~*~
“All set?” Anon says.
He’s standing by the hotel room door already, but has been kind enough to be patient with me as I’ve been getting ready. Far too slowly, might I add. He’s good about not rushing me since we started traveling together, and today, I’m definitely grateful for that. Going to new countries, new places is a little stressful for me, and I always feel like I need to be 100% prepared. Or else. It hasn’t been the easiest morning for me so far. I’ve felt dizzy since I got up, and food with a cocktail of medication and iron tablets hasn’t exactly done the usual trick. I’ve also felt too hot, then too cold, but none of that’s new. With the progression of my symptoms, it seems to be the new normal.
However, when I see him standing there smiling at me, it almost all goes away. Almost.
“Yeah, just a moment,” I say, trying to hide how breathless I sound, “Gotta get a scarf. Think it’ll be cold?”
He taps his chin with one finger, thinking. Then he shrugs and smiles.
“It might be, but if it gets too cold I’ll just warm you up,” he says suggestively.
I laugh, more to be polite than with actual joy. Usually a dumb, sappy line like that would make me blush, giggle, and might lead to us not going out after all for the next half hour. But right now I’m too focused on not being sick. If I focus hard enough, I can be normal, will myself to be normal. At least, I’ve done it before sometimes. Maybe. Once.
“Gee, thanks,” I mumble out of a forced smile.
“Based on what I’ve read,” he says, “the monuments are supposed to get a little windy any time of year. The area’s surrounded by a lot of flat lands, so the wind can get up to higher speeds without interruption. But the day does look pretty mild, so we’ll probably be fine. Plus, the sun is shining, and we could both use a little vitamin D.”
I think of every sex pun in the book, but don’t say any this time. Must focus.
“We have been staying inside a lot,” I admit instead, “not that I’m complaining. I almost prefer staying in bed with you to sightseeing. In fact I know I do. But some sunlight will probably do both of us some good.”
If he’s upset that I haven’t played along and made a joke, he doesn’t show it.
“I’ll hail a taxi, and we can be on our way,” he says, “here.”
He grabs my knit scarf off the hook by the door and holds it out to me. Usually not something to worry about, but I feel a strange pang of anticipation, foreboding. I’ve felt that a lot before, and something bad only happens a fraction of the time, so it’s probably just nerves. I can do this. These feelings will pass, and then we can continue with our vacation. If that’s what you want to call it.
More accurately, I’d say this is us running away. From ourselves, from being ill, from responsibility, from everything we know. No matter what country we go to, this only being the third, no matter how we relax, we’re still just fleeing. We’re running from time and death. And so far, we’re been gaining a steady lead. But maybe I feel it creeping up on me sometimes, and that’s the sense of foreboding filling me now.
Suck it up, Berry. Deep breath. Walk forward, take the scarf, and pretend nothing is wrong until that’s actually true. You know how to do this brave face thing, you’ve been doing it most of your life. Now is no different. After all, he's sick too, he could die at any moment too from his immune system problems, but he's doing fine. You should be too.
I walk forward, making every step steady, and take the scarf from his grasp. He strokes my hoof with a few of his fingers as I do. An intimate gesture, a simple one, but one we make often. Any excuse to touch each other, be sweet with each other. Sometimes it leads to more than just a brief touch.
Right now, though, I just smile and feel that little, silly flash of warmth in my chest. Like I’m a child with her first crush, and they’ve just made eye contact. It’s brief, overwhelmed by lingering nausea.
He turns for the door and I have a fleeting moment of worry that maybe I look too sick to go out. And in that moment I swing my head to face the mirror. And that is my biggest mistake.
The world slides sideways, even though I know I’m not moving. I feel my center of gravity shift right, then left, like the rolling of the ocean, and all tension leaves my joints and muscles. The consciousness flickers like a candle, and I get the sense that I’m falling. All I have time to think is a frustrated “damn it.”
Then he catches me before I can hit the floor.
“Woah now,” he says, gently but urgently, “Easy. Easy.”
I’m conscious enough, although my vision goes dark around the edges, of being lowered towards the floor. I feel his arms slide onto my back, cradling my head as he sets me on my side. Recovery position, it’s called. I’ve set him in this position before once, when he lost consciousness. It must be strange to others how practiced we are at basic medical actions, and how it just comes to us as second nature at this point. Right now I’m glad he knows what he’s doing, but so frustrated that he’s had to learn.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I wait for my vision to clear.
“Don’t be,” he says gently, “none of that. You’d say the same thing to me.”
Damn him, he’s right. I would.
