Chapters ~*~
My home is empty again.
Wait, I should really amend that: Our home. I have to train myself to use those words now that I am no longer the only one living here. Our home, where we live together and share what there is left of our lives with one another. It would sound so sweet to say it, except that right now, our home is only home to me. Once again, I can feel the lack of voices settle like dust through the rooms, hear the house breathe and settle without footsteps to cover it up and make the place seem alive. Calling it "our home" is just a reminder right now that he's away, and I'm alone again.
It was only for a few days, he told me. Only for observation while they switch him over to some new pills. Treating him is always like throwing darts at a board, seeing what sticks, how close they are to some invisible bullseye. And they know that, if they do it wrong, they could make him worse, make him sicker. So they have to watch him closely as they switch his medications around to make sure that things don't go terribly wrong.
I want to be there with him right now. I want to be at his side in the hospital with my hoof over his hand and my head resting on his shoulder. Almost as if, even though he's in a hospital bed, he can still comfort me and take care of me. It's a little selfish, but right now I feel so alone and so afraid of every little thought in my head. When I get like that, he's the one I turn to. My Anon. He lets me bury my head against his chest or shoulder and once more fall into that belief we lose somewhere in childhood: That if we cover our own eyes, no one can see us. Like making ourselves blind also makes us invisible.
Without that warm embrace to fall into, all I have is the fear. And I feel so exposed to it.
I close my eyes right now, to pretend that I can hide from my own house and its emptiness. I'm just sitting here in my living room with my eyes shut, and it feels foolish and pretty much useless. I should make myself a late lunch, I should check to be sure I've taken my own pills. Instead I'm sitting here in self-inflicted darkness, wishing it could just be Friday already so I could go collect him from the doctors and come back here. Then we could eat, talk, fuck, and sleep as if nothing at all could happen to us. In those moments at least, we're invincible and we forget, just for an instant, that we're sick.
But in reality, I know we're not invincible, neither of us. And when I offered to come to the hospital to stay with him, he gently but firmly told me no.
"Berry, if you come with me, you'll worry the whole time," he'd said.
I'd just tried to smile, but I think I only managed a frown instead.
"But I'm good at worrying. A real pro!" I'd said, trying to keep the mood light and stop him from telling me no again.
"I still wish you would try not to," he'd said. "I don't want you losing sleep, trying to get a few hours of rest in a waiting room chair, and making yourself sick just worrying about me. That doesn't help either of us."
He'd been right. That didn't mean I had to like it, though.
"I want to be there for you," I'd almost begged. "I want to keep you safe and happy and... and..."
..and I couldn't. I'd told the tears to stay away, but they didn't. I hate crying so easily, but sometimes, like at that moment, it just happens so fast that I don't have time to take precautions against it. He'd hugged me close, probably seeing I was on the verge of tears, and we'd just stood in my living room... our living room. Together, in quiet, with one still moment lingering before I knew he'd have to speak again.
"Then do that from here," he'd told me. "I'll be fine. I always am. Just keep the house for me, take care of the basics for a few days, and then I'll come back to a happy, clean, welcoming home."
"I'm not promising clean."
"I figured, but I still thought I'd ask," I'd felt the rumble of his laugh through his chest. "Just wait for me here. I'll come home, and everything will be just like it was. Maybe even better, depending on how this goes. I love you, and I don't need you at my side to know that. Okay?"
It wasn't okay. But I'd said it was. It was the only thing I knew I could really do.
When it comes down to our various health issues, I know that both of us get final say in our own medical care. I get to be the one to say no to going to the hospital when I start feeling woozy. He's the one who tells me I don't have to make him soup when he gets a cold, or that we don't need to make an appointment just for a sneeze. It lets us have some semblance of autonomy when it comes to our sicknesses, which we both need, I know. Nothing makes you feel more helpless than being controlled not only by sickness, but by those unwilling to let you handle the sickness in your own way. Even though we both know that, I think we'd also both be quite content to take lead and play the champion against each others' illnesses, if given the chance. Put a sword in my hooves, and I'd become the most valiant damn germ fighter you've ever seen.
Right now, though, while I'm alone in this big stupid house, pretending to hide from my own feelings, I don't feel like much of a champion. I don't feel strong, or brave, or like a good girlfriend, waiting patiently for her man to come back from battle. He may not be in a war against soldiers, but I know that every trip to the hospital is a battle for him in its own right. But I'm not the dutiful little woman, waiting and peering out the window, touching the glass and sighing.
...okay, so I did that once. It wasn't nearly as romantic as trashy books make it sound.
What I do feel, is an overwhelming sense of helplessness. There's a question that I ask myself, whether I like it or not, whenever he's away for more than a day. It's a part of my mind that gets louder and louder, even if I try to drown it out with daily tasks, music, sleep, food, until it's practically screaming at me. And it's just one, little, simple question:
What if he doesn't come back?
I know it's not logical. He's coming back, of course he is. He has to come back. He left all his stuff here, his toothbrush is here, again. He always forgets it when he goes away. There's a book he's been reading with me when I'm sick, and he hasn't finished it yet, the bookmark is still only halfway through. He wouldn't leave a book unfinished, he always reads them to the end once he begins them. So he has to come back for it, he wouldn't just leave all his stuff here. He wouldn't just leave me here. Not my Anon. He wouldn't let me stay here alone. Forever.
But whatever logical or silly thought that comes to mind, it's drowned out by the question. What if he doesn't come home? And from there I am forced to ask why. Why wouldn't he come home? With that new question, it gives the voice of doubt all the power it needs, and we're off to the races. My imagination runs wild.
What if, while he's there, he sees a cute little filly who wants to come say hi. And what if she has some serious respiratory virus, that she passes to him without a second thought? What if his immune system is further weakened by the new medicine he has, and that cold is enough to give him pneumonia? His lungs will fill with fluid over night, and by the time he wakes up, he'll barely be able to breath, and wont be able to call his doctors for help! He'll die there, in pain, feeling like he's suffocating. Then I'll get that call, the call I always dread getting, the one saying that I need to come down to the hospital, fill out some paper work, call a mortuary, close his eyes and kiss his now cold and waxy cheek. And accept that he's gone. And I'm alone.
