"Thirty-eight-point-six"

[tacotheshark]

Title: Thirty-eight-point-six
Author: tacotheshark
Fandom: My Life In Film
Pairing: Art/Jones 
Word Count: 20,582
Genre: Angst
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Chronic illness, character death
Summary: Everyone reacts differently when struck by tragedy. Some people deny, repress the truth. Some come to terms with it fairly easily, even as it continues to eat them up from the inside. Some can overreact; blow it up with theories and scenarios because for whatever reason their person isn’t the sort to leave a thing alone.
When Jones becomes chronically ill, Art ends up doing all three of these things.

They say you’re supposed to feel numb.

But Jones was never one to feel numb.

Blurred, everything is, blurry-the lights that flash and shine around him, nothing to him but swatches of colors, reds and oranges and whites, the honks and beeps of a million cars that barely breach the wall Jones has set up between the rest of the world and himself. He’s built this wall and he wants only to keep it up, or to fold it in, to fold in on himself or curl up into a ball, a mess, because every breath is a struggle as his small body shakes with sobs and he can barely keep his head up. His hands are on the steering wheel-shaking, sloppy fingers-he knows he’s in no condition to drive. “Sweetie,” the nurse had said-so sweet, she was, Jones almost misses her already. “Sweetie, can I call someone for you? A cab?” Jones had politely declined-no, thank you, because that would take time and he wants nothing more than to get home to his best friend, to the flat they share. His best friend, with whom he’s shared so much and with whom he’s got to share this with so that they can figure it all out together.

Horns continue to assault him, to shout at him from either side and it’s a terrible idea, he knows, but he can drive, he knows what he’s doing. He just needs to get home.

It doesn’t take long, but every second feels like an hour and each of these hours feels like a void, sucking away Jones’ time and energy and life by the second. He pulls up to the flat, get out of his car, and closes the door with a loud slam, feeling so incredibly tiny next to his car which has never felt so big and the world which has never felt so treacherous. He pockets his keys, sniffling as he walks along the pavement.

He’s stopped crying, he thinks. For the most part. Or, just until he runs into his elderly neighbor as she walks out and he walks in and, “Jones!” she says, eyes absolutely glowing with concern and curiosity, “Dear, what’s wrong?”

He tries to grin, to reassure her when he can’t even reassure himself, but it manifests as a choked sob and he feels like he’s going to collapse. “He… hello, Mary.” He tries to sound calm, collected, but he can’t possibly when he’s sure the water building up behind his eyelids is straight from a boiling kettle, threatening to melt the rest of his body which he’s suddenly found out is soft ice. He doesn’t want to speak-there’s an air bubble in the ice walls of his throat, empty, cold, and dry-but Mary looks at him, wants to know, wants to help. She cannot, and he sighs, almost surprised when his breath is not cold smoke. “It’s… personal. Very personal. I’d really like to speak to Art now, if you don’t mind. I’m. I’m sorry.”

Mary grins sympathetically, comforting in a way that only an old woman can be. “Don’t be sorry for a thing.”

Silence settles when Jones does not say a thing, only smiles slightly and shyly and mostly sadly, and neither does Mary. Quietly, hesitantly, Jones croaks, “Mary?”, holding his wavering arms out with an unsure, crooked mouth-and Mary welcomes Jones into her arms, letting him sob and shake against her shoulder, letting him hold close one of the people he already imagines he will miss if he can feel at all. “Thank you,” he mutters, as he pulls away and smiles once again, though he’s sure his mouth will crack and melt right off if he keeps it up.

“Go talk to Art,” Mary says, a hand on Jones’ shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better.” And she leaves, off on her own way, leaving Jones alone in the middle of the building in which he’s sure to find Art, in which he’s sure to pour his heart and guts and crumble into shards. He’s already begun to, he thinks; his bones feel brittle, his skin feels rough. He gulps, swallowing down giant pearls of ice that make his throat choke and bulge. With weak, trembling legs, he begins to climb the stairs that lead up to his and Art’s flat.

It’s as if gravity is trying to pull him down, tumbling down the stairs, down and out the door and away, and suddenly he’s insufficient to fight it. Suddenly, he’s on a different planet, one with the gravitational pull of a million earths, and each step is a struggle as he tries to keep himself from panicking.

At the top, he finds himself, with more fear than ever of slipping and falling backwards. The door to his flat is just a few meters away looking more menacing than ever it has, and the ice is in Jones’ stomach, churning and chilling him to the bone.

Another gulp, a step, and the floor under his shoes is ice as well. He hopes he doesn’t break it. Hopes he doesn’t fall.

He fishes his keys from his pocket, fingers fumbling, almost numb to the touch, and metal scrapes against metal as he tries to fit the key into the lock. The door creaks open, with Jones leaning all his weight on the doorknob as he pushes it. “Art?” He pauses, wet, warm eyes darting about the flat, hoping he doesn’t sound too wrecked.

“In your room,” comes the reply, and Jones gives a small nod for himself. He closes the door slowly behind him, trying not to make a sound, and he isn’t quite sure why.

Being inside his own flat is calming, as calming as anything can be to Jones now. Familiar, when he hangs his keys up on the rack, easy, when he crosses the floor and feels almost normal.

Licking his lips and slipping his eyes shut for a moment in a thought that doesn’t fully come, he opens the door to his room and in it he sees Art, back against the wall and eyes on the television. He tries to say something but all that comes from his throat is another small sob, and he’s sure if he hadn’t his hand on the doorknob he would by now be on the floor. In the second Art looks up to see Jones in the doorway-Jones’ wide, shining eyes, his flushed, tear-streaked face-the look in his eyes shifts visibly from relaxed to alarmed and he sputters, “Jones! What the hell happened to you?” Scrambling to sit on the edge of the bed, he looks up and in his gray-green eyes, Jones thinks he sees anger.

Funny, he thinks someone’s done all this to Jones, thinks Jones hasn’t done it all to himself.

Jones closes the door and sits on the bed, hands in his lap, next to his friend. “Found something out today,” he mutters with a small, resigned shrug.

Art’s brow is knitted in confusion for just a moment before concern takes over and his stare into Jones’ eyes is intense, drawing. Jones could disappear into it, he thinks. He could be drawn into and captured in Art’s eyes like he’s been so many times when Art’s managed to convince him to join him in doing something absurd. Art’s so hard to tell ‘no.’ “And what’s that?”

And Jones finds himself flustered because, what is he to say? “Well, you-you know that I went to get a test so I could give blood, yeah?” He stops there and Art nods, panic flashing in his eyes as he starts to consider and to think up his own theories. Jones wants to tell him but the words don’t come-they’re stuck in his throat, just below the farthest he can reach. He swallows, and they’re pushed further down before hitting a spring and bouncing back up and he can’t catch them as they fly past his lips-“I’ve got HIV.”

