Your lungs burn.
You sit quietly against the wall, clutching cal to your chest as you breath thick, sour smoke. Was this what he felt like, with cancer in his lungs? Like breathing smoke in 100 percent of the time? You don't know. You have no idea, but you want to. You want to, and smoke ruins lungs, doesn't it.
Your plan is destroyed when Bro bursts through the door, probably half awake. He lacks his sunglasses, and even through the sheets of gossamer grey, you can see honey brown eyes wide with panic.
He's shouting at you. Why does he think that'll help? Oh, there he goes. Going to get a bowl of water, probably. No, he's already back, and you're not sure what he has.
You want to yell at him to stop. To leave you just a little longer. Before you can get it out, you feel flecks of water on your leg. Son. Of. A. Bitch. A water hose is not something you own so how he got one that fast is beyond you, but he's drowning any hope of a few moments more that you had left. It takes him 12 minutes, a considerably impressive time for a fire and a goddamn garden hose.
He's across the room seconds after turning off the tap, leaning on the edge of the bed to look at you very seriously. You can see worry in the curve of his frown and his intensely bright irises, but at the same time it's obvious that he'd never believe the fire was accidental. He knows, and he gathers you up in his arms, holds you in his lap and asks you why.
The words leave your lips in a soft croak. "I wanted to know what he felt. I want to know what it's like to hate breathing."
He stares at you, confused and probably more than a little afraid.
"What?" His hand in your hair is comforting, but only slightly; you're crying. The sobs become more and more violent until he tries again. You break.
"Dave, what -"
"He was 14."
"Who, what do you mean?"
"He was 14!" Your voice cracks as you yell against his chest. Bro sighs. "He was 14, and it wasn't fair! It'll never be fair to him!"
"Dave, what do you mean? What's wrong?"
"He was 14! 14 with his life ripped away and missing everything!"
You can't find it in you to tell him your best friend just died. You feel like that's all he'll ever know - John was 14, and he spent his last days in a much-too-sterile cancer ward doing cancer kid things. That he had everything about life callously ripped away from him at a young age. That you've just lost someone so inexplicably important to you.
When Bro shakes you a third time to ask why you're sobbing angrily into his shirt, you look up, red eyes meeting brown.
"I died today," you whisper, and he tilts your head up - to look at you better, you guess. "And he never even had a chance to live."
