by James, Ella
I clean his face and throat, and wash hair. Arethea brings another bag of the offending chemo.
“The last one,” she offers sadly.
Kellan rouses around midnight. When he tries to talk, his eyes spill tears.
“Damn it. I’m so sorry...”
I spoon a shard of ice into his mouth, then drop the spoon in my lap.
“Holy shit! I’m such an idiot.”
The package I originally left the room to get is the marijuana tincture, one Manning told me Kellan made himself, for chemo patients.
I call Arethea in, propose a plan, and when she doesn’t come back for an hour, I know I’ve been given my signal. She asked Dr. Willard, who felt no bad would come of it. It’s permission, if not an actual endorsement.
I give Kellan two droppers full and after that, he sleeps.
* * *
He wakes up in the early afternoon on the official “rest day,” and blinks at the ceiling. I can tell he’s high, and not from Morphine or one of its icky derivatives, but from good ole fashioned reefer.
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 little smirk on his face. “I want to... get up,” he whispers.
I help him out of bed, and we walk to the window. I can feel him trembling.
“You want to try to get a shower? You sit down in there? I’ll help you?” 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 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, he’s pressing his dick 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 works his pants down chiseled hips.
“God, your dick is beautiful. If you want this, I can’t wait to give it to you.”
I roll the rubber over him and suck him into my mouth. After a few thrusts, a few sharp 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 you want to? Sleep is good.”
He shakes his head and pulls me down beside him on the mattress. “I don’t like it. I can’t feel you there.”
SEVENTEEN
Cleo
The marijuana tincture is a game-changer. After a long 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 remaining 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 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.
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 need to be inside you…now.”
His eyes are dazed from all the tincture he’s been taking. I grab a condom and urge him over to the bed, where he sprawls out on his back and draws his knees up. I can see his thick erection straining at his pants.
I rub my palm over the bulge and Kellan grabs my shoulders. “Fuck…please. Now.”
I giggle, cupping his balls. Kellan squeezes me between his knees and thrusts toward my face.
I throw the sheet over us, and, crawling in between his legs, I press my breasts against his cock as I untie his pants and draw them slowly down his hips.
His cock pops out, pointing straight up. I feel a throb of warmth between my own legs as I notice the pre-cum pearled over his little slit.
I touch my tongue to it and work his pants a little farther down.
“Shit.” He grips my shoulder, and I kiss his dick.
He groans. I plant my hand around his thick base, leaving his pants bunched underneath his heavy balls. I know I’m mean, but I love it. If he tries to writhe around, he’ll be restrained a little.
I suck his head into my mouth and start to lick around the rim. He moans and rocks his hips, forcing his thick rod down my throat. His head and shaft are pulsing as I take him deeper…move back up.
“Fuckkkk...” Just two times deep-throating him, and his legs are trembling. One more and I can feel him swell and tighten in the condom.
“Mmmmm.” I hum, and Kellan pants like he is running.
“Cleo…” I can feel how thick he is, how hard, how tight the rubber is under my tongue. He grabs my head and holds me down, filling my throat with so much dick, I’m gagging and my eyes sting.
“Jesus…Cleo… Ahh.” He thrusts, his ass lifting off the bed. His thighs quiver… He’s moaning like it hurts, except I know it doesn’t.
Damn, his cock is sexy buried in my throat. I love the way his balls draw even tauter as I tickle them. I run my fingertip along the seam and Kellan barks. A little half thrust and he’s gone, exploding in the rubber, pulling at my hair.
“Oh God…oh fuck!”
I run my tongue around him as he quakes beneath me.
“Fuck.” He strokes my hair. He grabs my jaw. “Look up here.”
I do, and find his eyes earnest. His cheeks are stained crimson. I stroke his thigh.
“You like that, baby?”
“Fuck yes.” He tugs my shoulder. “Get up here. Come lie beside me. Spread those legs.”
I do, and he fingers my pussy so expertly I’m biting at his chest to keep from screaming. With his fingers buried in me, Kellan starts to pant.
I reach for him and feel how hard his cock is. “Like a rock,” I murmur. He thrusts into my hand.
I stroke him. He fills me with his fingers, swirls his thumb around my clit. I come stroking his hard, hot cock. As I pulse around his fingers, Kellan jets into my hand.
Afterward, he’s still half hard. I laugh. “Are you serious with this?”
“I told you.” His eyes are wide and brighter than I’ve seen them in days. “All day. Tomorrow too. Is tomorrow the rest day?”
“Tomorrow is your first day after transplant, K.”
“Fuck. So that’s today.” He wraps a tissue around himself. I move his hand and clean his thighs.
“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 gorgeous man meat as he drops his pants. I catch his eyes flick to his reflection 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 himself against my leg and wraps his hand around my breast. “You’re a .gif. I need a file for when you’re not around.”
“I’ll always be around.”
I strip out of my clothes. He whistles. I move the IV bag to its hook inside the shower and we st
ep 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.” An earnest answer. Thank you, marijuana. His hungry hands wash me. He fingers me again 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 gasping. We step out onto the rug together, tangled in each other. I dry myself and then help him.
He leans down so I can dry his hair, and when I rub the towel over it, it comes away in patches.
He lets me shave his head with shears I ordered for this very day, and when I present him with the soft gray beanie hat I ordered on my second day here, he shuts his eyes and pulls me up against 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.
EIGHTEEN
Kellan
“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 lounge 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 and look down at my chest as I button it. This is the real test of whether the weights I’ve got hidden under the desk have helped me maintain any muscle mass.
It’s not snug like it was. But it’s not that loose.
I hope tomorrow I can lift again. Maybe ride the stationary bike, or fuck Cleo from on top. Other than praying to the porcelain god 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, when I noticed the first signs of the relapse. I’m actually better now that all the blasts in my blood have been killed off by the pre-transplant chemo.
My heart pounds as I think about the next few weeks. If I remember right from last time, that’s when things get really bad. 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 fuck 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, 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 there’s some empty space for a guest cot.
“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 papa 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 half-wall where the desk is, so if we’re both lying down, Cleo is facing me.
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 when I brought it to her at the Tri Gam house, and then her pillow, and then a stuffed 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?
NINETEEN
Kellan
October 10, 2014
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 orgasms I gave her this morning, she was worn out. 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.” She smiles.
“Try me,” I tell her.
“Okay.” She wipes a strand of hair out of her green eyes. “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 steps over to rub 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 ribs and shoulder ache. Cleo tries distracting me by reading dumb news from a celebrity 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 much.
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 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 in a few months, but at least with the marijuana tincture, I’ll be able to enjoy it as I live it.
Later, as we lie in bed watching HGTV, my mind cycles back around to that though. I realize why it stood out.
…in a few months.
I stroke Cleo’s arm and offer her a 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.”
* * *
Cleo
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 stories from our childhoods. 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 swallow. Within a few hours, Willard brings the pain pump back.
