Challenge: Death of a loved one

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Annie

Aaron Belmore had never believed in love growing up. It seemed too magical, too stupid, too silly to be anything that could actually happen to someone. No one actually fell in love. Falling in love was for teenagers with too many hormones or Hallmark movies that didn't have a shred of realism within them. There was actually a hatred that Aaron had when it came to love--he knew it was fake and knew those who believed in it were worse than fake.

When Aaron dated, he dated hard, fast, and he didn't stop to see the casualties left in his wake.

That is, Aaron hated love and everything about love until the day that he met Jules Julian.

Jules was a tender soul with dark eyes and freckles that covered every inch of skin as though he'd been rolling around in them. They'd met at a coffee shop. Jules was a waiter who flirted with everyone who walked in and Aaron was a regular who loved peppermint hot chocolate and the smell of Jules's cologne. One accidental hot chocolate spill led to an uncomfortable erection, the exchange of phone numbers, and a promise to make it up to him with the best night he'd ever have.

At midnight that night, Jules picked up Aaron in a blue dodge charger and took him out to the mountain that lived on the other side of the city. They stargazed and shared whispers in the dead of night. There, the city was nothing more than a million little lights, and the stars were nothing more than the heavens that existed before them. And the boy who sat on the roof beside him, hair tousled and eyes like a sandstorm?

He was something Aaron had never known before. Something Aaron had never wanted before. Something Aaron couldn't live without.

They met on top of that car, hands caught in each other's hair, lips pressed tight to the other, and they were smoke that rose from the fire they created. In every kiss there came his soft love, tenderly beating back the hatred that once consumed Aaron. In every touch, Jules made him alive again. Whole again. It was this that taught Aaron how to believe in love.

Little nights out together became nights in. Small kisses became nuzzles, bodies constantly touching, hands finding each other as they walked and legs that would snake together as they slept at night. It was love. Love that Aaron had never known. Love that Aaron would never let go of.

So when the little flags started to show, Aaron turned a blind eye. He told himself it wasn't anything when Jules was late home from work. When Jules kept his phone just a little out of sight, where Aaron couldn't see what he was texting--who he was texting--Aaron said it didn't matter. It wasn't his business to know everything, he tried to tell himself. It didn't mean anything. When Jules started talking a little less, started staring into the distance a little more, lowered his voice when Aaron walked in and stopped talking when Aaron came near...it was just little things. Little things that didn't matter. Little things that he could ignore.

Until the little things became more than little and Aaron was left alone in their shared apartment, hours after Jules was supposed to be home from work. He stirred the chili on the stove and hated himself as he watched the clock, knowing that Jules was over an hour late. He'd promised--promised--he would be there on time.

Aaron had only known love as apart from the hatred and lust he'd known before. It had settled him, left him calm, left him alive in ways he'd never known. The lack of love stole that away. There was no calm when Jules was gone, only a restlessness that lingered for hours after he returned. There was no settle when Jules was on the phone with someone else for hours at a time, going outside to talk to them because 'it's personal to them, I promise it's nothing important'. There was no love when Jules wasn't there.

There was only a pain that was worse than the lack of love.

So he stirred and stirred, eyes on the clock until a half-awake boy stumbled in the door with a smile on his face.

"Babe, I'm home!" He shrugged off his coat and work bag, glancing up at Aaron with those dark circles under his pretty brown eyes and a devious smile on his pretty pink lips. "How was work?"

"Oh, it was good," Aaron said. He spooned out two bowls of chili and placed them on the table, wiping the sweat off his brow. "It's still cold outside?"

"Freezing."

"Good. I made chili," he said, wagging his eyes. The two shared a quick kiss before they sat down, Jules pulling away first. "I hope you like it."

They ate in silence, just as they had for the last three weeks. It'd been quiet after quiet. Nothing but silence from the man he loved--the man who claimed to love him--the man who Aaron needed to love him more than anything else.

