chapter thirty-three.

Val

It's ten minutes till boarding—the flight attendant has come over the intercom at least three times, groggily advising us to get in line—and Simon still hasn't come back.

I never would've asked him to find me coffee if I'd known it was going to be a cross-country endeavor; regret leaves a sour taste in my mouth as I hesitantly get to my feet, eyes shifting this way and that way. I hope to see a flash of red hair, a slightly lilted walk, the collar of the worn teal sweater he threw on before we left. But all the faces I see belong to strangers.

Swallowing, I get up, walking to the edge of the gate.

A flight attendant stops me. "We'll be boarding soon, ma'am."

"I know. But my—uh, boyfriend hasn't come back yet. I'm just gonna go get him and let him know it's time."

My voice sounds a lot calmer than I feel; nevertheless, the flight attendant gives me a wary, almost piteous look before she nods and turns away.

As soon as she does, I'm off. I'm not running, but I'm not walking, either. I'm somewhere in the middle, clearly in a hurry and yet trying to act as though I'm not panicking. When I am, in fact, sort of panicking.

As I rush down the terminal, pass all the empty shops and fenced-off restaurants and people sitting half-asleep on benches, my mind runs through all the worst scenarios. He could have gotten lost. Larry may have found him and taken him away. What if he's dead, somewhere? Bleeding out in a parking deck, cold and all alone—

I shake my head. I won't...I can't let myself think like that.

"Simon!" I call, shedding my dignity and peeking into every men's bathroom I pass. "Simon, where'd you go?"

The airport smells faintly of cleaner and stale food. That is, until I'm one terminal away from our designated one, and the strong aroma of coffee beans and caramel and chocolate fill the air. I see the coffee shop first—well, in reality it's a small coffee counter—mostly empty save for a quiet old man.

Then I see the two crushed cups on the floor a few feet away, rolling around in a slew of lukewarm brown liquid.

Whatever relief I'd previously felt vanishes.

In the nearest bathroom, I find him.

"Simon?" my voice echoes off the walls, sounding hollow and strange and not like my own. In the mirror, not even my face looks like my own. My eyes are red, bloodshot, my mouth screwed in a frown. Is this what it looks like to care for someone? To care for them so much you ruin yourself over it? "Simon, please. It's Val. If you're in here—"

"Don't come in," comes Simon's voice, sounding even hollower than mine. It's strange and gritty, like he's been screaming. I pause, turning away from the urinals and instead towards the stalls. Underneath one I can see a pair of polished brown loafers. Simon's favorite pair of shoes.

"I'll be—" He cuts off with what sounds like a sob of frustration, or pain. "I'll be fine. Just don't come in."

In one respect, it should feel strange to be loitering around in the opposite sex's bathroom. But as I nudge the stall door open with my foot, as I swallow the gasp of painful surprise that tries to escape from my mouth, I forget where I even am.

Simon's on the ground, curled around the toilet, head in his hands and knees pulled to his chest. His hair is lank with sweat, and he's shaking: shaking in short, uncontrollable bursts, the jolts severe enough to move him across the floor a few inches.

"Simon—"

"Val. I said don't—no, no, no, please. It's starting again. I'm losing it. Val, I'm—"

As I watch, he changes. Not once, but over and over again, like watching a movie zoom forward or zoom back. His hair curls and uncurls, switches from red to blond to black and back to red again. His skin is dark. Tan. Ghost-pale. His shoulders broaden and narrow, his face warping into different structures. And he sits through all of it, the only sound he ever makes a silent gasp for air.

When it stops again, he's a bit taller and broader and his hair is curly and blond. I wipe the tears from my face, sinking down to my knees. The tile's frigid underneath my skin, but when I touch Simon, his skin's burning hot.

"Simon, talk to me," I say, my voice trembling a little. My hand lingers on his arm, the new sizes of which have torn a hole in his sweater. "What just happened?"

Simon buries his head deeper into his arms, still shaking intermittently. "You asked me if shapeshifting hurt," he says, his voice muffled. "Remember what I said?"

I frown at him, combing his hair back from his face. He flinches. "Of course I do. You said: 'Not when I'm in control of it.'"

Simon lets out a choked sob again, like his lungs are too exhausted to do much other than squeak. "I lost control," he says. "That's what happened."

I brush his ear; he shudders again. "Why?"

Simon squeezes his knees tighter against his chest. "I have no idea."

I exhale, sitting forward. I should know what to say, but God knows I don't. I want to calm him down. I want to tell him that it's all okay. What I don't want to do is lie. "Simon..."

"I told you not to come in," he snaps. "I didn't—I didn't want you to see me like that. Why did you—?"

His words falter off into silence as I lean forward, stretching my arms around him, resting my head in the crook of his shoulder. His whole body's doused in sweat, his pulse pounding, like his body's already committed itself to its next rendition. I squeeze my eyes shut and I hold him, just hold him, willing him to stay as he is. Willing his body to calm itself, willing him to come back to me. I hold him until everything else drowns away and it is my heartbeat and his and my skin and his and nothing else in the whole world.

I don't know he's crying until I feel his tears on my face. "I hate it," he whispers. "Losing myself like that. I hate it so much. Why can't I just be okay? Why can't we just be normal?"

"I don't want normal, Simon," I tell him, pulling him closer. He exhales, and it's the first time I've felt him relax since I got here. "I just want you. Every bit of you. That's what I want."

"My parents...my family...they used to ask me this question all the time. Well, they didn't exactly ask it. They just insinuated it enough that I got the message," Simon tells me, quietly, carefully. "How long can I go on like this, Val? They asked: how long can I go on like this until I just...disappear?"

Within my chest, my heart spasms.

I sit back, if only slightly, framing Simon's face with my hands. This face has a square jaw and ruddy cheeks and deep, deep emerald eyes. It's not the face I know, but I'm in love with it all the same, because it's still his.

"People only disappear when there's no one there to remember them anymore," I say, grinning at him, rubbing gentle circles on his cheek with my thumb. He just watches me, stunned. "But you have so many people to remember you, you know. I do. Your brother and your family do. Even Larry does. There's no way in hell you're going to disappear, Simon. You mean too much to too many people."

"That's not true."

I smack him. Gently. "Like hell it's not. That's the truest thing I've ever said."

His now fair eyebrows knit a little. "Val—"

"Actually no, it's not. This is," I rephrase, and I close my eyes, because I don't know if I'd have the courage to say it if I had to look at him. If I had to watch the expression on his face as it happened. "I love you, Simon. Maybe I haven't for as long as you've loved me, but I love you, okay? That's why I can't let you disappear."

I wait for a moment. For him to say something. Anything. But he is so, so quiet.

When I open my eyes again, they meet chestnut brown eyes, gold-flecked this close. It's Simon, Simon as I know him. Freckled-faced and red-haired and heart-stopping.

He's just staring at me. "Pinch me," he says, and I realize then that he's stopped trembling, his whole body at a placid stillness. "I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming, right?"

I shake my head, sitting back. "I'm sorry. I was just afraid to say it earlier."

"I was afraid to do a lot of things," Simon replies, smiling at me. Cautiously, almost, like any smile is a smile that should be treated with care. "But I'm so not scared anymore."

I laugh, easing forward, pressing the lightest of kisses to his neck. His breath stirs my hair as he exhales. "Then you're ready to go catch this plane now, right?"

He rests his hand in my hair for a beat, leaning his cheek on my forehead until he can move again. "Sorry about the coffee," he says. "And yeah. Yeah, I'm ready."