The Unexplainable You.

Part Thirty-Seven. Portland.

"We should probably get to bed." I tell him after we sit in silence for so long I'm almost certain I'm going to suffocate.

He holds his pale finger to my lips, intertwining his other hand with mine. 

"Just sit here for a little longer." He instructs tucking his head into my lap, giving off the impression of a small child.

I absentmindedly run my fingers through his hair, soft as the blankets I wrap myself in when I'm tired.

Before I even have time to think about it, I lay down next to him, curling my legs around him, my arms draped around his shoulders. 

"I promise you that I'm fighting to be with you." He says, "And I agree, this moment, happy, healthy. I would love for this moment to last forever, but we've talked about this, Lovely. I'm sorry that we can't be like the couples in the books you like, really and truly."

He rolls over to face me, his face shadowed by the lamp on the table behind him.

"But sometimes the cards don't deal like that."

His eyes fall on the ground, his body ridged. 

"Can I tell you something?"

I nod, unconciously running my finger along his back.

"I thank the universe every day that you are still here for me to kiss. That you don't have something so critical that I can't even touch you. You really don't get how lucky we are."

I bite my lip, sensing that there's something he's not telling me.

"I don't understand." I mutter. "What?"

He sits up, shifting uncomfortably. "Growing up in the hospital really shows you that life isn't fair. I've lost too many people and I guess I'm just... It's strange to have you, like this."

"Like what?"

"Here!" He exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. "Able to leave the hospital without keeling over. Able to hug me and hold me close without going into cardiac arrest."

His chest heaves as he rests his head in his hands.

"You know." He hums, his voice tight. "You aren't the only person who's loved someone else. Someone who... didn't make it."

I bite my lip, desperately wanting to kiss the anger and desperation out of his features.

"What was her name?"

He gives me a look full of sadness, like he's a little kid and I just told him his cat died.

"Johanna." He says, his expression distant. "I called her Jo."

I reach out and grab his hand, intertwining my fingers with him as he fights to continue his story.

"The first time I went into the hospital when I was five, my sister didn't want me to be alone, so she found me a friend. At first I didn't really want to be friends with a girl, I mean, I was five."

He laughs, tears coming to his eyes.

"But she had CF, and so do I. I was 'infected.' They told me that it was no good to even try to do anything more then across the hall facetime calls."

He takes a deep breath, finally making eye contact. Despite his fierce fight against the tears, a few have escaped his guard, sparkling his cheeks like stars.

"But morning breakfast calls and waves and notes from behind closed doors became not enough. So we started sneaking out, of course keeping a safe distance between us. But then the safe distance wasn't enough either, so we got closer, until..."