That was okay. Aaron had a plan. Aaron knew what to do when a love had gone cold. All he had to do was make it hot, cook it at a slow, slow simmer, and add the ingredients just right. A little hot meal to make their lives good again. They'd have a wonderful night, hold each other, and nothing would ever be wrong again.

After dinner, Aaron turned off the television and the lights. Jules raised his eyebrows but was shushed with a kiss, then, a touch, another, and soon the boys were together again, whole again, their bodies losing clothes in order to create their own heat. They didn't do much, just kiss and hold one another, but it was perfect nonetheless.

"I love you, Jules Julian," Aaron whispered, his body pressed up against Jules's back. They were closer than they'd been in ages. Jules was quiet, his breathing labored. "I'll love you forever and back again. To the depths of the end of the world." Aaron's, too, was labored. It was growing hard to speak. Growing hard to stop the pain that stretched through his stomach, biting at him, a smack against his body in the harshest of ways. "I love you. I love you so, so damn much Jules. Tell me you love me. Tell me, Jules. Please."

Jules was quiet.

The night was long.

When Aaron awoke again it was to a pain that wouldn't end. He had puked in his sleep and puked again, finding himself stuck in a loop where his body shook and trembled, seizures wracking his body for hours on end. It wasn't until he stopped puking that he called 911, hardly able to get their address out. The police came, then the ambulance. Then, the coroner.

The drive to the hospital was full of a boy who shook, unable to keep his grip on anything, tears streaming down his face as his rough voice cried out against the pain that wouldn't leave him. "Make it end!" he cried, but his cries meant nothing.

Later, when he was recovered once more, Aaron would return to the house. He would be cold, listless. His eyes held no hope. He wasn't meant to live. He was supposed to have died, like lovers were oft to do, their bodies collapsed together and souls living on as one. They were supposed to be good again. No more lies, no more hidden secrets, no more 'staying late'. They were supposed to say 'I love you' one last time. They were supposed to mean it.

His fingers trailed over Jules's clothes, seeing the apron from work on the floor and kicking it with his foot. A small, rectangular box fell out. It was black as night and velvet, like a fancy dress, like a small coffin. It was soft when he picked it up, his heart no longer beating, his breath stilled, and his fingers prying out a small thin metal ring.

Inside, a whisper of the past.

I love you. JJ-AB

It was too late for him to say it--too late for it to matter--too late for Aaron to take it back. The grave had been dug. The body buried. Aaron had been in the hospital when it happened. They were investigating it still. Calling it an intended double homicide. Calling it a mess up at the chili factory. Calling Aaron on the phone, trying to get ahold of him, trying to see what he knew, if he knew.

It was too late. Aaron slipped the ring on his finger. At least we're together now, he thought. And he'll never, ever, leave again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shay

He wakes up at five in the morning with a knot of pain in his chest, and that's how he knows it's going to be one of those days again. In bed, he sinks into the mattress, old springs bowing to the will of his heavy blood. It's too hot and he's sweating under blankets but the air is too cold and he's shivering all the while. He feels sticky, gross. Wrong. He feels inside out. Pulled and popped that way. And beside him, fingers curling around the corner of a pillow with no imprint of another pressed into it, he feels nothing, for there is no one there, and there never will be. Not again. It's a brief and fleeting statement in his mind, but it's there now. And it spirals. It always, always spirals.

It spirals to the left, switches course to the right, flies back up, and then descends again. It takes him to the distinctness of how much of a human shell he is. Then it drags him to the memory of a boy with brown eyes and long limbs, the laughing exuberance of his movements, his actions, his need for something more that he wasn't getting. It pulls him up, into what it felt like to be traced by those soft hands, and to be kissed tenderly by those soft lips, and to be laughed against, pressed against, held. It pulls him up into the simple intertwining of hands and the squeezing of pumped blood to fingers with melting snowflakes on them and the beauty of a smile he won't ever see again. It drags him down, then. No more careful touches and lovely admiring and comfortable silence and most of all, no more warmth. It's hot, but not warm. Gone is he and he was warmth, so there is none left.

