Fatigue

Go Ahead. Absorb.

If you can acknowledge it and accept it you can live through it.

Justin…

"How long have you had this feeling of fatigue?" I look at the doctor and mentally try to remember how long.

"Couple of months," I tell him and he scribbles notes onto the chart, my name so prominently printed along the top. He stands and pulls the stethoscope from around his neck.

He slides the paper robe down and presses the cold instrument to my back. "Take a deep breath and hold it."

I step back from the canvas and run a shaking hand over my mouth, the smell of paint filling the air. I suppress the urge to scream as the strength leaves my legs and I lean against the tabletop.

Three doctors visits and multiple tests, fun.

"What now?" Brian asks the doctor and I stand up. I slide my arms into the sleeves of my jacket and leave the room. I don't stop to wait for Brian and my fingers call the elevator, pressing the button again and again. "Justin."

"I have a painting to finish," is all I say as the doors to the elevator open and I step inside. I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes. Brian stands next to me, anything but content to leave me in silence. He doesn't try to speak.

The doors open and I step forward, cutting my way through the people in the halls. Brian follows closely behind me and the sound of his footsteps increases the distance. I stand next to the car door and wait.

"Shit," I yell as I throw my paintbrush down and sit on the stool next to the table. I will myself to breathe, to take in as much air as I can. A bottle of water and a handful of pills and I didn't even see them coming. "Thanks," I offer and he takes it silently.

I watch him as I try to catch my breath. I watch him pace in front of the painting and rest his hands on his hips. "It's good."

I clutch the bottle of water to my chest and take as deep a breath as I can. "It's not finished," I tell him. "Something's missing."

"Can't tell from the outside," he says and I smirk.

"If only that was the case for everything."

"Why are you still reading that?" I ask as I walk from the bedroom to the kitchen, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to regulate my breathing. I start walking again and the steps are hesitant.

"One of us has to," he tells me. "And since you have decided to act like a twat, I guess it's me." I let the refrigerator door slam close and turn to walk back. "It's treatable."

One step and then two and I make my way to the bed. "With pills and lifestyle change," I say in mock support. He looks over at me as I sit down on the bed, dropping a water bottle next to his leg.

"There's surgery."

"Heart failure," I sigh as I prop myself up against the pillows. "This morning all I had to worry about was that goddamned painting."

**

Brian…

I watch him without watching and stare at the painting. I listen to his breathing and resist the urge to lecture him about the paint, about the fumes. About the long hours and the nights not spent sleeping. "Physical beauty is overrated," I tell him and he leans onto the top of the table.

"You're so full of shit," he says as he unscrews the cap from the water bottle and takes a drink. He sits the bottle down and stands, his fingers curled around his paintbrush and his bottom lip held tightly between his teeth.

I sigh and I smirk and I smile.

"Did you eat today?" I ask as I move away from the painting, looking at his other works in progress. Works that he may never finish, may never have the energy to finish, may never have the time to finish.

"Wasn't hungry, still not," he tells me and I reach out and trail a finger over distorted images and dreams left to dry. I rub my fingers together and turn back to him, running my fingers over his arms as he steps closer to his canvas.

"You know what the doctor said," I remind him.

"Fuck the doctor."

"No," I say as he flings the door to the loft open and walks in, "he wasn't really my type. His assistant though…."

"The one who took my blood?" He nods as he slips out of his jacket and flings it onto the sofa. I close the door, walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of Beam, and then another.

**

Thai and he won't eat anything but the fortune cookies.

I press the chopsticks to my bottom lip and watch him. "Stop it," he tells me and I sit the carton on the floor. "You looking at me every minute isn't going to make my heart any better, so stop." And he breaks the fortune cookie in his hand into two pieces.

"You starving to death is a better solution?"

"If I'm going to die," he tells me as he shifts in his spot, takes a breath and pops the wrapper on another cookie, "I'd rather it was on my own terms. And if I choose to starve to death, so be it."

"You're not going to die." He turns and looks at me, charcoal and sketchpad in his hands.

"And the doctors have been so accurate in the past," he says as he buries his mind in his work.

"You should tell your mom, Justin," I say and he eats the broken pieces of cookie. He leans to his side and props himself up on his elbow, pushing the plastic wrapper of the cookie around the floor.

"I know." I nod and pick up my bottle of beer. He drops his head onto the hardwood floor and crosses his legs, stretching his arms out towards the ceiling.

"I think my coffin should be steel, classy yet simple." And he turns and looks at me. "What do you think?"

**

Justin…

In her eyes I'll always be five.

"That's not funny, Justin," she tells me and I shrug. She pours herself a cup of tea and comes to sit in front of me at the kitchen table.

"Yeah, that's what Brian said."

"What'd the doctor say?" She asks and I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.

"With proper diet and exercise you can expect to live a long life."

"Well, let us hope that my expectations don't exceed my physical limitations," I offer.

"He said a lot, gave me pills and advice. Couldn't really offer too much more than that," I tell her and she soaks it up. "I have to go. Important work to do," I say and I smile as I stand up from the table. She grabs my hand as I walk past and I lean down and kiss her on the cheek.

I step off of the bus and count the steps to the loft.

