Je t'aime, tu sais?

"It's disgusting," Patrice groaned, his voice just barely above a whisper, like it had been all morning.
He was tired and loud noises agitated him.
So did the Boston roads.
He had already puked twice since he'd been in the car a total of six minutes, commuting the less than two miles from Mass General Hospital to his apartment.
He sat in the back seat, Guill driving as cautiously as he could with the other Bruins trainer DelNegro in the passenger's seat with directions, and his father, sitting worriedly on the other side of Babs, who sat in the back of the car in the middle, so Patrice could use the interior of the car door to lean on for support.
Right now, however, he leaned forward, his elbows bent on his knees, his hands wrapped around his thick foam collar as he hung his head over the plastic shopping bag Babs held out for him. The first one he had spewed into was tied off and sitting between his Ugg moccasin clad feet. Apparently Jamie had brought them to the hospital for him to wear.
He never remembered her being there, though.
He felt like shit.
He just wanted the car to stop moving.
He didn't want to sit in a wheel chair again.
He wanted to walk.
But he couldn't.
He just couldn't.
"Just spit," Babs instructed, holding the plastic shopping bag in front of Patrice's chin. "Get it all out. You're not special, Bergeron. Nothing you do can gross me out."
"Yeah?" He asked, doing his best to fake a laugh, knowing everyone was here to help him and all he was doing was complaining.
"Yeah. I've seen a sliced achilles tendon--"
Patrice lurched, dry heaving into the tripled shopping bag but only producing a trickle of stomach acid followed by a frustrated groan.
"Don't tell him those things!" Gerard scolded the team doctor, nudging his elbow harshly and throwing him a disgusted look. He wasn't handling the trainers' presence well; he wanted to help his son, regardless of who's background in medicine was stronger. He was his father, after all, and he knew him best.
"Dad," both Patrice and Guill warned the older man, Guill even throwing him a look telling him to calm down over his shoulder from the driver's seat. Gerard heaved a sigh and sat back in his seat, his arms thickly wrapped in his coat folded across his wide chest. He was clearly distressed as to his youngest son's situation, and perturbed at how far away he was forced to sit from him.
Patrice wiped his tongue across his teeth, collecting the tart, sharp tasting aftertaste of his vomit and pooling it behind his front teeth. He pursed his lips and spit into the bag, just like he would've if he were on the ice.
"There," he said, lifting himself from his bent position over the shopping bag, directing his attention back to the conversation he was having with Babs. He slumped backwards into his seat, sinking defeatedly and closing his eyes.
"Good," the doctor said, tying the bag's handles in a knot and dropping it to the floor of the car with the other one.
"How much further," Patrice whispered, a hand, bruised from needles and a lack of affection strewn across his hungry stomach, thin with a lack of nutrition over the past two days.
"Almost bud," DelNegro said, stealing a look at him from the mirror behind his visor. "One big turn left."
"Jamie's gonna be mad," he breathed, grimacing as the car shifted weight from its left to its right tires as Guill eased the vehicle down into the parking garage beneath Patrice's apartment.
"No, no she won't man," Guill said, promising him with his eyes through the rearview mirror.
It was no use, Patrice had his eyes closed and his head lolled to the side, a massive frown folded across his lips.
"So mad," he whispered, his fingers lazily twisting in the thin material of his third Reebok hockey shirt of the day. Apparently she had packed and delivered the entire bag of clothes for him.
Why couldn't he remember?
Ugh... his head killed.
"Patrice, she won't be. She's just so glad you're coming home, bud," Babs said, gripping his knee through his light grey sweatpants supportively. "She just wants you home, man."
Patrice huffed, willing himself not to cry, even if it's all he wanted to do. He had asked Guill not to let Jamie come to the hospital to help him get home and he knew it had hurt her. He just... he couldn't let her see him like this. Before he had even been discharged this morning he had tried to walk and failed; just sitting up and slowly edging his legs off the end of the bed had rocked him with the harshest wave of nausea and had his shirt drenched in a putrid smelling buff and a slew of French curses all within seconds.
