Author's Note
This is a sequel to When You Least Expect It. It contains the name Anon and references to depressing subject matter, as well as some sexual content (maybe more if I add a third part.) Please be aware of these things before you read.
Thank you.
-Pencil
It Never Stands Still
It’s been a while since I’ve been here, but it doesn’t ever really change. The metal chairs, old but sterile. The fluorescent lighting that makes the cold white of everything all the whiter. The linoleum floors, made that way so the orderlies can clean up any “spills” that might occur. And in the background, the soft tak tak tak of hooves hitting keys on a computer, as the head RN, Nurse Redheart I think her name was, inputs new information into the check-in computer. Sometimes they have a TV on in one corner, but not usually, and not right now. If you’re here long enough, you’ll hear the ancient vending machine start to whine mechanically.
I suppose all hospital waiting rooms are kind of like this. Made to be kept clean, created to be completely sterile in decor and purpose.
It almost feels like a second home to me now, and that disgusts me.
Today it’s mostly empty, but not empty enough for my liking. There’s an old bearded pony in a corner who’s been here since before I arrived, and it looks like he’s fallen asleep. There’s also a young mare reading a novel, like she hasn’t a care in the world. I’d like to say I can just look at them and know what’s wrong, but it’s not that easy. After all, no one would guess from looking at me.
One of the nurses has been eyeing me for a long time, and now she finally gets up and walks over. She’s smiling, but I know that smile. They practice that smile to get it down just perfectly, sterile like the rest of this place. But I smile back. I’ve been practicing too.
“Miss Berry, back again I see?” she says brightly.
“Yep, here I am,” I reply with a sort of muted laugh.
She’s silent as she looks for the right thing to say
“Are you…here for a checkup? Medication? Some IV fluids after a wild night?”
I know damn well that she hasn’t seen me go up to the RN to check in. And if she remembers me as a patient, she knows I don’t drink anymore.
“No, not exactly,” I say, maintaining the smile. “Just…waiting.”
“Miss Berry, we ask that ponies don’t just use this area as a place to loiter around.”
“It’s a waiting room,” I say calmly. “I’m waiting. I promise, I am here for a reason and I’ll check shortly, but just let me sit here for a while. I won’t bother anypony.”
She eyes me suspiciously, like maybe I’m hiding a weapon or some massive secret under my arm. I’m hiding something, sure, but it’s really none of her concern. Confidentiality or no, I’m not in the mood to explain. She’ll know eventually, but not yet. I just need to wait.
At last she nods and backs away from me. I watch her return to the front desk, then sink deeper into the uncomfortable chair I’ve claimed. Soon, every pony will clear out, I tell myself. You’ll be alone here. And in the mean time you have things you need to consider, what you want to say and do about all this.
A doctor comes out from the back and checks his clipboard. He squints at the name, then looks around at the three of us. He spies the reading mare and puts on a smile.
“Miss Lily?”
Her head jolts up from the book, looking startled at first. Then the lines of her mouth and eyes ease into a soft and polite grin.
“Hey again,” she says.
“Good to see you.”
He shakes her hoof, like they’re old friends rather than patient and doctor.
“Right this way,” he says, gentlemanly gesturing towards the back door.
It’s like she’s here for a checkup, but in all likelihood it’s some minor treatment or follow up for something more serious. She’s pretty enough, and I guess that maybe it’s a plastic surgery thing, something mild. She’s far too relaxed to be awaiting test results, or to be checking to make sure a repaired valve is still holding. Believe me, I’ve been there, the wait isn’t the kind you pass by reading a book or two.
They exit and I’m left with one fewer companion in the room. I glance at the older pony who still seems to be breathing steadily in dream and wonder when the nurses will finally notice and harass him about it. You’re not supposed to sleep here, as I’ve found out more than once. Being drunk in a hospital waiting room is sleepy work, after all.
If no one else comes in, they’ll have to roust him soon. Once they do, I’ll be alone and then maybe I can…
As if responding to my thoughts, the front doorbell chimes and a pair of ponies walk in. I look away from the door to try to hide my disappointment. No one needs to be getting the evil eye when they walk into a place like this.
I listen to them clop as they cross the floor, then hear them pick out chairs. I hear a lower female voice, then, unexpectedly, a higher-pitched one. The voice of a child.