The air in the room turns sober, and all the water and blood in Art’s body comes to a heated still. “Wh… what.” He’s been struck in the chest, pressure reverberating throughout his head and torso, impact turning him hard, to stone, an unmoving statue. He isn’t asking a question, just sputtering out what’s in his mind in his crushed, flattened voice.

And he’s angry; he finds himself stirring with a quiet rage that makes his stomach drop and his chest hurt, but not at Jones, never at Jones. He finds himself furious with, victimized by, his own ears-why are they telling him such horrible things? Why, when they can’t possibly be true? He’ll plug them up, that’s what he’ll do, because how is he to possibly go on if they insist on plaguing him with things like this, things like the possibility Jones dying, things that can lock him up and drive him down into the ground so that he’ll never resurface and feel alright again?

But it’s true, it’s got to be, because Jones is saying it again, muttering and whimpering it like he can’t stop, like if he says it enough it will come out of his mouth and out of the rest of his body. “HIV, Art.” Tears peak in the corners of Jones’ eyes and he leans forward, squeezing his eyelids shut and shaking his troubled head. “I’m going to die.”

“No,” Art can only mutter, and again, “no.” His eyes sting, fixed on the wall though he looks at nothing, and he can’t move them, can’t move himself. All he can do is try to process it, run it through his mind like he would a script through his typewriter, and it doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense-not the crying boy sitting and shaking next to him, whose tears he can almost feel radiating through the air and warming his entire body; not what he’s just said, Art, I’ve got HIV, Art, I’m going to die; Art, don’t think, don’t try to make sense of it, and he can’t-so he doesn’t, so he launches himself at Jones with open arms and hugs Jones’ tiny body close, feels Jones’ tears seeping through his shirt’s button holes, Jones’ arms wrapping around his waist and squeezing, Jones’ lips and entire face pressed against his chest as Jones sobs and clings to Art like Art is a rescue ship and the rest of the world is a black hole.

“Did… did Beth…?” Art says, quietly, after a moment-he’s got to know, got to know if Beth is going to die as well.

Jones shakes his head frantically against Art’s chest. “No-no, no.” He takes in a breath, pulls in it and it spreads through his entire body and shakes against Art’s. His next breath is a gasp and a sputter of air, and with his hands on Art’s chest he sits up, before bringing them again to his lap, wringing his fingers and looking up nervously. Art keeps a hand on Jones’ shoulder, squeezing gently as if to say, tell me, you can tell me anything. Jones shudders, gulps, and says, “Do you remember when Beth broke up with me, and, and I-”

“-you went to stay with your mother, you said.”

“I lied,” Jones sobs, “I’m sorry.” His tongue darts out to lick his lips, nervous and uncomfortable as it runs across his mouth and he seems to choke on it, coughs as he slips it back inside and purses his lips before trying to speak again but making only another small, choked sound.

“Jones,” Art mutters, “Jones, no, no, don’t be sorry, it’s okay.” His voice is strangles, like it’s being drawn out and away, just as are the tears spilling from his eyes. Jones shakes his head, dropping it into his hands. “Tell me what happened. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s really not okay at all,” Jones sputters, wiping his mouth and nose harshly on the back of a trembling hand. He swallows, chokes, and he looks so impossibly small, so incredibly helpless. It steals Art’s breath from his lungs, all mass from his stomach. “I-I went out, and-” Jones exhales, choking again, and Art hugs him again, tells him it’s okay, tells him to go on, please. “I went out to a club and I went home with a girl and-and it was stupid, and I was stupid, and-” Art isn’t mad, and he can’t quite bring himself to be surprised. He only hugs Jones closer, as close as he can, close enough so that every small shake and every warm degree of Jones’ body echoes in his own and they are no longer two people but a joint, weeping mess of anguish, of regret on one side and of grief on the other.

Time passes, and neither Art nor Jones knows exactly how much. Art can’t possibly look at a clock, look away from Jones, from the mess of dark hair that rests just by his chin, wetted by his tears, one of his hands tangles in it while the other is wrapped around Jones’ waist. Jones’ eyes are shut, face buried in Art’s shoulder where Art can feel every shake and brush of his lips, every blink of his eyelids and every gulp down his throat.

Art says finally, “You don’t have to die.” Jones doesn’t say a thing, only wraps his arms tighter around Art, sniffling against his shoulder. “You don’t-we’ll-I’ll get more jobs, as many as I have to, and we’ll get you the best treatment out there and maybe it isn’t even that bad, maybe you’ll live to be eighty and it won’t even affect you much, yeah?”

Jones gulps, and it shakes his entire body. “Art?” His voice is a whimper, a sorrowful call of a despondent bird that is helpless in the hands of hunters, in the faces of shotguns, in the knowledge that he is alone.

He isn’t alone. Art wants, needs him to know. “Yeah, Jones?”

“Stop talking.” It’s a beg more than a demand, and Art will do anything Jones asks.

The doctors say the next day that it isn’t an advanced case, that Jones has years ahead of him, and the irrepressible smile on Art’s face is almost matched by the look of pure, quiet hope on Jones’.

“We’re going out for ice cream, my treat,” Art announces as he slides into the driver’s seat of Jones’ car, to which Jones protests initially but yields eventually on the grounds of, “relax, sit back, and celebrate, alright?”

“I’m a better driver,” Jones mutters, grinning, but the car’s already started and cruising down the road.

“I’m not going to worry about it,” Jones says, blurted and outright, over breakfast. It hasn’t been discussed in days, but Art knows just what he means.

“Good.” Art gulps down milk and purses his lips. “Me neither.”

Jones nods. “You worry too much.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“I know.”

The conversation is done easily enough, but something is struck in Art that won’t die down all the rest of the day which is suddenly bleary, suddenly dull and all too heavy.

No, he’s not going to worry about it.

He sighs, head on his arm on his desk at the cinema. No, he’s not going to worry at all. His head rolls onto the desk and pain rings inside it, but he can’t bring himself to care.

As the days go by, Art has to much to ask, so much to wonder until his brain turns inside out and stretches until it’s as thin as a film strip and eventually dissolves.

He taps the side of his nearly untouched plate of eggs with a spoon, small clinks resonating throughout his head as if there were another, parallel teaspoon tapping at his temple, all too rhythmic and driving him mad.

Not going to worry about it, my arse, he thinks, on more than one occasion, and now, as he watches Jones from across the table, looking chipper as ever as he chomps on a piece of buttered toast, all the filmmaker in him wants to think is, how tragic, he must be tearing himself apart on the inside and he doesn’t even know. All the friend in him wants to think is, God Jones, I know you’re not okay because I’m not okay, or maybe you are and I’m absolutely mad, but all I want is for you to be better.

