Archive of Our Own

What the Heart Wants - 2 (Liam's Condition; or, Have a Heart)

By AkuChibi

It’s been two months, one week, two days, fifteen hours and about a million seconds since Liam and I kissed on New Year’s, sitting on his couch, drinking beer and eating popcorn. Not that I’ve been counting, of course – because I haven’t, really. It’s just something easy to notice when Liam unexpectedly decides he needs to go back to therapy two days after we kissed. And this is roughly how long he has been in therapy. Really, adding two more days onto that time to mark New Year’s is only – too easy.

We haven’t done much. We’ve kissed, and spent the night together purely to sleep next to another living being, but that is about it. I can’t feel much thanks to this accursed condition of mine, which I used to love but now loathe. I honestly didn’t have any idea how much I couldn’t experience, how much I was missing out on, before I went to therapy like my sister, Kelly, asked me to.

But, in going to therapy, I made a few discoveries about myself, and met Liam. So I didn’t really regret going, even if it made me see how empty my life had become.

I eventually stopped going to therapy – it was voluntary, after all, and I thought I learned all I needed to learn about myself from Dr. Syan. Liam stopped a month before we kissed. And now he is back in therapy, and I don’t know why. I don’t know what triggered it. All I know is I went to his place to visit him two days after New Year’s, and he wasn’t there, so I called him. I caught him just as he was about to enter his therapy session with Dr. Syan. I had a million questions – why now, why again, I thought you were out of therapy, did something happen – but stayed silent on the matter. If Liam wished to discuss it he would bring it up himself.

And so here I sit, now, waiting for him in his living room. We rarely go to my apartment; I’m not sure why. He gave me a key to his place a month ago, because sometimes he invited me over and wouldn’t be done with something in another room for a while, or using the restroom, and wouldn’t hear me knocking so he said I could just let myself in.

I sigh, tracing a finger over the key’s ridged edge, waiting for Liam to return. He told me to go ahead and come over if I want, but he will not be back until after his therapy session. So I sit here, and I wait, and I wonder why he’s back in therapy. I wonder why he would spontaneously go back two days after New Year’s, and I wonder if I am responsible. Did I do something to displease him so much he thought he needed to go back to Dr. Syan?

I hope not.

I find myself – happy, with Liam. He is charming, and funny, and so much different than the others I usually find myself… not attracted to, really, but different than the others I usually find myself gravitating toward. I don’t really have any experiences with relationships – it’s hard to be in one when you can’t feel pleasure or pain, really – but I want this to work.

I gave into him on New Year’s because I was tired of running. Tired of ignoring his advances. Tired of saying no. Tired of secretly liking him, tired of secretly going through those semi-nude photos he sent me, which I downloaded onto my computer. They have their own file and everything.

This started because Kelly sent him a semi-nude photo she managed to capture of me, to ‘induce attraction’, or however she felt like describing it. This left him kissing me, which left me telling him I didn’t wish to date, and that I had no recollection of these ‘pictures’ he was mentioning. From then on he started sending me pictures of himself – and I didn’t tell him to stop.

I’m not sure why.

I liked the attention, I guess.

I still like it.

He is so attentive – I can’t feel everything he does, but I can see him doing it. I can watch him, and he whispers in my ear, and in my dreams, I can feel everything, and it is amazing and wonderful. I wish I can feel it. I wish I didn’t have this – disorder.

Because it is a disorder. Nothing is as it should be – my body is different. It is different than everyone else’s, and I did not truly know what that meant until therapy. Until Liam.

And I want what I can never have.

I want to feel him touching me. I want to feel – pleasure. I will even admit I want to feel pain, because at least it is something. A sensation. A feeling. Something.

Alas, I cannot.

“Hey.”

I stiffen and nearly drop the key I have been fiddling with as I look over to find Liam entering the living room. I didn’t hear him come in. “Hey,” I say, watching as he pulls his hood from his head. He always wears a hoodie when he goes out, and always has the hood up unless he is somewhere he deems that inappropriate or rude, like a restaurant. I wonder if he wears it in therapy. “How was everything?”

“It was good,” he says. “Raining outside.”

And yes, he does look wet. I get to my feet, scowling at him. “Clothes off – you’re gonna catch a cold. Did you walk here?”

“Yes,” he says.

I stare at him. “Why? I would have picked you up.” He knows this. He knows this, so why did he walk and tell me to meet him here?

A dark feeling settles in my stomach. Though I can’t feel much, I can feel uneasy. It’s more of a mental thing than anything else. Right now I’m dizzy with it, even as I watch him leave the room, heading down the hallway toward his bedroom. There is a guest room here, but I don’t think I’ve ever used it. I usually sleep with him when I stay, which isn’t as often as it could be, honestly.

Is that what this is about?

I stare down at my hands, fiddling with the key again, as I wait for him.