The fact that he lays there thinking of these things in great detail is reason enough to believe that it's going to be one of those days again.

The world turns into a hazy thought. He's not sure when he started to cry, or when the sun started to flush the sickly yellow of morning through the blinds, or when he whispered "fuck" to himself because of the runny snot in his nose that wouldn't let him breathe like normal. But it all happened. Everything happens and passes him by and he loses track of time now, dazed, because there is not a single purpose in keeping track when there's not a single purpose to get out of bed, other than to stop wallowing in sweat and to take a piss so he's not wallowing in that on top of cold, drenched sheets. Even now, though, he holds his bladder, and refuses to get up, and instead exhausts himself back to sleep for another seven hours even though he's already slept for six.

When he awakens, he has no choice. So he sits up, willing his brain away, and zeroes in on pissing. That's all. If he can just piss, maybe he won't feel like getting back in bed. That's sometimes how it goes, he thinks as his bare feet patter into the bathroom. But that's also sometimes how it doesn't go. One thing at a time, though.

One thing at a time, and yet he hears three knocks on the bathroom door.

"Trevor? You up, bud?"

"Shit," he whispers. Quickly, he reaches over and locks the door, because he knows if he doesn't, his mother will just barge in, and that is absolutely not how he wants to start the day even though it's long started without him.

"Yes," Trevor replies wearily, hesitant to turn on the faucet only because he doesn't want the noise. It's so loud. She's so loud. Everything's so goddamn loud and he's almost glad he's not in the apartment anymore because those punk ass kids never stopped blasting their music but then he thinks of the apartment and he throws the knobs towards him so the water can burst, thick and hot, against his hands.

His mother's voice comes through the wood muffled, but clear. He can imagine her wringing her hands in her long skirt or popping the knuckle on her ring finger like she does when she talks. "Okay, well, I've still got your breakfast in the microwave, so when you're done, come out and eat, alright? You've got the volunteer thing today and I need to know you've eaten before it starts."

"Okay."

The water is still running, rocking through the drain, and for a few moments, his mother lingers at the door; he knows without having to see and keeps his gaze on the crack beneath the door. But then the floor creaks, and her weight shifts across the house, and he's alone again. Selfishly, he can focus on himself again, all the things about him that he needs to fix before he steps out. He's tense, muscles tight, so he forces himself to unlatch his jaw and stop grinding those teeth. His hands are shaking on the counter from the harsh cold of getting out of bed and from some nervosity working through him, slowly, so he tries to root himself to the ground and stop it. But that just makes him tense again. And his eyes are dark and his head pounds sickly and he's so pale and everything droops and the top of his spine where it meets his neck is sore and forces his head down and he's twenty and jobless and passionless and purposeless and these are all the things he cannot fix and there are so many things he cannot fix so he says fuck it, because he's too tired to worry, and switches the water to cold, and dunks his head under the faucet to shock himself out of it.

He takes a breath after. Lets the water drip from the tip of his nose, the lopsided end of his chin, into the ceramic dish of the sink. Everything still feels wrong and he looks like he feels that way, too. Just less oily.

And that's that. His mother has seen worse of him. Her comments will be subtle at most today. He dries his face with a towel and steps out.

When he shuffles into the kitchen, he has to blink against the light streaming through, and against the gentle humming of his mother as she claps the microwave door closed. His eyes drift to the clock on it. 12:47. A quiet sigh leaves chapped lips and he hovers by the table, not sure whether to sit or not. 12:48.

Mom glances at him, and screws the corner of her mouth into a something not a smile, but not a frown, either. "Go ahead and sit, hon."

"Okay."

