Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces
In the Arms of Sleep
It should all be a sick, twisted fantasy. It should have been a dream. Lullaby, baby; go to sleep[/i[. It had seemed that way. It had seemed to be just a dream and everything was spinning, spinning. Dilated pupils widening faster and faster. Dark holes in a sea of molten gold. He was awake and I was throwing up. I couldn't help myself. When I saw his pretty little features acknowledging us, responding to our presence, I turned to the side and expelled all my stomach contents. Splashing fears; hit the deck. All those fears I had kept bottled up inside, all the doubts that he wouldn't pull through, made a sickening noise against the sterile floor.
They could do nothing more than stare, horrified by my reaction to Gerard's return to full consciousness. After leaning his head outside to call out a nurse, Mikey went to join his parents at his bedside, eagerly exclaiming their happiness at the fact that he was better. Nervous spiders crawling and crawling and make them stop. I didn't know what to do there, watching the family reunited, watching how he responded wearily to their every question, a smile on his face. Clean up the mess; clean up the puddle of worn-out concern. The nurse had come and left rapidly, off to get someone to clean up the mess I had made: the mess that had splashed on my jeans and shoes. Half-lidded eyes say "come hither". He had been staring at me, a frown on his face as he contemplated what I had done.
I waved, motioning that I would wait outside. Strangers attending private moments. He immediately protested, hand outstretched toward me, wanting me near, wanting me with him. I slunk closer, making sure to stand on the opposite side of the bed; I was not part of the family. He reached out his hand, tugging lightly at my jacket to motion me to move closer. I did so without any hesitation, grabbing his hand with my own, gently holding his fingers. Smiling innocence tainted with eternal sleep. A janitor walked into the joyous moment mop in tow to clean up the mess I had made. It was all too overwhelming. More people arrived: his doctor and a nurse, smiles on their faces. Witness the spectacle like audiences in a circus. Gerard's hand tightened its grip, forcing my attention back to him even as he spoke in short sentences to his parents and brother.
They had been so worried about him; they were his family so they deserved to speak to him more. When his eyes began to droop, when he began to slip back into the comatose state he had been in, they waved their goodbyes. Meaningless promises of tomorrow and forever. The doctor assured them that it was normal, that he would only be awake for minutes at a time until he was fully recuperated. Frozen little boy intruding. The doctor recognized me and decided to not force my departure, picking up his clipboard to begin to jot down notes, checking on the man holding my hand. Once he and the nurse were done, they exited, the janitor having left earlier. Dead matter custard dripping from a dead dog's eyes. The mess had been cleaned.
He turned to me then, a small smile on his lips still as I sat myself on my accustomed chair. "Hello," he murmured, voice groggy and hoarse. I loved it. Still clutching his hand, I edged closer to his little cot, wanting to be as close to him as possible. Little pleasant greetings.
"God, Gerard; I was so worried. I visited every day." A smirk crossed his lips as he tried to adjust himself so that he could face me, chest rising and falling steadily.
"You love me," he cooed in a sing-song voice, resting his head against the soft white pillow. I couldn't help but laugh softly, rubbing my fingers over his knuckles gently. What he was saying had to be true; I wouldn't have visited him every day, religiously, sneaking in and staying way past the limit, if I didn't have feelings for him.
"I do. I love you." He made a soft content sound at that, eyes closing though I could see he struggled to keep them open.
"I love you too," he murmured finally, voice down to a mere mumble, almost nonexistent. I tugged on his hand worriedly.
"Please don't fall asleep again, Gee. I need you here with me." He chuckled softly, already relaxing, falling, falling. Don't fall. Stay, stay, stay.
"I'm not leaving," he mumbled now, beginning to drift off, to drift away. Protests scrambled up my throat, clawing at it desperately, spilling out of my mouth like waterfall vomit. Nothing I said could keep him up; he fell asleep again, hand falling limp in mine. I couldn't stop the tears from falling, couldn't stop the sobs from wracking my body, from shaking me and making me convulse. Both hands, one laden with a debilitating cast, clutched at his, shaking the dead limb. Nothing. After a few moments of heavy weeping, I fell silent, forehead pressed against the metal frame of the bed before me. I don't know. I don't know. I didn't know what to do now that he was gone again; I didn't know what to do now that I was alone again, only memories to keep me company. Somehow, I don't know how, I fell asleep. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from weeping or from spilling out my stomach on the floor.