After that debacle he ensured Jamie would not attend his pick up, even if he couldn't remember the last time he had seen her and just desperately wanted her to coddle him and slip pain pills between his chapped lips and whisper that she loved him no matter how many brain cells he had lost in her sweet, petite French.
Those bouts of nausea weren't the only waves that hit him though.
Ever since he woke up yesterday morning Patrice had found himself shaken with waves of very powerful emotion. Randomly he would be moved to tears and uncontrollably frustrated and he wouldn't--he couldn't--cope like he was used to, like he had trained himself to for many, many years.
One of these moments was now, as they pulled into his parking space.
"Oh my God," he moaned, bringing his hands to his face to hide his anxiety and the imminent emotional attack. He was going to do it, he was going to cry, no matter how hard he willed himself not to, no matter how pathetic he knew he'd look. He just couldn't help it. "Where's my mom!" He cried in frustration, no tears streaming his cheeks although his face looked like one that could weep.
"Get--! Move!" Gerard commanded, struggling with Babs to fight for the middle seat, his paternal instincts pricked and high at his son's distress.
"Oh Jesus" Babs grunted, recognizing the emotional episode that was rocking Patrice's frontal lobe, as well as Mr. Cleary's inherent desire to provide for his son.
"C'mon bud, we're here, we're here!" Guill said, throwing the car in park and whirling around from the driver's seat to grab his dad by the collar and give Bab's some breathing room.
"I am so fucked!" Patrice cried, this time a few hot tears escaping as he flexed his legs in the back of the car. He balled up his fists and pressed them into the back of Guill's seat with a roar clogged in the back of his throat.
He was panicking.
He couldn't control himself.
He was so frustrated and no one understood.
He just wanted to cry.
He was...
He was--Uh oh.
He was going to be sick.
As all the men in the car doted over him, trying to console him in an attempt to conserve his energy for pulling himself out of the car in a few minutes and making his way upstairs, he froze.
"I'm gonna..." he gulped, closing his eyes, loosing all the color in his sullen face. "I'm gonna need a bag..." He whispered.
"Door! Door! No more bags!" Babs called as Guill threw his seat belt off and fell out of the front of the car, grabbing Patrice's door handle just in time for Babs to lean him out the side of his brother's Audi A7. The other men clambered out of the other side of the vehicle as Patrice got even better at emptying his guts.
"Where's Jamie?" Guill asked Sidney, who had donned a black Reebok baseball cap and a hoodie on the rainy afternoon and had magically appeared in the parking deck alongside them. Although they were inside underneath the apartment complex in the garage, it still felt particularly damp and wet.
Boston's favorite son had fallen, after all.
Guill was gentle with his younger brother, helping him lift his feet from the back seat of the car and sit his slippers, the feet in them lifeless, on the pavement before him. His knees were spread so he could hang his head in case any other contents of his stomach decided to creep up.
"Don't let her come down!" He cried, although no tears slid down his cheeks. He outstretched his hand to Sid, grabbing for him for balance he was quickly loosing although he still only sat. Sid recognized the dilated pupils and the anxiety right away and eagerly took Patrice's knuckles into his hand and bent towards him. "I don't want her to see me..." he sighed. He lowered his head further and burped. "So disgusting..." he whispered.
Sid sat on his heels, his knees bent and his thighs looking as if they may shred the very fabric of his jeans. "You're good, you're good bud," he promised his fellow Team Canada line mate. "She's upstairs; she really wants to see you, man. She's gotta big kiss for ya, alright?"
Sid had met Guill yesterday in Patrice's apartment and with the help of Jamie explained his current situation. Patrice had opened his home to him while he rehabbed his own season ending concussion just around the corner with a world renown post-concussion syndrome specialist. Since Patrice's incident two days ago he had moved into a hotel down the road, but wanted to help in whatever way possible.