What if he has an allergic reaction to that new medicine they're trying? What if it causes his throat to swell, or gives him an ulcer? What if they can't save him in time, and he dies, convulsing, clutching at his stomach or neck? I'll stand in that hospital room, looking down at the pinkish foam on his lips, seeing the blue on his fingernails where his body was starved for oxygen. And I'll have the choice to either call a lawyer to try to take a swing back at the ponies who took him from me with their experiments... or let it go. Because either way I'll have to accept that he's gone. And I'm alone.
What if it's sudden? What if he just has a heart attack, or his kidneys shut down, or his liver goes after him, just like mine does to me? What if the doctors try and try, but they realize there's nothing they can do, so they call me in? To come as fast as I can, because there isn't much time. In one case, I might get there, just in time to stand at his bedside, smoothing the hair off his brow and trying not to cry over his sleeping form. Who knows if he'd ever regain consciousness? He might never tell me goodbye. He might just slip silently away while I stand there, weeping, begging for him not to go. Or if he was conscious, I would listen intently to his every word, unsure which would end up being the last. I'll tell him I love him, over and over, as many times as our last moments would allow. And then he'll breathe a final, rattling breath, and his body will go still, stiller than any living thing can be. And he'll be gone. And I'm alone.
I might not even get there in time. He could die asking where I am, if I'm on my way. He could call out for me, and I wouldn't be there. He'll die alone. And then I'm alone.
What if...
It goes on and on and on. Forever. As long as he's at the hospital, out of my sight, the scenarios roll out in gaudy displays of color and emotion. I start to feel them as they do, and my throat actually does tense up and my eyes actually do start to feel wet. I've gagged, and almost thrown up. For a moment or two, it's actually like he's already dead and I'm feeling exactly what it will be like.
As the different morbid thoughts prowl through my mind right now, I can feel my legs tense, and the muscles in my neck go taught. It makes me feel almost nauseated to think about it and feel it.
"It's not real," I say out loud. "He's fine. He's alive and fine and all of this is just in your head."
Are you sure? Are you sure he's not dead right now?
"Stop it," I mutter. "He's. Fine."
But are you sure? Are you really, really sure? Couldn't it be that the doctors are about to call, to let you know he's passed, and in just a moment that phone will ring and all your worst fears will be realized?
In spite of myself, I open my eyes and look to the phone next to the sofa, willing it not to ring. Thankfully, it doesn't. I breathe out a slow sigh of relief that I didn't realize I was holding in, and taste that coppery flavor that indicates blood. I touch my lower lip, and find that I've bitten it so hard that it's started to bleed. I swear at myself and that treacherous voice inside my head, trying to convince me of such horrible and hurtful things. It's fine. He's fine, just like I said he would be. I'm sure of it.
...but not really.
I give a groaning sigh and allow myself to collapse back onto the couch. What am I doing? Why am I torturing myself like this? I should get up, go do something, make food, and just carry on with my life as if nothing is wrong. Because nothing's wrong. Nothing at all.
Then why does it feel like I'm bleeding inside, not just from my lip? Why does my chest hurt like my heart is already broken? Am I really so weak that a few days can break me, that waiting just another twenty four hours is making me so crazy?
Almost instantly, I realize that the answer is yes. Pathetically, but at least openly, yes . The straightforward words "I miss him" aren't enough for this feeling, this isn't just loneliness. This is fear, dread, and self-inflicted emotional abuse, all stemming from this fucking isolation. I am alone, but I can't get the other voice to stop talking, so I guess I'm never really by myself. It's enough to feel like I'm being haunted.
My now open eyes slide from the phone which is still, thank Celestia, not ringing, to a small framed picture on a side table. In it, We're standing next to each other at the zoo, his arm around my shoulders, holding me against his hip as I stand upright. It's awkward for me to stand that way, braced on only my back hooves, but it puts me at that perfect height to rest against his chest... or to bite him a little, if the unexpected mood so strikes me. Seeing him there is enough to strike a resonating note of lacking in my body. He's not here, I can't touch him, can't hold him. The smile in the picture is so captured and still, like I'm looking at a painting, and he might have never existed outside this image. It should remind me that he's real, this is real. But instead it makes the distance seem more intense. I pick up the photo and shake it, feeling irrationally angry for an instant.
"Damn it, why aren't you here?" I demand of the thing. "Why did you have to go to the hospital, why did you have to be sick like me? Why couldn't we have been... have been..."
'Normal' is the word that goes here, but I don't say it. I've never been normal. He's never been normal. Our relationship has always been completely bizarre by any other standards. But that makes us the couple we are, and I love what we are, even if it's pretty weird. So no... I don't ask the photo why we can't be normal. If we were, we probably never would have found each other in the first place.
"I miss you," I tell the photo as I once more close my eyes. I press the frame to my chest. "I just miss your stupid, beautiful face so, so much. Why can't you just be here? Why can't I just be there?"
Because you're sick. Because I have to stay here.
...why do I have to stay here again?
The absurdity of the whole thing hits me all of a sudden, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I'm acting like I'm in prison right now, like we're separated by an actual force rather than a mile or two of distance. I said I'd wait but... I didn't exactly make a promise. And being here right now? Feels... so wrong. It feel unnatural to not be at his side. Every part of my body is screaming at me, all in open agreement, that I should be with him right now, rather than sitting here at home. So why am I? Is there a good enough reason for me to stay put? Because I'll worry? Because he said he didn't want me to worry?
So I'll worry. To hell with it. I'm worried anyway, so I already fucked that up. It's not worth me staying here alone, pretending that following this specific wish of his does either of us any good. It doesn't do me any good, and I doubt he's feeling fine and dandy alone in a hospital. I never do. He wants me here for my sake. I'd say I know my sake better than he does. And he doesn't deserve to go through this alone, just to protect me, anyway. He deserves comfort and happiness too, and him not having it because he wants me not to worry is... is... stupid. I won't call him that to his face of course, at least not because of this, but it is.
Although, maybe I don't want to be at his side and see him just to comfort him and make sure he doesn't feel alone. Maybe I want to be there so I feel sane, so I can be sure I'm not alone, for myself. Selfish though it may be, he's always made me feel more sane and whole. I guess I need him. That's dangerous, considering how easy it is for me to lose him, but it feels good to admit it, too. I need him. I need him in my life, I need to know he's okay, and I need to be with him right now, this instant. I'm not entirely sure that's even healthy, but he wanted me to worry less, right? Well, I'm worrying more just staying here at home anyway. If I'm allowed, I'd rather be with him, even if he just sleeps in a hospital bed the whole time.