I awoke hours later, groggy and with a red mark across my forehead. A sound had made me wake up. I wasn't certain what sound precisely but it had to have been something out of the ordinary, something past the beeping machines and gentle breathing. The sound came again, clearer now, louder now. It was a giggle. I turned my head to the side so fast, I cracked my vertebrae and, wincing, looked upon a marvel. He was awake again. "You're not going to throw up this time, are you?" he asked gently, teasingly, and I shook my head quickly, overjoyed to find him in this state.
"Gerard, you don't know how much I missed you these past few days. I've been coming here, sneaking in early way before visiting hours and staying until they threw me out. I was waiting for you, waiting for you to wake up and smile at me and talk. I've been waiting so long." I trailed off, tears making their way down my cheeks, my voice slurred and barely discernable due to my weeping. His hand patted mine, his other hand reaching out to caress my cheek gently.
"Don't cry, sugar," he whispered gently, a reassuring smile on his dry, cracked lips, hand moving at a gentle rhythm over mine. I grasped his fingers tightly, standing up from my chair, ignoring the way my joints and bones creaked in protest. I leaned over the metal frame, wanting to touch him, to feel his skin against mine. He smiled ever-so-slightly, shifting so that he was lying on his back again, eyes glinting as they looked up at me. I leaned down, free hand gently stroking the locks of black hair back, away from his forehead. It was dirty, greasy from not having been washed in the past few days, but I didn't care, not in the slightest.
He motioned me into the limited space of his pitiful little bed, making room so that my lithe frame could press in next to him. He was incredibly mindful of the various tubes and needles stuck in his arms, almost as if he were afraid of them. The oxygen mask was off now that he had recuperated enough to not need it, breathing fine on his own. I crawled in next to him, laughing slightly at how cramped the space was, at how our bodies were pressed together so tightly. He pulled me against him, pressing my head gently against his chest so that I could hear his heartbeat, could hear his soft breathing. It was Heaven because it was a reminder that he was alive, so gloriously alive. "Talk to me," I requested softly, fingers running over his hospital gown gently.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Tell me anything you want. Tell me about your childhood, the events of your life, what happened in your favorite television show. Sing me a song, spin me a tale from the creative depths of your mind. Just don't fall silent." He nodded, thinking for a brief moment to decide what he was going to fill the overwhelming silence with. He began with a song, his gentle voice lulling me, promising me everything under the sun, everything he could offer. It was a love song, created at the beginning of times, carefully handed down from generation to generation until he knew it as well. When he was done he explained that his grandmother had taught him the song. He began to tell me about her then.
Elena Lee Rush was her name, his idol, his source of inspiration. She had been the one to inspire him to sing, the one that had told him to follow his dreams. She had been the one to tell him to not let the universe get him down, to brave the world with his head held high. He told me of when he changed schools and he tried out for the play Peter Pan. He told me how the kids laughed at him because he had gotten the part for Peter Pan which was usually given to a girl. He told me what a "good" impression, he had made, establishing himself as the geek in his first year of school. He told me how she had been the one to encourage him to do it, the one that had convinced him that his singing was a gift, that he could play the part perfectly; he just had to have faith.
He did it for her, to prove that he could. She made him an outfit so he could play the part: green tights and everything. He hated the costume but he wore it because she had made it, because it would make her happy and because with it, he could become Peter Pan. He practiced diligently, working only to make her happy, to make her proud of him. He rehearsed day and night, memorizing each song down to the last pause and lilt, awkwardly dancing in his and Mikey's room. Mikey had been in awe of his singing, he remembered with a smile. Little Mikey was astonished with the way he could sing, with the way he became that fantastical creature. Mikey and Elena were the ones to support him, to encourage him to go along with it, despite his nervousness and his reluctance.
It wasn't that his parents weren't supportive of him, he assured me with a smirk. Simply put, those two people had the biggest influence on him, both then and now, and so their opinions were the only ones that really truly mattered to him. Returning to his story with an apologetic smile for straying, he told me about the big night, about the night where he became Peter Pan in front of the whole school. He was young yet, in middle school, so what was he to the school? He got up on the stage that night, sweating bullets and trembling, fearing the moment the play was going to start. When the curtains opened, when he could see his beaming grandmother and squealing brother clapping for him in the audience, he opened his mouth and was Peter Pan.
He chuckled softly at the memory, at how he had performed without qualms in front of the school, singing unabashedly because of them. He then sighed, already beginning to fall asleep, the gentle hand that had been massaging my scalp stilling. "I didn't sing again after that night. Kids are cruel and I hated myself in high school. I'll only sing for them. Now, though, I'll sing for you." He slipped away, falling asleep with his hands still holding me tight, with the monitors beeping around us. I fell with him.