“Still,” I say, hating how thready and weak my voice sounds, “I’ll be okay. It’s not that bad, really. I’m sorry this happened now.”
“It happened when it decided to happen, still not your fault.”
I feel him moving his hand up and down my back slowly. The sensation is nice, and it keep me a little more grounded. My sight begins to get a little less blurry.
“I hate it,” I tell him.
He knows what I mean, and doesn’t ask or clarification.
“I know,” he says, “I do too.”
After another minute, I can see clearly, and I’ve returned to myself somewhat. I still don’t feel well, but I at least feel better. Well enough to be angry with myself, with my body, with my stupid fucking liver. And mostly with death sending this friendly little reminder that it’s catching up. Ever so slowly.
“I wanted to see the Timors monument,” I say. “I still want to. Maybe if I rest a little, I can…”
I trail off, knowing he’s about to cut me off anyway. Sure enough, he does.
“Not today,” he says, “if the anemia is that bad, or if it’s something worse, you need to rest today.”
I move to shake my head, and instantly regret it. The world starts to sway again the moment I rotate my head, even a little. It’s more like vertigo, I note. It means that I need to rest my head and neck, and stay very still. Then, hopefully, I’ll be fine by tomorrow. Even that’s doubtful.
“Fuck,” I say, and pinch my eyes shut.
Well, that only makes things worse. I open them again and once more have to wait for my eyes to focus.
“Exactly,” he says. “Let me know when you’re ready to get to bed.”
“I won’t say no to you giving me some support.”
“Well, hopefully you also won’t say no to being carried.”
“No.”
“Berry,” he says, softly but also firmly, “You can barely move your head. You’re not walking, you could make yourself worse or fall and get hurt.”
“I’m small,” I mutter, “Closer to the floor, much less far to fall than I’ll fall if you drop me. I’ll be fine. I’ll always be fine.”
“But you’re not fine right now,” he says, “so tell me when you’re ready, and we’ll get you to bed.”
I could argue, but I think it would be a losing battle. It’s not fair of him to pick a fight with someone whose head is spinning. He’s always bullying me with his kindness like that. And, frankly, it’s usually necessary.
I raise my head a little, testing to see how bad things spin, then reach up one hoof to indicate I’m good to go. He slides his arm under the nape of my neck, and the other around my back and hips. Then he pulls me to his body, and I hold my hooves around his neck. I tense my body, trying to help myself be easier to lift and hold.
“Relax,” he commands.
I relax my body, but keep my forelegs tense. I’m going to help him at least a little, whether he likes it or not. I at least need that amount of dignity.
Then, he leans back so my weight rests against his chest, and he stands slowly to his feet with a grunt of exertion. I’m tempted to make a joke about me gaining a few pounds, but I’m too tired. I’ve been tired so much recently.
“Sorry,” I say instead.
“I told you, none of that.”
“Sorry for saying sorry.”
“Now, stop that, we could go around like that all day.”
He carries me towards the hotel bed, wrapped up in his arms like some bundled package. They call it a Princess Carry sometimes and in certain circumstances I can understand why. I could feel like royalty in his embrace. I’ve laughed as he’s swept me up in his arms before, as he’s taken me to the bed to toss me across the mattress, then to join me there. But right now I feel so helpless and useless. I feel too bulky, and heavy, like a burden in more ways than one.
“There we are,” he says as he lowers me onto the center of the bed, “stay still a moment.”
I obey as he gathers the pillows. Here, at least, I can offer some input.
“Roll one in half,” I say, “for the back of my neck. It’ll help with the spins. Leave the light on, too, the dark makes me dizzier. And some water. And another iron pill please. It’ll give me terrible gas, but it’s necessary I think. Romantic, I know.”
“I like taking care of you,” he says with a half smile.
“That makes one of us.”
“I know, I know,” he says, “but I love you and I know what I signed up for. So I might as well try to enjoy it, right?”
“...I guess,” I mumble.
“So, head up.”
I raise my head and he slides the pillow behind my head. Then I lower it back until I feel the bulge pressing up behind my neck. Almost immediately the spinning recedes.
“Thanks, that’s a little better,” I say in a sigh.
“Good,” he says. “Now, let me get that water.”
He steps away to the bathroom, and for a moment I’m left alone with my own thoughts. And they’re not being nice to me today. They rarely are, but when you’re lying in bed feeling like you’re not fully alive anymore, the voice of doubts in your head tend to be so much louder. I can’t focus on telling them ‘thank you for sharing, but Imma needs you to shut up now.’ So instead it sounds like screaming in my head.