He slides down into the chair, and it's cold, and his head falls slowly to the table, engulfed by sticky arms finally starting to cool. Mom is saying something, but he doesn't hear - his brain is empty now, and words fly through like his skull is a chasm, echoing and lingering sometimes, but mostly fading back to silence again. It's too quiet. She's too quiet. Everything's so goddamn quiet.

Mom comes close and sets a plate gently against the table, and warm paper nudges his arm. He lifts his head, eyes the paper plate and its contents, sits up straight, and almost smiles. It's a brief flicker, but then it falls again. He stares at the meal blankly, a faint lift against his lips. "Well, that's cute," he says.

His mother smiles wider, then, because she's finally managed to get something out of her son. "Yeah? You woke up late. I figured it was one of those days, hence-" She pauses to gesture proudly at the crude masterpiece. "-Y'know."

Trevor prods the whipped cream smile of the pancake and lets a small grin slip onto his face. "I know." He looks up. "Thanks."

And he is thankful. He's thankful. He's so thankful and he feels so bad that the sight of this food does nothing for him, raises no appetite, even stirs a bit of nausea in his stomach. But because he's thankful, and he wants to show his mom that he can be alright, he forces it down in small pieces, easy to swallow whole. Otherwise he might choke. And he can't handle choking, not today, not when he's supposed to be taking beneficial steps towards salvaging something out of rubble.

Mom refuses to sit, and hovers over his shoulder like a hawk, waiting for something to get caught in his throat. Sometimes he doesn't like living here. Sometimes he wishes he was back in the apartment he'd shared with Briar. But there's no Briar anymore. It would've been too lonely, and it had been before he came back here. It was impossible to stay there, to listen to all the regular sounds of everyone doing everything they'd done the day before and the day before and the day before right after the day it happened. The only thing that changed was that the neighbors treated him like he was a fragile thing, and by that, he means they didn't talk to him anymore for fear of bringing up something that might hurt and make themselves uncomfortable by default as they watched him collapse.

He learned how to not be able to stand the place. The stains and the knickknacks and the corners they'd ran into in the dark and laughed about. The smells. Anything. Only realized he had to leave when he started to throw out things of Briar's that nobody else had wanted to take.

So now he's here. Eating a wet pancake with a whipped smiled and a mother watching, almost out of fear, behind his back. He doesn't mind it so much - he just wishes Briar were there at the table too, making jokes with mom so everything didn't have to be so quiet. She loved that boy, she did. Said, "Keep him, Trevor, because the way that boy looks at you, that'll be hard to find again."

Trevor knows. Trevor knows.

Right now, though, she sets her hands on his shoulders, all trace of her content singing gone. "Are you ready for today?" He shrugs, knowing she'll feel it, and she exhales. "It's a good thing you wanted to do, Trevor. I just need you to go through with it. Just today, see how it is. You'll feel better afterwards regardless because helping people is like that, y'know, it just makes you feel better."

"I'm not doing it to feel better," Trevor says around the last bite. It's too sweet and yet he still rolls the mush across his tongue. "I'm doing it because I want to be useful. Make some kids feel less like shit than they already do. Stop...laying around like I'm dead."

"Don't talk like that."

"Well?" His voice rises in pitch, cracks, and he laughs briefly without humor. "That's pretty much what it is! You see me? I could be cast in a zombie movie, wouldn't even need any makeup, that's how fuckin'...blegh I am. Speaking of which." He pushes the chair out and stands, working through the slight dizziness that checks his eyesight before fading, and dumps his plate in the trash. "I should probably un-blegh myself. Don't wanna scare the kids, yeah?"

Mom parts her mouth as if to say something, to start going on and on, but she closes it, and then settles for waving him forward. He hesitates, but obliges. And though he's a few inches taller, she brings his head down to her shoulder - uncomfortably, in a way that makes Trevor's face scrunch up - but down to her shoulder. She hugs his face, essentially. "I love you," she says softly. "And you know what you need to do about that?"

"Don't forget it," he says, muffled against the bright yellow of her blouse's shoulder.