They could do nothing more than stare, horrified by my reaction to Gerard's return to full consciousness. After leaning his head outside to call out a nurse, Mikey went to join his parents at his bedside, eagerly exclaiming their happiness at the fact that he was better. Nervous spiders crawling and crawling and make them stop. I didn't know what to do there, watching the family reunited, watching how he responded wearily to their every question, a smile on his face. Clean up the mess; clean up the puddle of worn-out concern. The nurse had come and left rapidly, off to get someone to clean up the mess I had made: the mess that had splashed on my jeans and shoes. Half-lidded eyes say "come hither". He had been staring at me, a frown on his face as he contemplated what I had done.
I waved, motioning that I would wait outside. Strangers attending private moments. He immediately protested, hand outstretched toward me, wanting me near, wanting me with him. I slunk closer, making sure to stand on the opposite side of the bed; I was not part of the family. He reached out his hand, tugging lightly at my jacket to motion me to move closer. I did so without any hesitation, grabbing his hand with my own, gently holding his fingers. Smiling innocence tainted with eternal sleep. A janitor walked into the joyous moment mop in tow to clean up the mess I had made. It was all too overwhelming. More people arrived: his doctor and a nurse, smiles on their faces. Witness the spectacle like audiences in a circus. Gerard's hand tightened its grip, forcing my attention back to him even as he spoke in short sentences to his parents and brother.
They had been so worried about him; they were his family so they deserved to speak to him more. When his eyes began to droop, when he began to slip back into the comatose state he had been in, they waved their goodbyes. Meaningless promises of tomorrow and forever. The doctor assured them that it was normal, that he would only be awake for minutes at a time until he was fully recuperated. Frozen little boy intruding. The doctor recognized me and decided to not force my departure, picking up his clipboard to begin to jot down notes, checking on the man holding my hand. Once he and the nurse were done, they exited, the janitor having left earlier. Dead matter custard dripping from a dead dog's eyes. The mess had been cleaned.
He turned to me then, a small smile on his lips still as I sat myself on my accustomed chair. "Hello," he murmured, voice groggy and hoarse. I loved it. Still clutching his hand, I edged closer to his little cot, wanting to be as close to him as possible. Little pleasant greetings.
"God, Gerard; I was so worried. I visited every day." A smirk crossed his lips as he tried to adjust himself so that he could face me, chest rising and falling steadily.
"You love me," he cooed in a sing-song voice, resting his head against the soft white pillow. I couldn't help but laugh softly, rubbing my fingers over his knuckles gently. What he was saying had to be true; I wouldn't have visited him every day, religiously, sneaking in and staying way past the limit, if I didn't have feelings for him.
"I do. I love you." He made a soft content sound at that, eyes closing though I could see he struggled to keep them open.
"I love you too," he murmured finally, voice down to a mere mumble, almost nonexistent. I tugged on his hand worriedly.
"Please don't fall asleep again, Gee. I need you here with me." He chuckled softly, already relaxing, falling, falling. Don't fall. Stay, stay, stay.
"I'm not leaving," he mumbled now, beginning to drift off, to drift away. Protests scrambled up my throat, clawing at it desperately, spilling out of my mouth like waterfall vomit. Nothing I said could keep him up; he fell asleep again, hand falling limp in mine. I couldn't stop the tears from falling, couldn't stop the sobs from wracking my body, from shaking me and making me convulse. Both hands, one laden with a debilitating cast, clutched at his, shaking the dead limb. Nothing. After a few moments of heavy weeping, I fell silent, forehead pressed against the metal frame of the bed before me. I don't know. I don't know. I didn't know what to do now that he was gone again; I didn't know what to do now that I was alone again, only memories to keep me company. Somehow, I don't know how, I fell asleep. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from weeping or from spilling out my stomach on the floor.
I awoke hours later, groggy and with a red mark across my forehead. A sound had made me wake up. I wasn't certain what sound precisely but it had to have been something out of the ordinary, something past the beeping machines and gentle breathing. The sound came again, clearer now, louder now. It was a giggle. I turned my head to the side so fast, I cracked my vertebrae and, wincing, looked upon a marvel. He was awake again. "You're not going to throw up this time, are you?" he asked gently, teasingly, and I shook my head quickly, overjoyed to find him in this state.
