By Your Side

"Hey, asshole, get up already."

Laying next to him is so weird. I've trained myself not to sink through the bed.

He turns over and he still has his eyes closed. I hope he knows he'll be late for work if he keeps snoring on like this. I run my transparent hand across his neck and he jolts into consciousness, looking very much like a deer in the headlights. Cute.

"Don't do that, man," he mumbles, sitting up and stretching his long and willowy arms.
"You have no muscle," I decide to share with him, getting off of the bed.
"You have no functioning organs," he decides to share back. It's true.

I don't watch him when he showers, because he doesn't want me to. He's so bashful, despite the fact that I've seen it all multiple times before. My hands have roamed everywhere.

I do hang around in the bathroom because when he's not around, I'm lonely as fuck.

It's boring in the bathroom, hovering above the toilet seat cover and listening to the rush of water from the shower head. The room fills up with steam so fast, and I wave my hand through it to keep me busy. When I do that, it looks like I'm disappearing. My hand in the steam seems to vanish and it's actually a little frightening because I'm not ready to go yet. Then I remember that I'm just screwing around.

"You don't have to sit in here," he says, stepping out and making sure there's a towel tied around his waist. I hope he knows it's slowly sliding off of his hips. I used to love gripping his hips. I mean, I still do, but I can't. I don't know how to stay solid long enough to feel his skin, feel his body, touch him, love him, be there for him and he's fixing his hair now.
"But I did, man. You know that."

John - that's his name, plain as fuck and absolutely perfect - shrugs lightly because he knows I'm right. I did have to stick around. I hate loneliness more than I hate pickles, and I really, really hate pickles. He gives me a small, sympathetic smile and I'm not solid, so when I touch his cheek, he just gets a cold rush and shivers.

"Sorry."
"You're trying, babe."

I am. I mean, I wasn't then, but I am.

He starts in on brushing his teeth, and I stand (well, slightly hover) beside him, looking at his reflection in the mirror. I'll never see mine again, probably. I just have to go by old pictures if I want to remember my face.

"I look fine as hell," I start, catching John's attention because he knows I don't have a damn reflection. "I mean, I just woke up, but my chocolate hair is just tousled up to perfection. My eyes, don't even get me started, the perfect shade of brown, they match my lovely hair, in fact. And whoa, my face? Hot as hell. My--oh, wait. That isn't me. It's you, dork. That sucks."

John's cheeks glow red and he smiles, even with the toothbrush in his mouth. I'm glad I don't have to do that anymore, so damn tedious. I have to wait for him to spit out the toothpaste before he can respond to me.

"You are so incredibly cheesy, okay. I just want you to know."
"I try."

He rolls his eyes and steps away from me to wipe his mouth, still mumbling on. It's probably about just how incredibly cheesy I am. He has to talk about me a lot, since he can't talk to me around anyone else.

His whole morning routine is interrupted by me. While he's getting dressed, I make comments about how nice his butt is and how I want to do such inappropriate things to him. It takes him an extra ten minutes to finish putting on his clothes. While he's making breakfast, I mess with the electricity and make it all flicker, screwing up the coffee machine. If he could strangle me, he probably would.

"Dude, cut it out," he snaps, irritated because now he has to start all over with his coffee. Fine, then. I never liked coffee anyway.
"Sorry, Johnny."
"You aren't."

He's right.

I do this all the time, I don't know why he's so annoyed now. He sits on the table, reaching for the box of cereal across from him and the bowl by his thigh. He sets up his breakfast on his lap and once he finishes, he folds his legs and starts eating his Fruit Loops, talking to me and giving me a smile that is, again, sympathetic, but lazy. The lazy tries to hide the sympathy, but it doesn't work. I still see it.

"What're you all sad for?" I ask. He stops eating and goes,
"I'm not all sad. What're you talking about?"
"You're giving me that look. "Oh, I feel so bad for you. You're dead. You're all floaty and transparent and invisible and shit." Y'know?"

John, lovely boy, sits his bowl down - it's just full of milk now, anyway - and looks at me with the most serious and concerned face he can possibly make. It comes complete with his tongue poking the inside of his cheek and his dark eyebrows furrowing.