After Sid detailed his own trip back home from the hospital, warning Guill about the vomiting and the emotional test of movement, Guill hadn't hesitated to call him for help getting Patrice home.
And here he was, ever faithful.
The two players dropped hands and Patrice heaved a great sigh.
"I dunno what I'm gonna do," he said, quietly. The two trainers stood behind Sid and Guill, alongside his father, his brow still creased with worry and anxiety. Before him knelt Sid and Guill and a bunch of spit he had hurled.
"I dunno what I'm gonna do..." he repeated, bowing his head and sniffing.
"All you gotta do is get upstairs bud," Sid said, reaching out and taking hold of his knee. "That's all."
"Everything else will come after, Patrice," Guill confirmed, nodding. "Can you walk?"
"I dunno," he mumbled, his hands tucked under his styrofoam collar again. "I just wanna sleep..." He closed his eyes, his brow hardened, and frowned.
"Can he just sleep here?" Sid asked, looking over his shoulders at the trainers.
"What? Sleep here?" Gerard asked, outraged. "In the car?!" His French accent was thick. Sid immediately stood and apologized in his native tongue, having learned French when he played in the Quebec major juniors. Gerard looked at the young superstar with new, impressed eyes. Of course he knew who Sidney Crosby was, plus he had met him once before at the Olympics in Vancouver but, he was certainly turning out to be quite like Patrice had talked him up to be...
"Will you just--" Guill said, shooting Gerard another look from over his shoulder. He made a gesture that said tone it down a bit, dad.
Gerard huffed and refolded his arms across his chest, regaining his tough guy composure.
"He could, but..." DelNegro began, uneasy about the situation.
"It'd be better if he just got him upstairs and into his bed so he can have undisturbed rest for as long as he needs," Babs finished, nodding confidently.
"C'mon bud, you can do it," Guill said, getting ready to stand with his brother. Patrice shrugged an arm around his shoulders taking one last steadying breath and gripping Guill's bicep as best he could. Sid assumed the same position on the other side, and when the two men stood, Patrice came with them, albeit with uncertain legs.

Jamie wanted to burst inside.
As soon as they got Patrice through the front door of his apartment, she was vibrating with some great electricity of love, adoration, and an incredibly potent instinct to mother.
His head was hung though, and she wasn't even sure if he was all there mentally. Sid told her he would be exhausted, that just having to stand would be quite the ordeal for him, but, had he really passed out on the elevator ride.
After being disallowed to pick him up, Guill and Sid had done their best to console her and explain Patrice's wishes as best they could without hurting her.
"It's not that he doesn't want to see you, cherie," Guill had said, taking hold of her hands. "It's that he doesn't want you to see him... he can hardly walk..." His words were heavy and coated in a thick, palpable anxiety.
"I don't care though! I want to help him!" She had cried.
"You will, you're going to. More than you even know. He's just..."
"His pride is really bruised right now," Sid helped explain. "He doesn't want to look weak."
But, somehow, at that very moment, lingering in the kitchen and fingering a dishtowel nervously as the men and doctors gently eased Patrice through the apartment and toward his bedroom, Jamie thought he was the epitome of strong.
That hit could've easily killed him she remembered the doctors saying to his father, who teared.
Jamie made eye contact with Sid over Patrice's shoulder as they rounded the corner into her dark room. She had made sure to pull all the blinds so it was almost completely dark, like the doctors had ordered.
Sid gave her a supportive smile, and then directed his attention back to his fallen comrade.
Jamie heaved a great sigh and as soon as their soft voices disappeared behind Patrice's door, she turned on her heal in a huff and planted her back against his stainless steel refrigerator, the dishtowel held to her face, crying.
He didn't remember her visits.
He didn't want her help because he was afraid of appearing weak.