I can’t help but glance up at that. It’s not often you hear children in anything but a pediatric ward, which either means that mom’s sick or that she’s got something that a specialist needs to see. I may be happy to let others mind their own business, as I myself like privacy, but I also can’t help being curious. Some morbid part of me once to know how sick she is, but hopes that she’s not like me.
Over the backs of the row of chairs across from me, seated with her back to me, is the mother. She’s a light green pony with a soft pink and white mane done up in curlers. She looks like she’s just gotten out of bed, and given that it’s pretty early in the morning, that might be true. Beside her rises the tops of two cloth rabbit ears in light blue, the tip of one drooping over sideways a little. Given that I can’t even see the top of her head, she’s probably pretty young. Probably doesn’t even have her cutie mark yet.
“Stay here and don’t talk to anypony,” I hear her mother say.
The little one’s ears wiggle, and I assume she’s nodding. Then mom gets up and goes to the front desk to check in. They’ll be processed quickly, families usually are from what I’ve seen.
As she moves away, my eyes stay fixed on her child. I can see her being obedient, not going anywhere, but she’s also fidgeting and squirming in her seat. I’m tempted to get up and go get a cup of water at the fountain so I can take a quick glance at her face, but I figure that might look creepier than usual, and I need to be here. I have things to do.
Lucky for me, her fidgeting escalates a notch and I see her turn, right, left, and then she pokes her head up over the back of the seat.
The filly is easily a few summers before she gets her cutie mark, and the hooded bunny PJs she’s wearing do nothing to make her look any older. She also has a light green complexion, but her cheeks, muzzle, and the areas under her eyes are yellowed, almost looking bruised. Someone looking at her might assume she ran her face into something, but I know better. I try to tell myself to just hope that she doesn’t have something like me, but kids don’t get jaundiced for no reason, especially when they’ve been eating right like she seems to have been doing.
She’s got a liver problem. Like me, except she wasn’t lucky enough to do it to herself.
Her little eyes lock with mine and we stare at each other for a moment or two in silence. At last, I raise a hoof and smile at her as a quiet greeting. Her eyes flicker across my hoof and face, then she sticks her tongue out at me.
My nose wrinkles instinctively, but before I can actually react, her mom is back. She glares down, and the child spins to sit normally in her chair again. She wilts into it under her mother’s gaze.
“What did I tell you,” she hisses, her voice almost echoing in the small waiting room.
“I know.”
Her voice sounds so weak, and I don’t know if it’s her illness or her shame doing it.
“Apologize to the nice lady,” Mom says sternly.
The little filly turns in her chair again to find me.
“I’m sorry,” she calls meekly, hiding her muzzle behind the back of the chair.
I don’t even look at mom or make a move to accept the apology. With a childish grin, I squint my eyes and stick out my tongue at her.
The kid lights up. Mom glare daggers at me. Parents don’t usually seem to like me, for good reason, but right now I care even less than in previous situations. Fuck her anyway, the kid was having fun. Let the kid be a kid while she can, because hospitals sap that right out of you in a hurry.
Before mom can say anything to me or the filly, the back door opens and a young light brown male doctor approaches. He glances at the clipboard, then up at the pair, and he smiles as usual, but with something extra on top. He greets the adult then, before saying anything else, he turns to the little one climbing off the chair.
“Hey there, I’m doctor Caduceus. We’re going to look at your insides today, and it’s not going to hurt at all. It’s just a big machine, and I can show you how it works before we do anything. Alright?”
The kid nods. You can tell she’s done this before.
The doctor’s eyes get wide and he smiles a little bigger.
“Hey, those are some amazing PJs,” he says, and the enthusiasm sounds real. “Are they warm?”
“Y-yeah,” the filly says a little uncertainly, but hopefully.
“Maaan, I wish I could get away with wearing those at work. It gets cold around here. Besides, you look like a bunny, how great is that!”
“Yeah!”
“You can hop after me to the MRI room if you like, ok?”
“Sure!”
I smile at the doctor broadly. This guy gets it, and he’s a pro. He’s not placating her, he’s not belittling her. He just wants a happy patient who feels good about herself, and he’s gone a long way in making that happen. She’s young, and he wants her to act like it.
The kid hops behind him to the door, and as she does, she turns to look over her shoulder at me. She once more sticks out her tongue, and I do so back, more aggressively. She slows in the doorway one hop to throw a final tongue my way before her mother shoos her inside and the door closes behind her.
