleo’s angel marrow is engrafting. I kiss her head and pull her against me, even though she’s sleeping. After the orgasm I gave her this morning, she was zonked. When she wakes up an hour later, I’ve got her chicken pizza waiting on the table.

  She hangs another sparrow as she eats the pizza.

  I watch from the love seat by the window. “What’s that one say?”

  “You might think it’s cheesy.”

  “Try me,” I tell her.

  “Okay, it’s by this author named Louise Erdrich. Honestly, I don’t know her, but I saw this one on Tumblr, and I love it. Ready?” She holds up the unfolded paper. “It says, ‘You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on Earth. You are here to risk your heart.’”

  I blink as heat fills my chest and throat. “Is that what you think?” I ask softly.

  “Of course.” She laughs, and rubs her hand over my beanie.

  I’m tired as fuck today, like every day lately, but I’ve got discipline left over from my football days. I drag myself over to the stationary bike... and ride until my chest and throat ache. Cleo tries distracting me by reading dumb news from a gossip web site.

  When I’m done, she helps me down and wipes my face with a cool towel. I fucking love this girl so hard.

  I tell her that.

  She reaches up to touch my bald head, which for some reason, she’s decided that she loves. We watch a Game of Thrones episode while I struggle with my 30-pound dumbbells. I try not to feel like a loser when I don’t finish the workout. Too tired.

  I sleep so much the next few days.

  One afternoon, after a nap that lasted all morning, I wake up with a temporary tattoo—a blue butterfly on the inside of my wrist—and Cleo blowing bubbles, cackling as she waves the bubble wand above me. “Are you high enough to appreciate them?”

  I laugh. “Are you?”

  I’ve been taking tincture every day. Willard knows and doesn’t care. He says whatever works. And it does work. I’m weak regardless, but at least this way, I’ve been able to avoid the opiate painkillers. Either way, I won’t remember most of this when months pass by, but at least with the marijuana tincture, I’ll be able to enjoy it.

  Later, as we lie in bed watching HGTV, my mind cycles back around to that though. I realize why it stood out.

  …when months pass by.

  I stroke her arm and tentatively offer her a tiny glimmer of the hope I’m feeling right now. “When we get out of here,” I whisper to her hair, “I’ll take you all over New York.”

  It’s the first comment he’s made about us leaving here. I take it as a good sign, and I’m glad I do. We have a great night, wrapped up in each other’s arms, sharing the silly ghost stories that scared us most when we were little kids. It’s perfect time—and so damn short.

  The next day, Kellan gets the mouth sores I’ve heard so much about. His mouth and stomach hurt so much he’s shaking in my arms as he tries not to move his mouth. Within a few hours, Willard brings the pain pump back.

  But I know what to do for him this time. I know what comforts him. And I know how to wait.

  I read: Gone Girl, a few more things from the prolific J.S. Cooper, and a book called Night Owl by M. Pierce. I touch myself under the covers, rubbing the sole of my foot over Kellan’s leg, as if that will make him more involved.

  A whole week passes in this state: Kellan sleeping, giving me dazed, creepy looks, and leaning on me like a California redwood as he lurches to the restroom.

  I get good at origami sparrows. After the aching quiet of his first few days asleep, I accept losing him to the Dilaudid again. Because I really think I’m going to get him back.

  FOR EIGHT DAYS, KELLAN SLEEPS. On the ninth day, his mouth and throat seem better, so Dr. Willard starts to wean the pain pump.

  The following few days amaze me. Kellan’s blood counts started going up while he was on his Dilaudid vacation, but until Dr. Willard cut the dose, I didn’t get a chance to see him doing better.

  After a week spent mostly in bed, I thought he’d be too weak to even move—and he is weak. We walk down the hall the first night he’s awake again, his arm intertwined with mine, and have to stop a lot of times for him to catch his breath.

  He has to wear a face mask when we leave the room, so I can’t see his mouth, but I’m pretty sure he smiles almost the whole time. We make a big show of looking at the pictures on the wall, and when we’ve walked enough to see them all, he stops and tucks my hair behind my ear as he catches his breath.

  “You’re pretty.”

  I tug his gray beanie down around his ears and kiss his chin. “You are.”

  His happy eyes look sleepy. We walk back to his room with our arms around
each other, Kellan’s free hand pushing the IV pole. Arethea whistles as we reach the door.

  “The two love birds,” she teases, in the soft Brazilian accent that I’ve come to love. She smiles at Kellan, then touches his cheek. “Up and moving. Onward, onward!”

  She comes into the room with us, and when she leaves, we stretch out on the bed together. I tug Kellan’s beanie off.

  I swear, his lack of hair makes his eyes stand out more. All the weight he’s lost hones his features in the best possible way—showing off his beautiful bone structure. No one has ever looked so perfect. Now that he’s awake again and able to reciprocate, I can’t keep my hands off him.

  Our next endurance exercise is the following morning, when we go down the hall to the kitchen to cook eggs and toast.

  Kellan insists on eating a few bites, even though all he’s required to eat today is TwoCal and three cups of yogurt. We walk the halls for longer than I would have thought possible. Kellan tells me where he grew up... in this cottage overlooking the ocean. He tells me about a trip he took to Georgia with his family when he was little. About his first kiss—a girl named Molly, in the coat closet in his first grade class—and about his peewee, middle school, and high school football days.

  All day, he tells me all about himself. He’s straightforward in a way he’s never been before.

  He falls asleep just after lunch and I tuck the fleece blankets around his shoulders, then curl up beside him. I’ve gotten used to napping, too.

  I wake up to find him leaning his cheek in his palm, watching me. I lift my head and realize his other hand is stroking my hair.

  I stick my tongue out. “You watched me while I was sleeping?”

  “Only fair.” He smiles.

  I run a finger over his cheek, where the bruises from the wreck are almost gone. “I guess so. I could probably sculpt you now. I drew you lots.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Is that right?”

  I smile and nod. “You want to see? I’m not much of a sketch artist, but you might get a laugh.”