You’re useless.
No. I try to think the word loudly, but it’s not enough, and the answer is relentless.
You have something new wrong with you every week.
You’re falling apart.
You ruin everything fun you're supposed to do together.
You’re dragging him down.
He’s still healthy.
He’s got years left.
Who knows how long you have?
You’re killing him.
You’re killing you.
Someday you’ll be too heavy a burden to cary.
It might be tomorrow.
It might be today.
I try to shut my eyes to block out the noise, like somehow not seeing will keep me from hearing too. But the moment I shut my eyes I lose any point to concentrate on. It’s like being seasick because you can’t see the horizon. My eyes shoot back open.
“Anon?” I call, my voice surprisingly steady.
“Yeah?”
“Bring a bowl. Or a wastebasket. Or something.”
“On it.”
He’s back at my side in mere seconds with a metal wastebasket from the bathroom. He’s also got a bottle of pills, and my travel water bottle. He sets the bottle next to the bed and hands me the basket. I roll onto my side and put it up against the side of my head. I don’t want to sit up, for fear it might actually make me puke. But at least this way, if it happens I’ll keep the bed clean. Save us some janitorial penalty fees.
“That bad?” he says.
As he speaks, he runs his fingers through my forelock, pushing it up off my face. It always feels so amazing when he does that, especially right at my browline. It sends tingles up the back of my neck, even when I’m feeling this poorly.
“No,” I say, breathing open-mouthed into the basket, “it’s been much worse before. I just closed my eyes and got the spins, that’s all. It’s already a little better.”
“Well then, onto your back when you can. Stretch out, lay still until it stops entirely.”
“I know, I know.”
“Do you need anything else?”
“No. Just time. I’ll be fine soon. I just need to be still.”
“Of course.”
He cups the side of my face with one hand, then feels my forehead. It’s sneaky, meant to feel like a caress, but I know he’s checking to see if I feel hot.
“No fever,” I mutter, “that’s your problem, not mine. Remember, mister shitty immune system?”
“Hey, maybe it’s opposite day or something,” he says, and I hear a smile in his voice, “We passed the equator, maybe we swapped diseases and just haven’t realized it yet.”
I let out a bitter scoff.
“You keep yours, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”
“And I wouldn’t wish mine on you.”
“Good, then I guess we’re stuck with our diseases.”
“Business as usual then.”
I want to smile. I really do. I love the banter we have, the shoves we take at each other. We’ve gone back and forth thinking of tree puns or milk puns, seeing who can make the worst one for at least half an hour before. Besides, I know he’s trying to cheer me up. Still, the smile just won’t come.
“Want me to grab a book?” he asks, “I could read to you a while.”
Ever the learner, he’s packed at least three books in his luggage. Probably four, I didn’t count. The weight of the books probably outweighs any clothing he brought. Luckily for me, I don’t have to pack heavy either, so there was extra weight room for reading material.
“No, that’s okay,” I say. Then, after a moment’s reconsideration, “actually, sure. I could use some distracting. Once I feel better, maybe we can go out to dinner or…”
“We’ll order in, or I’ll go pick something up.”
“But-”
“You need to relax. Heal. Get some strength back,” he says. I feel him gently pat my shoulder. “I can help you into a bath later if that helps.”
“Anon, I-”
“You’re stubborn, like me. But we both know if we don’t take care of ourselves we can make things worse.”
“I do know, so stop treating me like an invalid!”
It’s not fair. I shouldn’t have snapped, it’s not right of me. I feel him withdraw his hand like I’ve slapped it, and an instant pang of distance stabs at my chest. I’m in pain, I’m dizzy, I’m not myself. But that’s no excuse. I’m angry, but not at him. And it isn’t right for him to be caught in the crossfire, he doesn’t deserve that. In fact, he deserves the world, a healthy body, happiness. My hope is that I can at least give him one of those things.
A silence follows, and I’m too much of a coward to break it.
“Sorry,” he says at last. “I know you can take care of yourself. I just…”
“I know. You’re doing it because you care,” I say softly. “I’d do the same thing to you. I think I probably have. I just… hate feeling so helpless.”
“You’re not helpless,” he says, confidently, like he actually believes it.
I’m glad one of us does.
“Thanks,” I say. “Just… can we just read a while? I know I’ll feel better soon.”
“Right.”
I feel his lips, surprisingly warm, against my cheek.
“I love you,” I call weakly after him.
“I love you too.”