Perhaps he has realized his mistake. Perhaps he has realized I am not worth the trouble. That I am a freak – I can’t feel anything. No pain, no pleasure. It will make sex difficult, if not impossible. It takes forever to – get there, for me. Sexual pleasure is… difficult, because I can’t feel it. I told him this much. I told him I couldn’t feel anything. And he said he accepted the challenge, and that he liked me.

And I believed him.

Now I know I am foolish. It has been two months, one week, two days, and fifteen hours since we kissed on New Year’s, since we started – whatever this is between us. And it was nice while it lasted, feeling like I belonged, feeling like I mattered. Feeling… Just feeling.

And I believed him when he said he looked forward to making me ‘feel’.

And now…

The key is heavy in my hands. I uncurl my fist and look at it, glinting in the dull lighting coming from the TV and the small lamp next to me. Liam’s home has never been particularly bright.

He gave me this key.

Why give me a key if he doesn’t intend to stick with me?

Maybe there’s hope.

Liam returns before I can decide what to believe, and I freeze almost guiltily, looking up at him. He has changed into more comfortable clothing – a long-sleeved black shirt, dark gray sweatpants, and fuzzy, warm-looking socks – and he looks tired as he sits next to me on the couch. This close I can smell the rain on him – the scent burrowed into his skin from walking here from Dr. Syan’s office.

His black, short-cropped, spiky hair is dry, though, because of his hood. As he leans into the cushions of the couch, sighing contentedly, his green eyes appear – dark. Tired.

“Everything okay?” I ask almost nervously, barely managing to keep my voice from cracking in the middle.

He tosses a warm smile my way, and I relax. “Everything’s fine, mate. How was your day?”

I smile at him – my Australian, goofy something because we don’t have labels, really – and shrug. “I’ve been okay. Is there a reason you didn’t ask me to pick you up?”

He shakes his head, but his eyes dance away too quickly. He is hiding something. “Nah, mate, everything’s fine. I just didn’t want to bother you, is all.”

I eye him dubiously. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Kevin,” he says. “I’m sure. What are we watching?”

I look at where he is gesturing – at the pile of movies on the coffee table. Tonight is movie night. I put my key down next to my car keys on the table next to me, and randomly grab a movie from the pile. He nods, grinning as he goes to put it in the DVD player.

“Excellent choice,” he says.

I don’t know what I’ve chosen, and I don’t care. I don’t really come here for the movies. Neither does he.

He settles next to me and I tentatively spread my fingers across the couch until they brush against his. I have to watch to do this, so I don’t go too far, or miss him entirely. My fingers have the most feeling – they can feel the most sensation, even if it’s just a different type of pressure more than any actual feeling. Otherwise I would not be able to hold a cup or a pencil or anything.

I can feel things – just not… really. Not in the way that really matters.

His fingers easily curl against mine, holding them, and the smile he flashes my way is warm, inviting. He tugs me closer, and I go willingly. Each time we do this, it becomes easier. Despite my condition, I know what his mouth feels like, inside and out. I know the taste of his lips after a shower, after he’s been drinking – even if he doesn’t drink much – and after we’ve had popcorn like we usually do on movie night.

I know he will disappear when the previews start, to make the popcorn.

Even so, here we linger.

I connect with him willingly, quickly, our mouths instantly meeting. The pressure is familiar, our mouths together like this. I find myself remembering this feeling in dreams, and dream of really feeling it like a normal person can. Nevertheless, I enjoy it like this. I enjoy the warmth, and the pressure, and knowing he’s here with me despite my condition. He accepts me – he always has.

The only person who doesn’t treat me differently even after learning of my disorder.

And I adore him for it.

It’s not love. It’s not even lust.

I don’t know what it is, but I like it.

“I should start the popcorn if you want it,” he says, pulling away enough to do so. I smile at him, leaning into him more. He likes it when I do this – his eyes always brighten and he always smiles as he wraps an arm around me. I can feel the pressure of it against my skin, and it makes me wish I could feel hugs. Feel hugs like normal people, like I could when I was a kid. Nevertheless, this feels nice, because he is so sincere and this is warm and comfortable, really.

“I’m comfy,” I tell him.

He laughs quietly. He has a nice laugh. I have always thought so. “As am I, Kev,” he says, lifting his other hand – the one not wrapped around me – to touch his fingers to my face, sliding along the curve of my cheek and along my jawline, against the stubble I know is there. Going for a clean shave is difficult for me – I nick myself too much because I’m not sure how hard I’m pressing. “Feel anything?” he asks, like he always does when he touches me.

No. Of course I don’t – you know that’s not going to change.

But I don’t say anything. Instead I grab the hand from my face, entwine our fingers, and look toward the TV as the previews finish and the main menu screen appears. I grab the remote as Liam’s hands are indisposed at the moment, and click ‘play’.