"Correct. Now go on, we've got an hour."

He walks away, back into his room, still dimmed by the curtains despite the brightness of the day. Mom's words ring in his head, as do his own, and he knows he shouldn't let himself drift, but it's an intrusive thing, a nagging worm curling over his occipital lobe and affecting what he sees. "I love you," he might've said to Briar about a thousand times. And yet, Briar forgot it. He forgot it or he didn't believe it, or something, because otherwise, why couldn't he just focus on that until Trevor got home? But then, that's the thing about life. Love is often not enough and a dizzying romance can't bring someone back to the surface because love is not a bandage or a sewing kit, it is merely something that might distract and ease the rest. Trevor is not a bandage or a sewing kit, merely someone who might distract and ease the rest. But he could've done more. He tells himself every day he could've done more and right now, as he looks at himself in the mirror, at the rough youth of his own face, he thinks of the soft youth of Briar and wishes he could trade. His mother would kill him for even playing with the thought, but if it were possible, would he?

At this point, probably. Probably.

"I need to stop thinking," he says to himself solidly. Cuts himself off. "I need to stop. It needs to, ha, stop, right now. Sauerkraut, sauerkraut, sauerkraut..." He trails off into a quiet chant, and he doesn't stop chanting it to himself until he's well into his routine of brushing teeth, brushing brown hair, brushing out the wrinkles in his clothes. He says the word and instead of the smell of Briar he reminisces in the distinct, sour smell of sauerkraut, and it sounds stupid and crazy to any passersby whenever he finds himself muttering in public, but however crazy it sounds, sauerkraut is something to hold onto and drive him away from other things. Okay. Things he'd never thought he'd be reassuring himself of: that.

For the next half hour, he moves in a lethargy. Time pools around him slowly, and the world seems to drip sideways, just a bit, but somehow, someway, he starts to feel decent about his appearance, about how much of an improvement this is from an hour ago, about how much of an improvement this is from his behavior for the past few months. It's numbing, and right now, he needs that, even though he knows he won't want it by the end of the day. The outside air is cool with breeze and chill, the sky is greyed by hiatused rain, and the Suzuki is spattered by flecks of moisture that dampen his fingers when he yanks the handle and falls against the passenger seat. His mother gets in, revs the engine, turns on the heat, and even still, he plays with the wetness on his fingertips, spreading it through the ridges and valleys. Rain has a lightness to it that tap water doesn't, he thinks. It feels nicer. Cleansing.

By the time they start moving, it's dried up. And so is the small bit of energy he'd managed to muster from that one moment of self-confidence. The car rumbles pleasantly, and he lets himself tilt towards the window. Forehead touches cold glass. It vibrates meanly but he doesn't care. Too tired.

The clock on the dash ticks by, and he drifts into something reminiscent of sleep, but mostly thinking. Again, he lets it all intrude. He lets Briar exist at the back of his mind. He lets the moisture of Briar's rain-soaked hands take him by the cheeks and pull him close, to whisper in his ear, "I want this with you," and tighten around the back of his neck. He lets the day they decided to let themselves love and be loved enter in. He lets himself miss it all.

Trevor doesn't miss the big things, though, not really. Not their first meeting, or kiss, or the day they moved in together, or even the sex. He misses the smaller, more insignificant things that made Briar's existence, and his own, feel solid, real. He misses the way Briar's nose or lip would twitch every time he had an itch or disapproved of something, the way he'd smile at whatever he was reading that day, or frown, or throw the book; he misses Briar's all-encompassing passion, the way he breathed life until what he cared about was complete, the way his brow arched down to match the purse of his lips whenever he was angry; he misses how every single touch was paired with a question of consent, "Is this okay?" because Briar needed to know that everyone around him was comfortable; he misses the indent beside his nose that he always tried to hide by turning away and he misses the way he would only let Trevor run a finger over it; he misses the annoying, loud snoring and he misses the meanness he sometimes had in him and he misses the forgiveness he had for everyone and he misses everything, the good and the bad, that made him more human than anyone Trevor had ever met.