I slide the door open and welcome the quiet. Telling your mother that you have been diagnosed with a condition that doctors should have noticed when you were in her care is hard. Telling her that there is nothing that she can do is worse.

I drop my wardrobe in pieces as I make my way to the easel in the corner. Hours pass by me and I haven't touched brush to canvas. I stand staring at the half finished painting, wanting nothing more than to destroy it and start over again.

I stand and I wait for some sort of inspiration.

"Looks about the same as it did yesterday," Brian says and I'm snapped out of my trance.

"That is not true," I say as I frown at the painting. "Okay it is. I haven't touched it since I started looking at it."

"And yet you continue to stare."

"Real art takes patience," I justify. Patience, I haven't decided if I hate the word.

**

Brian…

Pills, pills, pills and pills for the side effects.

I remember when taking drugs was purely for recreation. He swallows another pill and straddles my waist, dropping his weight and leaning forward to press his lips to mine. He moves his hands to my wrists and holds my arms down on the bed, kissing a trail to my collarbone and back again.

"Promise," he whispers and I bite down on the flesh of his shoulder, leaving a mark. He grinds himself against me and I can feel his smile.

"Hmm." He moves his hands down my arm and I bend my wrist, grateful for the sensation of pins and needles. I guide him onto his back and he adjusts his legs, letting me fall completely onto him. I find my way into his mouth and guide the head of my cock into his tight hole.

"Promise me that it'll be here, with you. Okay." And I nod and press forward and his moans cover my shaking breaths as I hold back my tears.

"Yes."

**

Push Your Luck. Exhale.

When you can pretend like everything is normal you can breathe.

Justin…

I collapse on top of him and he pulls me closer, pinning me to his chest and taking deep breaths. "You haven't lost your touch. "

"Leaving you something to remember," I tell him as I move out of his arms and onto my back. The ceiling has never felt so close and he moves. I hear him walk into the bathroom and the shower turn on.

"I want it to feel just like this." And he gets up and walks away. I'm used to it. I can't stand it. I barely listen to his movements and keep talking. "Quiet, with no one here. You," I tell him, "and me."

He comes back and it's a game of tug and war. Emotions versus morbid truth. "Should I be concerned about your not so subtle preparations for death?"

"You are the one who says that we should always be prepared," I say loudly. He drops the soap and I resist the urge to make any comment. The cliché is dead anyway.

"When preparing to fuck," he clarifies. "Combining the two would seriously make me question your level of kink. Even I wouldn't venture into necrophilia." The shower turns off and he emerges in a towel. I sit up and cross my legs, picking at the drying cum still decorating my chest.

"One of the few areas you have left untouched," I say and he smiles as he walks over to the closet; the meticulous preparation for another day. The joyful urge to leave your life at home.

Avoidance, I haven't decided if I hate the word.

**

Find out how much love the world can hold. Live.

If you can't beat them join them and change all the rules.

Brian…

"Where are we going?" He asks. I turn the corner and press the gas.

"You'll know when you get there."

I grab his wrists. I pull him up and off of the sofa, his sketchpads and pencils rolling onto the floor.

"What are you doing?" Justin asks and I don't stop walking. I stand in front of his painting with him and turn him toward the canvas. "Brian…."

He starts to talk and I press a paintbrush into his hand. "Finish it," I tell him and he chokes out a laugh.

"Art is more lucrative when sold posthumously," he reasons and I let go of his hand. He picks up the paint and he starts to mix.

"No more talk of death and dying," I say. "Finish this and then the next." Then the next and the one after that.

**

Justin…

I stand in front of the canvas and stop thinking. I don't think about the outcome or the beginning. Hell, the middle is still clouded in gray. But my hand moves and the colors form. And Brian's here, in the background, waiting.

"Are you listening?" I nod my head and stare into him.

"I'm listening."

Hours of nothing and my hand stops moving. "It's finished," I say and I hear the treadmill stop. Brian walks over and stands next to me. "Do you like it?"

"Do you?" I lean my head to the side and stare into the picture. I don't know. How will I know?

"Haven't decided yet," I tell him and he wipes the sweat from his face and drapes the towel across his shoulder.

"You have time." He moves away from the painting and walks into the kitchen, pulling a bottle of water out of the fridge and sitting my medications on the counter.

I look at Vic as he takes his meds and I sit down at the table next to him. "How do you do it?" I ask and he looks over at me and he smiles and takes another pill.

"What choice do I have?" I shrug and he laughs. "Let some disease, some doctor, tell me how long I'm going to live?" I watch him as he replaces the cap on his meds and stands up.

I turn and watch him as he makes his way to the stairs and turns back to me. "I fought too hard for the right to live to die now. Especially by someone else's rules," he tells me and disappears up the stairs.

I keep my eyes locked on the pills lining the countertop. I walk over, paint covering my hands and my heart beating fast. I take a deep breath and I take it in stride. I pick up two pills and Brian slides a glass of water my way.

"Shower?" Brian suggests and I swallow another pill.

I smile at him and turn to face the canvas, the paint wet and shining as I sit my palette on the counter. I pull my shirt over my head and let it fall to the floor.

Death, dying, living and waiting, I haven't decided. But I'll enjoy the ride.

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