The movie starts.

I settle more against him and stretch out on the couch, with his shoulder as my pillow as his arm tightens around me, holding me to him.

The pressure is… nice.

The fingers of my free hand – the ones not held hostage by his own fingers – trek down the length of his arm, over smooth skin, pressing in a little so I can actually feel it. If this bothers him, or hurts him, he doesn’t show it, and always allows me to do as I wish when we are like this. It is… nice. I like it.

When he winces, in my periphery vision, I glance down to find where my fingers have landed. They are on the inside of his arm, just under the crease of his elbow. As I remove the fingers I notice a busted vein, which is bleeding again, through a needle hole.

“What’s this?” I ask, and I don’t recognize my voice. It’s flat.

Liam stiffens. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“What’s this?” I ask again. “You didn’t get this from Dr. Syan. Were you even at therapy?”

“Kevin,” he says quietly, “drop it.”

There’s this tone in his voice I haven’t heard from him before – flat, deep, heavy. He wants me to stop.

I can’t.

Because he’s hiding something from me.

“Tell me,” I say, my voice just as quiet as his but not nearly as flat. “You don’t have to hide things from me, Liam. Don’t you trust me?”

He squirms, unwinding his arm from around me. I feel strangely cold without it. “Of course I trust you,” he says. “I’m just… This isn’t important.”

“What’s not?”

“Drop it.”

“Just tell me – it can’t be that bad.”

He accepted me when I said I couldn’t feel anything; I can accept whatever he tells me, whatever he is hiding. There is no need to hide things from me, and I thought he understood this. I can see now I have done a terrible job of lowering his guard, as he has lowered mine.

He bows his head, green eyes falling shut as he releases a slow breath. His fingers tighten briefly on mine. I barely notice it, focusing on his face instead, but I try to respond in kind, squeezing his fingers in return.

“I don’t want to scare you away,” he finally murmurs, his voice nearly inaudible, but as close as I am to him, I can make out the hushed words.

“How could you scare me away?” I ask. “You’re not secretly a murderer, right?”

My attempt at lightening the mood fails.

“Of course not,” he says flatly.

I remember that his parents were murder, and I wince.

“I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me.”

“You’re fine, Kevin.”

“Please tell me what’s bothering you – tell me about this.” My gaze flickers briefly toward his arm.

“I was at the doctor’s.”

“Dr. Syan doesn’t-”

“Not him.”

“Then who?”

What is he hiding from me?

“I have a… There’s something I haven’t told you, and I don’t know how to say it. I just don’t want to scare you away. It was hard enough getting you to…”

Oh, no.

I hate that expression on his face. Hate it so much.

It’s downtrodden and sullen and I want him to smile.

My free hand clasps his chin, lifting his head until those green eyes open and focus on me. “Hey,” I say as gently as I can, hoping I sound as sincere as he always does with me, “you can tell me anything. I’m not gonna run. I’m here.”

I have no desire to keep running.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

My brows draw together as I frown. “Hurt me?” I echo. “What do you mean? Why would you hurt me? How?”

His gaze skitters away. “I have a condition.”

“Condition?”

“A medical one.”

“Oh. Like mine?” I ask. If he has something like me, why does he think I will judge him, or run from him? Doesn’t he know me better than that? Have I really allowed him to be so insecure with me? Have I not reassured him enough? It’s true that I’m not as – intimate as I could be, but we only started this two months, one week, two days, and sixteen hours ago. I have time to slip into that. Right?

“Not… exactly.” His voice is soft and hesitant.

“Tell me.”

He is quiet for a long time. His chin is still held in my fingers, and he doesn’t pull away, nor do I release my hold. The movie plays in the background; neither of us are paying it much mind.

Finally, he speaks, dragging his gaze back toward me. His eyes are dark, regretful.

“I was born with only half a heart.”

It takes me a long time to process these words. I certainly didn’t expect him to say this, and as the implications flicker through my mind, I tighten my grip on him. On his hand, and on his chin, and he winces. I drop his chin but keep my grip on his hand even as I stare at him, something bubbling up inside of me. Something foreign, and unwelcome. It makes me more and more uneasy.

“Is that… bad?” I manage to ask, and then mentally scold myself. It certainly isn’t good. What part of ‘half a heart’ sounds good?

One side of his mouth lifts upward in the beginnings of a small smirk. “The medical term is ‘Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome’. Born with half a functioning heart. It’s a rare congenital heart defect. It’s complicated. My parents didn’t think I’d live. I had a lot of surgeries, and treatments, but I’m okay.”

Dizzy. I feel dizzy and disorientated as I attempt to wrap my mind around what he is saying.

“Kevin,” he says softly. “You’re hurting my hand. I know you don’t feel pain, mate, but I do.”