We get to make our own medical decisions right? Well, this is a matter of my suffering mental health now, I've decided. And I believe the best treatment is a trip to the hospital.
I stand up off the couch with a start. I can't just sit around here wondering anymore. He might be a little mad at me for not staying here to wait for him, like he asked me to, but so be it. Besides, this house wasn't going to get clean before he got here anyway. Maybe I can make it up to him, do something for him, anything to cheer him up. Maybe...
As the idea strikes me, I feel my cheeks grow warm as they flex into a smile. It's something I haven't done in days, and I don't feel used to it anymore. But this idea is so simple so delicious, so genuinely sweet that he's likely to love it. And also tell me it's mushy and sentimental and that I'm a silly old softy. He'll tease me, but that's only to hide that he'd genuinely touched. Besides, I know from experience, he'd do something similar.
I move to the kitchen, nearly grinning now, and begin collecting all the things I'll need. Yes, that one is his favorite. Maybe this too, just in case. Will the nurses let me take this in? My hooves are moving so fast that I'm barely thinking about what I'm doing or if this is a good idea after all. I'm not letting myself think about that right now. All I know is that the faster I get this done, the faster I'll be at his side. There's no time to waste.
Still keeping away thoughts of doubt, I turn from the kitchen towards the front door, and I'm almost to it when I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I freeze and grimace at my own reflection. There are lines from tears, my hair is a mess, I look half starved, and my fur is mussed up from my preparation efforts.
"Okay," I tell myself. "I can waste a little time on looking nicer."
My reflection smiles back at me as I can't help but grin.
"After all, I want to look nice for our date."
~*~
Where Our Eyes Are Never Closing
~*~
The hospital waiting room is about the same as I remember it. It still smells like cleaning agents, and sounds like repressed emotions. Soft coughs echo in otherwise silence, and there are no noisy, unfortunate kids here for vaccinations today to break the monotony. There are only a few people waiting, calm and distracted by out of date magazines, or a book they thankfully remembered to bring. I've sat with them many times before, and I know the routine enough that I might as well scratch my name on the arm of a chair or put in an application for frequent travel miles. But, for once, I don't have to wait.
I stride up to the nurse's station where I see Redheart is on duty today, trying to feel as confident as I hope I look. For all I know, I look awkward and skittish and uncertain, which would be about right, but I'm trying to hide it. The long walk here has been enough to set the wheels of my mind in motion. What if he's angry at me? He wouldn't yell or anything, but what if he's disappointed, or demands I leave? What if my being here somehow makes things worse? I mean, I'm healthy, so I'm not going to get him sick, but what if my presence stresses him out, and puts further strain on his already strained immune system?
Maybe this isn't such a good idea. Maybe I'm being too selfish and I should just go. Maybe-
"Miss Berry, hello there!" I hear the nurse say, snapping me out of the slippery doubt spiral I was headed down. "I don't have you down for an appointment until next week. Is there anything I can help you with?"
She's scanning over some clip boards in front of her, but she seems jovial enough. Must be a quiet day. This also reenforces the idea that Anon is not dead. Probably. She'd be acting differently if he was dead.
...wouldn't she?
"Er, hi," I manage, an obviously brilliant opener. "I was just... I..."
"Are you here to see Anon?"
I stare at her, a little bewildered. I can feel that I must be blushing, but maybe my liver has made me pale enough that it's not obvious. Or it could be even more obvious. Either way, she's smiling quite knowingly at me, and it's clear she already knows what answer I'm going to give.
"Well... yes," I mumble out.
It's no secret anymore, but I still have to fight the urge to whisper it.
"That's fine, you can head on back if you know where he is."
"I... actually don't. Is he accepting guests?"
She pauses, and checks a chart in front of her, before looking back up and nodding.
"Seems so! At least he hasn't specified he doesn't want any."
Maybe he wanted me to come? It seems unlikely, but it's at least a nice little hopeful thought. It almost gives me enough strength to manage a smile back at her.
"Okay, well then, I can go back and just search, or... is there a specific place I should go, or..."
As I gesture like some sort of idiot towards the side door that leads to the rest of the hospital, Nurse Redheart seems to catch sight of the basket I'm carrying on my back. She clears her throat a little, and the sound is enough to cut off my confused ramblings and leave me staring mutely back at her.
"We have to check that bag, you know. Before you go in," she says. She still sounds kind, but she's a little firmer in tone now. This is a business matter.
"I-is that really necessary?" I stutter out.
I'm sure I don't seem shifty or suspicious at all. She nods.
"Yes, afraid so. It won't take more than a moment. We just don't allow weapons of any sort, as well as anything that could start a fire or..."
"I know the routine," I say weakly.
"Still, I've got to take a little peek, okay?"
I don't know why I feel so embarrassed all of a sudden. I'm not doing anything illegal or wrong, but it's also all kind of... feelsy and over the top and dumb. It's not what others usually associate me with, and I suppose it feels weird for anyone besides Anon to see that side of me. But it can't be helped. I pull the rather sizable basket off my back, and hold it open on the counter just a little for the nurse to peer into
She looks over it, probably trying to figure out why I'd be carrying all this stuff into a damn hospital in the first place. Extra clothes or some toiletries would make sense, but this stuff is more confusing. Then I see some current of understanding flow through her expression. She smiles down at my basket, then up at me, and gives a slow approving nod.
"Sure, you can take all that inside," she says gently. "Just don't make a mess or spill anything, okay?"
I wonder if perhaps the doctors and nurses at the hospital were the first ones to figure out that we were dating. After all, they saw us visit each other, saw the dread in our faces when the other was having tests done or was sick. The way she looks at me now, so tenderly, I have to wonder if our romance is some sort of odd little soap opera to all of them. Not that I'm complaining, though I do feel put a bit center stage right now. At least she's keeping her voice low, not blowing my cover. I finally return her smile, still feeling sheepish and a little foolish, and give a small nod back.
"Of course. I won't." I pause as I move to turn away, then make eye contact with her once more. "Thank you."
