Had it hurt?
Had it taken a long time, did he gasp my name? Or had his enormous, beautiful heart just slowed and slowed until he drifted off on a dream?
Had he been afraid? Had he suffered?
Had he even known?
I sat on top of him, staring down at him, and sought the answers in his face.
It was peaceful.
His eyes were closed. No sign of strain in his face.
Accepting.
Just like he’d always been. Of everything. Of me. Of his unfair fucking life. Always seeing the good in me, in everyone around him.
Hot tears dropped down my cheeks, scalding my skin.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up!” I cried, nudging him. “Please don’t leave me. Oh God, Dancer, don’t go. Not yet! We’re supposed to have more time!”
His face was pale and cool, his hair tousled by our lovemaking, lips parted as if on a final sigh.
I love you more eternal than pi, he’d said.
I drew back my fist and punched him in the chest, thinking if my punch was lethal enough to stop a heart, maybe it could start one.
That was when I felt him.
Not beneath me.
Behind me. Where no sun was touching my skin, I felt sunshine on my shoulders.
I felt his presence.
I swear I felt his hands moving my hair aside so he could kiss the back of my neck. Then they rested solid and warm on my shoulders and squeezed a little.
And until the day I die myself I’ll continue to believe that I actually heard him speak.
No tears, Mega. Only joy. We were the lucky ones.
The lucky ones. He was dead and could say that? Was he batshit crazy? Maybe he was the lucky one, but I wasn’t. I was here. I was alone. And his body was empty of all that was Dancer and I was in bed with a corpse.
Love doesn’t die just because the person does. Everything we felt for each other still exists, Dani. It’s in your heart. Don’t turn it off, wild one. Never turn it off again. The world needs you. And you need the world.
Then the warmth was gone and I stretched out beside him and I held on to him and kissed him and kissed him and said all those things we’d only just started saying to each other.
I don’t know how long I lay there. Time got weird then.
I only know, at some point, I became dimly aware that Ryodan was in the room with us, touching my shoulder, watching me with intensely bright eyes, untangling me from him, wrapping a blanket around me, making me get out of bed, and I screamed and screamed at him and I hit him and told him to leave me alone because I was never letting go of Dancer.
And he let me do it, rage and scream and hit him over and over, and when I finally collapsed to the floor where I lay sobbing and broken, he picked me up, tucked a blanket around me again and carried me out into the much too bright day.
I got lost in a really bad place then, where I felt sorry for myself and angry at the world, and I was made of nothing but pain, and I felt ancient and arthritic in every single one of my 222 bones, and the pain was so huge and I knew I couldn’t survive it. It was going to kill me, and that was okay because Dancer was probably really close still and we could grab each other’s hands and freeze-frame to the next adventure together.
Then Ryodan’s fingers were brushing my forehead and he was laying me down in a crisp white bed, murmuring soft words, and I think I kind of died then because the pain finally.
Blissfully.
Stopped.
I have foggy memories for a time. I know Mac came and sat with me, wherever I was, somewhere deep in Chester’s. Barrons even came sometimes, and once he held my hand and I remember thinking I must have been dreaming because Barrons would never hold my hand. But I still remember the feel of his hand, how strong and big it was and how it felt like he was sending some of his gargantuan strength into my body, taking some of my pain out of it.
I have distant, gray memories of Kat, Enyo, and Christian lurking beyond the veil I couldn’t see past. Or didn’t want to. Even Jack and Rainey sat in my room, keeping watch, with Mrs. Lane fretting nonstop, tucking my blankets close, feeling my forehead, sometimes just sitting on the bed, touching me somewhere.
I have clearer memories of Ryodan. Each time I awoke, if one of the others wasn’t in the room, he was. Always. Sitting. Chair by my bed. Watching. Waiting. Forcing me to live. Sometimes stroking my forehead and making all the hurt go away for a time. Other times punishing me by forcing me to live.
I’d wake up but refuse to open my eyes. He’d know anyway and threaten to hook up a feeding tube if I didn’t eat. He’d lift me up and lean us both back against the headboard and pour protein drinks down my throat until I gagged (there was no way in hell I was chewing, chewing was a commitment to getting out of bed and that was a commitment to living), and I’d roll over again and melt back into the gray place.