Even Lovers Drown

Shaking her head, Saylor reached into the truck for another box, getting over the shock that froze her in her spot. She wasn't going to stand there and try to figure out why Blake deemed taking over her job necessary. She had no excess energy to give up for that cause.

She slid a cardboard box into her arms, ignoring their want to give out and let the heavy box fall to the pavement. This heavy lifting would be one of the hardest parts of the day. Setting up the table was a breeze. Sitting around, waiting for the concert to start would give her time to find the nearest coffee seller, though those weren't very likely to exist in the concert setting. The time could be spent running to the gas station across the street with Davy. She was willing to partake in a tiny adventure for the sake of coffee, something that would keep her up.

And then, there was selling merch. Rude fans, long lines, and a concert that never seemed to end. Just thinking about it was daunting. Her time selling merch would take the rightful place of worst part of her day, over the energy-exertion that came with unloading and loading.

"I don't think Blake wants you to do that," Davy commented, grabbing his own box from the truck.

"I don't care," Saylor said.

Davy smiled, mirth dancing in his eyes. With a noncommittal shrug, he walked across the parking lot. Sighing, Saylor followed after him. She didn't bother attempting to catch up to his long stride. Her sluggish feet wouldn't move quickly enough. She was walking, and that was good enough.

Maybe, Blake was right. A nap would reenergize Saylor, make her day not as miserable. There were no negative intentions behind Blake's offer, and she assumed there were none behind Blake stealing her box.

But she couldn't take a nap. Tired or not, she had a job to do, and exhaustion from staying up all night wasn't an excuse. Davy managed to stay up every other night and get his job done. Saylor could do the same. She didn't need Blake taking over her job so she could take a nap.

And she didn't want to nap. She didn't want to sleep. She didn't want to risk having nightmares, the ones that plagued her, the ones that consisted of memories. A five-minute, ten-minute, thirty-minute nap to aid her exhaustion in exchange for the nightmares wasn't a very good deal in her eyes. Because those nightmares terrified her. They weren't fabrications, made up images of bats or ghouls that would haunt her in the night. They were real. They had happened. In her sleep, she was forced to relive them. No amount of sleep was worth reliving those memories.

Saylor walked through the venue hallways alone, Davy long since disappearing from her line of vision. She was fine navigating the area without him. The directions he spouted rapidly in his overly energized state were enough to get her through. Even if she only vaguely remembered them.

The merch table came into view. A set of empty tables, barren display board, boxes shoved carelessly under the table, and Blake and Davy standing idle, talking. The sight of the table seemed to ease the exhaustion that weighed down her arms, acting as a promise that she could put the box down soon and give her arms a break for a little while. She could make the distance to the table.

Blake turned her head, breaking eye contact with Davy, her gaze landing on Saylor. Her smile fell, the second time that day at Saylor's doing, and her eyes widened. Mumbling something to Davy, she rushed to her, leaving him alone at the table to watch.

"You're supposed to be napping," Blake said. The statement came out as more a worried reminder than a reprimand, her smooth alto too soft to sound chiding. "Give me that." She slid the box out of Saylor's arms and into her own, her eyes dropping to the cardboard container as she carefully did so. The merchandise situated in her arms, Blake met Saylor's eyes again, blue depths shining with concern. "Now, go get some rest."

"I can't. I need to help unload," Saylor returned.

Blake held back a frustrated sigh. Saylor needed to sleep, not help unload when she looked like she could barely stand. Sure, she brought the state upon herself by staying up all night, but she wouldn't be much help if she didn't accept Blake's offer and get the rest she needed. There was no point in stressing her body. Blake was more than willing to help.

"I can take your spot for you. It's not a problem."

"Blake, I can handle unloading merch. You don't need to do it for me."

"I just want to make sure you don't hurt yourself."

The feebleness in Blake's voice and fret swimming in her eyes made Saylor hesitate. She was just trying to look out for her, even if she didn't realize taking a nap wasn't an option. She wasn't trying to control her.