Instantly I release his hand, shifting away from him, swallowing thickly.

“Hey, now – don’t be like that. I’m fine.” His fingers ghost across my cheek. I can’t really feel it, but I can see it. He knows if he wants me to feel it he’s going to have to press harder.

“How long?” I manage to croak through unwilling lips.

“How long…? What?”

Oh, please don’t play dumb.

“How long do you have to… to…”

“To…?” he prompts with that confused frown.

He’s going to make me say it.

I don’t want to say it.

I don’t want to think it.

“How long do you have to live?”

The words sound hollow, distant – like it’s not me saying them, but I know it is. Realization crosses his face, along with sadness. I don’t like that look. It confirms my suspicions.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, both hands now holding my face as he brings his head closer, his forehead resting against mine. I like having him this close – I can feel his breath on my face, feel the heat of his skin, and it makes me feel… it makes me just feel. Except right now I can’t. I can’t.

“Tell me,” I say, closing my eyes.

“Kevin…”

“I can take it.”

I can’t, but I can’t tell him that. I have to be supportive, like he’s been with me. I said I would accept whatever he had to say, but this… I never expected this. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to handle this, or what to say, or… anything. I don’t know…

I can’t.

“Tell me,” I say when he remains quiet.

I keep my eyes closed – seeing him makes it real, and I can’t.

“I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t know.”

I open my eyes, frowning at him as he moves away, his head no longer resting against mine. His hands drop away, and I miss the contact. I miss the contact I could barely feel.

“They didn’t give me a time limit, Kevin,” he says, watching me carefully. “Well… not exactly.”

“Not exactly,” I echo. “What does that mean?”

“They said I wouldn’t live to see twenty.” He offers a sad smile. “I’m twenty-three now.”

There’s something cold… somewhere in my body. I know it’s there, but can’t quite feel it. It is disorientating, and I hate it, and I hate feeling like this. My heart is racing, and I don’t know why. Physically, I have done nothing to warrant such a reaction.

Belatedly, I realize I haven’t felt like this since my parents died.

Died in a car crash when I was a teenager.

I’m twenty-four now.

“So I’m in uncharted territory,” Liam continues, like my heart isn’t fit to beat out of my chest. Its racing leaves me breathless. If I could feel… it would hurt. It would ache. I think. I’m not sure. “So, no, I don’t know how long.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t.”

That…

Mentally, it stings.

It’s a different kind of pain, and I don’t like it. He was just going to hide this from me. It feels like betrayal.

It must show on my face. “I don’t mean it like that, Kevin. I just… I didn’t want to scare you away. You finally… We finally got to his point, and I didn’t… want to ruin it.”

“You should have told me.”

He should have told me from the beginning.

“If I told you,” he says slowly, watching me, “if I told you ‘hey, I could die any day, could be tomorrow or five years from now, who knows’, you would have gone running. And I just wanted… I wanted you to not treat me like that. To not treat me differently.” His head hangs in shame. “I just wanted… to be normal, for a little bit. I didn’t think you’d actually… take me up on my offer. I didn’t think you’d actually kiss me back.”

And now I’m staring at him. His words reverberate through my mind, echoing all around me. He didn’t want to be treated differently. Isn’t that why I didn’t tell him about my inability to feel pain? And God, compared to his issues, mine are so trivial. So insignificant. I have no reason to complain, no reason to feel differently, when his life is so much worse.

And the rest of his words catch up to me.

He could die tomorrow. Or the day after, or years from now.

He could die tonight in his sleep.

I could wake up tomorrow and lose – him. Lose whatever he is to me. Best friend, sense of normalcy, potential lover…

I push to my feet. I can’t do this. I can’t be here right now. I just… I can’t.

His head snaps up as I grab my keys from the table.

“Kevin?” his voice is quiet, shaky.

I want to hug him. I want to comfort him.

I can’t.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice just as shaky, as I all but run for the door.

“What are you – Kevin, no – don’t go – wait-”

I’m out the door before he can finish.

In my haste, I left his key on the table.

xXx

I mope for two days.

Two days of silence.

I had to turn my phone off – Liam kept texting and calling. I can’t talk to him right now, not while I’m trying to process everything. I just… I can’t.

I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.

I can’t believe he let us get this far – into some kind of relationship – and didn’t think to mention the fact he could die any day.

I can’t believe he let me get so attached when I could lose him any day.

Did he not think I deserved to know, before going further into this… whatever it was, between us?

How could he let it get this far?

What did he think this would do to me?

Especially the longer he hid it.

And he didn’t plan on telling me at all.

Was I just going to find out one day, when I woke up and rolled over to find him dead? Or get a call from the hospital and rush there to realize he died on me? Was he really never going to tell me about this?