"Don't worry about it," she says. "Visiting hours are over at eight, and if anyone gives you trouble about having that stuff in a patient room, just send them to me. Now go on. Room 201, on the right."
She makes a little shooing gesture towards the side door that leads to the patient rooms. As I move towards it, I hear her hiss one more thing after me.
"And have fun!"
~*~
I find the room easily among the mazes of hallways. As I reach it, I pause by the entrance to check for a chart I can look over to see how he's faring. I'm not so lucky this time, but I still hesitate there, unwilling or maybe unable to open the door. I remember how I stood outside a hospital door like this once, still less than a year ago, waiting before busting in and confessing my love for Anon. It feels like it's been lifetimes since then, and perhaps it has been, in a way. I'm a different pony now. Perhaps he's also a different person. But here I am, outside another hospital room, all the same, hesitating about busting in and talking about my feelings. In that way, I guess I haven't changed much after all.
I take a deep breath and swallow it like medicine, then push the door open.
At first, he doesn’t see me. He’s lying back in the hospital bed with a variety of wires and tubes emerging from his hospital gown. The gown fits him funny, probably because it was originally made for a horse, but also because there is some sort of device against his chest. I can see that his near hand has what looks like a clothespin on one fingertip, and that it hooks up to a large machine making a very faint beeping noise. In spite of my surroundings, I recognize the beeping rhythm as that of his heart.
On the other side are still more machines, all reading numbers and dials, and the plethora of wires branches out to connect to each one. There’s also a clear bag on a stand by the bed, with a tube feeding into his inner arm. He looks like he’s sprouted new limbs, grown the machines right out of his body. When I take it in, it hurts me in some small way. I know how he feels, I know what it’s like to watch the dials, check to see if you can make them move by force of will, shift and feel tubes moving in your veins. You don’t feel like you own your body at that point. You’re just confined in it, waiting.
As I hesitate there, he turns his head and spots me. The wave of emotions across his face are too many to count. He’s shocked, of course, but then there’s this fluctuation of things I’m not certain the mix of. Confusion, annoyance, denial, and maybe… relief? Maybe joy at seeing me? A part of me deeply hopes so. His words, however, show more of the surprise than anything else.
“Berry? What are you-”
He moves to sit up in bed, but mess of beeping from the machines cuts his sentence short, and he freezes. I see him tense, then relax a little, and it looks like it takes great effort. The beeping subsides.
“Hey, easy,” I say quickly and quietly as I move to keep him from trying to move any further. “Yeah… it’s me.”
It feels lame to just say that, but I’m not really sure what else to say. Everything I rehearsed on the way over is just gone. I’m just left feeling small and foolish at his bedside. He looks me up and down, like he’s waiting for me to vanish or that he might wake up.
“What are you doing there?” he tries again.
There’s wonder in his tone, but I can also hear an edge of annoyance now. I expected that. I’d had a way to shut it down all planned out, but it too has left me. I shrug.
“I… wanted to see you. I was worried.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“Berry, it’s just tests, there’s nothing to worry about. I told you not to come, I asked you to just wait for me.”
Now I’m the one who feels a spark of anger.
“Yeah,” I snap, before I can reel myself back in. “Just waiting with no word from you, no news, no idea if you’re okay, that’s a wonderful way for me to not worry.”
I shut my mouth as quickly as the words are out of it. There’s a short silence, and I’m eventually the one who breaks it.
“I just… couldn’t do that,” I say, much more softly. “I couldn’t sit at home knowing you were here in this… place. I didn’t want you to be alone. And… I didn’t want to be alone.”
I can feel a tremble in the last words, but I catch myself and steady them just enough to get the whole thought across. He blinks at me, and I can see his mind working, piecing thoughts and feelings together into a more full understanding. And when it all comes together, I see his expression go gentle. His lips hesitate between a smile and a frown, unable to make up their mind.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel alone,” he says at last.
It’s hard to keep myself steady this time.
“You didn't, not really. I did. I’m good at that. But I needed to be here for you, even if it’s an inconvenience. I needed to…” I try to find the words. “I needed to be sure that, no matter what happened, I was with you when it did.”
“Even if nothing happens?”
“Even if it’s nothing, yeah.”
I drop my gaze. I feel ashamed all at once, though still determined. I believe every word I’m saying, but it still leaves me with a sense that I’m in the wrong here. And I can’t place why that might be.
“I know it’s selfish,” I say. “I know you wanted to do this alone. But… if it’s okay with you, can I please stay here? At least for a little while?”
I feel a hand gingerly cup the bottom of my chin. He lifts it slowly, making sure I’m willing for it to happen, until I can’t help but look him in the eye. I find, to my immense relief, that he’s smiling at me.
“Of course,” he says softly. “And you’re not selfish.”
“I said my actions were, not me,” I mumble, glancing away briefly.
“I don’t think they were either.”
“Well, that makes one of us.”
I’m half joking, and we’re both used to the self-depreciating humor we swap on occasion. But he doesn’t let it go or play along this time. Still very gently holding my chin, he leans towards me so that our noses almost touch, so his eyes become a blur of light colors, of sky and morning ocean.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers. “I didn’t want you to see me like this, and I didn’t want to worry you. But at least this way I can tell you it’ll be okay.”
“I… need to hear that sometimes. More like all the time.”
“So do I.”
"Then… should we just tell each other that in loop?”
Now he does laugh, just a chuckle, but he’s close enough to me that I can taste the laughter in my breath.
“If you want to.”
“What If I want a hug instead?”
“You can always have those. So many, until you’re sick of them.”
“That’ll never happen,” I say with a chuckle of my own.
“Then you’ll always get hugs.”
With that, he closes the distance between our faces, and presses his lips onto mine. I feel his arms wind around my neck, the hand on my chin slipping up to stroke my cheek. I close my eyes to savor it all, and try to remind myself not to cry from the overwhelming surge of emotions rising in me. I fall towards him to place a hoof on his chest and…
I abruptly step back from him in surprise as my hoof meets something that feels like metal or plastic concealed under his gown. It hasn’t hurt me or anything, but it’s so different from the soft flesh and warm heart that usually great me that it's kind of jarring. I break the kiss, regretting that I’ve done so almost immediately. The dials and numbers on the nearby machines spike a little, then fade back to more normal patterns and figures. Anon seems to be confused for a moment as to why I’ve retreated, but then he nods and taps the center of his chest with one finger.