I want to help you, give me something to help you with.

I don’t want to have to.

He wonders if he’s supposed to mention it, if he’s allowed to talk about it. He’s got to know if Jones plans on ignoring it, if he wants Art to as well.

Why shouldn’t Jones ignore it? It’s his business and doesn’t involve Art in the slightest.

Art wants to stop thinking about it but he’s just so scared.

Art sighs, dropping his spoon to the table, and before he can even register the feeling, words are bubbling up in his throat and it’s the last he can do to spill them out, as hesitant as he is, as shockingly loud as his words come out in the stark almost-silence that had settled comfortably.

Jones doesn’t seem shocked, only a bit ruffled, as he shakes his head frantically upon hearing the question which Art realizes is entirely too intrusive and immediately regrets. But Jones licks his dry lips and responds nevertheless, “No. No, I’m not. Not yet.”

Art nods slowly, and he can’t help it, he has to ask, “Your family?”

“No, no one yet.” Jones licks his lips again, sighing, shaking his head. “If I’m not going to worry about it, why should anyone else have to? Let them sleep sound thinking I’m fine until they have a reason not to. I am fine.

Art nods, again, and he wants to smile at Jones but he can’t seem to remember how. “You are.”

“Yeah. Besides-” Jones mutters, with a small grin on his lips that Art is sure isn’t genuine-he’s known Jones long enough to be able to tell-“besides-it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?”

It’s as if Art’s been struck, a shock to the chest, ringing throughout his body as his eyes fall to the table and he is stuck, a tin man without oil, jaw still and lips closed and breath hitches in his throat as Jones’ words crawl up his veins, twist his nerves into knots.

Embarrassed.

It isn’t right.

Oh, Jones, Jones, Jones.

Art takes in a deep breath that stalls in his chest, refusing to spread through his blood, threatening to explode him from the inside out.

He isn’t quite sure if he can move without ringing out the horrendous squeak of the rusty metal that he seems to have become, if he can talk without his worn jaw swinging right off its hinges.

Oh, Jones, never be embarrassed. Yes, it’s a bit adorable when you get all flustered and red-faced, yes it’s a bit hilarious when I’m the one who causes it. But any time but now. For any reason but this.

Never be embarrassed, because you really haven’t a reason. You’re a great person and you don’t deserve it one bit. Amazing, even.

You’re an amazing son, to your parents, you were an amazing boyfriend to Beth. You’ll be an amazing husband to someone someday and by god I will swear by that. An amazing brother, not just to your sister but to me as well because that’s what we are, isn’t it? Brothers? Or closer, maybe, because I’ve never had this sort of bond with family.

You know, it really does always make my day when I’m able to spend time with you. I know that’s every day, but I honestly can’t imagine a day of my life even counting as that if I don’t see you. And maybe if I told you, you’d laugh, but it would be alright because it’s such a nice laugh and it always makes everyone so happy.

You really are a good person. The best. Better than me, for sure. Maybe it should be me. Should it? Shouldn’t it?

I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to live for a second if it isn’t with you.

But I won’t have to, not just yet, yeah?

“I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future,” Jones says with a small shrug, looking up at Art somewhat shyly. “But the future isn’t now, and now is fine. Now is good, isn’t it?”

Art gulps, finding movement again as hot blood rushes through his crackling veins. He looks straight into Jones’ eyes, and he’s sure there’s some sort of magnetic pull between them, though he can’t tell if it’s forcing them together or apart. “Yeah. Good.”

A year passes, and Art begins to realize that perhaps the world isn’t ending, perhaps the grass and trees and sun will live on and so will Jones, with his humble grin and big eyes, with his dorky clothes and his hair all messed up in the morning and his toasted sandwiches.

“You are fine, then?”

“I told you, stop worrying about me. You don’t have to. I am.”

A second year passes, and it’s possibly the best year of Art’s life, because never for a second when he falls asleep at night does he doubt that Jones will be right there with him in the flat, in the morning.

They sing until the chime of midnight and a new year rings throughout the city and they gulp champagne until their throats are sore; they joke about buying each other flowers and chocolates until Art actually does it. They drink until Art passes out and Jones has to carry him home; and Art forgets to cook the Easter eggs so they end up hurling them at each other mercilessly.

Spring brings days out filming at the park, and summer, days at the beach during which Jones refuses to go into the water farther than five meters from the shore.

It is perfect, when Christmas comes, and they splurge for a tree and chug eggnog by the pint.

It is wonderful, when Valentine’s Day comes around again, and they both complain about not having girlfriends, before each realizes that he doesn’t actually mind it.

It is April, when Jones pads into the kitchen in the morning with a blanket wrapped around his slumped shoulders and a small, crooked grin on his thin, flushed lips. “I’m sick,” he mutters with a small shrug, as he slides into the chair across from Art. “Fever, I think. Where’s the thermometer?”

Art mumbles, “The-the bathroom, maybe,” as he sits, lips parted and brow knitted, conflicted as to whether he should worry, panic, or he should stay calm; whether this is dangerous or it’s common, normal-because it is, isn’t it? Normal. It’s just a fever, Art tells himself, no reason to believe otherwise. “You know what-” Jones nods, looking up through reddened eyes. “-let me get that for you.”

Art gulps as he kicks his chair out from under the table, pulls himself up with his palms flat on the surface before heading off to the bathroom and only barely registering Jones’ croaked shout of, “Thank you!”

Even as the rickety slam of the cabinet door echoes in his mind, sound like tinsel as it rackets across the surface layers of his brain; even as the tiny plastic thermometer feels more out of place between his fingertips than ever it has; he knows he shouldn’t worry. He knows, because he’s fairly sure as well that his brain has somehow been reduced to a pastry with his insistence on baking in the thought until it’s burnt-and it feels like one, definitely, light and flaky, empty and crumbling.

As the patter of his sneakers against the floor turns from the light squeak of rubber against tile to the dull thud of rubber against wood, Art decides that, Jones has been perfectly fine for two years, he isn’t going to just blow up-he isn’t a time bomb. He isn’t going to explode, sending shrapnel spewing in every direction and piercing through every exposed bit of Art’s skin, leaving Art to bleed out every pricked hole and collapse, leak out, until he’s an empty suit of skin and there’s nothing worthwhile left.

He slips into his chair again and hands Jones the thermometer from across the table, watches Jones plop it between pink lips and maneuver it under his tongue, watches as Jones stares down cross-eyed at the thing and flicks it with a fingernail before mumbling around it, “Thirty-eight-point-six.” He slips it from his mouth and drops it lightly to the table, running his tongue across dry lips, slicking them swiftly as they shine dark pink, and the number spikes worry in Art’s chest. “Not too bad.” Yes, Art keeps from saying, it’s a bit bad. “Will you call in sick for me?”