I want to be angry at him. I am angry at him. I’m angry he didn’t tell me, but I can’t blame him for not doing so. He didn’t tell me for the same reasons I didn’t tell him about my condition in the first place. Even though my condition is so insignificant right now. My condition is nothing compared to his. Most people would kill to not feel pain, and here I am, complaining about it. All the while he’s the one really suffering.

Half a heart.

What did he call it?

Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome.

And then I look up everything I can find about this condition.

xXx

I’ve studied HLHS for two days straight. I’ve taken notes, for crying out loud. I didn’t even do that at college. I take conscientious notes, detailed and everything. I print out diagrams of what such a heart looks like. The left side of the heart is underdeveloped at birth; it doesn’t work properly, hence only having half a heart. Blood flow is limited and restricted.

Liam always wears hoodies, even during the summer.

I thought it was because he was shy. He could be shy from time to time. It’s also not very warm here, all the time. The summers can get hot, but not terribly so.

Now I’m wondering if he always wears a hoodie because he’s always cold. Poor circulation can do that.

And the pills I saw him take at Christmas. He has a prescription bottle of them somewhere – I found them once, but before I could ask him about them, he simply said they were something to help with blood pressure – he said high blood pressure runs in his family – and I didn’t question it. And I haven’t been able to find those pills since. He hid them somewhere.

He really didn’t want me to know about this.

But I have to know. I need to know.

Babies born with HLHS need open heart surgery as soon as possible. A lot don’t survive the first surgery, and typically three are needed. Without intervention, the infant will die as the condition is fatal. With intervention, such as the surgeries, they can live, but it’s a long, difficult, expensive process.

Roughly 70% of people with this condition reach adulthood. Adulthood. That doesn’t mean they live much longer. When is adulthood? Eighteen? Twenty-one?

Liam said they didn’t expect him to reach twenty.

He’s twenty-three.

That’s already three years of extra time – time they didn’t think he’d have.

I don’t know what that means. I don’t like it.

The surgery, to help the infant, is called the ‘palliative procedure’. It’s to help improve circulation. This procedure was introduced in the 1980’s, and before that, there were no survivors of this condition. No survivors. The oldest survivors are somewhere in their thirties. That’s not very old.

Liam is twenty-three.

He wasn’t supposed to live past twenty.

The only known survivors are in their thirties, and there’s no known life expectancy besides ‘it’s complicated’.

Liam is twenty-three.

That’s all I can think about.

He’s so young.

He’s so alive.

Liam is twenty-three.

xXx

It’s been two months, two weeks, one day, twelve hours, a handful of minutes, and too many seconds since New Year’s. It’s been six days, one hour, roughly thirty minutes and a lot of seconds since I left Liam’s after he told me about his condition. It’s been two days, six hours, fifty minutes and too many seconds since I began writing down plans for Liam – healthy, workout plans to keep his heart working correctly. It’s been one day, eight hours, fifty-six minutes and God-knows-how-many seconds since I texted Liam and told him I would be coming today – speaking to him, without being face to face, felt wrong, so I texted him and he responded ‘okay’.

It’s been thirty minutes since I arrived at Liam’s, and I just stand outside his door in his apartment building, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I stare at the familiar, dark brown – almost red – door, and realize I don’t have a key. I left my key on his table.

Somehow, I feel truly guilty about that.

I finally raise my hand to knock.

Liam answers.

He looks ragged, rough, tired. There are dark circles around his eyes, and his green eyes are flat and dull, the color muted. There is no smile on his face, no cheer or laughter, and he is pale. He stands there, eying me carefully, clad in his navy blue robe with the long, fuzzy sleeves, his dark sweatpants, and warm, fuzzy socks. He has always been pretty clean-shaven, but now there is stubble. He hasn’t bothered to shave in days.

He looks like hell.

“I’m sorry,” I say before he can say anything, because I know I did this to him. “Please, can I come in?”

He watches me for a minute, fingers curling around the edge of the door. For a minute I’m not sure if he’s going to push the door further open or slam the door in my face. Eventually, though, he steps back and allows me entrance, and I quickly move past him as he shuts the door behind me.

The living room looks exactly as I left it. Then again, Liam cleans when he’s nervous about something. He cleaned a lot before his sister arrived on Christmas. He cleaned a lot after I first spent the night here, in bed with him.

And now he’s cleaned after I walked out on him for six days, and didn’t call him or answer his calls.

I’m a terrible person.

I couldn’t handle speaking with him while I attempted to understand everything, attempted to wrap my head around the fact he could die any day now. If I spoke to him, heard his voice or saw him while I tried to do that… I wasn’t sure what I would do. So I didn’t.

And I hurt him because of my selfish choice.

“I’m sorry,” I say, dropping the large stack of papers I’d clipped together. They landed with a small thud on the center table as I reached for him, taking his face in my hands like he always did to me. “I’m sorry, Liam. I just… had to get away for a bit and do some thinking. I didn’t mean to… I… I’m sorry.”