“Oh, yeah, that,” he says dryly. “They’re monitoring me for the rest of the day up until I go to sleep. I did a minor stress test earlier, and they’re making sure my body doesn’t panic and react negatively to it somehow.”
“Why would it?” I ask, wondering if I should be more concerned about his stress levels rather than just his immune system.
Anon shrugs.
“It shouldn’t, to my knowledge,” he says. “But it’s all part of the tests, I guess. So… here I am.”
He gestures to the mess of wires, machinery, and tubes. Again, I feel a prickling of sympathy pain at how I know he must feel with all this hooked up to him.
“Well,” I say, trying to shake the sensation away. “Could you use some cheering up?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m here, let me do things for you,” I snap good-naturedly.
“You really don’t have to,” he says almost pleadingly.
“Well, I’m going to anyway, so the least you can do is try to enjoy it.”
He sighs, but I see the hint of a smile on his face, and I know he won’t put up any more of a fight.
“Okay, just… don’t make too big a thing of it.”
Oh. Well. I know it's not exactly a huge production, but I know that the effort and thought I've put into this might make him feel uneasy. He was always uncomfortable getting gifts and the more elaborate, the more the discomfort. Too bad I also like giving gifts so much that I sometimes forget that fact. I try to hide the blush as I lift my precious basket up off the floor and show it to him. He stares at the massive thing, then back at me, seeming curious as well as concerned.
“T-too late!” I stutter out while barely maintaining my smile.
“What is this, you didn’t have to get me anything,” he practically groans.
“Lucky you, I got us something, not just you,” I say quickly. It's a good cover, and he's more willing to accept without feeling weird about it this way.
“Fine what did you get us ?”
I feel an impish grin spread across my face as I set the basket down beside one of his legs in the hospital bed, and carefully open it. The first thing I pull out is a pair of petite containers, both containing finger sandwiches, cheese, and crackers. After setting those at his bedside, I also drag out a small hard salami, the cabernet infused one from our local market. It doesn't count as alcohol, but hot damn if it doesn't taste of it, and I know he's very fond of the stuff. At long last, I pull up an unlabeled green wine bottle with the cork still pushed most of the way in. It's our first date in a basket, recreated nearly perfectly, with only a few particular tweaks.
Now I glance up at his face to see his reaction to all this. His eyes are transfixed on that bottle, and I hear a catch in his heart rate as he looks it over. Before I even hear him speak, I can already tell what his concern is. And really, I don't blame him. It does look like I've just brought alcohol into the hospital room with us.
"Berry, that's not... it isn't..."
I roll my eyes.
"Oh please, I wouldn't do that to myself."
"So it's not that cheap non alcoholic wine I brought on our first date?"
I wrinkle my nose. Okay, I guess I didn't know what he was worried about.
"Anon," I say solemnly, "I wouldn't do that to either of us."
He lets out a soft chuckle.
"Still sorry about that, by the way. So, what is this thing, then?"
Using my teeth and swelling a little with pride, I tug the cork out with my teeth, and deposit it back into the picnic basket. I have the desire to be grand right then, present it to him, seem sophisticated. But I also realize I've forgotten any drinking glasses, and that's enough for me to lose composure. I stutter, then blurt out the first thing that comes to me.
"Cranberry, it's supposed to help you pee."
"Gee thanks."
"That isn't... I mean... hush you," I groan. "I was being sweet and you know it."
"I know, I know," he says, again laughing through his words, "It's a very nice thought, thank you, Berry."
"Only the finest things for my Shnookums."
He recoils from me. Just the reaction I intended.
"No. Never again."
"Pookie bear then? Sweetness? Hot butt?"
"Just go get some cups from the orderly cart before I start bullying you into silence," he grumbles, his cheeks visibly pink.
I smile in victory and stand up from his bedside. He always did hate pet names, and while he's pretty good at pushing my buttons and getting a rise out of me, I know this is a surefire way to go after him. And, on occasion, I like having the upper hoof.
"Whatever you'd like my love," I say, practically rolling the last two words off my tongue.
He sighs heavily as I walk to the door in a near skip.
"That one's not so bad. At least it's better than hot butt."
"Oooh, so I can call you that from now on?" I say excitedly.
I glance over my shoulder, smiling broadly, and he glares at me with no real malice.
"Don't push it."
"I won't, I won't... my love ." I sing out as I slip out the door.
I can hear him call after me with an even louder groan of frustration.
"My stress test was supposed to be over hours ago, Berry! One more time and I'm calling the RN to have you added to the no visit list!"
I'm smiling as I go grab a pair of flimsy plastic cups, and I keep a lightness to my step. But inside there's something sinking deeper and deeper. Something with a weight I can't fathom and a surface so slippery I can't catch hold. It's to dark in those parts of me for me to see what it is and name it. But I know its taste in a vague, instinctual way. In me, there's a fear. Despite our jokes, our banter and games, there's something serious in that hospital room awaiting me when I get back.
I realize that there's one more thing I have to say to him. And I won't be able to do it with a smile.
~*~
It Is The Only Thing Makes Us Feel Alive
~*~
Anon sips from his cranberry juice cup while mine sits untouched on a bedside tray. I watch him as he drinks, every motion of his arm and lips, and see how the tube attached to him curves to mimmic his motions. In the quiet, the beeping beside me has gotten louder and louder in my head, until I believe I can feel my own heart beating in time with it. The smile I've plastered onto my face isn't a fake one, and it isn't one I've put on just for show. It's a nervous one, one that, if you looked close enough, would show a strangled fear rather than soft joy.
But I've been quiet too long for this to be a normal pause. Anon sets down the cranberry juice next to the bed and cocks an eyebrow at me in obvious concern. Perceptive as ever.
"Something wrong?" he asks. "If you're fretting about the food or drink, I promise it's all fine."
I shake my head.
"No, no... it's just..."
I search for words. The sentiment I have to share is so simple and concise, but it feels like it doesn't say everything I'm feeling. It lacks the nuances of this series of emotions I can't seem to whip into line. I try to work my way over to it more gradually.
"Anon, when I'm with you, I think about how lively you are. How your eyes light up, how your lips move when you talk. I focus on the muscle twitches, the lines in your face and around your smile. I pay attention to the warmth in your body and words. To the heat from your skin. And I think about you just in that moment rather than in any hypothetical state. I try not to think about... about..."
