by James, Ella
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, concerned. 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 hooked up right now.
“Is there anything I can do?” she whispers.
“I’ve gotta get up.”
She nods. “I brought you a bunch of lounge 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. Something dark… A robe.
I push myself toward the bed’s edge, using my right arm.
“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 by the wall.
“There’s more of that type stuff coming to decorate your room. Hope you don’t mind.” Her words are like another language. I can hear but I can’t understand.
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. Blue tile.
Memories...
I piss, then stroke my cock. I think of Cleo and I get a halfie, even though I’m numb as hell. Okay.
I look in the mirror. Big mistake. My face is bruised and swollen. 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.
Cleo climbs up on the mattress, leans over me. She holds up... some kind of towel? I watch a smile light up her face. Her hand is on my hair. “You can’t get a bath yet, not for a little while longer, because they just put in the central line. But I don’t think you’ve had one since the wreck. I thought it might feel good.”
ELEVEN
Kellan
I blink, and Cleo drags a warm cloth over my calves. Oh God… 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. “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 back, but I’m too tired.
She sets the clothes on the bed beside me and strokes my knee. Her fingers, soft and kind. It’s too much. Fuck.
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 twisted IV line.
Damn it...
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. Fuck.
“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 ache. 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…kind of good.
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... 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. Oh 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 trails 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 green gaze softens against mine. “Am I doing okay?”
She strokes my forehead.
I inhale slowly through my nose. “Why...are you still here?” She’s gonna go. Even my voice sounds…fucked up.
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. I’m fucking glowing. My dick’s hard. I need to fuck her. She’s talking about papers. Signing papers. Nurse. TBI. Something about consents.
She asks, “Is that okay?”
A nurse comes in. I think I get more Dilaudid, because Cleo goes away. I grab my cock. An anchor. It’s the only thing I feel. My hand or her hands?
* * *
Cleo
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 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 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-dust
ed thigh, so he can feel me coming. I hold my breath and touch my fingers to the taut sac of his balls. His hips jerk. He moans as I wrap my other hand around his hand, over his cock.
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. Cleo…” His eyes 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. 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 hoarse 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 so good.”
I bring my other hand under the blanket tossed over his thighs, cupping his warm balls. I knead them as I stroke him hard and fast, with steady, knowing strokes. Another groan rips from his throat. My hand slows, tugging his thick shaft toward me.
“Faster. Pull...harder.” He reaches down toward me, his fingers spread, as if he wants to use his hand to guide me. He banks his palm 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.
His hoarse voice fills my ears. “Oh fuck... Cleo... Ohhhh... I’m gonna blow... oh Jesus Christ...”
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.
“Oh fuck... God. Cleo... please...”
I roll the condom down to his base and he thrusts against my jaw. I open up. He slams into my mouth, his hand grabbing my hair. I take him deeper than I ever have and roll his balls and lick the underside of him.
He bucks. “Ah—my hips.” My heart hammers. Is he in pain? “That motherfucking mouth... motherfuck...” I squeeze his balls again, and suck his head. I twirl my tongue around him. His thighs grip my body.
“Squeeze my dick. Right now, squeeze hard.” He’s panting. “Harder. Press... down under. The underside... press. Aaaah...”
When my fingers press down underneath his cock, he moans and twists his hips. “Pull... on my balls. Harder...”
When I’m squeezing his sac so hard it has to hurt, his hand comes over mine, working from his head down to the base of him, smoothing like he’s trying to keep his load inside. He growls. “Suck...me. My cock...in your mouth. Right now.”
I start to worry someone will come in—but I don’t have much choice. He’s got me by the hair. I feel his balls tighten, but then he stops me, urging me to rub my fingers down the underside of his cock and squeeze his balls again.
Each time he makes me do this, he seems lifted further from here. My mouth and hands make him forget the world and finally, the third time I drag my thumb along the underside of his thick cock, I realize: I’m prolonging this.
I do it one more time—until his monitors have started beeping and my heart is pounding hard, and then instead of stopping me, he plants his palms on each side of my head and fucks my mouth like it’s a sport.
He comes with a sharp cry, his cock thumping hard before his cum fills the condom. By the time I pull it off, his eyes are closed.
I cover him back up and rush into the bathroom to take care of myself. As soon as I see the blue tiles and the rail by the toilet, I don’t think I’ll be able to do it... but I sit inside the shower, stuff two fingers inside myself, and focus on the memory of Kellan’s hand around his cock.
TWELVE
Cleo
“If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn into a mighty stranger.” –Catherine, from Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte.