She was too weak to physically help him, and he was unaccessible emotionally to take any aid she could offer.
What the fuck was going to happen to them?
"Jamie?"
She gasped, clutching the dishtowel to her heart and heaving a great sigh when she saw Sid.
"Sorry! Sorry..." she laughed, regaining her breath. She pulled the tips of her tiny fingers under her eyes to clear away any makeup that may have leaked.
"No, no, don't be sorry," he said quickly, gesturing with his hand as if to offer it for her to hold if she needed. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah! yeah," she said, her brow hardening as her lips fastened into a frown unconvincingly.
"Dumb question, I know," Sid said awkwardly, blushing, taking his hand back. "But, I gotta ask. Do you know if he's got a bucket around here? Just in case..."
Her mind quickly fled to Gregory and then back to the scene before her.
"Bathroom," she said, automatically. "Not his," she clarified, nodding over his shoulder to the open bath in the hall.
"Thanks," Sid said. "We've got him in bed; he's pretty tired. Once everyone leaves you'll have to take his temperature every hour because he might not wake up to pull the sheets on or off himself if he gets hot or cold. I'm sure Babs or DelNegro will give you the run down, though. Procedure stuff," he shrugged, giving her another supportive smile and taking hold of her forearm for a second. "He took his meds so he'll be out like a light for the next few hours." He gave her a squeeze and then made his way to the bathroom for the bucket.

"Oh I can't believe this fucking thing!" She cursed in French, twisting the burner off as if she could torture the stove and make it repent for its sin of burning her halibut.
Gerard watched her from the entryway to the kitchen. He couldn't believe she had the muscle to lift the massive pan from the stove top after she sucked on her thumb and jammed her hands back into oven mitts.
It had been a few hours since the doctors had left and Sid had gone to his own therapy appointments. The house was dark and dreary, and Guill and Gerard had left the hourly check ups to Jamie. They wanted her to feel part of his recovery, even if she couldn't help with his mobility or if felt she was overstepping their familial boundaries. He and his eldest had talked about it at length on their ride down to Boston; Gerard had revealed to Guill what Patrice had confided in he and his wife back in Montreal, and if Jamie was important to Patrice, they had decided, she was never going to be far away from him, whether he was aware of it or not.
The poor thing was dressed in blue jeans and a floral blouse, weighed down over her tiny frame by a long and whimsical grey colored sweater. Her teased hair was tamed into a tight bun on the top of her head and her feet were clad in light pink socks.
She was very feminine, petite and polite, the very kind of girl he had imagined his son to one day fall in love with. She had a hint of something not quite 100% French Canadian about her, and Gerard often found himself pondering about her heritage when getting lost in her tight curls or big lower lip.
Jamie was a beautiful girl, that was for sure. And smart, too, by the way Patrice spoke of her.
He hoped she was smart enough to stick around, for this was going to be one long, bumpy road with his passionate and stubborn son.
"Mr. Cleary!" Jamie gasped, her eyes wide, bringing an oven mitt to cover her shocked mouth. "I'm so sorry, I normally don't swear, I swear!" She cried, trying to justify her frustrations in the kitchen that he knew extended into other parts of both their lives.
"Cherie, please!" Gerard cooed over her anxieties, gently clasping her oven mitt between his two hands. "No need to apologize, no need," he assured her with a good natured smile in their native tongue. "And 'Gerard', remember?"
"I just.. the halibut... I wasn't expecting the panhandle to be so..." she mumbled, looking down at her other hand picking at the red oven mitt.
He watched her, smiling and studying her face again. Her skin was so smooth, just a hue darker than the average Canadian, or American, he supposed. Her hair wasn't black but it was a silky, very, very dark brown, with shiny threads of red and orange naturally occurring, woven throughout her scalp and rippling with the over waves of her kinks. Her little ski slope nose helped balanced out his son's monstrosity, and he wondered how they coped when they kissed.