The words won't come. I try another pass.
"When I see you in the hospital, it's hard. Because I can see everything that could go wrong, every dial, every blinking light, every vital sign. And I can't help thinking that if I look too long, one of them is just going to stop. Go silent. Go still. When I see you like this, I can see a future you, a possible you, a different version of you that..."
At last, it punches out of me in the softest, most cracked whisper.
"I don't want you to die."
We're both silent, and I let my chin drop to my chest. I shut my eyes and try to block out the tears or shouts of frustration that I hear echoing in my head. Damn it, I was going to try to not worry about him. This is why he didn't want me to come here in the first place. I was going to try to forget where he was. I was determined to tell him that we were going to pretend we weren't in a hospital. I was going to promise that I wouldn't talk about our mortality. That I'd just focus on us both being alive. But I realized, when I saw him like that in the hospital bed, that I couldn't. Because I'd never once just told him that sentence, straight out. I'd never let him know. And it is absolutely a thing someone you love deserves to know.
I can feel his eyes burning into me, but I'm afraid that if I meet them I'll just fall apart. And I'm not ready to give into that just yet. Not yet.
"I don't want to die," I hear him say softly.
"Then don't."
"If I can help it, I won't. I can try."
"I want you to promise," I say, knowing that he can't. But some part of me really believes that if he promises, it won't happen. He'd never break a promise to me. "Swear you won't."
"I can't do that. The same as you can't," he says with all the gentleness of a distant breeze. "But I can promise I'll try my best. And that I'll take care of myself, I'll try to stay as long as I possibly can. Is that enough?"
It's not. It'll never be enough, not ever. But it's apparently what I needed to hear, because the lump in the back of my mouth begins to travel gradually down my throat towards my stomach. I open my eyes and look at him sternly.
"I'll hold you to that."
"I hope you do," he says, then hesitates as if there's more to say. "I don't want either of us to die. So you'd better take care of yourself too."
I shut my eyes once more and give him a solemn nod. I breathe in sharply and swallow my tears, so that when I open my eyes again, they feel scratchy, but at least not watery.
"I will," I say. "If I can figure out a way to live forever, I promise I will. But only because you asked."
"As long as you share the secret with me."
"What'll you give me for it? Hm?" I say, attempting a joke.
In response, he reaches out his hand and takes my hoof, then draws me closer to him. Without saying a word, he closes his arms around me in a tight hug, pressing his face against my shoulder. I feel the breath through his nose weave its way into my fur as he holds me there. The feeling of his heart beat mirrors the beeping around us.
"An eternity of hugs," he says into my neck. "You said you'd never get sick of them."
I choke down tears as they try to resurface, and kiss the side of his head over and over again with light, brushing lip strokes. His hair smells heavenly, even after days in the hospital. It smells like home. Our home.
"I love you," I murmur against his sweet, soft hair. "I love you so much, and I'm glad you're still alive and you didn't get pneumonia from an old lady down the hall and die."
I feel him laugh in surprise.
"I love you too. But... what?"
"My brain gets specific sometimes."
"Well, I'm glad I'm alive too," he says with a sigh as he rubs his hand up and down the center of my back. "And that you're alive. I just... want to enjoy that right now. Can we do that? Just both be here, and alive and together and happy?"
I nod vigorously, and lean back away from him.
"Absolutely."
My lips are already curling into a smile as the gap between our faces dissolves into a kiss. It feels like, with that touch, a heavy burden has been pushed off of my neck and back, replaced by a prickle of excitement. The feeling resonates all the way down my spine to far more personal parts of me. We break the kiss slowly, and I feel his taste still lingering there. He smiles at me, in a nearly smug way.
"So," he says, tone far lighter, "you decided to recreate our first real date?"
I shrug.
"Well, yeah," I mumble, "I wanted to do something you'd find comforting and would make you smile. I remember that date being... very comfortable."
His smile deepens.
"Aw, well aren't you sweet."
I can't help the blush that spreads across my nose and face. I glance away from him, trying my best to show nothing but indignance.
"No you."
"No, definitely you. You're very sweet to me."
"Well... I can't help it, you're very lovable."
"That's adorable."
"Keep it up and I'll break out the pet names again."
He laughs and holds his hands up in front of him in defeat.
"Fine fine, I get it," he says with a grin. "Though I really do appreciate the thought, it's a very nice one. Although..."
His pause there makes my ears prick and I turn to him. It sounds like he has some criticism he's holding back, some complaint. My stomach sinks a little until I spot the fact that he's still smiling. Now this feels like some kind of trap, but I can't help but take the bait.
"...although?"
His eyes gleam. He knows he has me.
"I remember our first date not exactly being all about the picnic."
I feel the blush return, much hotter this time. Instantly my mind is filled with images and memories of specific sensations. The way he looked down at me, lips parted, breathing heavily. The impact of his hips against my inner thighs. The heat of his chest under my hooves, the way he gripped me by my shoulders and waist. The feeling of being full of him, in every sense of the word.
I swallow hard, suddenly feeling exposed. I know he can tell that I'm remembering all this and that he's planted these thoughts intentionally. He's not exactly propositioning me in exact words, but with the intent, he might as well be. I glance up at him and now I'm smiling too. There should be a witty remark, a wilting lustful reply ready to release from me. It's how we work, it's what he expects of me. With my showing up in the hospital, though, I'm more up for unexpected today.
Before he or I can say a word, I throw my body towards him and seal his mouth shut with my own. I feel a wordless exclamation of surprise vibrate against my lower lip, but then his arms are around me again. My actions may have been unexpected, but it's obvious how much they were wanted. He pulls my body hard against him, until I'm almost bent over on the hospital bed above him with my weight pressing down. His hands quickly move down my back towards my rear, trying to position me over him better, trying to push specific parts of me against specific parts of him. I thrust forward, telling him I want this too, urging him onwards.
All at once, there is a barrage of beeping from the surrounding machines. I launch myself back away from him, and the beeping gradually begins to fade. The look of frustration and amusement that fluctuates in his expression is almost comical.
"Shit," he mutters. "I sort of forgot about those for a second."
"Oh, am I really that exciting?" I say with a smirk.
