Turmoil

The Beep in the Heartline

Phoenix

He is whiter than an aesthetic post.

That is the first though that enters my head when I see Tim. His face carries the colour of bleached bedsheets hung up on a line, and the faded yellow of his hair melts into the paleness of the pillow that's propping him up. Blue eyes are the only drop of color in this sea of white.

I smile at him.

" This is not a good way to get out of disciplinary work, " 

My joke falls flatter than a deflated balloon wrapped in a pancake. 

Tim's eyes are unnerving me, they are pinning and pointing, taking in and gauging everything. It's like he's doing a complicated math equation in his head, like he's adding all these thingies up and he's not sure if he's pleased with the answer.

If the answer is correct.

Tim Blake has finally figured out how life works. At least kinda has.

I'm not sure if I'm allowed to move, I'm not sure do I take his hand or like be comforting or something. And for a moment I think, wow, I'll probably be a shit doctor, cause I have no clue how to act around people in hospital beds. And for a second, I let it sink in. What it means. Then I push the thought away. Because Tim is speaking.

"Phoenix, " he says and my mouth feels dry and his eyes are blue.

And all I can do is stay silent and dubious. But for the first time in his life probably, Tim actually is doing the speaking and not the listening. I think about how weird that is, that it takes some tragic or near death experience or just experience in general to make people change. To teach people how to speak up.

Weird.

"Look Phoenix, about the kiss -"

"It's okay, " I jump in quickly, wanting to spare him the hassel " it's just that I'm not, you know, gay so,um yeah, "

Telling by the way Tim is looking at me I wish I kept my mouth shut. There's this pity and sorrowful regret and whatever the heck else in his eyes, and my brain is going "You stupid idiot,"

"I know you're not gay Phoenix, " Tim rolls his eyes at me. Like full on diva eye roll. It's so weird that my legs almost give way " it never was about you in the first place, "

I want to ask him when his eyes tell me to shut up. It's the look Atlanta gives me all the time whe she knows I'm about to say something dumb, and I'm so used to desciphering peoples looks that I actually shut my mouth.

"Look, there's this guy at home, and I really like him, and he likes me back, but nothing could ever happen because... " he pauses, and his eyebrows knit together, as if forming a protective shield around his sould. A shield of eyebrows " because I care too much about what my dad thinks,"

"He's the only family I've got, my mom died when I was really young, and I've been raised and always told to be masculine. I play on the football team. I do all the regular macho dude things. And I I like them, I like hanging around with the guys and chugging bear or whatever,"

"But you also like writing don't you? "  I find myself saying and when Tim looks surprised the best I can offer him is a shrug " I noticed your notebook,"

It take him a second to process what I'm saying, and while the mask drops and his thinking face is pulled on, somewhere, something beeps. Then there's the scurrying of feet and some voices. We stay silent, Tim in his bed and me standing, while those feet and noises pass.

"Yeah I like writing too,"

"And you're afraid your dad won't love you if you're not what you want him to be,"

"Yeah"

"It's not my place to tell you to come out to your dad, but you know, I don't think he'll stop loving you just because your gay or like writing. Family is family, even if your family is just a bunch of people you choose to be your friends. And family love you no matter what. Even if they get mad at you. That love doesn't go,"

I feel like the biggest hypocrite saying these words, because I'm in the exact same position as Tim. And while I'm saying these words to offer some comfort or whatever to him, I'm also thinking about myself.

About my parents, and being a doctor, and Atlanta and this odd mismatched group that I have been thrown into at this camp. And how in an odd way, I've come to consider them as friends. About how I have no clue who I am anymore.

"You are smarter than you give yourself credit for Pheonix," Tim says to me, and then he sighs and sinks deeper against his pillow and all the taunt lines relax like loose string " I'm really sorry about the kiss. It's just that you looked like him so much, and this  camp was a place for me to try and understand what I want and you were just there, convieniently,"

"I understand, " 

And I do. I do understand why he was running, and trying to figure it all out away from home. Because without realizing it, that is exactly what I'm doing too. I'm just sorry that he felt like he needed drugs to make himself numb. There is no sponge that can clean the pain away. And there is no greater pain than thinking that those you love, those you care about, will turn away from you.

When I look up, Tim is sleeping.

I don't mind.

I have some things to sort out before the end of Camp Turmoil anyway/