Beside

37 - exposure

"What's your favourite smell?"

"The smell of rain right before it starts. You know that smell?"

"Yeah. I like cookies."

"Cookies are a good smell too."

ｃｈｒｉｓ

I wake up again. I'm cold.

I squint at my wall and see cracks, thin veins branching out like spider legs. They're moving, reaching across the ceiling in slow, silent stretches. The shadow in the corner thickens. I think it's breathing.

Damned movie. Damned zombies.

Fever. I hate it, it's so much like how I used to feel. I have to remind myself I'm in a luxe apartment building in Goldwen, not in that hospital. That I'm in remission. That I'm fine, now.

I curl tighter under my covers, pulling the blanket up until only my nose pokes out. My lips feel like cracked desert, dry and brittle, and when I try to lick them, it's like sandpaper on sandpaper. Ouch.

Fox hasn't talked to me much, lately. We haven't kissed, or even touched in days.

When Cam and I got home last night, he was washing dishes. He lifted his hand to us in a half-wave and went straight to bed.

And that was it.

I miss him so much more than I should. His little crooked grin. His freckles, especially the ones under his eyes and that tiny one just above his lip. The lines of veins on the tops of his hands, the way they map life, tracing up his forearms.

When Camila left this morning, her face was stony in a way I hadn't seen before. She kept squeezing Fox's gloves in her hands. She checked on me before she left, though I could tell all she wanted was to go, to keep him in check, because he'd left without her. And he wasn't supposed to.

I smiled, but it was flimsy on my trembling lips. I told her I'd be fine. Because I am fine, just a bit sick. A normal kind of sick.

I pull the covers up tighter around my shoulders. Maybe the fight hasn't started yet. Maybe it's over. Maybe it's day 32 of this flu and I'm actually already dead.

A soft knock on my door breaks the silence. Maybe it's not real.

The door creaks open, and there he is. Or is he?

Fox stands in the doorway in a shirt so white it's glowing. He's holding a plastic bag and his gym bag is slung over his shoulder, but then...

His right eye is swollen shut, a mess of pinks and purples and reds. And his lip is split, a dark line marking his mouth. The dim light catches the bruises darkening his jaw, the ones blooming on his collarbones, and more beneath the white shirt I can't see.

"Fox!" I try to sit up, but sharp pain lances through my head. "Fox..." I groan, pressing my palm against my temple.

Oh god. Is he going to die? Right here in my room? Are we both dead?

"Relax," Fox says, closing my door behind him. "I'm fine. A medic checked me out."

"Is it over?" I pant, every word scraping at my throat.

He shuffles over, wincing as he lowers himself down onto the edge of my bed, exhaling sharply. Up close, there's rawness in his one good eye. He brings scents of spice and cool mint, hair damp from a shower. I could pick out his body wash anywhere.

"You hanging on?" he asks.

"Go, you'll be sick," I whisper, though my head feels too heavy to turn away.