Now I turn my attention to the bottle of pills on the nightstand next to my water. Some iron, some water, and maybe this will pass. I’ll be able to sit up, talk, maybe do… other things. Since we’re going to be staying in anyway. If he’s in the mood for that, of course.
I start to prop myself up and reach for the bottle. Immediately, my peripheral vision vanishes, and I almost collapse onto the mattress again. Another wave of frustration and hatred of my own body washes over me. I reach out from a prone position, but my hoof is nowhere near the stand. I shuffle my body, just a little, but I don’t get much closer before nausea makes my throat feel acid cold with bile.
I grit my teeth. Reach with all my might. But it’s no use. I’m no use.
Slowly, I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling, clenching my jaw to try to keep silent. I can feel the part of my brain that makes me cry starting to shift into gear, and I try to hold it back. But I know I need to say something.
“A… anon?”
“Yeah?”
“I… I can’t…”
Those words. Those terrible, stupid, fucking words. They feel like a lie in my mouth, like poison. I can’t even put anything else after them, the sound of them in my voice makes me go silent. I can’t. So long in my life I’ve battled to fight those words, prove them wrong. It’s probably why I’m still alive, after the doctor said I’d be dead months ago. The greatest joy in my life is being able to say ‘I can and I will,” when others have told me something is impossible. But now I can’t.
I can’t. In so many ways.
I glance over at Anon, unwilling to move my head, and I see him looking around my general area, trying to solve the mystery of what I can’t do. I flail one hoof at the nightstand futilely again, and his eyes light with understanding.
“Oh, here, let me get that for you.”
He practically runs to my bedside and holds the water bottle towards me. But by the time he looks back at me, I’m already crying. I can’t even shut my eyes to hold back tears, because it makes the dizziness worse.
“Berry,” he says tenderly, and scoots closer to me on the bed, “It’s okay. I’m not upset, I don’t mind spending time with you. I love you, whether we spend all day in bed or outdoors adventuring. It's okay to say you can't do something.”
How does he know so well what I'm thinking? Without me even saying this, how does he just know what's hurting me? It almost isn't fair, it makes it impossible to hide things. But at the same time... it's sort of nice to have that understanding. Usually. Less so right now.
“That’s not it,” I whimper between muted sobs, only half lying. “I j-just. I just want to be me again.”
“You are you.”
“Not right now I’m not,” I say, a little more forcefully than I mean to. “Right now I’m just… just… this.”
“You’re not a this. You’re my favorite pony in the world,” he says.
"But I'm tired, Anon," I say, almost cringing at how plaintive I sound. "I'm tired of fighting and trying and forcing myself to be normal. I want to be normal, I want to be healthy, I want to force myself to just be okay! But I can't. I just... I can't."
Those words again. I suppress the urge to throw up in disgust at myself. When did I get this pathetic?
"Well, then don't," he says suddenly.
I'm stunned into silence by this. What on earth does he mean by that? Don't fail? I almost allow myself to be pissed at him, but manage to catch myself and ask for clarification instead.
"Don't what?"
"Don't try to be okay," he says "Keep fighting when you can, of course, keep going forward and live each day as best you can. But the fact is, you're not okay. Neither am I. It's okay to not be okay, Berry. It's okay to not be normal. I honestly think we're a good couple specifically because we're not normal. And even if you're not okay, even if you're sick every day from now on, I'm still going to love you, and I'm still going to be with you, and I'm still going to think you're wonderful. Let me take care of you. I'm not stuck with you, I want to be with you. Really... want, as hard as that is for me to say that I actually want something for myself. I want you. In sickness and in health.”
I let out another bitter scoff, thick with snot from my crying. God being sick is gross sometimes…
“When have you ever known me in health,” I say.
“There are days.”
“Not extended periods though.”
“Maybe not,” he says, “but I like all the time with you. When you’re sad, and when you’re happy. Happy Berry is my favorite Berry, after all.”
“I thought horny Berry was your favorite Berry.”
“That is also my favorite Berry.”
“You sure have a lot of favorites.”
“Well sure, they’re all my favorites,” he says, starting to run his fingers through my mane soothingly again. “Sleepy Berry, sick Berry, cuddly Berry, sentimental Berry, depressed Berry, embarrassed Berry. I’ll admit, I do think happy is near the top of my list though.”
“Sometime you’ll have to read me this whole list,” I say. "You know, when I don't hate everything."
His fingers feel so good. Right now especially, it feels like it’s pulling me back into reality, forcing my brain to zero in on this time and place. The nausea is nearly gone now, and the dizziness already feels a little easier. And that’s even before pills.