He can list it all, every last thing of Briar's he can think of, and still, none of it will matter. None of it will matter because it's all gone with him, and he's dead. And Trevor is here. Stuck with the stiff carcasses of these wax-covered moths, these memories, in his hands. Their wings don't even so much as twitch at his words, at his pleas; they don't bend under the heavy weight of his chest, and they don't respond to his mourning.

Before, it would've lifted his stomach in joy to think of these things with Briar laying next to him, lifted with butterflies and high hopes. But there's a different feeling attached to it now. A feeling that gives him a bellyache, that makes him feel sick without having to throw up. It feels wrong again. It feels like the panic of realizing that Briar is about to do a horrible, awful thing while he's across the street getting drunk. It feels like that pit that drops when you realize that something bad is happening so close to you, and there's nothing you can do to undo it. It feels like what happens before you have to jump into action and start shaking and screaming and dialing nine-one-one, what's your emergency, I didn't get here fast enough. Only before, though. Not quite there yet. Trevor supposes only people who've experienced the after-moment would know how exactly that before-moment feels.

The heat is blasting but his body is shaking and he feels like vomiting, so he tries to shut it off, but it won't go. It never goes when he wants it to go. It is a parasite of free will, swirling around here and there, wherever it pleases. It reminds him of the instant fear that'd came into his belly over a bottle with the neighbors. It reminds him of his sprint across the street, where he'd nearly been struck down by a car. It reminds him of how he'd tripped exactly six times going up the stairs, and dislocated his shoulder ramming the door because his keys wouldn't work fast enough. It reminds him of the "oh, fuck" and the "oh, fuck!" and he won't do this to himself again but sleep has glued his head to this fucking glass and thank god for mom's voice and the gentle way she shakes him awake with her hand.

Sharp, sucking inhale. "Huh?"

"We're here, baby. Time to go."

He blinks in the darkness, first at his mother and the black hair framing her face, and then outwards, trying to process where they are through the window. The parking garage is dark, grey cement spanning this way, that way. He groans, glad to be awake and busy, and forces himself out of the car. The cold wind that flows in through the open spaces four stories up shoves through him and he shivers, stabbed by a rainy, snowless winter. Caught in the chill, he freezes in the spot, not literally, but there's something in him that sees the elevator at the other end of the garage and doesn't want to go towards it. "C'mon," mother says, but he shakes his head no, no, he doesn't want it, he wants to go back home, go back to sleep.

She sees the struggle in his face, and comes over to him, curling her warm fingers under his elbow. "Look at me, son," she says, and he shakes his head again, but then, "Look at me," firmer, and he does. He looks at her. "You need to do this. You said you wanted to do this a week ago, you said you could do it because things weren't so bad. You were so dead set on it. Even though I told you going around giving sick kids balloons and leading around a big 'ole Winnie the Pooh wasn't gonna be the greatest for you right now, you wanted it, you argued for it, and now you're doing it. Don't let it change now, now that we're here."

"Now that we're here, I- you said it yourself, it seemed like one of those days. It's one of those days, mom. I can't- I can't get him out. I don't want to grieve for him because of what he did; I'm angry, but I can't get him out, mom. I can't go in there and look at all this...this sad and try to pretend because it won't come through and these kids'll know, mom, and I'll just make it worse for them-"

"Listen. Listen, listen to me." Her eyes are dry and solid and the eyes of a mother. "If you keep backing out of things, you're never gonna get anywhere. You have to work at it. You said you'd work at it. So do this. It's just a few hours, Trevor. I'll be back for you in a few hours."

I have to work at it. I said I'd work at it. So do it. It's just a few hours. She'll be back for me in a few hours.

I have to work at it.