“Yeah, yeah-of course.” Art nods, feeling still that he isn’t completely inside his own head, a bit lost perhaps, though shaking his head again he shakes himself back right side up, inside in. “I’ll stay home as well, if you’d like.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to.” Jones’ smile, meant surely to be comforting, looks like a grimace, and it seems to Art that all his internal organs have slowed as he tries to make sense of it.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“Do you feel bad?”

“I feel fine.”

Fine. Art gulps. “You sure?”

“Yes, Art, Go to work.”

“Can I make you some tea first? Or-or something?”

And so, Art does, and to work he goes, though not for a second in the car alone, or at the ticket stand, not for half a second as he loads film, does the worry in his gut subside even an ounce.

As he drives home, at the end of the day, he finds his fingers on the wheel itching to unlatch the door, to hear the small click of the doorknob as he would rush in, as he would see if Jones is okay.

Flinging the door to the flat open finally is like finding oxygen when Art’s been underwater for hours-and to his immense, heart-swelling relief, standing at the kitchen counter is Jones, blanket missing from his person, a t-shirt draped over his slightly more upright chest and shoulders as he drums his fingers along the counter’s edge and waits at the toaster. “Art-” He wrings his fingers, turning to face his friend with a sheepish grin and a small shrug. “-you’re home.”

Art shuts the door, tosses his keys haphazardly to their shelf, and rushes into the kitchen. “Hi, yeah. How are you feeling?”

“Better. I slept a lot. Thought I’d eat something.” Jones gestures to the toaster, much to Art’s relief. “I made some extra pieces, since I figured you’d be coming home. If you want any, that is.”

“Great. That’s great.”

And so-the lamb lays across the lion’s wound, and so-with a thin layer of gauze taped over himself, Art is alright.

But only until the next morning, when upon opening the door of Jones’ room just a crack, Art finds the lights still switched off and dim sun filtering through the window, casting a soft highlight over the body shuddering softly on the bed, blanket covering all but head and shoulders and arms under which it’s tucked, creased and rippled and held tight to chest and stomach. He’s turned on his side, centimeters from the edge of the bed, face visibly flushed even in the darkness.

“Jones?” Art steps around the bed, heart heavy in his chest like floating on water as he kneels next to Jones’ face, presses the back of his hand to a sweat-slicked, burning forehead, fingers brushing through wet, tangled hair

Jones groans, soft and low in his throat as he comes to, looking up through half-lidded eyes as he realizes he isn’t alone. His eyelids flutter and tremble as he holds Art in his vision, no doubt trying with all his might to stay some resemblance of awake. “Art,” he says, “It got a bit worse,” with a timid grin and a small, exhausted shrug, as he pulls the blankets tighter around himself.

“Oh my god,” Art mutters, running his hand from Jones’ forehead to press his palm against his cheek, and then to Jones’ neck, brushing his fingers along the trembling dip in his throat in which sweat collects earnestly-trailing his hand along the flushed, heaving skin, coming away with shaking, glistening fingers. Yes, worried now, he’ll admit it to himself and he’d admit it to Jones, and it’s as if his blood can’t decide whether to rush or still as it pounds in his chest and thickens in his head. And he has reason to be, doesn’t he?-because Jones is most definitely not fine. “Should I take you to the hospital-”

“Art.” Jones sighs, as he takes a shaky gulp and the skin around his mouth looks thin and flimsy as paper. “Art, no. Calm down. It’s just a fever. It happens to you, doesn’t it?”

“Well, well of course, but-”

“But nothing, Art. I’ve just got to stay home another day.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

“No, you don’t have to. I’ll be fine.” With a small, crooked, but oh so forced, so out of place grin, he adds, “I promise.”

With an argument like that, Art can’t do a thing but agree, giving Jones a firm pat on a weak shoulder, and leaving him alone.

Hours later, Art looks up from the kitchen table to see Jones wading out from his bedroom, another blanket wrapped around his slumped body, each step seeming a struggle to his weak legs. Surprise spreads over his features as he realizes, again, that he isn’t alone. “Art.” His voice, weak and exhausted, sounds like that of a dying animal-or so Art would imagine, and the pang in his chest when it reaches his ears makes him feel like one as well. “What are you doing here?”

The smile Art forces strains at the skin around his mouth. “You don’t honestly believe I’d leave you all alone when you look like that, do you?”

“Thanks,” Jones scoffs, a response to what was far from a compliment, but it has nowhere near the effect it would have, had his voice been whole, full. And then, again, more seriously, “thank you,” and Art can tell, clear as day, clear as the bags under Jones’ eyes and the bright red cheeks under those, that staying with Jones truly was the only option. “Since you’re here, anyway, we can watch a film, if you’d like. Or-or anything, really.”

Never is his life has Art heard of a better idea. It’s the most natural feeling in the world-being in Jones’ room, lights shut off, screen bright in front of his and Jones’ eyes as they watch something they’ve seen already, countless times at that. Both Art and Jones start out upright against the headboard, but Jones eventually sinks down to where his head is against his pillow and his body is tangles up in the blankets, which Art takes note of with a small chuckle that turns easily into a sigh. And soon, when Art glances over and down, he sees Jones completely passed out, lips parted but just barely, eyelids shut but fluttering lightly, more peaceful than ever he’s looked as he sinks away from the pain and discomfort of his fever and anything else, only the dreams in his weary head holding true. Art hasn’t an inkling of the heart to wake him. Instead, he lays a hand across Jones’ arm, feels a soft pulse under his fingertips which brush just lightly over hot skin, and watches the film on his own.

Twenty minutes later Art feels a soft stirring under his fingers, as Jones comes to with a groggy murmur of, “Did I miss anything?”

Art smiles and tells no, no, though the answer really is, yes, but it doesn’t really matter because in a matter of minutes Jones is asleep again, head crooked on the pillow and limbs splayed, beautiful only because of how easily Jones was allowed to succumb to exhaustion, like Art falling asleep at work as he’s done so many times but being on break without a reason to fight it. And Art, of course, is content-as content as he can be with Jones so starkly ill, yet more content than he’s been all day, as to watch Jones sleep, to know that Jones is comfortable, is the best he can hope for, now.

The film comes to its end, and when Art switches the box off, Jones’ small, strained breaths come to light in the silence of the near pitch dark room lit only by the faint green glow of Jones’ alarm clock. It’s gotten late, Art sees, though it isn’t as if he doesn’t feel he’s spent hours, days, even, with Jones snoring softly, curled up beside him like he belongs nowhere else in the world.