His eyes are hooded and flat, his face expressionless even as I touch him. I suddenly realize he might not forgive me for running out on him. I’d expected to go through this with him, to get through his condition together and planned things for that…

I never took into consideration the fact he might kick me out.

That he might not want me there with him anymore.

And I can’t even blame him, because this is my fault. I walked out on him when he needed me the most. I remember his shaky tone of voice, the way he called after me, how reluctant he was to broach the topic in the first place because he might scare me away.

And what did I do?

I ran away.

Just as he feared.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, and there’s something wet in my eyes. It is… uncomfortable. Am I crying? I haven’t cried since Mom and Dad died. This… stings. Hurts. It’s not physical, but it’s there, just under the surface. I hate it. “I’m so sorry, Liam, please. Say something.”

“Why are you here?”

His voice is rough, guarded, cold.

He has never sounded like that to me before.

He’s always been so warm and inviting.

I’ve ruined everything.

And I have. I truly have.

He’s angry with me, and he has every right to be. I ran out on him when I should have stayed. When I should have stayed, and hugged him, and comforted him. Whispered reassurances in his ear, about how I wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t run away just because he had this condition…

But I did.

I did run away.

I never thought he’d hate me for it. I never thought he not want me here.

My legs give way. I don’t realize it happening until I’m sitting on the couch, and he’s next to me, eyes wide a little with alarm at my sudden collapse. I’m shocked, too. I’m in shock. He doesn’t want me here.

I screwed everything up.

Screwed everything up before it even really started.

We haven’t been together very long – at least, not in this more intimate sense. Not… romantically, if we are going to call it that. It’s only been two months, two weeks, one day, twelve hours…

But I’m attached. I’m so attached, because he has never judged me. He has never treated me differently after learning of my condition. My own sister sent me to therapy; all he’s ever tried to do is…

He likes me.

He admitted as much. He likes me more than he’s liked anyone in a long time, and I told him I felt the same.

And I do.

I have never liked someone as much as I like him, outside of my family. I have never adored someone this much.

I have never…

And we have been friends for nearly a year now. Eleven months of friendship.

And I’m attached.

So attached.

And I have ruined everything, and he is going to kick me out.

“Kevin?”

I like it when he says my name. I like it when he calls me ‘mate’. I know ‘mate’ is a term of friendship and the like in Australia, but to me it’s more intimate. I like it. And with that accent of his, it’s just…

“Are you okay?”

And he’s worried about me. Even though he’s worse off than I am.

Even though my own condition is far less important.

Even though I’m far less important right now.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“So you’ve said. Are you okay? Are you dizzy?” Then his hand is pressed against my forehead.

It’s been far too long since he touched me.

The pressure is familiar. Wanted.

I missed this. Missed him.

I was only gone for six days, one hour, forty minutes…

And I missed him.

I haven’t gone a day without seeing him in… a while. Even before we ‘got together’ on New Year’s.

The absence of his presence was… unnerving.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, looking at him. His expression is less flat, drawing tight with concern. Concern for me even though I don’t deserve it after abandoning him as I had. “Liam, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I ran out. I’m sorry.”

And just like that, the concern is gone from his face. It’s flat and expressionless once more, and his hands, which were on me, quickly pull away as he stands at his full height, having previously been kneeling next to my knees.

Liam isn’t particularly tall – roughly 5’8” or so, a few inches shorter than me – but with me sitting and him looking down at me like that, he seems like a giant, and I feel so small. So small and unwanted and wrong.

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” he says flatly, and I hate that tone. Hate it so much. “I knew you’d leave.”

I didn’t, I want to tell him.

But I did.

I did leave.

It doesn’t matter that I didn’t see it as truly leaving him. It’s how it seemed to him, and he has every right to think that way.

“I’m sorry.”

By now I don’t even know the meaning of those words, I’ve said them so many times. Are they even words at all, or random gibberish? They sound so strange now.

“I didn’t mean to leave, Liam. I just… I was shocked. I didn’t… I didn’t even know anything was wrong.”

“I didn’t want you to know. Because you’d leave. Like you did.”

I take the accusation for what it is and try not to show that those words actually hurt me. It’s not physical. It’s emotional. And this… if this is what pain feels like then I’m glad I can’t feel it. This is… terrible. Terrible, seeing that look on his face, that flat tone of voice, the way I know I hurt him without even meaning to…

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

I don’t know what else to say other than that, and it isn’t enough.

I regret what I did.

But I can’t change it.

“I’m glad I know.”

I don’t know where the words come from, but there they are, and Liam’s eyes widen marginally, actual emotion slipping through in his gaze before it’s carefully concealed.

“You’re glad,” he repeats. “Why?”

