Skips A Beat ::Wattys2016::

Chapter 1

"Come on." I say, rushing up the steps to my 4th floor apartment. I stop at the third set of steps, and wait for my boyfriend, Michael. He doesn't come. "Mikey, you okay?" I shout down the steps, but there's no reply. "Oh shit." I swear, going back down the steps two at a time. Michael is sitting on the second flight of steps, gripping the railing hard enough to turn his knuckles white. He's breathing hard.

"Michael, are you okay?" I sit down beside him, placing one of my hands on his back. He nods, his face red. He sucks in another deep breath.

"I'm, I'm fine, I just," he gasps again, "went too fast." He smiles at me, but stops to cough. I put my hand on his chest, feeling as his heart desperately tries to beat normally. I can remember the day that we found out about his condition. He has Cardiomyopathy, which is basically a huge fancy term meaning his heart is unnaturally stiff. The worst part of it is that a large percent of the time, this leads heart failure. He may die. Any moment his heart can beat one last time.

"Are you sure?" I ask him. He nods, trying to stand up again. I grab his hand, helping him up to the next landing. He puts his hands on his knees, taking another deep breath. "Alright, let's go." I say, grabbing him under the knees and behind the back. I lift him up and begin carrying him up the remainder of the floors. He rests his head on my shoulder, his arms wrapping around my torso.

"I'm sorry, Luke." He says.

"It's okay. I'll carry you up every flight of steps in the world when you need me to." I tell him, and mean it. By the time we get to my apartment, my legs are starting to ache. I'm beginning to get used to his weight though. I just haven't carried him up that many stairs before. But, just because my arms and legs are starting to hurt doesn't mean that I want him to walk anymore than is absolutely necessary. Hell, just three feet is hard enough anymore. I shudder as I open the door. I don't like to think about how hard it is getting for him. We were given a timeline back in 7th grade. A timeline that said "16 if you're lucky." Well, fuck you, because he's almost 18 and still going.

"Hi, sweeties." My mother says as I walk past her. Michael waves to her happily.

"Hi, Liz." He says. She gets up, following us to my bedroom, where I lay Michael down. My mom sits on the edge of the bed, placing a light hand on Mikey's leg.

"How are you feeling?" She asks him. God, I wish we didn't have to ask that. He shrugs, the same smile plastered onto his face. He likes to smile, kinda like a punk rock version of Buddy The Elf.

"I'm okay. I got a little winded trying to make it up the stairs, but that's nothing new." He laughs softy, and my mom joins him.

"Are you boys hungry?"

"Yeah, I can help." Michael says, moving to stand up. I step forward, making him sit again. My mother smiles sadly at Michael.

"Honey-bear, I think it's better for you to just rest up a while." She says, using the nickname we gave him in elementary school. We called him honey-bear because he had blond hair and was/still is as cuddly as a teddy bear. I don't think the honey part matches him anymore. Maybe, rainbow-bear since he dyes his hair so often. Michael pouts, folding his arms across his chest. "I know you want to help, Michael, but I honestly think it's better for you to just lay down. Your face is still flushed."

Michael tries to cover his face. He doesn't like that we make him rest so much, but it's only because we love him. Like I said earlier, he can hardly walk three feet anymore without getting dizzy or out of breath. I kiss the top of his head before following my mother out to the kitchen.

"What do you want to eat?" glances over her shoulder at me. "We have smiley fries to make Mikey feel better, if you think that'd work." I nod, laughing. My mom is pretty cool. She's always supported me and Michael, and treats him like he's a Hemmings, which hopefully, one day, he will be. I get the cookie-tray-sheet-thing out, covering it in foil and also covering it with smiley fries. "How many steps did he make it up today?" She asks me while she starts the hamburgers. It's become a normal thing for us to wonder how far he's made it today. It's almost like we both hope he'll make it a little further than yesterday. He never does.