Art’s limbs feel like jelly and his neck is stiff-he stretches out, though not far, as not to wake Jones, not to disturb him. Cautiously, he slips his hand from Jones’ arm, frowning slightly at the loss of contact, slips his legs from Jones’ bed, and he walks across the room easily making not but a sound with only his socks to slap against the wooden floor.

There’s a stirring behind him, a grumbling-a whispered plead of “Art, no, don’t go,” and Art turns to see Jones’ dark irises just peeking out from his straining eyelids, his shaking arm reaching out to Art with all the force he can muster before it falls limply to the bed and his pleading, desperate eyes, shining watery in the darkness, are a pull of their own. “Please don’t go.” Art can tell it’s a struggle for Jones just to move his lips, just to use his voice, and the realization almost has Art crashing to the floor with weak knees and a heavy heart that could never let him stand upright.

Art gulps, sucking oxygen as best he can in through his throat when he needs it more than ever, and he’s walking again to Jones, hurrying, because he’d never deny Jones a thing, not now especially, and because he hadn’t even wanted to leave in the first place.

He stands beside where Jones lies, staring down at Jones and sure that all the heart and compassion whizzing throughout his electric nerves is visible on the outside because it’s so clear to him, shaking him up by the second, pumping thick, hot wax of feeling into every empty space in his body until he is sure he’s going to turn to candle with his own flame pushing him down, watery, into the ground. Perhaps, it shows so subtly in his eyes when he feels like they’re on fire, perhaps Jones can see-he hopes Jones can see, because he can’t quite find words in the brain he’s sure is swelling in his heavy head to the point of being incoherent. He can’t think for his life-he doesn’t try.

Jones stares up at Art as well, face a mess of pain and desperation, body limp against the bed sheets before he tries, using surely every bit of strength in his sparking, drenched veins, to reach up and to squeeze Art’s forearm, and though it’s as firm as he can manage it to be Art feels nothing but a butterfly’s touch. A surge of strength, a small groan, and Jones is pulling himself up to his knees, against Art, both hands on Art’s arms and first moving up to clutch at his bicep, and though his neck is neck he holds his head up as best he can and leans it forward, all his weight on Art as hard as he tries to maintain it, pressing his forehead against Art’s, and he’s pressing his mouth against Art’s, lips shaking violently, not moving them or trying to do a thing but keep himself in place, pressed to Art, like he is drowning and Art is his infallible lifeboat.

It’s instinct, almost, when Art wraps an arm around Jones’ waist to hold him steadily upright, instinct when he cups the back of Jones’ head, fingers flexing in short, sweat-soaked hair, and what few wavering millimeters there has been between their mouths and Jones’ lips had shook are now closed forcefully and far from gracefully, yet all the grace in it swirls inside Art and melts and whips all that wax into a frenzy, swirling now but still as thick, still far too think for comfort but somehow comforting nonetheless as Jones relaxes and lets himself be held up. So far more comforting, as the two meld into one, perfect sculpture of a pair, Jones’ clammy face radiating heat like the inside walls of an oven, lips ceaselessly shivering against Art’s, hands shivering so hot against Art’s arms-shivering, shaking, melting, melting Art as well.

Jones is so impossibly hot, as blood pumps heavy through his body, rendering his limbs lazy and almost heaving, and him a heavy weight against Art but one that Art would feel naked without.

The press of Art’s lips against Jones’ is gentle yet passionate, prying-as Jones’ mouth trembles and brushes against Art’s with the quivers that just won’t stop, the slow movement is just enough to make it feel as if Jones is disappearing inside of Art or perhaps Art is being absorbed into Jones-either way they are forged into one another, as the heat of Jones’ feverish skin swells inside of Art and Art is sure to be giving Jones something; he is giving Jones everything. Just as he always had, as he always will be, he’s sure, because he can’t think of a single time when he and Jones were anything but one, together, anything but two halves and the perfect puzzle. Two pieces that fit so well even physically, like Jones’ waist was made for Art’s arm, like Jones’ hands were made to dig into the soft sides of Art’s elbows-full lips against thin, sturdier body against one which never was very strong even in full health.

Even as Art’s arms grow tired he holds Jones to him like Jones is the most important thing in the world-Jones has always been the most important thing in the world-like, if he falls, he is a chandelier crashing to the ground and shattering to shards and slivers of glittering glass. Yet, when he does, he lands comfortably with a soft thump against the mattress as the bed swallows him whole again with all its comfort and the surface warmth he cannot escape. He breaths in gasps, mouth open and eyes half-lidded, hand still clutching Art’s arm weakly and eyelids threatening to twitch softly closed again when he looks up at Art and mumbles softly, scratchily, “I feel so weak.”

Art can only mutter, as the lump in his throat swells forcing tears to his eyes, “Sleep, Jones.” And Jones does just that, eyes slipping fully, comfortably closed, last conscious breath hitched with a gasp and hand still on Art’s arm as he slips into a thick slumber. His hand falls away from Art’s forearm and slips, fingers brushing gently across Art’s skin, back into the sheets, only when Art, choked up now with his own lips quivering softly, leans down over Jones and presses his face into the crook of Jones’ neck-one hand on Jones’ shoulder, the other on his hot cheek-just to feel Jones’ heavy pulse as close as he can, to feel the heat and the blood, thick as it courses through Jones’ veins, under Jones’ skin, so clear as it pulses in his damp neck and face; to feel, most of all, the pure, sweet life of it all-Jones’ life, which Art has always cherished so dearly but never so much as he does now. He decides then that he never wants to leave the shelter of his friend’s pulse, pulsing against his own.

How is anything to ever compare?

When Art wakes the next morning having retired to his own bed, Jones’ room is the first he rushes to, not bothering even to dress or shower first-a luxury since they’d gotten it but nothing at all in the face of the company of Jones. Just as he’d expected yet still somewhat to his disappointment, Jones is not yet awake, dormant in the same position in which Art had left him earlier in the night gone by.

And so, Art calls in sick again for both Jones and himself-“Ay, you two dyin’ or somethin’?” and he laughs though it hurts just a bit-because he can’t leave Jones alone to wake and wonder why Art’s left him, can’t even stomach the thought of Jones being without help in whatever horrid state in which he’ll wake. He makes himself breakfast and a small plate for Jones; yet, even in the half an hour that passes Jones still does not emerge from his room-his cave, Art thinks, like he is a bat, a slumbering, protected bat, and the thought makes him grin. Jones looks a bit like a bat, doesn’t he? Tiny and a bit adorable but absolutely vicious when he needs be.

Oh, Jones.