“Because – now I know what to look for. I can… I can keep an eye on it, and… Fuck, Liam! Were you really going to keep this from me?” I push to my feet, staring him down. “Were you just going to let me wake up one day and find you dead, or… or have the hospital call me because you fucking died and I would have no idea why and – and – stop laughing!”

His expression has cracked, and he is laughing at me. His eyes are no longer flat, cold gems but filled with fond humor. I am being completely serious, though, and he needs to stop laughing at me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, bending at the waist, laughing. “I’m sorry, I know you’re serious, but – I thought you left, okay, and here you are, worrying about me, and – and you’re so serious…” And then he has another laughing fit.

I glare at him. “This isn’t funny, Liam.”

“I know – I know it is, but – mate, I thought you left, and here you are.”

“Here I am,” I repeat, watching him. I’m happy he’s laughing, and isn’t looking at me so coldly, but this is… crazy. “Of course I’m here. I like you. I wasn’t lying when I said that.”

His laughing subsides, and he offers a tiny smile. It’s a piece of the Liam I love – no, a piece of him I adore, and I’m happy to see it.

“I wasn’t lying either,” he tells me. “I’m falling for you.”

I suck in a sharp breath. “What?”

“I’m falling for you,” he repeats easily. “I really like you. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you – not for you to randomly find out when something happens, but because you might walk out. Other people have.”

Anger. I’m angry, and I don’t know why. “Who has?”

Why would anyone walk out on him simply because he has a condition he has no say over?

He waves a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter, mate. I’m just… happy you came back. I didn’t think you would, after you refused to answer my texts or calls.”

I wince. “I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know what to say. I needed time to think.”

He smiles – it’s a little bigger now, and sincere and true and everything I missed. “I understand. I’d need time to process it too, if I were you. But you came back, and that’s what matters.”

I smile. “Of course I came back I… I really like you, too.”

So how could I stay away?

Six days away from his was tough enough.

“I am sorry to spring all of this on you.”

“I asked you to,” I tell him. “So don’t worry about it.”

He looks at the papers on the table. “What’s that you have there?”

“Oh!” I completely forgot about those. Now I grab his hand and drag him down to sit with me on the couch as my other hand reaches for the stack. “I did some research on… on your disorder.”

“Oh? If that’s the research, sorry to tell you, I think I know it all.”

I shake my head. “It’s… It’s a little research, mostly for my benefit because I don’t know it all, but… but a lot of it is…”

“Is?”

I sigh and shove the papers into his hand. He frowns and carefully leafs through them, scanning them briefly before flipping to another page. Finally, he stops and glances at me.

“Is this some kind of health plan?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“… A health plan to do with you.”

“Yes.”

He’s quiet for a moment, leafing through the papers again, and then he releases a quick laugh. “Here I thought you left me – and you made a care plan for me.”

My smile feels… off. Timid. Shaky. But it’s there nevertheless. “Yeah… Again, I’m sor-”

“Stop apologizing to me.”

“Sor-”

His glare cuts me off. I snap my mouth shut. He smiles thinly.

“There’s no need to be sorry, Kevin. I understand. I just… I’m touched you did this for me. Thank you.” His fingers find mine and give them a squeeze, just tight enough for me to feel. “No one else has done this for me.”

I swallow. “No one?”

“No one,” he confirms.

“Your sister…? Parents?”

“They listened to the doctors. Made me take my meds. Blood thinners, supplements, you know the drill. They never made this detailed of a plan for me.” He puts the papers down on the table and grabs the front of my shirt, pulling me closer to him. “Thank you, Kevin.”

And then his mouth is on mine, and I all but collapse into him.

I haven’t ruined everything. He’s not kicking me out, and he’s forgiven me.

And he’s kissing me.

I throw my arms around his neck, crushing him toward me as the kiss deepens, and his tongue falls into my mouth.

The dance is familiar, but never unwanted.

He pulls away, breathless, smiling at me with that familiar twinkle in his eyes. “Keep that up and I’m gonna fall for you even more, mate.”

“Maybe that’s okay,” I tell him truthfully.

He laughs – this happy, melodic sound I have missed terribly. A sound I wasn’t sure I’d hear again, after his cold greeting when I came over.

“So,” I say, my gaze flickering toward the papers again. I came here for a reason. I need to see it through before we do… anything else. No matter how much I want to cave and just curl into him. “How… I mean… What kind of meds are you taking? What are they for?”

“Blood thinners so my heart doesn’t have to work as hard,” he says. “Supplements – vitamins. Blood pressure meds. Muscle relaxants. Anything to keep it from working too hard, really.”

I take in a slow breath. “Symptoms?”

“Get tired easily. Cold all the time. Dizzy spells. Can’t catch my breath when it’s cold. All basic stuff, really.”

He says it is basic, but with each symptom I wince and tighten my fingers in his robe – warm, fuzzy, concealing. It hides his sickness because I didn’t know he was sick. I had no idea.

