Thanks to Sazie for betaing this for me, she is my awesomeness.

This was written for the 'Inspired By' Challenge Two, under these following guidelines:

Take one of these options and write a story with the listed specifications. Or, if you prefer poems, do a poem inspired by it. And if you have an idea that doesn't quite fit with one of the specifications, just make sure it was inspired by it, at the very least. We're not too strict.

I chose: Option 3:
A character will send a letter, but the action is misinterpreted.
A character is sick throughout most of the story.
The story must involve a token at the end.

I own these characters, they were first used in my fic 'To be in Her Thoughts' for yet another challenge. I really enjoy these characters.

If you're interested in doing challenges like these (and more) join FictionNET ( http / sycotic . org / fnet )for it isa nifty (mostly based on Harry Potter) writing forum, say that Keladryie sent you and join the best writing forum on the net! It's seriously worth it.

She watched him, a newly sealed letter in her fingers, he who lay beside her, collapsed onto the bed from the chair he sat in, overcome by the need to sleep after having waited so long by her side, as if he thought if he waited there long enough, her sickness would pass, and everything would be the same as it always had been, in return for his faithful offering of his own health.

It couldn’t be healthy for anyone to sit there for so long, beside a person who was oh so sick, only moving to get her food; food that he’d pick at once she’d eaten all she could, getting up to help her to the bathroom, (she had fainted the first time she tried to go down the passage way by herself, that effort alone was even too much) or helping her to shower, just to get all the sweat off, and try to make her feel clean for once.

And yet, there he would stay, for hours on end. The longest time he had managed to leave her side for was when he unplugged the computer and re-set it up in their bedroom, then re-routed the internet. After a day or so, he then bought a laptop. They had enough money, especially so since she refused to go to hospital or the doctors, (and didn’t really need to either, since they knew what was wrong, and how to treat it) and they’d both wanted a laptop for a while…especially since they’d need a portable computer for when they went on their holiday at the end of the year, and he’d be starting Uni soon, and…and…well that was more than enough arguments, he had thought. Thankfully, she had agreed.

Amusingly enough though, (although he wouldn’t let her know it,) she hadn’t wanted to go on the internet much at all, compared to how she never used to get off the damn thing. The fact he had spent hours setting it up for her so she could go on the net again comfortably while she lay in pain didn’t bother him in the slightest, even though she had actually admitted to feeling guilty about it. That alone made him smile. And to think, just months ago…things had been…well…just so, so, different.

She laughed - a little mirth of laughter - at something on the screen, perhaps the green and white board she always visited, but he didn't bother to ask her about it. It only made her smile droop as she turned to face him, and shrug.

"Nothing..." she always said. As if he wouldn't understand even if she wasted time telling him, explaining it to him even. Perhaps he would, eventually, if she spared him a moment every so often.

Why couldn't she just...

Why didn't he...

He growled, displaying anger for once, stood up and threw the pillow he had been leaning against across the room in a fluid movement. It was followed by the book in his hands. Then his MP3 player, it shattered on impact with the wall and floor combined. Then the remote control.

She had turned around, spinning smoothly on her computer chair at the sound of his book hitting the floor. She watched him silently, him standing there with fists clenched and his chest rising and falling with every painful and full breath. He was glaring in the general direction of where he had flung his anger and his remorse, until he slowly dragged his eyes to where she was seated, her just sitting there so calmly, face blank of emotion, just gazing at him coldly.

Slowly, he stepped back, and fell back onto the sofa as the back of his knees came into contact with the fabric. He continued watching her as she ever so slowly raised an eyebrow at him, then swivelled her chair around again to face that bloody computer.

It had been so painful, back then. It was still sometimes hard to believe things weren’t like that anymore, closer to how they had been, back before everything had started to go wrong. Back when they had cooked dinner together most nights, watched a DVD sharing an armchair, sprawled over each other trying not to mind the extreme body heat created between them both just to the point where it was uncomfortable. Like she had joked one night, it was a different heat to that of a fire, or of that of desire when they got worked up over each other late at night, on holidays, whilst swimming, god, just everything. He smiled in amusement at the thought.

He was still lying there. It couldn’t be comfortable for him at all, to be crumpled half in the chair beside her half of the bed, half against her, resting on the 15 cms or so that spaced her from the edge of the bed. She curled her fingers through his hair, and mused in thought.

For all those nights when he had sat on the sofa pointedly, an action which had only made her act colder towards him more, just as pointedly. His attention-seeking cries stating that there was him, and only him, in the entire house besides her, and didn’t that deserve more attention than her crummy internet friends got?

She shuddered at the thought.

Ever since he had proposed, and she hadn’t accepted, asking him quietly, her face flushed, if he wouldn’t be insulted if she asked for more time before he did something so rash?

Moving in together had been her idea though, an idea which he himself had thought rash at the time, but he had gone along with it for one simple reason.

He loved her.

And she knew that, and that’s what scared her even more. Scared her into acting how she had, trying to shut him out until her thoughts and emotions were sorted out in her mind.

And it had nearly wrecked everything. It had nearly wreaked them, as a couple, and as living, human beings. Love could do that to people, she discovered.