Art isn’t scared until, after a few hours of writing, he loses track of time and finds after that it’s gotten late-and while it’s gotten late, Jones has slept all the day. He leans against the doorframe, watches as Jones sleeps, still, leaden limbs threatening to tip Art right off either side of the door to collapse to the floor. Oh, god-Jones isn’t waking up. Art doesn’t try to wake him, but he watches intently for as long as he can, with all his concentration on what he wishes wasn’t nothing at all, until panic is only a thin layer of red hot ice on a thick sea of exhaustion and he drags himself to his bedroom. He can only fall uneasily asleep, for the second night in a row.

The morning again, Art stares with a cocked head, aching eyes, and a sinking heart, at the small, peaceful face that is pale, now, like porcelain against the too closely colored sheets. Porcelain, shiny, still clammy and still so terribly asleep. My god… Art doesn’t say, because he can’t force a single word out of his throat. Jones…

Of course, he calls in sick again.

He falls asleep in Jones’ bed that night with his typewriter in his lap.

When he wakes, his mouth is sticky from having forgotten to brush his teeth, and his neck is stiff from having collapsed into sleep before finding a comfortable position. He isn’t surprised in the least when the presence next to him is still slack under the sheets; it comes of course like a blow to his chest, but one of the many expected when he’s been thrust mercilessly into a boxing ring and he knows he doesn’t stand a chance.

Art worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he fishes his typewriter from the sheets and plops it onto the nightstand along all the last night’s full, ink-stamped papers. Crawling back onto the bed, voice wavering though he tries to keep it steady, eyes twitching though he tries to keep them dry, he utters, “Jones?” With a thick gulp, he sits cross-legged, runs a hand across Jones’ cheek-“Jones, wake up? Please, wake up?-tries so hard to be gentle, doesn’t want to hurt Jones, but he can’t help pressing down into Jones’ skin as he speaks and his voice finally breaks.

“Jones, please, if I ever ask you anything again, this is it. Wake up for me, come on, it can’t be that hard.”

Each second of silence is another hook to Art’s chest.

“I’ll have to go back to work sometime, you know. Come on, we’re-we’ll go broke, because of you.” Art forces a chuckle to the best of his ability, but it falls on closed eyes and unlistening ears. “I’ll go back today, I could do that. Would you be okay with that? … I’m not okay with that, not really. But I think I will. ‘Cause I have to. I’m sorry, Jones.”

His hand shakes as he takes Jones’, entwining clammy, slack fingers through his own, squeezing with all his might and clasping his other hand over the back of Jones’, feeling Jones’ knuckles shift under the press of his palm.

“Don’t be angry with me if I’m not here when you wake up, alright?”

He gulps and slips his eyes shut, just for a moment, lets go of Jones’ hand where both Jones’ and his own fall limply back onto the mattress, picks up his typewriter again and balances it on his knees.

Jones,

You’ve been asleep for two days. This will be the third. I’m going to work, and I hate to leave you alone. But I have to. I hope you understand.

If you’re reading this, call me. Please.

- Art.

He never gets a call.

The next day, a customer tries to get his attention for a full five minutes before he’s brought to realizing that there’s a world outside of his head, with occupants other than Jones and himself.

He doesn’t sleep in Jones’ bed again, but not for a second does the image of that pale, peaceful, quiescent face leave his mind, and not for a minute is he able to sleep sound.

It’s been five days, and Art eats breakfast alone. He’s come to allow himself to wonder what will happen if Jones doesn’t wake up, if he carried on sleeping until the day Art dies. The day he, himself, dies. Art’s heart hurts. He shovels oatmeal into his mouth by the spoonful, with false hope that it’ll be soothing if not a distraction.

But he doesn’t need a distraction, not for long, and he feels as if he’s been hit in the chest-though definitely in a good way, one he can’t quite figure out but fully knows exists as it spreads to the tips of his fingers and toes-when out of the corner of his eye he sees movement, and when he whips his head around he sees Jones, groggy, slinking through his bedroom door, body exhausted but translucent brown eyes bright as ever. Art’s breath hitches in his throat and without a word, with barely a thought and if any masked by thick waves of emotion, he’s standing, walking to Jones as Jones does the same, pulling Jones into a tight hug and breathing in the sweet oxygen he’s been deprived of for almost a week.

“I was out for a while, huh,” Jones mumbles, a small grin in his voice, as he wraps his arms easily around Art’s waist.

“Five days.” Art says, relishing in the fact that’s he’s able to talk, to Jones, that Jones can hear him, Jones can acknowledge him.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Art’s breath is shaky, but it comes more comfortably than it has in days. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel good. Well rested, if anything.” When Jones pulls back, he plants his hands on Art’s shoulders, a wide grin spread across his face. “Really, I feel better than ever. I guess I just had to sleep it off.”

“Yeah, yeah-I guess you did.” Art’s face begins to ache but he can’t stop smiling-Jones is okay. He can’t believe it, and at the same time he wouldn’t believe anything else.

“So how’d you manage without me?”

“Oh, I managed alright.”

As everything falls back into place, piece by piece over the course of just days, Art feels over aware of everything and wonderfully so-it’s all so terrifically clear and clean, even Jones, especially Jones, chipper as ever and more himself than ever he’s been, even more than years ago, ever more than the day they first met, Art would say.

Only then, does Art feel again that there is lush life on the planet, in warmth and happiness, that there is a sun that shines down on him and Jones both, that there’s good in the world-because Jones is there, and Jones is fine. Better than fine. “Better than ever.”

Only then, does Art feel as if he is Superman and Jones is Lois Lane, and he’s just seen to his favorite person’s being saved from their latest villain.

He finds himself floating on air, floating with Jones over the rest of the world, even as life couldn’t be more mundane, floating over all the people who never had a clue that something magnificent is going on right above their heads, right in that second story flat in the building right around the corner, and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.

And he can’t help but be a bit enthusiastic about it, when Jones comes into his room-still cheerful, almost surprisingly so, though Art has no complaints-asking, “Art-I’m going to the store, can I get you anything?” Because Jones is okay, and Art can’t get over the fact, because Jones is well enough to go out and shop when just a week ago he was an empty shell in a too consuming bed.

The first thing Art thinks to say is, “Can I come with?” as he twists around in his chair to look at Jones.

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t want that-you’ve got a script to work on, haven’t you?” Jones gestures limply to Art’s typewriter, offering a small smile.

“Well, yeah. Alright. Can you pick up some milk?”

“Yeah, definitely. Bye, Art.”

Left alone, Art’s able to get a few pages typed, much to his surprise and most definitely delight. When Jones returns, all still is well, and as night comes and Art falls asleep, everything could not be better.

Yet, as it nears midnight, and then comes one and soon two as Art’s digital alarm clock glows dully in the dark and scatters green light across the side of his bed, some invisible force begins to wrestle him from his sleep, and even as he tries to hold on to whatever rest he finds, not for a moment does it cease even a bit. He doesn’t hear it properly until he’s lost all hope for sleep, and now fully conscious he can clearly make out the spray of the shower against its curtain and the bathtub’s walls.

