𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

41. JJ Jr.

F O R T Y - O N E
JJ Jr.

Miserable.

That's the only way to describe the swirling feeling in my stomach, coupled with the pounding in my head.

Being dragged out of bed by JJ was a change of pace, usually it's me slamming pillows on his head hard enough that it would concuss a normal person, in an attempt to get him out of the bed before midday—today, however, I awoke to him almost bitch slapping me.

Never did I think there would be a day when I'd—get this—thank a man for all but slapping me. But today was the day.

Nightmares plagued my resting mind; the same sequences of events, I've realised. It plays on repeat. Over the last few times I've been forced to suffer through it, the foggy details are finally starting to clear.

The blood I knew was coming from somewhere—that I assumed was coming from me—wasn't actually coming from me. It was coming from JJ.

The pain I felt, that was lodged so deep inside my body I assumed it was from whatever grievous injury must have been producing the blood, was instead from my soul. Terror laced with grief that could only mean that, in this nightmare, JJ was dead.

Dead. Like... gone, forever.

The thought is preposterous; JJ is destined to be that old guy who outlives everyone who even goes near a vegetable. He will be the guy whose doctors tell him he needs to take his blood pressure pills, but he tells the doctors they're just big pharma shills and back in his day, the solution to high cholesterol was a slab of steak on a wooden cutting board and a side of unpasteurised milk. When doctor's want him to scale back doing dumb shit because he's had both his hips replaced, twice, he'll go make-shift bungee-jumping.

Even now, almost an hour after being awoken, I'm still confused.

The shower water has long since gone from piping hot to cold, but the feeling is nice. I enjoy the refreshing bite on my back, it stops me spiralling.

I can hear JJ singing poorly from the other side of the door, I don't know what I'm freaking out about so badly. Since when do my dreams predict my future? If that were the case I'd have woken up with tits up to my chin and a skinny bbl. Considering the fact that a chubby twelve-year-old boy has more cleavage than I do and I'm still shaped like a fridge, my dreams have no bearing on my future.

When I finally get myself out of the stream of water and I'm dressed, I look at myself in the mirror.

"You alive, sweetcheeks?" JJ knocks stiffly on the door.

His voice sends a pang of guilt straight to my gut. I'm dreaming of my boyfriend dying, does that make me a psychopath? That's some Rafe shit. He probably dreamt of my death all the time. I wouldn't be surprised if he still does.

"I am, unfortunately," I open the door and paint a lazy grin on my face, "Are you alive?"

"If I were dead, you'd be naked." JJ pretends to frown at my state of dress. One of his hands reaches out, his fingers lace in the soft material of my oversized shirt, and with a stiff tug, I stumble forward and end up mere inches away from him. "You feelin' better?"

I roll my eyes. "I'm fine. It was probably just a dream where someone dared to make naps illegal." The lie feels terrifyingly normal; natural, almost. I've spent the last year lying to nearly everyone, except JJ. For some inexplicable reason, I tend to blurt out the truth to him. Maybe it's because his life always seems like a mess, so who is he to judge my mess? Or maybe, some part of me knew this was inevitable.

Now I'm lying to him, and not a lie that is more of a postponement of the truth, I don't plan on ever telling him I dream of his death. That seems like a relationship killer.