"Apparently."
I laugh lightly, but it ends in a sigh of my own frustration.
"So," I say. "That doesn't seem like it's going to work. If every time your heart rate goes up, it all just... explodes like fireworks."
I gesture broadly at the machines around us, which have now resumed a natural rhythm. He merely nods to show he agrees.
"They do pose a problem, yeah. If any of it gets too high, it alerts the front nurse's desk, and then this place will be swarming with doctors. Could probably also fuck up my test results if it goes to high. Land me in here for extra days."
"I certainly don't want that."
"Nor I. So..." he sighs heavily, "I guess that's that."
For an instant, I think he's right and that this part of the date will be a bust. It wasn't planned, but once the prospect of being intimate came up, I was nothing but ready for it. It's a disappointment, probably for both of us. But then a devious little idea occurs to me, and I don't even try to fight the grin that sweeps over my face. Anon notices, and turns his head slightly to give me a suspicious eye.
"What is it?" he asks.
I'm once more eager to surprise him, and I give a rumbling little laugh in my throat rather than outright replying. I move towards him again, running my hooves up his chest until they rest on the monitor in the center.
"You said all this only went bad if your vitals got too high, right?" I practically purr, tapping one hoof against the device.
He hesitates, then nods. I think I can see some flicker of understanding there.
"Yes, I did say that, but..."
He goes silent as my hooves run down his chest again, then pass longingly over the quickly hardening lump between his legs under the blankets. I hear him take in an abrupt breath as my hoof lingers there and I feel him twitch in response to my touch. The monitors pick up their pace just a notch or two.
"Well then," I croon to him as I lean forward. "You'd better focus on not getting too worked up, right? Don't want you to strain yourself."
By his expression, I'm now quite sure he understands. His hands rise from the sheet, allowing me to tug it down away from his torso. As I do, he moves to place himself more squarely in the center of the mattress, and I hoist my body up next to him. I lean over and plant a brief kiss against his lips, then another on his chin, then on his neck, then down to where the hospital gown meets his chest. I feel an echo of a sigh in his throat as my lips continue to trail downwards. The monitors beep faster for an instant, and then as he sighs out they slow again. I can already tell this isn't going to be easy for him.
I use my mouth to grip the edge of the sheet, then drag it gradually lower until I find the edge of where the hospital gown ends. A portion of the gown is raised, and continuing to grow as I move, and I find it difficult to take my eyes off of it. I'm just hoping that I won't drool on the gown as I release the sheet from my teeth, and again look up at his face. His expression is one of eager wonder, as if he's still afraid I might change my mind and stop.
My mischievous grin is surely giving away how much I'm enjoying this, but I take my time sliding my hooves back up against the gown until his cock is exposed. I glance at it only a moment before my eyes close and I press my tongue against the underside in one long, slow stroke. When he sighs this time, there's a soft moaning sound to it. Another beeping spike, and I open my eyes and pull my tongue away. He looks down at me pleadingly as I stop licking, but we're both smiling at each other. I know how much he likes to be teased.
I hold a hoof to my lips, signaling for him to be quiet.
"Wouldn't want to call the doctors, would you?" I whisper.
He breathes slowly, obviously calming himself, then nods that he's ready again. I lower my head once more, and again run my tongue along the underside, from base to tip. I flick my tongue as I reach the end, giving it an added little pressure as I do. I feel his cock flinch, but he doesn't make a noise. It's almost a challenge for me too, I realize. I need him to be quiet and calm, but at the same time part of me wants to force him to moan, make it impossible to stay silent. It's a very fine line for me to walk.
Taking a slow breath in, I lower my mouth over the length of him. I feel it pulse against my tongue as I move up and down, squeezing with my lips as I go. I run my tongue over the sides, lingering at the head as I draw him deeper into my mouth with each rise and fall. His legs tense under my hooves as I go up and down and lick aggressively, matching the twitching in his member. I let out a soft moan, hoping he can feel how much I want him through the eagerness in my voice. As fun as this is, I won't be doing it for long. I have much more direct plans in mind.
I moan again, and he shudders under me. It must take so much effort to stay relaxed as I work him over. I hope he's able to handle the next part too.
As I pull away from him, I can again see how pleading his expression is. It feels so good to know he wants me, to know that I can please him and enjoy this level of intimacy with him. We've been physically intimate almost since we met, but this is a different sort of intimacy. This playfulness, this desperate desire to feel someone as close to you as is possible. It's like everything just clicks into place and become natural. Even with me playing the tease, even with him trying to keep his cool, these actions feel like second nature. As if this is how we're supposed to be.
Keeping my eyes locked with his, I lick the wetness off my lips, and sit upright. With great care not to catch any wires or tubes, I move myself above him, straddling his form as he lies back on the bed. He moves his hands to support my legs as I raise myself up and steady my front hooves against his shoulders. Then, I spread my legs above his erection, and I feel the air of the room growing cold against my wet opening. I'm surprised I'm not actively dripping on him at this point.
I stay there, poised above, waiting and watching his face. I want this, I want it so much it aches, but I want to hear him ask for it. I want to see his face plead me to fuck him, to crave me so much that he begs to be inside me. We look at each other, caught in that moment, and at last he smiles and nods at me. That yes, he wants this as much as I do. His lips part, and he wets them with his tongue.
"Please," he whispers.
It's like the word pulls a trigger in my head.
I quickly lower my body, and his cock slides into me with a soft sucking sound. It's so abrupt that he lets out a breathy noise of pleasure, then takes in a slow breath between pursed lips as the machines beep more urgently. I stay still as he pulses within me, wrestling with his own heart and breathing rate until they steady.
It's everything I can do not to buck my hips hard against him, he feels so amazing. I want to fuck him relentlessly, plunge him in and out of me with complete abandon. But I too have to keep myself steady, have to not go too fast or be too aggressive. Instead, I take a deep breath and raise myself towards the tip of his dick as I do in a slow stroke. I feel my muscles shuddering, urging me to go more quickly, but I resist. I'm going to pleasure us together, slowly, gently. Our circumstances will act as a tease for both of us.