Oh-he thinks-this can’t be good, but he’s far too exhausted to sit and ponder it, and he’s fairly sure he can’t fall back to sleep, so he tosses blankets to get up and pads to the bathroom, to see what all of this is about.

The door is left open just a crack, lights on inside and shower running weakly as it tends to do. He knocks first, door creaking open a bit more with the force of his knuckles, worry stirring now in his chest when he’s met with no response. And so he pushes the door open, albeit hesitantly, because there isn’t much else he can do, privacy be damned, and he has to take a step back as he breathes, “Jones?”

Jones lies in the bath, water pouring down upon his frail, naked body as he shakes with soft, contained sobs, and his eyes, reddened around the edges, blink open ever so slightly. With uncoordinated lips, he mutters softly, an acknowledgement blank as can be but still so cracked, “Art.”

With that just loud enough to be skimming the surface of his brain, Art feels as if a tube’s been shoved down his throat and as he chokes around it, the air is sucked out of his body more and more by the second, leaving his organs to press together until they burst, and though he doesn’t understand, not one bit, it doesn’t take more than a few seconds before he’s dropping to his knees next to the tub and laying a hand over Jones’ shoulder, trying to shake him further awake as his eyes blink open and slip shut.

The cool water comes as a shock to Art’s fingertips, sending the prickle of it against his skin rocketing through his nerves and to his brain, and it takes a moment for it to register before it explodes in Art’s head and sparks into blazing works of worry and panic and Art can barely get control of his voice, barely get control of his hands which frantically shake and press into Jones’ shoulders, chest, and neck, and he mutters, “Jones. Jones, what’s going on? Jones?”

Jones swallows and it’s clearly a struggle, begins to speak and his voice is barely a croak. “N-n-night sweats, Art. I c-couldn’t sleep like that.”

“Oh my god,” Art breathes, skimming his hand up Jones’ neck, pressing into the soft skin in search for a pulse he can barely feel, and to his face stained with lukewarm salt water where trails of tears mix with the running tap, and his face is so, so hot. “Is-is that…?”

Is that bad? Is that okay? Art doesn’t even know what he’s asking, more of a frantic mumble than a question at all yet still searching for an answer; and still, Jones shakes his head fervently, trying to gulp again as his eyes squeeze shut and tremble, as his neck stutters and his throat constricts and Art can barely hear him when he chokes, “Means I’ve got AIDS, Art.”

His voice breaks off, a high whine strangling from his throat before he coughs a sob, and his face twists into one of nothing short of pure anguish that Art’s never before seen and never wants to see again, it’s like an ice pick straight into Art’s heart-like the bomb’s exploded finally in a cold, wet mess, and sending icy shrapnel flying into every corner of the small room.

Any words of substance are lost to Art’s mind, and he can only mumble as Jones turns his face into what looks like a sort of pillow he’s brought with him, “What’s that?”

Jones’ voice is muffled, mouth pressed into it. “B-bath pillow.”

Art gulps, coughs. “When… when did you get it?”

Jones sniffs, shuts his eyes before he says, “Earlier today.”

“Oh, no.” It’s second nature to Art as he drops his head to thump against the side of the bathtub, even more so when he rubs his temple, groaning of pain that isn’t in his head at all. “No, no, no.” Jones doesn’t speak, just lies and shudders and sheds tears that Art can’t tell apart from the shower water but knows with all his gut that the water that streams down Jones’ face isn’t cold and polluted. “I… I thought… no, god.”

“Art,” Jones gasps, and Art hangs onto each word oh his like a rescue rope-one that only seems to pull him deeper under the surface. “You sh-should go.”

Art doesn’t fall asleep again, after all.

He wants to scream out the next morning, “Why are we not talking about this?” As Jones concentrates more on his driving than he ever has before, pointedly not looking at Art as he stares out over the road, “I need us to talk about this.”

Jones doesn’t speak a word of it and Art doesn’t think a thing not of it, as they work together at the cinema, drive home, pick up a take-away. As night comes, this time Art isn’t asleep to be woken by the shower’s coming to life as slim fingers spin the knobs-probably just the one knob-and Jones presumably slips right inside, right to the floor.

This time, Art doesn’t say a word as he pushes the door right open, as he comes in and kneels and grabs Jones’ face in his hands, as he kisses Jones until his lips ache and he can’t tell where Jones’ tears end and his begin with the shower water filtering through theirs both, and Jones tries his shaky, tired best to reciprocate as he presses fingers into Art’s bicep and slips his eyes shut.

He doesn’t say a word as he pulls away, stands, pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the floor with his boxers following shortly thereafter.

Jones doesn’t say a word either as Art climbs into the tub alongside him, flinches as the cold water hits his skin, pulls Jones flush against him and presses their foreheads together-Jones looks up at Art with fresh tears sparkling in already shining eyes and Art only shuts his own in response. And he only lies there, cradling the impossible heat of Jones’ body in his arms, against him, his only warmth as cool water that turns freezing during the night splatters his every centimeter of skin until his fingers are numb, yet somehow still feeling the tremendous heat emanating from Jones’ skin that they drink in eagerly as Art’s fingertips press into the curve of Jones’ back-just as Art’s mouth drinks in the warmth of Jones’, lips just barely moving, breathing only against Jones’ mouth as Jones does the same. And it’s as if Art’s breathing Jones’ soul right into himself, or giving Jones a part of his own, or even just merging the two as if they were not merged already, as if they had not been for years.

Every so often does he drift off, but not for a minute is he able to properly sleep, even as he feels Jones go limp in his arms with steady breaths and a calm heartbeat.

When he wakes Jones in the morning his lips are blue, and even after Jones kisses them again and again in fervent apology, they regain their color only after hours of sipping hot tea in the most soothing, hot bath Art has ever had.

“It’s confirmed,” the doctors say, “I’m sorry,” and they’re so, impossibly calm-how can they be so calm?-when Art feels far too big for his rickety plastic chair not only in body but in heart and in mind, far too much like he and his chair are going to go toppling right through the floorboards, “A unique case it seems. It often takes ten or so years for the virus to progress this far.”

“It’s-it’s only taken two-why’s it only taken two?”

Jones is given no answer and Art has found no peace.

“Art, will you do something for me?”

He turns in his swivel chair, his back to the ticket booth’s window, and he looks up-eagerly, almost, and without a second thought to it, he says, “Of course, I’ll do anything.”