Good on you, kid. Keep it up. Fight against this place everyday with your body and mind, and don’t forget your a child. As long as you have that, you might make it out of here.
Once again, I’m alone in the room with the sleeping old pony and my own thoughts. This time, my thoughts are instant.
You know why you’re here. You came her for one simple reason and you’ll have to deal with it at some point. Go up to the front, talk to the RN, tell her what you need and go in. The old man won’t see, and the nurses have to keep quiet about it anyway. What are you waiting for? Go!
…but what would I even say? I have so many feelings on this, so many impulses, so many questions I don’t have answers to. Should I really go in there before I’m ready? I don’t…feel ready. I don’t feel whole. Why is this so hard right now? I’ve been in this waiting room before, had to walk up to the RN before, but today is different. Everything is different now.
Why is this so hard?
Before I can give myself that final little push to get up and go talk to the RN, the doors open once more, and a new pair of ponies enter. I glance over my shoulder to take them in, but I don’t really need to. They’re hardly being quiet.
It’s a couple. Both earth ponies. Both young, out of the awkward teenage years but only barely, and both still in that phase where they’re completely enamored in each other to the point where they barely notice the rest of the world. They don’t even look at the nurse as they go to the front desk and speak in hushed tones about whatever it is that brought them here. The mare nudges her partner as they wander over to a pair of vacant seats in the corner.
From across the room, I can hear a quiet female giggle, and then a false shush from the station. I can’t help but raise my head a little, and look over to the warmth that is practically glowing from their area.
The mare is sitting beside him with her hooves on his knee. She’s looking up into his face and smiling impishly, and he’s looking back to her, then away, like seeing the expression makes him laugh. As I watch, he leans over and whispers something in her ear, his shoulders vibrating briefly with muffled laughter. She claps a hoof over her mouth to stifle a laugh herself, and it comes out in muted squeaks. The two snicker softly, then press their foreheads together and shut their eyes as if they can share their thoughts.
He isn’t touching her stomach a lot, but she could still be pregnant, I muse. Maybe they’re trying and they’re coming in for a check. Or maybe it’s for something earlier down the like in their story. Maybe it’s a blood test before they get married. Maybe one is getting tested for STDs before they have sex, like a smart pony, and the other is there for support.
I cannot count the number of times I’ve been in here for an STD test on my own. Like an idiot, it’s always after the fact. A wild night of drinking, followed by a fling, and then I sneak out and think too much about who I just fucked, and then I end up here for a test, to make sure I’m clean. I was every time, even that last time.
…He probably would have come with me if I’d asked. But I didn’t ask. Not after what he said to me.
Suddenly, I’m in that moment again. The room is dark, as we like it, and I’m biting my lip to be quiet so the hotel neighbors don’t hear. The curtains play in the wind, looking like thin films of mist, and the breeze caresses his naked body above me. I can see the shine of wet in the moonlight off his back, and I can hear the steady pounding of his breath with each thrust of his hips. And I’m compelled to close my eyes from how intense the sensation is, but I don’t because I just want to catch a glimpse of his sweat-lined face, cut from light and dark.
But he stops suddenly, and then I’m looking up at him, studying his face as he pauses in his motions. I’m blinking at him in confusion, wondering why he stopped giving me those rolling lightening-strikes of pleasure surging through my thighs and stomach.
Then worry. Is he hurt? Is it anemia, something worse? Do I need to call he hospital to make sure that his condition isn’t trying to strike him down even as he’s there astride me? I feel the surge of panic rising like a breath in my lungs. I’m about to speak, ask if he’s ok. And then, before I can, I see him smile, a gleam of white in the black of our rented room.
“What?” I say breathlessly.
“Nothing,” he murmurs back, and I can hear the exertion in his voice.
“It’s not nothing,” I mutter cracking a smile of my own. “Or else you would have-”
“You’re just beautiful like this.”
My voice stops. My heart stops. The world around me stops for just a moment as I look up into his smiling face and take in words that he’s never said to me before. Not just a compliment thrown out flippantly, and I recognize that he’s savoring the moment, taking a mental picture like I’ve done several times before. He wants to hold onto this for darker, harsher days. He wants this as a scene he can play when he closes his eyes, even if it’s for the last time.