I feel my body pulling at him, wanting to keep him inside me with each onslaught and retreat. He's so hard inside me, so solid and foreign against my raw flesh. It's intoxicating. He twitches his hips upwards against me as I rise and fall in minute thrusts, and they cause me to convulse from my knees up to my stomach every time. I bite down on my lower lip to stifle a moan as one thrust is a little harder than the others. There's a small spike of pain that echoes in my pelvis, the exact kind I love. I breathe heavily, pawing at his shoulders and chest like I need a better handhold, or else I might slip over the edge into impulse and desperation.
His hands find their way up my legs to my waist, and he helps me move up and down, grinding forwards and back slightly as I come down to envelop him completely. His mouth is open just slightly, and I can hear his breathing getting ragged with effort. On top of that, his eyes flick from my face to my chest, to that point where our hips meet with each stroke. It's like he can't get enough of me, and he's memorizing every detail. I hope I'm giving him a pretty picture, and I meet his eyes briefly with a look that cries out for him in a way my lips can't.
Imperceptibly, I pick up the pace, just enough where there's a quiet sound of our slick bodies sliding against one another. He urges me on with a gentle pressure from his fingers and palms. As my body moves up, he pushes me. As my body comes down, he pulls me so that I feel him penetrating to the deepest parts of me, all the way to the back. I stifle a whimper against my teeth where they bite my lip, as the lovely pain spikes in me again. It's true that I feel connected to him like this, I feel like parts of us are entwining into one. I was so lonely only a few hours ago, so afraid. But now? Now there's only us, only his body and mine, our lives weaving together into a strange, broken tapestry. It's everything I want in one, simple sensation. I feel him inside me, in more ways than one.
Around us, the machines pick up their pace as well with more erratic beeps. They begin to speed up, and I watch him close his eyes and take slow breaths. They abate again, but barely. I stop taking such a strenuous pace myself, and they subside once more. It's a balancing act with me impaled there on him. I want to please him, want to get him off, want to make him scream my name if I can manage it. But there are limitations.
"Can you cum like this?" I murmur, almost a whisper.
He nods fervently.
"Yes, keep going," he breathes.
He doesn't have to tell me twice.
Gradually, I resume a rhythm, watching the readout on a nearby monitor as I do. If it starts to spike, I slow down. If it get slow enough I can go harder, faster. Under me, the twitch in his hips has become an earnest thrust. I can feel how much he wants me, how difficult it is for him to keep himself from going overboard and making his heart absolutely race. He closes his eyes to breathe, focus, concentrate on staying calm. But I never feel him grow soft inside me, not once. Instead I feel the throbbing within me growing in intensity.
I also feel a tightening in me, an itching ache between my legs. I can feel my body wanting to draw him deeper and deeper, hold him there and never release until he does inside me. Even though I'm not saying anything, I'm begging with my body for him to fill me with his cum. As his thrusts get more vigorous, I feel that plea may soon be answered by both of us.
"Berry," he whispers urgently. "I think, I... I'm going to..."
The machines begin to warn us that we've gotten out of hand, and I see his face strain as he tries to keep himself composed. But I also know it's too late. He's reaching the point where he can't turn back, can't hold it in anymore. And that very thought drives me close to the edge too. I teeter there, trying to maintain balance, and failing.
"Cum for me," I whisper. It's more of an appeal than a demand. "Cum in me, make me yours."
My words seem to set off a bomb inside him, and he grabs my waist tightly. His thrusts are fewer, but harder, done with a driving intent behind them. He wants me, he wants every part of me, my mind, body soul, sickness... all of it. I can feel it. And I can feel that he's going to give himself to me as well.
His mouth opens in a wordless cry, and his head tips back as I buck and grind against him so he doesn't have to move as much. I feel his cock inside me strain against how tight I am, and his wanting me sends my body reeling. He breathes in sharply, holds it, and there's a moment where we're both silent, and the warning sounds around us spikes loudly. Then, he lets out a breathy groan, and I feel a warmth filling me from the inside.
His pleasure, his release, his effort, it all hits me in my brain and body at once. I whimper loudly and toss my hips against him in a few quick thrusts, and that's all it takes for me to fall as well. His name rolls through my mouth as my body clenches, releases, and every muscle in me trembles. I shut my eyes and just feel him inside me, feel his seed, feel his flesh and mine working with and against each other... and then I collapse.
I let my body drape across him like a blanket, both of our forms shuddering and tattered. He folds one arm across my back protectively and kisses the top of my head between panting gasps. There, I feel so small, so vulnerable. But I'm not afraid. He has me, and I'm safe. We're both okay. For a moment, we're just there, together, and happy. Just as he asked for us to be.
I can hear the machines around us plaintively going back to normal. I have no doubt that we nearly went too far, that we may have actually gone above the limit near the end there. But nothing is making emergency noises, and there are no nurses or doctors rushing in. It seems for the moment, we've gotten away with our little game, and there's a sense of victory in that. Like we've pulled off some crime together. From my place across his spent body, with him still inside me, I look up into his face. He smiles down at me, and I grin weakly back.
"Hi," I say in a near whine.
"Hi," he says, relieved laughter in his tone. "So... thanks for that."
"Hey, I had to make it more authentically like our first date, didn't I?"
He laughs in earnest, and the rumble of it under my body feels like a miniature earthquake.
"I'm not complaining."
We're both silent as I move so he slips out of me, our mutual pleasure leaving glossy stains on the sheets and his hospital gown. Then, after a moment he strokes my mane and kisses my cheek.
"I love you, Berry," he says gently, like it's a lullaby. "And I'm so glad you came to see me today. I'm... glad you didn't wait."
With all the emotions flowing through me as I roll off of him and curl into his side, it's hard not to cry. To laugh. To scream out all the feelings that I can't push down. But I can funnel them all into my voice, just enough to say my next words.
"I love you too."
This all feels... right. Even lying there beside him in a hospital bed, even wreathed in wires and monitoring machines. Even with beeping echoing in the room that now smells like sweat and desire. Even in this place of illness and death, I feel suddenly so alive. With him there beside me, anywhere feels like a place I belong.
With him, I feel I'm home.
-END-
Author's Note
Home is where the heart is, and sometimes the heart isn't just in a location somewhere on a map. Sometimes people can be your home. A hug can be. A kiss. A smile. Wherever you're happy, at peace, safe, content... please remember that place is your home, often more than your house, and don't stay away from it too long.
I love you.
-Pencil.
