Together Apart

Chapter Two: Liam

The morning light filters through the blinds, painting bands of white on August's dark sheets. He's still asleep, judging by his breathing, so I let myself stare at him for a little bit. My head is pounding, the whiskey hangover compounding the usual discomfort I feel when I'm not touching him, even from this distance. I could go over and get into bed with him; it would numb the pain, and honestly, he probably wouldn't mind, but I resist as a matter of principle. You're mad at him, I remind myself, you don't need him to feel whole. But I do, and that's the problem.

August and I have been "together," as our professors put it, for over two years now. It started freshman year, when we were supposed to do a project together for our Intro to Curses class. Fordham has one of the most prestigious magic studies programs in the country, and August and I were two of just 30 students who'd been accepted. It was October, and we all still had a lot to prove, so we were reckless. We were to research and present on the historical background of a curse of our choice, and against our professor's advice, we delved into the precarious world of dark curses. It was late, we were tired, and we weren't careful. The wrong phrase, read out loud, set in motion the curse that we've been living ever since. Without realizing what we were doing, we tied our souls together. We literally can't exist without the other; every second we aren't in skin-to-skin contact is pain. It was excruciating at first, but in the time since it has dulled. Now, as long as we can see each other, it's nothing more than a nagging finger in the brain, a slight tug in the gut. Not enough to be debilitating, but too much to ever be fully comfortable. It gets worse the farther apart we get; so we stay close, and silently resent each other. We weren't close before, but now we spend every second together. We spend every second together, wanting to be apart.

It's worse for me than it is for him. August is out-going and charismatic; he makes friends easily and is always at the center of the party. I don't have that luxury--I go where he goes, following in his wake, the few friendships I maintained after the curse slowing flaking away. To be fair, August does his best to include me. His friends are nice, and I don't mind spending time with them, but it just doesn't feel real. It's like I'm his shadow, just there because he literally can't leave home without me. We divide up our weekends; he gets to pick what we do Friday night, and I pick Saturdays. I usually just give in to his will though--yesterday was my night, but like always, we were at August's party. I don't know why I always let him win.

August stirs, snapping me out of my thoughts. He rolls over to face me, his bright green eyes meeting mine. I can see the gears turning in his brain, searching for the right thing to say. His inner workings are hidden behind the almost imperceptible glaze over his eyes, the glaze I only notice because I have it too. Another sign of our continuous suffering. Maybe that's too dramatic; I remember that I am angry at him, but it is fading quickly. I try to recall how I felt yesterday, when he called me a burden, the anger that burned my insides because deep down I knew that I agreed with him. But it seems pointless now; we're both in the same boat, we might as well keep each other afloat. Saying nothing, I lift up my covers and gesture for him to come over. His eyes light up with relief, and he immediately slides out of bed, his lean body glowing in the watery sunlight. He climbs in next to me, pressing his bare back into my body, trying to create as much skin-to-skin contact as possible. Immediately, my headache dissipates, and my breathing falls into a comfortable rhythm at last. I sigh, both in relief and in frustration at myself, and wrap my arm around him, pulling him closer to me. Now that I've given in, I might as well use this opportunity to get some real, restful sleep. He shifts, nestling his head under my chin; his dirty-blond bed head tickles my nose. I close my eyes, but before I slip back under, I hear him mumble "I'm sorry" into the covers. I don't respond; I can still make him feel a little bad.