But I can’t think about that. I’m here right now, with him inside me. I have to feel that, live in this moment as it happens so I can forget, for a moment, that everything about us is wrong.
“Like this?” I try to say coyly.
I roll my hips up against him and his head drops limply forward as he tries to suppress a moan. His grip on the mattress beside me clenches, then releases, and I feel the same tautness swell inside me. He glances up at me and shakes his head.
“Yeah, exactly,” he says, almost panting. “You’re also intoxicating.”
“I do have that in my nature, yes."
“C’mere.”
He grabs my lower back and pulls me into him so I yelp, and we’re both back in the moment. The internal rhythm pounds with our blood and he covers me like a blanket. Pawing at me as he forces himself deep inside, roughly, relentlessly, over and over. I bite my lip again and burry my nose in his shoulder to breathe his smell, to bite if the pain gets too much. His voice sounds in my ear, a whispery moan of longing, but wordless. Always wordless.
He thrusts harder, my head throws itself back and noise erupts in my throat. The sensation of stabbing pleasure threatens to overflow and…
And then the couple across from me giggles again and I’m back in the waiting room.
I blink myself fully out of the haze of fantasy that had swarmed me, and shake my head to rid myself of the smells and tastes of our passion. I’m not there now, I tell myself. I’m here, I’m in this moment now. I have to be.
I see the mare playfully shove her mate, and all at once I hate them. I want to yell at them to get a room, to stop flaunting their affection for each other in public. I hate how easily they love, how they just naturally assume that they have so much time, so much more life to live together. I hate how OK it is for them to touch each other, to laugh like they do, their naivety and their luckiness, unfairly bestowed by a world that doesn’t appreciate poetic justice.
But then a small voice in my mind asks me if I wouldn’t be just like them. That if I was lucky, that I wouldn’t savor it everywhere and anywhere and to hell with what other ponies would think. And then I don’t hate them anymore, and the feelings simmer down to merely a mild jealousy.
The back door opens and a doctor again steps out into the hall. He looks to them and calls a female name, then smiles as they both get up. They link hooves and wander back inside, looking content as they’ve ever been to be in a place so full of sadness, misfortune, and hopelessness.
The door shuts behind them, and I stare at it, wondering. How long will their honeymoon phase last? A week? A year? When will the dust settle, and what will be left once the turbulence is gone? Will it be enough for them to last, enough for them to cling to and build off of to form something greater than themselves? More often than not once everything calms down you find there’s nothing there. Just a passion turned to dust. You never know about something like that, which begs a final question: is trying worth that risk?
It’s a question I’m not sure I have an answer to. I’m not sure I want to answer it.
Before I can consider anything else, I hear uneven hoof's practically stomping up to the back door. It flies open and an older mare comes out, curled mane looking frazzled, maybe even un-kept for days. Her movements are unsteady, like she might be drunk but not quite. A nurse moves towards her, but stops when she sees what I’m just seeing.
The mare is crying. And she’s not even trying to hide it. I feel my stomach sink as I recognize that means only a few things could have happened.
Someone is dying or someone is dead.
You don’t cry openly when you’ve gotten bad health news, because it’ll be hard, but you don’t want to let others see that weakness. You’re trying to be strong until you’re alone to collapse. I know how that goes. But when you know someone is dying, or even when you’re dying, you forget others. It’s just you and death there, and you don’t care if he sees you cry.
The sounds of weeping are the only noises in this waiting room now. It’s like none of us even dare to breathe.
For this mare, she’s losing someone or has lost someone. Tears stream down her face as she tries to make her way to the exit, and she holds a hoof to her chest as if to quiet her thudding heart or coughing, choked sobs. She shuts her eyes like she’s steadying herself, even though she continues to sway, and at last she puts a fumbling hoof to the door. She pushes it open and practically tumbles out into the hallway.
The door shuts behind her. This time, the waiting room feels far more lonely.
Something in me stirs, something nameless and primal, and I realize that I’m standing up now. It’s time, I can feel it. I am ready, or at least I have to be even if I’m not. I have one simple task, as hard as it is, and right now that task is to go to the front desk and talk to the RN. That’s step one. Just do step one first, Berry. You can do that much.
But first…
Without letting myself hesitate, I move to the old stallion sleeping in the corner. With a gentle hoof I shake his shoulder.