“Is – I mean – are you okay?” I ask, and then sigh because he’s clearly not okay. “I mean… You said they said you wouldn’t make it past twenty. Why?”

I don’t want to know, but I have to know. I have to know how bad it is.

“It’s complicated. To live with it, I mean. A lot of people have disabilities because of it – mental and otherwise, because of having the surgery as a baby. You have to have surgery within a few weeks of being born. Others are prone to sickness. Their immune system is shit.” He lifts a finger, symbolizing himself. “My system is shit. My heart is shit. It’s weaker than usual. Infection when I was little, after the surgery. Complicated things. So they didn’t think I’d live to be twenty.”

I close my eyes when he is finished, taking in slow, deep breaths.

“Kevin – you’re hurting me.”

My eyes snap open and I immediately loosen my hold. I must have been pinching his skin through the robe. “Sorry,” I say quickly.

He smiles. “It’s okay.”

“How – How is – I mean – how is your heart now?”

He shrugs. “Same, really. Overworked. It’s frustrating.”

“Frustrating,” I say weakly. “Understatement.”

He is so casual about all of this – like it doesn’t matter. Perhaps to him, it doesn’t. He has dealt with this all his life. People have abandoned him because of it, and he thought I was one of them. Maybe he is just relieved someone stuck around, and is happy to be able to discuss it with someone.

That doesn’t make what he has to say any easier, though.

“How long do you think…?” I can’t say it. I can’t finish that sentence, can’t say the words.

Thankfully he understands. “I don’t know. It’s not bad – yet. That could change.”

“What could… could make it bad?”

“I don’t know – anything strenuous, puts strain on my heart. Gets my blood pressure up. Illness. It’s crappy.”

I release a shaky laugh, dragging a hand over my face. “Nice way of putting it.”

His fingers catch my wrist, lowering my hand as I look at him. “Don’t hide that pretty face. I haven’t seen it in days.”

I try to laugh, for his sake. It comes out more like a whine. His expression slips.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells me.

“How can I not…”

He could die any day.

And I can’t do anything about it.

“I won’t collapse suddenly,” he says. “If that’s what you’re worried about. There will be signs – so I can get help.”

I nod slowly, looking down at his chest unintentionally. I was just lowering my gaze, but that’s where it lands. Beneath the robe, his clothes, and his skin, is his heart. The weakened heart with only half of it working correctly. I think about my heart – how it feels when it beats, how easily I can breathe – and I wonder how it feels for him. I wonder how different it is for him. If his pulse stutters, if it always feels like he’s sick…

When I’m sick, it’s harder to breathe. I cough and just feel dizzy and out of it.

Is it always like that for him?

How have I never noticed?

I don’t realize my hand is moving until it’s settled on his chest, over his heart. I can’t feel it beating, but I knew I wouldn’t. His fingers find my chin and lift so I’m looking at him again. His expression has softened into something warm and apologetic.

“I never wanted you to worry, Kevin.”

“I’m sorry – I can’t help it.”

And the sad truth is I can’t. I’m worried – more worried than I can ever remember being. And I don’t know what to do. I just want to help him – I want to make things easy for him. I want to make him better. But I know I can’t. I’m useless, I’m helpless, I can’t help him.

All I can do is be here with him.

And not run away.

I close my eyes and try to reign in my emotions. I haven’t been this out of control since Mom and Dad died, and I hate it.

It’s a different kind of pain, but I feel it.

“I guess you did make me feel,” I mutter absently, not meaning to actually speak the words, but his grip on my chin tightens, causing me to open my eyes. His own eyes are narrowed as they scan over me sharply.

“This isn’t what I meant,” he all but snaps. “I never wanted this.”

“I know,” I tell him, because I do. He would never wish for me to feel this way.

He takes in a slow breath, expression softening, and his hand releases my chin to instead slip around my neck, pulling me toward him. Our foreheads connect but not our mouths – this isn’t for kissing, but for feeling.

I smile. Feeling.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The words fall from his lips and I still, staring at him. It’s hard to do, being this close to him, nearly cross-eyed because of it, but I do it anyway.

“W-What?” I ask intelligently, because I’m smart like that.

The sound he releases is mostly a laugh – quiet, subdued. “I know – it’s crazy. But I really like you. And you’re the first person to… I mean – if I had scared you away, chased you off – I don’t – I mean – I don’t know what I would do.”

“Me neither,” I admit softly, fingers tangling in the front of his robe. “But we won’t find out.”

His smile is tentative but true. “No,” he agrees, “we won’t.”

It’s been two months, two weeks, one day, thirteen hours, who-knows-how-many minutes and too many seconds since New Year’s, since we kissed and started whatever this is.

And I look forward to adding more months and days – and years – with Liam.