"Gerard, you don't know how much I missed you these past few days. I've been coming here, sneaking in early way before visiting hours and staying until they threw me out. I was waiting for you, waiting for you to wake up and smile at me and talk. I've been waiting so long." I trailed off, tears making their way down my cheeks, my voice slurred and barely discernable due to my weeping. His hand patted mine, his other hand reaching out to caress my cheek gently.
"Don't cry, sugar," he whispered gently, a reassuring smile on his dry, cracked lips, hand moving at a gentle rhythm over mine. I grasped his fingers tightly, standing up from my chair, ignoring the way my joints and bones creaked in protest. I leaned over the metal frame, wanting to touch him, to feel his skin against mine. He smiled ever-so-slightly, shifting so that he was lying on his back again, eyes glinting as they looked up at me. I leaned down, free hand gently stroking the locks of black hair back, away from his forehead. It was dirty, greasy from not having been washed in the past few days, but I didn't care, not in the slightest.
He motioned me into the limited space of his pitiful little bed, making room so that my lithe frame could press in next to him. He was incredibly mindful of the various tubes and needles stuck in his arms, almost as if he were afraid of them. The oxygen mask was off now that he had recuperated enough to not need it, breathing fine on his own. I crawled in next to him, laughing slightly at how cramped the space was, at how our bodies were pressed together so tightly. He pulled me against him, pressing my head gently against his chest so that I could hear his heartbeat, could hear his soft breathing. It was Heaven because it was a reminder that he was alive, so gloriously alive. "Talk to me," I requested softly, fingers running over his hospital gown gently.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Tell me anything you want. Tell me about your childhood, the events of your life, what happened in your favorite television show. Sing me a song, spin me a tale from the creative depths of your mind. Just don't fall silent." He nodded, thinking for a brief moment to decide what he was going to fill the overwhelming silence with. He began with a song, his gentle voice lulling me, promising me everything under the sun, everything he could offer. It was a love song, created at the beginning of times, carefully handed down from generation to generation until he knew it as well. When he was done he explained that his grandmother had taught him the song. He began to tell me about her then.
Elena Lee Rush was her name, his idol, his source of inspiration. She had been the one to inspire him to sing, the one that had told him to follow his dreams. She had been the one to tell him to not let the universe get him down, to brave the world with his head held high. He told me of when he changed schools and he tried out for the play Peter Pan. He told me how the kids laughed at him because he had gotten the part for Peter Pan which was usually given to a girl. He told me what a "good" impression, he had made, establishing himself as the geek in his first year of school. He told me how she had been the one to encourage him to do it, the one that had convinced him that his singing was a gift, that he could play the part perfectly; he just had to have faith.
He did it for her, to prove that he could. She made him an outfit so he could play the part: green tights and everything. He hated the costume but he wore it because she had made it, because it would make her happy and because with it, he could become Peter Pan. He practiced diligently, working only to make her happy, to make her proud of him. He rehearsed day and night, memorizing each song down to the last pause and lilt, awkwardly dancing in his and Mikey's room. Mikey had been in awe of his singing, he remembered with a smile. Little Mikey was astonished with the way he could sing, with the way he became that fantastical creature. Mikey and Elena were the ones to support him, to encourage him to go along with it, despite his nervousness and his reluctance.
It wasn't that his parents weren't supportive of him, he assured me with a smirk. Simply put, those two people had the biggest influence on him, both then and now, and so their opinions were the only ones that really truly mattered to him. Returning to his story with an apologetic smile for straying, he told me about the big night, about the night where he became Peter Pan in front of the whole school. He was young yet, in middle school, so what was he to the school? He got up on the stage that night, sweating bullets and trembling, fearing the moment the play was going to start. When the curtains opened, when he could see his beaming grandmother and squealing brother clapping for him in the audience, he opened his mouth and was Peter Pan.
He chuckled softly at the memory, at how he had performed without qualms in front of the school, singing unabashedly because of them. He then sighed, already beginning to fall asleep, the gentle hand that had been massaging my scalp stilling. "I didn't sing again after that night. Kids are cruel and I hated myself in high school. I'll only sing for them. Now, though, I'll sing for you." He slipped away, falling asleep with his hands still holding me tight, with the monitors beeping around us. I fell with him.
♠ ♠ ♠
Thank you so much Buffy, Hero, Gen and Jeri; you know how much you all mean to me and I apologize ever so much for having tardied so much in updating this story. Senior year is really a lot harder than I thought it would be and it's putting a lot of pressure. By the way, you were both right Gen and Buffy, that's pretty much what the title means. The song's amazing, by the way, and so sweet. <3 Comments?