I’ve taken to dramatic quotes. So sue me. When I placed an order at that 24-hour random shit delivery service, I came across an origami kit, and of course, I had to have it. I remember mentioning an origami sparrow in one of my first letters to R.
R.
Kellan.
I still can’t wrap my head around it. Kellan Walsh—Drake, it legally is—is R. And he has cancer. My sweet, dirty lover, with the .gif body and non-stop boner, has leukemia. Not only that, he has relapsed AML that he was just... ignoring. What the actual fuck?
I want to ask about it. When it’s dark and quiet in the room and he’s curled on his side with IVs running into his chest, and I’m folded behind him with my cheek pressed against his back, I want to whisper, “Tell me why.” I need a reason.
He overdosed this summer. Manning told me he cut up two Fentanyl patches, put them on his back, and took a hot bath. His friend Nessa found him. I asked about her—jealous, in a strange way—and Manning told me she’s dead. Cancer. Cancer friend.
So from Manning, I know Kellan tried to take his life before the relapse could. God knows I can’t judge. I haven’t been there. But I need to understand. I just need to hear about it from his mouth. Because I love him. I love him. And I need him to live.
I haven’t asked about it, though.
Because Kellan isn’t talking.
I fold the slip of paper with my Emily Bronte quote on it into a sparrow and then thread a string through one of the wings. I wrap the other end of the string around a piece of that special double-sided tape stuff, which pops off when you tug it for removal.
As I stand in a desk chair to press it to the ceiling, I look over at him, lying in the bed. I can tell he’s awake because the gray box on the bed side table—the one with the red numbers showing his pulse and blood oxygen saturation—shows a pulse too high for him to be asleep.
But if I go over to him and try to talk, he won’t move.
It’s been that way for almost three whole days. He gets chemo ’round the clock, lots of IV fluids to flush out the chemo quickly, plus a ton of steroids, antibiotics, painkillers for the bone pain he still has, and a laundry list of random other drugs like Zofran, Ativan, etc. Yesterday and the day before, he got shots of chemo in his spine as well. Both times, I went with him to the procedure room, and both times I wrapped my arms around him as he curled over on his side.
He’ll hold my hands and push his head against me. He might answer a question or two—as long as he’s speaking with his eyes closed—but he won’t really engage.
When we’re in his room, he’ll lie in bed and pretend to be asleep.
I’ve gotten good at gauging his pain level—the pulse number on the pulse-ox monitor can help me tell—so if he gets up to do something and I can tell he’s hurting, I’ll wrap my arm around him...and he’ll lean on me.
But this is all—until night time.
Around nine or ten, I’ll play a DVD—one of the episodes of Walking Dead, from
the stack of DVDs Arethea pointed out when I first got here. I’ll slip into bed behind him, and I’ll wrap an arm around his hard, lean waist. At night, Arethea only comes in every three hours, so I have time to really touch him.
I stroke his neck and shoulders...trail around his sides, down to the firm plane of his abs. And always, there’s his dick, standing straight up. He will guide my hands to it, or sometimes urge me to come lie in front of him, so we can see each other. I’ll pull his head against my chest so he can suck my nipples, and I’ll stroke his cock until he comes in my hand.
Sometimes it takes a long time, and I know it’s because of all the painkillers. But if I roll a condom on and suck him, play with his balls and tease the rim of his head, or drag my fingertip over his taint, I can almost always make him come.
He lays his fingertips on my pussy...pushes inside. We both come, he falls asleep. He wakes again; I always wake to him. His hands grab me. His sleepy mouth strokes mine, his tongue delving inside. He says my name against my skin, and when I whisper his name, he moves against me.
Usually, after the second round, we’re facing each other. I pull his head against my chest and wrap my arms around him. Once or twice, I think I feel him shake a little, feel some moisture on his cheeks, but I can never tell for sure.
As this third day of chemo wears on, I miss Kellan more than ever. I know that this is where I want to be—I withdrew from school this morning, via phone, from the shower in the bathroom—but it’s lonely.
Dr. Willard explained that I have two choices: I can stay in Kellan’s room and be part of his quarantine—a necessary thing while his immune system is so off—or I can come and go a little more, but when I’m in here with him, I would have to wear a mask and gloves. I’ve decided on the quarantine.
A few times a day, he has to get up to “stay moving.” I lace my arm through his, but even then he hardly looks at me. This afternoon, he does PT and chokes down some chicken and rice. His eyes are tired. His face is pale. He falls asleep with the food tray in his lap. I tuck pillows around him. I hang more birds. No one stops me. By the time the sun starts going down, one-fourth of the room is filled with sparrows.
