Beside

66 - bound

ｃｈｒｉｓ

Everything changed overnight.

After Fox left, I didn't sleep. I threw up twice and almost passed out once.

But, today's the day, I guess.

"We'll monitor remotely. Remember to check your blood pressure twice a day and avoid anything strenuous. No heavy lifting—"

"—running, no stress, no fun," I interrupt, trying for humour, but the words fall flat. Her lips twitch into something resembling pity.

I want to scream. I don't. I nod like a good little patient and accept the folder of discharge instructions, thick with reminders of my limitations.

Fox comes jogging down the hall, eyes scanning every part of me in this wheelchair.

He's helping me up the next second, kissing my cheek, and nodding to the staff with thanks.

We head out, my arm looped through his. When we step into the sunlight, the world tilts and I grab at the doorframe.

"Chris, hey." Fox slides an arm around my waist. "I've got you."

"I'm fine," I mutter, but my voice betrays me with its shake.

"You're not but it's okay," he says. "Let me help."

I need him. Fox is the reason my parents flew home; they knew he'd take care of me.

I lean into him as he guides me to the car, his hand never leaving my waist.

The drive is quiet. Fox puts the windows down because I forgot what fresh air smelled like.

The elevator ride up to the apartment is endless. The small space smells of bleach and it hurts my head. Fox holds my bag with my medications and all my files in one hand, his other resting against my back.

I make him let me go so I can walk down the carpeted hall to our unit. When we step inside the apartment, the familiarity hits me. The soft white walls, the marble floors. The smell of sweets, Charlie's bed, and Noah's cooking.

The moment my feet hit the floor, my legs give out. Fox is there before I'm even aware of it, scooping me up like I weigh nothing.

He carries me to my room and lays me down. He arranges my pillows, adjusts the strap of my heart monitor, leaves—but only to bring back a glass of water for my nightstand. Then he touches the pillows again.

I hate it. I love him—but I hate this.

"Fox."

"Yeah?" He doesn't look at me, too busy pulling the purple blanket over my legs.

"I'm not in hospice. I'm not dying."

His hands freeze on the blanket. "You almost did, Chris."

My body feels like a crumpled receipt tossed into an overstuffed trash can. All I feel are the adhesive patches, the edges peeling slightly where my skin can't fully commit.

Last night, I was strong and confident in my love for Fox, to let him feel it, but that was before my second meds, and more this morning.

"Chris." He's still watching me, his brows furrowed like I'm a dying bird on a sidewalk.

"Stop looking at me like that," I murmur, letting my eyes slip closed. Please.

I must fall asleep at some point, exhaustion dragging me under like a riptide, because last thing I remember is a dream underwater.

I wake to the weight of something warm curled beneath my arm, breaths puffing against my side. Fur, silky and peppery. Charlie.

"Heyo!" Cam's perched on the bed beside me, her curls haloed by the golden slant of sunlight cutting through the window. Her bruised face tilts as she smiles. "You've been out for hours. I'm bored."