"No," he slowly says. "I'm not giving you that look at all."
"You are, though. You don't have to pity me, baby, I'm just fine."
"I doubt it, but no, I wasn't giving you that look."
"You doubt what?"

He gets up, sliding off of the table and leaving his bowl right there. I try and grab for him, but whoa, yeah, I can't. So my hand is just outstretched because I suddenly remember I can't hold him, just make him cold and unnerved.

"Shit," I mutter, pulling my hand back in a bit of a daze. I hate this sometimes.
"Forget you can't snatch me up?" It sounds like he's taunting me. Dick.
"Shut up."

John sits on the couch. I realize now how much he sits when he could be doing absolutely anything in the world. No, he just sits around. He's on the couch, the floor, the table, the bed, just sitting.

"Why d'you sit around so much?"
"Do I?"

I sit - hover - beside him on the couch. I miss being able to sink into the cushions without actually sinking into the cushions. He reaches for the remote and turns on the television, flicking through channels until he stops on some loud reality show. I reach for the remote as soon as he put it down, but wait. I can't do that, either. Fuck. Doesn't he know how much I hate this show? Damned Housewives of Beverly Hills.

"You do."
"I just...don't feel like doing anything."
"What'd you mean when you said you doubted it? Doubted what?"

He stares at the screen, but I know he's bullshitting. He hates this show as much as I do. There's no way in Hell he's really watching this.

"John!"
"Okay. I doubt that you're, I dunno, fine with this. I mean, you're-you're dead. How could you be fine with that, huh?"

Then he gets comfortable and watches the women screech at each other and ignite unnecessary arguments and start drama. Maybe I'm going to have to take note from them. I turn to him, positioned as if I'm sitting on my knees, and look down at my faded lap before looking up at him.

"I am fine with it. 'Cuz everybody dies. My time came and went."
"You're not fine with it, okay? There's no way you are."
"Why are you so sure I'm not okay with being part of the afterlife?"

When I say that, John frowns. He bites his bottom lip - I used to bite it when we kissed, oh my God - and starts blinking fast and he wipes his hands on his jeans again and again and again. Oh, no. I've spent twenty-three years being this guy's best friend, and six being his boyfriend. I know him like the back of my hand, so of course I know when he's about to cry.

"Hey, what're you getting all upset for, huh?"
"Because you're gone."

Really, it's the first time he's admitted it to himself since the accident. At least, the first time I've heard him admit it to himself. Maybe he's been thinking about it forever and I'm just now learning of it. Maybe he's been in denial.

I scoff and punch his shoulder - well - and he shakes his head. Things have gotten way too serious way too fast, and I hate seriousness more than anything. I place my hand on his chest, making him shudder and curl away from me.

"Hey, c'mon, now. What's wrong, hot stuff?"
"I told you already."

At least he smiles a little bit, because he always does when I call him that. But then his smile drops and he runs his hand through his stupidly perfect hair, and he stares at his own solid lap. Lucky bastard. Though it's not like I care.

"John. Johnny? John, John, John?"
"Whaaat, you sonofabitch?"

John sighs and pulls his knees to his chest, effectively blocking it off from my cold hand. Darn. I just smile at him, really wanting to touch his knee but alas.

I just want to fucking make him feel better. I don't know how I can do that without touching him, hugging him, something! Maybe I'm not as okay with this as I thought. I guess

"I'm not gone. I'm still here, dork."

He shakes his head, because I swear, he's always doing that. He turns towards me, looking all sad but he has a hint, just a hint of a smile. Normally, when that happened before, I would push up the corners of his mouth and make him smile. Can't do that anymore. Not really.

Fuck.

"Yeah, but I can't touch you, idiot." He rubs his eyes and mutes the television and starts to add, "It's like you're not even h--" I know what he was going to say. He doesn't have to finish and he doesn't have to give me that look, that apologetic and sorry and adorable look.

"You can touch yourself, stupid," I shoot back.

John scoffs and curls even more into himself. I just scoot closer and put my arm around his tense shoulders.

"Shut up."
"It's true, though!"
"I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that you are actually okay with being dead. You're okay with being a ghost, you're okay with not being able to touch me or be touched or be seen."