“Sir?”
His eyes squint shut more deeply, trying not to open, but at last he does come to. He blinks up at me quizzically, then smiles politely.
“Yes? W-what is it young lady?”
“You feel asleep,” I say very gently. “You’re not supposed to sleep in the waiting room. Besides…”
I allow myself a wink here, and he smiles in spite of himself at the act.
“You wouldn’t want to miss anything, would you?” I ask.
I don’t wait for him to answer before I turn and walk to the front desk. The RN is there, the one with pink hair and white fur, as well as the nurse who asked me earlier why I was here. She’ll get to hear now. Maybe I even want her to.
“May I help you?” asks the RN as she raises an eyebrow at me.
I realize I’ve been standing there in silence for longer than I’ve meant to. I shake my head, trying to shake out any doubt, and return that practiced smile she’s giving me.
“Yes, my name is Berry,” I say. “I’m here to visit someone. Could you please tell me which room Anon is staying in?”
The hall is long beyond that back door, but I move down in quickly and easily. This is a place I’ve been before, but I’ve never been here as a visitor, so it feels different somehow. I feel less connection to it, taller, less enveloped. I feel like I rule it, not the other way around.
He’s in room 208, one I’ve actually stayed in before myself. It's a quiet little area, but not so quiet that nearby rooms can't hear you and the other way around, so he'll probably hear me coming as I walk up. Maybe he'll think I'm a nurse or something. He never visited me, but then again I never told him I was there. I didn’t want him to know, I didn’t want him to follow. That wasn’t what we were.
We’d made that promise after the first night that there would be ground rules. We wouldn’t be seen together, wouldn’t give others the opportunity to make comments, jokes, anything like that. We wouldn’t give out interactions and affections a name, wouldn’t say we were a couple, in love, or even together. No labels. Nothing to tie us down. Just friends who happen to understand each other a little too well, both in and out of bed.
You don’t visit someone like that when they’re in the hospital unless it’s really serious. He might have come, if I’d asked him or told him. But I didn’t. I play by the rules.
Well, until now.
I see the room up ahead, more a curtained off area than an actual room in the traditional sense of the word, and I hesitate outside. I don’t need to be here. We agreed. I should respect that, shouldn’t I? But I came through those doors, I walked down this hall. I’m here. That’s not enough, but its a start, and I need to see it through.
Just as I'm about to enter, I spot his chart in the holder by the wall. My breath catches in my throat as every fiber of my focus centers onto those. Those charts could tell me everything, from his height in numbers to his white blood cell count. It's a sloppy medical mistake to leave that chart just sitting there, one that can cause a plethora of lawsuits, but I take advantage of it now. With a hasty glance around to check for nurses, I snatch it up and flip the top page to see exactly what he’s in for. My eyes make their way down the page, noting weight, birthday, vaccination status, and then…
I shut my eyes.
Damn it.
I know what pneumonia does to the immune system, especially an impaired one like what Anon has. It can and does kill people like that, and if it gets complicated, it can kill quickly enough where the doctors can’t stop it or even make it really comfortable. How bad is his? How far along is he? I steel myself before looking at the rest of the chart, knowing what it might say and mean for him. Then I open my eyes and read on.
I suck in a sharp breath, then let it out in a long, slow sigh.
They have it under control. Thank Celestia, they have it taken care of, medicated, on the mend. He’s just here for a day or two to make sure that he’s recovering well, then he goes home.
I shut the chart and put it back in its holder with a relieved shudder. Then, for an instant, I ask myself if that changes anything. Would it have been different if he was on death’s doorstep? Now that I know he’s just fine, should I leave well enough alone? It would be easy to just turn around and walk away, pretend I never came.
I stand between the room and the hallway back, caught there, wavering. Then I push myself that one final step and I fall forward towards Anon.
Without a knock or anything to announce myself, I push back the curtain and enter the room.
He sits up in bed as I enter, eyes registering shock, but not displeasure. Maybe he’s glad I came to see him. But I can also see the worry. Did anyone see me come in here? What do I know about his condition? Do other people know he’s sick? Why am I coming to see him like this, when I said we wouldn’t go prying into each others’ lives. When we agreed that this wasn’t the kind of relationship we had.
“Berry what-” he begins to say.
