Beside

41 - warning

"Fox, what if I never feel better?"

"I'll keep being here until you do."

"But what if it's forever?"

"Then I'll be here forever."

"But Fox... sometimes I feel too tired to be here forever."

"You're just sleepy. You're okay."

"It's different. I'm really, really tired, Fox. I feel like I'm going to float away."

"Wait, what? What do you mean?"

"The wind's just gonna take me."

"No. I'd hold on to you. You can't float away with me here. Want me to carry you like a backpack? It'll help."

"..."

"Jellybean."

"Yeah, sure. Fine."

ｃｈｒｉｓ

I love having a balcony. The morning sun is soft and gentle on my face, like a warm palm pressed against my cheek. I settle deeper into the cushion of the chair, feeling the plastic creak as I wrap my hands around my mug of tea. It's lemon and mint again today, the steam drifting up in lazy tendrils that remind me of who bought it for me.

Goldwen's not yet awake. I'm only halfway there, myself, but my mind is loud, alive, replaying moments from last night in vivid, tangled loops.

Fox in my bed, our hands touching, mouths clashing. The way his voice dipped into a husky whisper just as his mouth grazed my jaw, taunting me into asking for what I wanted. It didn't take much—I'm more comfortable telling him. And he likes it.

It's been a few days since the bookstore. We've been wrapped in each other at least once a day, except for yesterday, which was twice. Once when he came home from a run I couldn't stop staring at his back muscles shifting, and then last night when he threw me over his shoulder as I was brushing my teeth and stole me away to his room.

Between the sex, we're friends. Between the kissing, he talks about heavy things like the screams of his childhood. Between the dirty talk, he tells me his favourite breakfast is toast and margarine, not butter.

Sometimes I just want to kiss him when he talks, and then keep listening. Comfort for him, maybe. Or just because.

Fox—well, the Now Fox—is just as chatty as Little Fox was. He has buttons I love to push, like how broken bones are so not stronger, or how gold trim in the kitchen would be tacky and I am so wrong about it.

He asks about me often. Too often. He's curious about the homeschooling, about why it hurt so much. I tell him that I just wanted friends, that I wanted to be free and fly around the recess yards, picking flowers and skipping rope.

"But why did you have to be homeschooled?"

"Well, me and my parents moved away and they wanted me to learn everything as well as possible."

He likes when I talk about my parents, about how one of them never stops knitting and sending me things in the mail. I even got a box the other day.

I thought it would hurt him, me talking about how much love there is between me and my parents. But he promises it doesn't. He's happy I'm happy. I think that hurts more.