He sucks in a breath, releases it in mist, bounces his knee. "Okay. Okay, I'll go. A few hours. Six o' clock, remember?"

"I remember," she nods, "and I'll be here. Now go on," she nudges him forward, "be brave for me."

"Okay." That's all he can say anymore, is okay, but he doesn't care, because he's too busy feeling that panicky rise in his chest as he steps into the elevator and watches the doors close around him, watches his mom wave and disappear behind them. That's all he can whisper to himself as the doors open up to the hospital's waiting room, and he enters out into a crowd of people, all kinds of people, forcing themselves to be strong for others. For their children as they walk them in for the first time, as they walk them in for the last time, as they walk them out knowing they'll have to come back again because things don't get better at the snap of a finger.

He feels like an outsider, lingering even though he's here for a reason. He feels like an outsider, even though he'd once envisioned a career in these halls, been in all sorts of pre-med programs once upon a time. It reminds him of all the things he cannot do. Quickly, he diverges to a bathroom, palms slick and trembling as they push the door, before the lady at the front desk can wave him over, and he locks himself in a stall, breathing heavily, deeply, feeling his existence. He's here for a reason. He's here to help, he's here to make the burden not so heavy on whoever he can, he's here to do good. He's here to make it better. He needs to make it better. But his head feels shrouded in cloud, and the faint scent of urine in the air doesn't help.

Thumbs dig into temples. Haunches slowly lower until he's seated on the toilet seat, still fully clothed and too, too hot. I need to make things better. I'm here to make it better.

But Briar says to him, late at night, when Trevor thinks he's been asleep for a while now, "You know you can't just fix people on your own, right? You know that's not how it works?"

Trevor takes his hand, savoring the warmth. "I can try."

"No, no, none of that bullshit, Trev. Listen to me when I say this, because I know you drain yourself every fucking day trying to...I don't know, take away everyone's burdens? Listen to me now. You alone, and your love, or anyone's love, and all the work you put into something, cannot magically fix it all. It's not like that for anyone." He pauses, and an uncomfortable but necessary silence follows. Trevor hears him trying to steady his breaths, licking his lips to test the taste of his next words. "Love is not a cure and you shouldn't treat it like one. I love you, Trevor, I do, but I hate when you get this way."

"What way?" Trevor asks, face turned fully to Briar's in the dark. There's the sound of having taken offense to something undertoning the words, and Briar notices it.

After a long pause, Briar sighs, and finally rolls to face Trevor in the same way. Here, his eyes are rimmed with a numbness Trevor wants to wipe away, but before his fingers reach the spot, Briar deflects his hand so that instead of drifting under his lashes, it skims the indent beside his nose. "You want to make things better. But you...Trevor, you have to remember that others have to make things better for themselves too. If you spend days and months and years trying to fix something that someone else is having too much trouble trying to fix for themselves, you're going to be drained, and you're going to be in pain. I'm not telling you not to try and help people. The fact that you wanna help people is so, so beautiful. But...you need to remember that you can only do what you can, alright? You can only do what you can. Repeat after me."

Trevor's lips purse, but then he caves, a hot moisture in his eyes from the lecture, but a subtle appreciation in his chest for it, too. "I can only do what I can."

"Good. Now get some sleep."

"I can only do what I can." He whispers it to himself between the blue stall walls that are starting to stop closing in, and though it's no sauerkraut, it's a good enough mantra for now. It'll keep him from obsessing, from putting his hands too deep into something he can't do alone. And, oh, he's been doing it alone for so long now, but this is a recovery, and there is value in this, not only for the ill youth, but for himself, too. There is value in this and that's what allows him to stand up, to take a deep breath, and to unlock the stall door. There is value in knowing that he is only capable of so much, but it's still so much, so he leaves the bathroom to do what he came here to do:

Make things less hard on someone else. Heal not with love, but know that it still exists. Maybe then, those like Briar will have an easier time helping themselves in the same way he wishes he could've helped before.