“Got you to smile, at least,” he says.
I find that I am in fact smiling a little. I’m almost sheepish about it right then. I feel like I don’t deserve to smile, but at the same time it feels so good. Like his fingers. Like his presence. Like him in general.
“Oh and a blush!” he says, and my cheeks grow even warmer, “That’s absolutely wonderful.”
“I’m sick you jerk, it’s obviously just my color coming back,” I growl.
“Oh, I’m a jerk now am I?” he says, giving a fake offended gasp, “Wow, and here I am telling you how much I love you. I see how it is.”
“Oh my god,” I groan.
“No, just your boyfriend.”
“No, not you!”
“Wow and now I’m not your boyfriend? Berry, I’m shocked. Shocked I tell you!”
“Stooooop!” I whine.
“I also love whiny Berry,” he adds quickly. “She’s very cute.”
“No you.”
“Definitely you.”
I’m smiling helplessly now. A good kind of helpless for a change. There’s nothing I can do about it. He picks on me in just the right ways to make me feel all dumb and girlish inside, and even now, as I lie here, he’s giving me butterflies.
“Why are you like this?” I groan out.
“Because I’m in love with you.”
“You’re so weird.”
“Aren’t you glad?”
“Yes, very glad,” I say. And I truly, honestly am.
“Feel well enough for a kiss?” he says, withdrawing his hand.
“Always.”
He leans down and plants his lips against mine. He lingers there, and I taste him, remind myself that he’s real. There are still days it feels like I’ve dreamed him up, especially when he’s so kind as I’m grumpy and ill. But I really did get this lucky. He’s really still here. And for now, so am I.
He pulls away and smiles down into my face. I lie still, just as I should, and just smile back as he wipes tears off of my fur.
“Now, how about some pills?” he says.
“So romantic,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
“Come on, let’s get this done so we can read more about detective Snopes and his trusty sidekick Gumshoe.”
He slides his hand beneath my head, right at the point where my spine meets my skull, and cradles me carefully up so I can drink. I put the pill on my tongue, take a mouthful of water, and gulp down hard. Luckily, the little bastard doesn’t stick on the way down this time, so I’m saved from gagging.
“Now,” he says, setting my head gently back down on the improvised neck rest, “Shall we read?”
“Sure,” I say. Then… “Hey. Do you suppose I could…”
“...yeah?”
“Could I use your shoulder as a neck rest?” I ask sheepishly, “At least as long as I don’t feel any worse? We can read like that. Or. At least you can. Or something. No is ok.”
He smiles warmly, and I want to make a joke before he bullies me again. Tell him to hush and give a plaintive whine. But instead of poking fun at my blush this time, he simply nods.
“Sure, I'd like that,” he says.
“And… you’ll stay?” I venture.
A simple phrase, but it has more meaning behind it than anyone else probably guesses. Stay, Anon. In every imaginable way.
“I’ll stay,” he says.
He lies down next to me and helps me position the back of my head on his chest. There’s a small pocket right by his collarbone, and I fit into it like it was made for me. From there, I can hear him breathe, feel his heartbeat on the back of my neck. The world starts to fade, in a good way this time.
I’m where I should be. Not at the monuments. Not at dinner. Not adventuring. But I’m still where I should be, at least right now.
“I love you,” I say, and I feel his heart skip a beat underneath me.
“I love you too,” he says, the words rumbling like distant thunder. “All set?”
“Ready.”
He holds the book up above me, and I nestle back into him until I feel very small and very safe. I can’t do much right now. I can’t do many things I used to do. But I can be with him. And in its own way, that’s kind of a miracle.
“Chapter five,” he says, and I feel every muscle in my body immediately relax, “when we last left our detective, he was trying to crack the case of the missing opal earrings.”
I smile in a soft and distant way as we settle into the book together. I may have drawn the short straw in some ways but also… how did I get so lucky?
-END-
Author's Note
Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by everything I can't do, or have trouble doing. But there's something I'll always be able to do. And that's love those closest to me. As long as I can do that, I'd say I'm alright.
I know things might be hard right now. And that's okay. Just do what you can. It's all anyone can and should ask of you. It's okay to say you can't. Just please, please remember: you're not defined by the times you said you couldn't do something. You are so much more than a single success or failure. By who likes you and who doesn't.
You're you. And no one else can say that. And... if you'll excuse just one small person's opinion, that's pretty fucking cool. So keep being you. Believe me, sometimes that's enough.
Love,
Pencil