I hold up a hoof to silence him mid sentence.
“Look, before you say anything, I need to…get some things off my chest,” I say.
He shuts his mouth and waits patiently for me to go on.
Suddenly, all those calm, clear thoughts in my head are scattered. I mentally reach out but I can only find bits and pieces remaining. Why is this so hard? This shouldn’t be so hard. But I’m here now, with him, and he’s listening. So I just start speaking, and let the shards of my ideas flow in a jumbled, cutting mess.
“I know that what we have is not something normal,” I say. “We knew that when this first happened. The way it happened? I have no regrets, and I don’t think you do either. And there were some very hot, very magical nights we’ve spent together, and don’t think for a second I’m not grateful for all of that.”
He laughs a little, and I do too. But this isn’t a time for laughter. Get to the point, Berry.
“And I know we decided we never wanted to be that couple. I know we said that this was to remain something different, secret, quiet, intimate but casual, and you know, I’ve been fine with that. I really have. I know we’re not ashamed of each other, things are just simple and easy and straightforward this way. This keeps it you and me. Just us. I like just us. Because…well…other people…”
I can feel a buildup of words and thoughts threatening to overflow into the open, and I finally let them.
“I hate other people,” I blurt out. “I hate their stupid pity, I hate the way they just go on with life and assume I have the same time and future they do. I hate how happy they are, and I hate how unhappy they are because from my perspective? So much of it is trivial. So much of it is just something that will be over in a week and they’ll never think about it again, so why think about it now? And I know I’m being harsh, I know I’m judging people unfairly, and I’m sorry for that. I really am, I’m sorry all the time. I want people to be happy, I try to make them happy. I don’t want to let on that I need too, that I want too, that sometimes I have things in my life I have strong feelings about. Because damn that pity and sadness that they show flashes of when they find out what’s wrong with me and how long I’ve got left.”
I can feel tears at the corners of my eyes, building and swelling with each word. I hate them. I hate how they make me look like some caterwauling little girl, how they make me feel like I can’t even control my own emotions. I can’t control my life, I can’t control my body, and now I can’t control my emotions. I manage to keep my voice steady, but the torrent of words keeps coming.
“And I’m tired, ok? I’m so tired of being the one who cheers everyone up. I’m tired of being ok when I’m not ok. I’m tired of nodding and partying and pretending nothing has changed, when every day I can feel parts of me change, for better but mostly for worse. I am tired of faking smiles and laughs. I’m tired of being strong because it’s what’s best. I hate being weak, and this is me being weak now, but I’m so tired that I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of playing the part of who I was two months ago, and I’m tired of pretending…”
Say it. Just say it. It’s not as hard as it feels.
“I’m tired of pretending that I care what other people think of my feelings. For you. Fuck them, and fuck their judgement and their pity. Because, from the moment we started seeing each other, in whatever capacity you want to call it, I’ve never had to fake a smile for you. I’ve done it once or twice by choice, but I’ve never had to, and I don’t want to anymore. I will never fake a smile around you again, and I’m ok with that. I’ve never seen you look at me with pity. I’ve never felt that you wanted me to be the pony I was rather than the pony I am. I’ve been happier with you than I have been with anyone else before. And you know, maybe it’s that we’re both sick. We’re both dying, I get that.”
I don’t even stumble over the word dying anymore. I don’t know when I was first able to do that. Maybe right now.
“We both understand how all this works, what things are the most important right now. And…you’re sick now. Sicker than me, I always thought I’d go first to be honest. Neither of us have long and with you here, in this bed… But I don’t care. Fuck what people think, fuck any social or personal rules I might have thought were important. This makes me happy, you make me happy, and that’s what should matter. Because this world is something I’m slipping away from every day, and the only place I feel real, like I’m still whole, it with you. Because I love you.”
I’ve never said those words out loud. I’m not sure I’ve even thought them. But the moment they leave my mouth, I know it’s true. I love him. I hear a catch in the blips of the heart monitor, and the rhythm afterwards never really returns to normal. His face is flushed, and even in my rambling mind, I briefly wonder if he’s ok. If I should call a nurse. Just say what you need to say first, Berry. If he needs a nurse when you’re done, you can run as fast as you’ve ever run before to get one.
