Breathe

The way home from the hospital seems both longer and shorter than it used to be, in Lance's car. Then again, I'd rather it be endless. Time is something I will never take for granted. I remember Tatiana's small voice in my ear, breathless with laughter. She's so young, but she doesn't take her time for granted; she appreciates everything. I can see it in the way she looks at everything, every little thing, soaking it in as if it will be the last time she sees it.

"Why is that so weird?" Lance asks, tapping his fingers absently on the gear shift as the car curves around a corner.

"Because no one likes the yellow ones," I say, a little incredulous. "Then again, if anyone has a party, they can invite you to eat them."

"That's what I want to be known for: eating the lollies no one else likes."

"It's not a bad thing to be known for," I tell him, watching the cars go by. "At least you'll be invited to heaps of parties."

"Because that is what I want most in life, to go to lots of parties." There is soft, breathy laughter in his voice, and it makes me smile.

"At least you'll be popular."

"I never wanted to be popular."

I look at him, at the sharply handsome cast of his face in the spattered light as we pass beneath a series of bridges. He certainly has the potential to be one of those guys, the ones who break hearts with a smile. I'm glad he isn't one of those; Lance guards his smiles and his heart. I feel privileged to be allowed to see past his mask.

"I thought about it, for a while. But I decided it would be much too tiring a lifestyle," I say, and he smiles.

"Also, being with me would be bad for your image," he says.

I frown. "Yes, having a beautiful boy with me would be horrible."

"Did you just call me beautiful?" he asks, an amused smile flickering at the edges of his mouth.

"Do you deny it?" I ask, leaning my head against the window as we stop at a red light, looking at him sidelong.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," he says, a strange, low lilt to his voice that speaks of a quote; someone else's words in his mouth, just as suited to the situation as any other.

His fingers play along mine, where they rest on my knee, and we watch each other, the both of us unwilling or unable to look away, until the lights change. He takes his hand back and moves smoothly away from the lights.

"Tiana's doing well," I say, an observation. I remember the smile on her face; her laughter; the slight growth of hair on her head, now that the treatment has stopped; her pride as she paraded around, bandana around her neck like a kerchief.

He smiles softly. "Yeah, well. That friend of hers down the corridor better keep his hands off."

"Lance, they're ten!" I laugh. And then I stop laughing. And I cough.

Lance looks at me, concerned. I hold up a hand to wave it away, open my mouth to speak. But I cough again. And again. And there is something in my mouth, my throat, that tastes coppery, and there is an odd, cloying scent at the back of my throat, in my nose. And I am choking and Lance is saying my name and he is pulling over and I lean forwards, one hand on my knee, the other covering my mouth.

"Syl?" Lance says. And his hand is on my back as it shakes and my cough sounds weak now, and fluid.

I sit back to tell him that I am fine, though I do not feel it. But when I pull my hand from my mouth, the both of us stare down at it. Covered in bloody spittle.

Lance's expression becomes taught and strained, and he starts the car and turns around. Driving back towards the hospital. And all I can do is stare at the blood staining my fingers.