So I look him in the eye, just like he told me, and I see unshed tears and he's trying hard to be strong and I can see right through it. Just like he can see right through me. Literally. Unconsciously, I reach out to put my hand on his shoulder and I get caught off-guard when it slips right through him. I forget. I just forget. Every time, I forget I can't comfort the boy I love properly. And I hate it.

Instead of saying I'm okay with it, I take a breath I don't need and say, "I'm dead, John."
"I know, Daniel. I fucking know, I know, I know you're dead! And I know you're not okay with it. I'm not okay with it. I'm not okay with you being gone."

Then the tears start to fall, really slow, and I almost reach to wipe them away. I need to stop. I can't do that anymore. Then I feel like I want to cry, but I'm not going to because one of us has to be dry-eyed and strong right now. I don't even know if I can cry anymore. I mean, I'm dead.

"I'm not gone. I'm just dead. I'm here, I'm right here, see me?"
"Sometimes. A-And sometimes, no. I don't. Because sometimes, you...fade. You disappear."

Oh. I didn't know that. I pause and I almost always have something to say, but right now, I don't have shit. He rubs his eyes again and takes a shuddery breath, staring at me.

"And when you disappear for real, I'm fucked," he says. He's right. He fell apart when I died. Then I showed up in his face a few hours later and I didn't know he was harboring the same fear I was: one day, I was going to be gone for good.
"I need you, too, y'know."

John nods, wringing his hands together. Even if it may have no affect, I place my hands on his cheeks and he shivers, still not used to the cold. The good thing is my hands stay on his skin, they don't slip through. I just have to concentrate, maybe?

"Uh-huh."
"And I'm not gone. I mean, I'm dead, but I'm not gone. I'm still right here with you. And even when you can't see me, I'm still there. I mean, I'm never not gonna be there."
"Yeah, I-I know, but..."
"No buts. Everybody dies, okay? But that doesn't mean they go away."

Then he smiles and I notice that, finally, his smile is not pitying or sympathetic or sad or hiding anything. It's happiness or relief or something, I don't really know. Whatever it is, it's good to see.

"I wanna kiss you."
"Kiss yourself, dork."

John, my John that I can't really touch or anything, but I can still comfort and can still make smile and can still make roll his eyes, swats at me and his hand goes right through me. He stares at me with wide and nervous, apologetic eyes.

"I'm sorry, I--"
"It's okay. It's what makes me special."

I move and float right above his head, which makes him laugh. Okay, yes, I'm scared about what happens to the both of us when I move on, and no, being a ghost isn't the best thing that has ever happened to me. But still, I try an make light of the situation, even if it does scare the shit out of me.

That's what I'm best at, and that's what I'll do, until the day I really pass on.

I hope that day isn't coming up, though. John...I can't leave the little fuck. I love him too much to risk not waking up beside him anymore. And no, I don't have to sleep, but I force myself to, so I can wake up with him, just like I used to.

It makes things feel a little more normal, which I don't feel enough of, especially considering the circumstances.

"I guess," John mutters, pouting a little. I put my finger to his lips and he jumps, shouting, "You're like a damned icicle, you ass!"
"That's what kissing me would be like, so."
"Would I feel you at all?"
"Maybe."

He nods and positions himself to sit on his knees, urging me to hover in front of him. When I am in the proper position, he says, "Kiss me, Danny. Okay?"

I give him a quizzical look, but he just nods again and looks at me with the bright and happy chocolate eyes that I love. There's no way in Hell I'm passing this up, so I put all of my focus into not passing right through him and close my eyes, taking his face in my hands and press my lips to his.

'Stay solid, don't slip through, motherfuckershitnodon'tslip okay you got this God this feels good shitwaitnostay okay.'

He pulls away after a moment, opening his eyes and looking at me again. He smiles and his cheeks warm up and he says that I'm really cold, but I bit his lip, so it was okay.

"I bit your lip? You felt it?"
"I felt, like, a sharp bit of cold and pressure on my bottom lip. Besides, I know you, stupid."

I shrug, trying to play off the moment as no big deal (it's the best moment I've experienced since my death, if I'm being honest - which I so am). He gives me that all-knowing look, though, and I give in and say, "Yeah, you do. And since you know me, you know I'm not going anywhere."

He reaches for my hand and, since I'm not expecting it, he just goes right through. He's still smiling, though, and grips the air as if it were my hand.

"I know."