“And…I don’t want to pretend I don’t love you anymore,” I fumble on. “I don’t want to hide it. I don’t care if we’re that couple, because at least I’d get to say we’re a couple. I want to say it, scream it even. And even though I’m weak, and tired, and angry, and bitter, I know that this is something I want. I want us. I want it to be real and open and…for as long as it lasts, I want to love you. I don’t want to be afraid and alone, and I know you don’t either, but this is more than companionship for me now. This is so much more. I don’t just want to be under you in bed, I don’t just want you to be my security blanket or creature comfort.”
My throat feels hard, like its becoming stone. I’m trembling in my shoulders and hooves, and I don’t even try to stop it.
“I want the romance, I want the sex, the affection, the kisses on the forehead, the weird laughs at bad jokes, the gross, the disturbing, the tears, and loss. I’m going to lose you, and I want to have you entirely first, even when it hurts. I want that pain. I. Want. It. And if people see it, if they see my love for you, I don’t care. I want to be able to casually tell people that we’re in love. I just don’t care anymore.”
I’m yelling. I didn’t notice it happening, but my voice is rising. I’m sure an orderly has glanced in at me, but as I said, I don’t care anymore. I need to do this. My cheeks are wet with ribbons of moisture, arching all the way down to my chin.
“But,” I say, quieting myself a little. “I don’t know if you feel the same way about me. I think you do, but more than that, I don’t know if you want this to be a real, in-words thing. I don’t know if you want all of that. I just know that I love you so much, and that in a world of chaos, stupid, complication, and death, you’re someone who makes me want to wake up in the morning and face it all. I’d just like…if we faced it together.”
I fall silent. I’ve said enough, too much even, but I’ve said it. The trembling hasn’t stopped, and more drops of sticky wetness silently worm their way down my face. And now I wait. I just stand in the room and wait.
We look at each other, feeling out the silence between us for what feels like an eternity. He’s breathing fairly thickly, and the heart monitor changes rhythm sporadically, probably with different thoughts as they move in and out of his mind. He licks his lips and I see his throat move up and down as he swallows hard. And I wait. Agonizingly, I wait. I wait for seconds, minutes, who knows, before I finally watch him part his lips. He tries once to speak, closes his mouth, then tries again.
“I want that too,” he says quietly. “For whatever time there is, I want all of that too.”
Silence resettles over the small room as we gaze at each other. There’s been a wall here broken, crumbled like old bread. Somehow, I feel like there’s been a distance closed, that parts of us that never touched before are finally touching now. I want to throw myself on him, to weep openly into his chest and with some bizarre magic, draw out whatever is making him sick. That way we can live together for longer, be truly, openly, together. I want to say his name into his neck and collarbone, over and over, until I’ve memorized the taste of it. But I can only stare at him, frozen by his words.
He wants me. Me.
I repeat it in my head over and over, hoping that eventually I’ll start to believe this is real. I’m not dreaming. This pain in my chest right now is real, and it’s the sweetest pain I’ve ever known.
He at last raises his arm and gestures to the vacant chair at his bedside. He cocks that knowing half-grin at me, the one I’ve seen in bed, the one I’ve seen him give his friends. The one I’ve come to love so well.
“You…wanna sit down?”
“Y-yeah,” I mumble.
I sniff back the tears hard, and they travel down my throat in a massive gulp. When I sit, I do so quietly, embracing the stillness of the room. Then, almost without thinking, I reach out my hoof and place it over the back of his hand. He reaches over and holds it there, pressing it down, like he doesn’t want me to let go. I glance up at him, feeling a tremor in my chest I have no real name for.
“So,” he says, voice light-hearted but still wavering. “It sounds like you’ve been thinking over that a while.”
“Yeah, sorta,” I say with a shrug. “I had a little time. It was a bit crowded by the front desk.”
“Ah, well, I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
I smile at him then, and mean it.
“Oh, I don’t feel like it was very long at all.”
——
Author's Note
Thank you for reading.
I have not decided if I will include another part to this. I did not originally intend it, and I feel this wraps up what I wanted to say nicely. However, I do have a particular romance-focused sex scene in mind, as well as further conversation. If you would like to see that as a final part, please let me know.
If you are fine with things ending neatly here as they do, please let me know that as well.
Again, thanks. Please do have a nice day, and remember that you're never alone, even when you feel lonely. Because a lot of people are feeling lonely right then too.
-Pencil