His stomach flipped nervously, hoping his son would find pleasure in all the things he adored before the accident when he returned to waking for more than an hour at a time.
Guill made his way out of the guest room, now happily donning a sweatsuit, announcing Sylvie had boarded her flight and was to land at 10:30 that evening and that he had booked a hotel down the road for them for the extra space.
The time now was 7:30.
"Guill, no!" Jamie cried, her hands balling into fists as she threw them to her sides.
Both men looked at her, unsure of what to stay.
"Stay with me and Emily," she insisted, and both the men's frowns turned into clever smiles as they came to understand her gesture as one not of defiance but rather of persistence.
"Cherie you have enough on your plate," Guill laughed, closing the space between them in a few strides with his long legs. He was even taller than Patrice. Gerard wondered where two long, lean, gorgeous men came from from two stumpy, short and stout parents.
"Plates--damnit! Dinner!" Jamie cried, turning on her heal much like a ballerina would, her oven mitts in her hair. She rushed over to the stove and turned off the broccoli, checked the halibut she had placed to brown in the oven and then reached up high over the stove for Patrice's dinner plates.
"Jamie!" Guill laughed, rushing after her, helping her lift the plates, her tiny little biceps swelling under the great porcelain weight. "Take a breath, take a deep breath," he instructed her, a heavy hand on her shoulder having turned her towards him. "Everything's great; smells wonderful."
He peeked into a steaming bowl of rice and turned the burner up just a smidgeon.
Jamie gave a little gasp again and brought her hands to her mouth.
"Mr. Cleary you like seafood right? I didn't even think to ask! I'm such a brat--"
"Of course he does!" Guill cried, spinning her around to face him again, exasperatedly. "Now you listen here!" He held out the plates for her to take. "You go set the table and then I'm going to bring you over the biggest damn goblet of wine you've ever had and you're going to drink it and relax. Okay? You're not going anywhere, okay? Do you have anything to do tomorrow?"
He looked at her with a hard brow. He wasn't mad at her, he could never be, but he had to get his message across.
"No," she whispered. "Not anymore."
"Good. We need you here," he said, his eyes a genuine brown, just like her amour's. "Okay?" He asked her again, sincerely.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Patrice needs you here."
"Okay."

Emily sighed, recrossing her ankles at the foot of the couch. Her legs were tired having endured a two hour conditioning course earlier in the afternoon and hung, thankful for the rest, over the edge of the sofa.
She sat up against the arm of the big wheat colored sectional in Dougie and Adam's apartment, Dougie's head across her lap as they watched an episode of How I Met Your Mother. She played with his curls, gently looping them around one finger with her other, and then raking them all out by dragging her fingertips from his temple to the back of his head.
He sighed.
"I hate how they portray Canadians in this," he said, lazily.
"How do you mean?" She asked, taking a moment to stretch and yawn.
"I dunno. I don't watch it that much or anything but that Robyn chick is just obnoxious. Always layin' on the accent and saying 'eh?' even when it doesn't make sense in her stupid Canucks jersey."
"Huh," Em laughed. "I never really noticed that... astute observation, Douglas."
"And the producer or something must have something against the Bruins, she's always bashing Thomas in previous seasons..." he observed aloud.
"Thomas?"
"Tim Thomas. He was their goalie, before I even joined the team? No?" He asked, rolling onto his back and looking up at her, mouth agape.
She stared down at him with an eyebrow raised.
"Jeez," he sighed, rolling back onto his side. "You really don't know anything about hockey, huh?"
"I guess that means I can't be a puck slut then, eh?" She asked, her voice full of irony.
"Hah," he barked in laughter, draping his arm over the couch and grabbing half of his hot ham and cheese sandwich. He had made three a few minutes ago, thinking Emily would help him plow through them, but to his great dismay (or was it delight?) he had been left with two and a half sandwiches all to himself.