Jones shifts his weight from leg to leg, wrings his fingers, a small, light grin resting upon his lips. “Good, yeah. Well, I was thinking that it might be kind of… kind of nice, I think, if, well… if you, Beth, and I went on a sort of… a picnic.” With a shrug he looks down to the floor, flits his eyes back up to Art, offers a sheepish grin.

“A picnic?” Of course Art will do it-he could spend an afternoon with Beth to make Jones happy. He could spend an afternoon with Godzilla to make Jones happy.

“You-you don’t have to. It’s just…” Jones exhales softly, blinks and licks his lips nervously. “…something that I want to do…” …before I die.

Jones breathes in a soft gasp, wide eyes waiting, and even as Jones is silent Art can almost hear those words, Jones’ voice, echoing in his mind-padding through it like the most unwanted house guest, leaving muddy footprints and smoke from its cigarette to cloud Art’s head until he has to blink to see through it, and he mutters, “Of course. Yes-of course.” But knuckles tap at the window, then, and Art glances behind him to see an angry face glaring down at him, waiting, and he has to go back, he knows, but first: “Are you going to tell her?”

“Yeah,” Jones says, quiet as a mouse, small as one. “Yeah, I am.”

Art thinks he hears Jones’ voice crack, but before he can say another word Jones is gone and he’s left alone to the customers he’d much rather not bother with, anyway. He sighs, takes their money and hands them their tickets-it’s hard to move his arms when he’s so sure all his muscle is made of lead.

Art is there, when Jones calls Beth for the first time in what Art is fairly sure is months-“Beth! Hello! … It has been a while, hasn’t it … well, I was just wondering if, if you could come over, sometime? … Oh, no, of course … A boyfriend? That’s great! … Oh, yes. I miss you too, I do, really … Friday would be great…” Art is there, and he watches, and he studies because he can’t help it-he studies Jones, with the overenthusiastic smile plastered on his face that he’s perhaps forgotten Beth can’t see, with his pale fingers pressing into the phone until they’re almost as red as the plastic itself, with the slightest waver in his voice, so hard to catch but so, so clear when Art replays it over in his head, as Jones realizes that he’ll never have Beth again and probably wouldn’t be able to anyway.

Art is there, and he’ll never not be there, he thinks-he’ll never not be there for Jones, because he’s not like Beth, he’s nothing like Beth.

And he is there, when Beth comes, because Jones tells him, “Please, I can’t do this without you,” and there was never question for even a second. He gives Jones’ hand a light squeeze, before letting Jones’ fingers fall from his own as Jones opens the door. “Beth!”

“Hi!” Beth says with a bright smile as she and Jones hug. Art sneezes. “Hello, Art.” She gives a light, awkward wave.

“Hello, Beth.”

“Here, um,” Jones sputters, “why don’t you come sit down, in the kitchen,” with a smile on his lips that tries to will itself down and eyes wide as coins, and, god, he’s trying so hard, it almost hurts Art to watch. But he does, and he watches, still, as Jones and Beth stand about and chat, make small talk, ask how the other is doing lately, awkward though clearly enjoying it, and the make their way leisurely to the kitchen. Jones pulls out a chair for Beth, but doesn’t sit himself. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Just water.” Beth’s elbows are on the table and fingers folded loosely. Art doesn’t sit until Jones does, trying to balance three glasses of water in two hands before setting them onto the table with the loud, grating clink of glass against wood for each. Jones sits across from Beth, Art between them on the table’s side.

“Beth,” Jones starts, so gravely with a gulp that has Beth’s eyes flickering wide. “There’s… there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Is something wrong?” Beth asks, and Jones sighs, wringing his hands over the table.

“Erm, yes.” Jones’ grimace is echoed in a softer one across Beth’s lips, like a reflection in a murky pool. “Very.”

“Well what is it?” she asks, panicked, one hand’s fingers tightening against the other’s as she draws her elbows back toward her stomach.

“Um, well, first,” Jones sputters, losing breath each moment he goes on, “know that this has nothing to do with you, I mean… it does, In suppose, but… you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Well, no, you’ll… you’ll understand what I mean.” He draws in a long breath through his nose that fills his chest visibly.

Beth’s lips are pressed in a fine line, eyebrows raised; she watches Jones intently.

Art watches the both of them intently.

“Beth…” Jones gulps, again, makes a small choking sound deep in his throat. He licks his dry, uncomfortable lips, lays his hand out on the table for Beth to lay her own in, and she does, eagerly. Another gulp and his chest is shaking, each breath only making him tenser. “Beth, I…” He shuts his eyes, squeezes Beth’s hand. Art can’t tear his eyes away, even as now it hurts to watch more than anything. “… have… AIDS.”

He looks like he’s about to take a breath but takes a few tries to get there as Art has to do the same, with the words ringing and ricocheting in his ears-classical music, screechy and sad, it turns Art’s breath and the rush of his blood to a fast paced yet languid waltz, a sort that aches to keep up with, takes far too much energy, threatens to leave Art splayed across the floor by the end of the night.

“You… what?”

Jones repeats it, voice steady like he’s scare it will shatter otherwise, “I have AIDS.” Knowing it’s got to be far more agonizing to say than to hear, Art gulps and feels as if his entire body’s going down with it.

“Full… full blown?” Eyes wet and wide like just-washed dinner plates-Jones’ face reflects in them, his solemn nod echoes in Beth’s twitchy blinks.

Jones sighs, “Yes.”

“Are… are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Oh my god.” Beth’s other hand-the one that isn’t turning Jones’ fingertips purple-comes up to her face, shaking fingers like a cage over quivering lips. Her voice shakes and her eyes watering, and she looks away, down into nothing. “Oh, my god.” Jones squeezes her hand just as hard, rubbing his thumb over the pad of her palm in slow, pressing circles.

“Oh, no, Beth, don’t cry,” he says, though he’s close to it himself.

As Art watches his eyes grow restless flitting between the two of them, searching and wanting-wanting to reach out, to do something, he doesn’t know what. He wants to reach out, and he wants to pull Jones in, right out of his chair, to crush Jones against his chest and breath in the warmth of Jones’ neck and the flutter of Jones’ pulse. He wants to hear Jones’ heartbeat, to feel Jones’ life, to feel alive.

Beth says, voice thick with the tears that slide down her reddened cheeks, “How did it happen?”

Jones tells her, and it isn’t hard for Art to tune out the sound.

Nothing is right, not even Beth.

Beth isn’t supposed to be crying, she’s supposed to be off on her own or cooking with Jones or exasperated or angry at Art, and Art’s supposed to be tired of her and having allergy attacks.

But a statue can’t sneeze and a sobbing woman hasn’t cause to be mad at an unmoving block, and Art only stares forward at nothing until his eyes ache and he has to force his eyelids to blink, top lashes catching on the bottom, sticky with tears that are just beginning to sprout.