Saylor rested a hand on Blake's shoulder, breaking her established touch barrier for the sake of calming her. Anxiety didn't drown her, either a successful reaction from her lack of nightmares or an effect of her near-crippling fatigue. Heavy pounding of her heart against her ribcage and excited nerves that lit in her stomach replaced the normal unease, more energizing than any energy drink she had consumed.

"I'll be fine," Saylor said, managing to keep her voice unaffected, "Go do something you're good at, like getting pretty. I'll take care of unloading."

Blake glanced at the delicate hand on her shoulder. Saylor's hand. Touching her. Intentionally. Worry couldn't coat the giddy excitement she felt. Warmth spread through her, thrilling every nerve of her body. She didn't care if this was a tactic to make her cave. Trick or not, the simple touch was a step for them, a hurdle they had overcome. This deserved to be documented in Hayden's imaginary book.

Meeting Saylor's piercing green eyes again, Blake said, "Let me take this box to the table, at least."

A smile spread on Saylor's face. "Okay, you can take the box to the table."

Allowing her hand to fall from Blake's shoulder, Saylor turned and walked away, intent on getting more boxes. Blake watched after her, eyes falling to her lightly swinging hips. The place Saylor's hand once occupied felt empty. She wanted the touch on her arm again, where it belonged.

But Saylor was set on working, proving that she could function well enough despite lack of sleep. She wouldn't come back with the intent to lay her hand on Blake's arm, just to throw boxes under the table. The light touch would have to be engrained into Blake's memory, the warmth and excitement hidden away to remember on a bad day.

Saylor turned a corner, taking away the delicious view and all hope of her coming back to touch Blake again. Sighing, Blake uprooted herself from her spot, no longer having reason to stay there, and returned to the merch table. She knelt, ignoring Davy's stare and quirked eyebrow, and shoved the box underneath the table with the others.

"Alright, I'll bite," Davy said as she straightened, "What's up with you?"

A scarred wrist flashed in Blake's mind, the reason for her relatively strange behavior. She leaned against the table and crossed her arms under her chest. There was no easy way to tell Davy what she saw, no way to cushion the blow of what Saylor could be doing. She didn't know if revealing the information was the right thing to do. Telling him felt like an invasion of privacy or breaking of unstated trust. These were Saylor's scars and her secret behind them. Blake didn't truly have a right to tell.

"I saw something when I went to get Saylor from the locker room last night," Blake said.

She may not have had a right to tell, but Davy had a right to know. He was her brother. Half-siblings or not, he looked out for her. He cared for her. And he would want to know so he could help.

"You saw her naked and now you've decided to wait on her hand and foot? I don't think that's going to help you get her to take her shirt off for you," Davy said.

"No," Blake said quickly. Saylor's panty-clad form flashed through her head, the sexy lace panties and uncovered skin destroying the serious image of scars. "Well, kind of, but no." She shook her head, a frantic gesture to rid the disruptive thought and remain on topic. "I saw scars on her wrist."

The news didn't startle Davy. He remained collected, calm. No worry flashed through his green eyes. His response was a curious "Oh?" and nothing more.

"Yeah. They look like cigarette burns and they make a triangle if you connect them." Blake uncrossed one arm and made a tiny triangle in the air. "I think," she hesitated, debating on giving her opinion of the marks. Deciding to take the chance, she said, "I think she hurts herself."

A pause, deadpan green eyes staring, and then, laughter. Loud and full of amusement, flowing from Davy's mouth. He pressed his palms against the table to keep stable. The dismissal of the seriousness behind Blake's accusation didn't bother her, but did raise her curiosity. He knew something she didn't about those scars.

Or the laughter could have been the caffeine.

"What's so funny?" Blake asked.

Davy quieted his laughter, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye and placing a hand on his stomach. "Saylor does not hurt herself."

"Well, where else would they come from?"

She had ideas, plenty of them, but none fit as well as her theory. Self-injury made sense. Nothing else did no matter how hard she tried to force the pieces together.

"You'll have to ask her." Davy shrugged. "I can't tell you that."

"She's not in any danger, though, right?"

Her safety mattered more than the story behind the scars. As long as Saylor was okay, Blake didn't need to know where they came from. Their origin was never her business, regardless of how curious she was.

"None at all. Promise."