"Have you heard from Patrice?" Dougie asked after a few scenes of Ted Mosby moping and half a ham and cheese had passed by. "Or Jamie?"
"A little. He's basically the same as he was at the hospital--sleeping all the time."
"When'd he get home?"
"This morning," she pulled one of his curls out to its full height and let it fall back into place. "You need a haircut," she declared.
"I know," he said simply, licking his thumb. Even though they were the youngest out of their group of developing friends, Emily felt older than Dougie even though she was only one year his senior. She wondered how just a boy survived on his own in a city like Boston...
A door jam gave a faint squeal and they heard lumber drag along carpet. Adam emerged from the dark hallway in sweats and a t-shirt.
"Sup broski!" Dougie chuckled, spreading his arms as he lay, sprawled out on the couch as if asking for a hug. He was clearly glad to have a friend close in age like Emily; one he could really be himself around and get appropriately babied when needed.
Adam raised his eyebrow at him.
"What are you guys doing?" He asked, skeptically.
"Loungin'," Dougie announced, bringing his arms back to his side and then reaching for another half of sandwich.
"While he's lounging, I'm secretly trimming his luscious locks," Emily joked, pretending to snip turns of Dougie's golden hair.
"You wouldn't!" He gasped, reaching up to his head.
"Oh stuff it," she laughed, swatting at him as they shared a giggle. "How's your sister?" When Emily had invited herself in a half hour or so ago, Dougie had told her Adam was Skyping with his family.
"Good," he nodded, making his way into the kitchen, his dark gray sweatpants tight across his ass.
"I should call my brother..." Dougie thought aloud to himself, picking at the crust of his bread. Crumbs scattered along the chest of his t-shirt, the font displayed the Bruin's logo bench pressing a bar loaded with weights.
Emily shifted her gaze from Adam, who she hoped would continue to talk, maybe sharing something interesting about who he was or where he came from back to the young defenseman on her lap. She sighed, laughing to herself and brushed the crumbs from his shirt as if he was a hassle to take care of, but secretly loving having someone to take care of so she could worry less about herself.
"I should really call Freddie..." Dougie continued to mumble to himself, squishing his chin into his chest to watch Emily brush him off and to try and help, only to clumsily bump hands with her.
"How old's your sister?" She asked over the back of the couch as Dougie popped the last crust into his mouth and licked his thumb and pointer finger.
The pan sizzled as Adam dropped his buttered bread onto it's hot surface.
"She's seventeen," he divulged, his strong back to her as he fixed his own late night snack.
Emily narrowed her eyes.
Tough nut to crack, McQuaid... She thought to herself.
"I'm gonna go call Freddie," Dougie announced, standing up and brushing the rest of the crumbs off of him.
"Oh don't worry bro, I'll vacuum my way to your room," Adam said sarcastically, giving Dougie a look over his shoulder.
"Shit... sorry..." he mumbled. "I'll do it tomorrow?" He offered, unsure.
Adam laughed, turning back to his pan. "I'm just kidding man, go call your brother," he chuckled.
Dougie smirked, blushing, and made his way to the other end of the apartment, down a separate hall that led to the other bedrooms.
Emily lifted herself from the sectional sofa and wondered behind the couch into the kitchen. Whatever Adam was making smelled delicious, but she had certainly hit her calorie intake of the day already.
"So, do you only have a sister?" She asked, leaning on the counter that housed the burners Adam was using. He looked up and over to her, a smile playing on his lips, followed by a quick blush and a very soft, Canadian "No-o."
"I have an older brother, too."
"So you're the middie," Emily smirked, not breaking eye contact with him as he shifted in his sweat pants and directed his attention back to his grilled cheese and tomato. He lifted a plate and quickly but deliberately slipped the spatula under the bread and scooped and delivered.
"Yeah, stuck in the middle of Mark and Carly," he said, his lips tugging to one side in an upward curve. "Hungry?" He asked, offering her his plate.
"If only," she responded, scoffing.
"What's that mean?" Adam asked, lowering the plate and giving her a quizzical look. He stood before her two years older than her but not looking much over 19. She wondered about him what she wondered about Dougie: how old were these boys, actually?
He had a soft face and the five o'clock shadow that rounded the sharp edges of his jaw looked warm and welcoming. His eyes, a forrest blue, searched hers, desperately willing themselves not to waver from her face to her body, wrapped tightly in layers of clothing, accentuating the curve of her hips, the slim of her waist and the turn of her collar bone.
He swallowed.
"Don't bother," she laughed, uncrossing her arms and leading him into his own living room. He followed, still curious.
She sat back in her corner, taking the same position she was in with Dougie.
Adam watched as she watched him.
After a few minutes, she asked "aren't you going to sit?"
"Oh, uh... sure," he said, turning on his heal and lowering himself onto the couch next to her.
She watched him, smugly.
"What?" He asked, nervously.
"Oh come on McQuaid. Don't act like you don't want your hair played with," she scoffed, rolling her eyes and slipping her hand around his neck, guiding him into her lap.
"Wh-no! Wait. What?" He choked, lifting his plate to keep his sandwich from slipping. "I, uh... you, uh..." He said, lifting himself back into a sitting position and looking at her with wide eyes.
"Will you calm down?" She asked, her voice high in a taunting laugh. "It feels really nice," she said, more sincerely. "Didn't your mom ever pet your hair?"
"No..." he said, as if that were absurd.
"It's really calming, seriously," she promised.
"I dunno," he blushed, turning away from facing her so he was sitting on the couch properly. He took a bite of his sandwich, looking at her skeptically out of the corner of his eyes.
"You're such a baby!" Emily laughed, shocked.
Adam vehemently shook his head, the sandwich held in his mouth between his teeth, blushing madly.
"You are!" Emily laughed, shoving him with her sock clad foot.
"I don't like being touched!" He reasoned, defending himself.
"How are you ever gonna be with anyone then?" Emily asked incredulously, still laughing at him.
Neither new what she meant. Like, "be with someone" "be with someone"?
Adam had a game time decision to make.
He swallowed a corner of his sandwich, hard.
If he let her play with his hair--which in all honesty he didn't really mind, he was just trying to save himself the mortification of imploding beneath her touch--she wouldn't think he was some weirdo that didn't like human contact. But, if he let her play with his hair, then... well, he didn't know. But he'd probably get driven crazy.
Maybe his heart would beat right out of his chest.
Or just thump blood at an astronomical rate through his chest and over his hips to between his legs.
That'd be awkward... he groaned internally.
He took another bite of his hot cheese and tomato sandwich, mulling it all over.
But, if I could just stick it out, she'd know I wouldn't be afraid to "be" with anyone, either... And that's what he needed.
Anything.
Give him an inch and he'd make it a mile.
He wanted to be with Emily or be with Emily. Either one. He didn't care.
Something was better than nothing.
He folded the last hunk of his sandwich and two and fit it in his mouth, not making eye contact with her again as he turned away from her and with a deep breath, lowered his head into her lap.
She was so warm and so soft. He could feel her bones beneath her skin and her little slabs of quadriceps.
"Just close your eyes and relax," she laughed, feeling his tension.
He did so, taking another deep breath and letting his head fall to the side.
Looking outside the panoramic window behind the flat screen TV, now black with inactivity, he felt her tiny fingers rake through his hair, tingling every single follicle he never even knew he had.

Down the road and two streets over, Jamie's arm was asleep. She lay turned onto her side, her chest and stomach pressed into Patrice's arm, her fingers, numb from blood loss as she lay turned onto her shoulder, holding his.
Her other arm lay draped across his chest, bent ninety degrees at the elbow.
Slowly, as slow as she could, she brushed his short hair with the tips of fingers, just behind his ear.