She let her fingers curl soothingly through his hair a bit more. There wasn’t often the chance she got to be awake while he wasn’t. A real chance to actually see him without his defences up, and all the rest of it, you know? She toyed with the letter in her fingers, musing about herself, and him, and them together and just… everything. She placed the letter finally on her bedside table, ready to be posted the next day perhaps, if he went out to the shops or out, just anywhere, where there was a letterbox.

Things were okay between them now. They had been ever since her ‘condition’ had been triggered into a relapse from stress of what she was going through, what they both were going through. And instantly – even after all she had put him through – he was back by her side, caring for her to a ridiculous level, talking to each other as if nothing had ever changed between them for the worse. If anything, they were suddenly closer than ever before.

She really didn’t deserve him, she knew. He was so sweet, so strong, so giving; without thought for what he’d get in return. Most of the time, he didn’t want anything in return. The only thing that he desired from her was her love. And he had that, probably more than he knew, and that was her fault, the way he didn’t know what he had anymore.

After how badly she had treated him, she still didn’t know why he hadn’t just thrown her out. Their house was in his name, of course, even though they paid for everything exactly 50/50. She wouldn’t have it any other way. Why hadn’t he yelled? Screamed? Hit her? Gone off with one of the many other girls who were still sniffing around him, even though she had a ring on her finger and him vice versa. True, they weren’t married yet, but engaged was just a step away. The only time he had reacted to her treatment was that night when he had thrown things, looked like he could at any moment, storm over and hit her. She had frozen, but still in her cold act, stared him down. And then he had sat. Then gone to bed. But without kissing her first. Very, very gently, at the base of her throat. Just like he’d used to, but hadn’t for months, ever since she had started acting strange.

Sighing, she roused him slightly, just enough so he could get up and get into bed with her, but not enough so he’d actually wake up fully. By the time his head hit the pillow and his hand was wound with hers, he was asleep again, making her actually smile at him fondly, before setting back down in the covers and settled down, waiting for sleep to claim her as well.

The sleep was rough and dream-filled, although they were more like nightmares, with visions of the future, making her toss and turn until he braced her down, awoken by her fits of unknown terror, and that’s probably why she loved him. Simply because he was there.

The next morning she had woken when he had, promising him that she was feeling slightly better now, and given him the letter to take to a post box, which he, in return, promised to do on his way back from walking their dog and picking up a paper from the corner shop, and with a kiss pressed to her forehead he left.

The walk had been nice, and as he tied the dog’s lead to the bike rack, (since Rubix would have to wait outside whilst he went into the shop,) he looked at the letter to see who it was addressed to.

Australian Legal Will Kit Society.

…Will kit?

But she was getting better, wasn’t she?

She had said so herself, as he pressed a cold glass of Orange Juice into her hand, ice cubes clinking against the glass gently, and she had actually smiled up at him as well.

She wasn’t even 20 yet…why would she be sending off her Will? Or, more importantly, why hadn’t she even shown him first? Told him about it? He wanted to open it; have a look at it. Not to see what he got, no, just to see if there were any hints as to why she had filled out such a thing…yes she was sick, yes she was generally always sick with one thing or another, but it was nothing lie threatening, was it?

Was she planning her own death?

If she was just, you know…doing it to be prepared, wouldn’t she have told him? Asked him to do it too? Didn’t you have to have two witnesses at the same time while you sign it yourself? Right then he wanted nothing more than to rip it open and see who on earth she had got to co-sign it with her, they had to write in their address and occupation as well…and…it would just give him answers…

Feeling like he himself was at deaths Door, he automatically dropped the thick and heavy letter into the mailbox, then walked into the shop, buying the paper and a pack of smokes without having to think about it at all. He just moved without control, untying the dog’s lead and crossing the busy 6 lane traffic whilst lighting up a cigarette, he dragged it quickly, right down to the butt before he got to their gate. Which was an effort since to get to their house from the shop all you had to do was cross the 6 lane traffic, walk past two houses then turn onto their dead end street house, only another four houses away until he was home.

Trying to control his temper though, he didn’t go upstairs straight away, instead choosing to stay downstairs in the garden with the dog, hoping the smell of smoke would leave his clothes, hair, breath, before he went up again. She could smell smoke on a person, especially him, just by looking at them, so he stayed downstairs for as long as he could, until it was almost two hours since he had actually passed through the gate, coming to three hours since he’d actually left her side.

Once upstairs, he wasted time in the kitchen before he disappeared into the bathroom to spray some deodorant around, really not bothered enough to have a shower. Besides, showers still never really got rid of all the smell, strangely enough. Picking up their cat who was looking lost in the passageway, (which was strange since she usually slept the hours away beside her mistress,) he walked into their bedroom, dropping the cat onto the bed and turning on his bedside lamp. She was asleep again, although looking uncomfortably slumped against the pillows. He smiled, wryly, wondering how she could possibly have fallen asleep like that. Unless she had fainted again. He didn’t see how she could have though, since it always took physical exertion for her to faint.

He walked around to her side of the bed and shook her gently, before realising something with a crunch. A crunching sound crashed through his mind and seemed to squeeze the life out of his lungs and heart at the same time, and automatically his fingers pressed against the side of her throat, just under her jawbone, trying to feel for the reassuring and never lying steady beat of life.

…Nothing…

Panicking now, he felt harder, deeper, his fingers digging into her still-soft flesh, desperate now for the reassuring beat. He knew from the first look at her that she looked different…Fumbling for the mobile in his pocket before ditching it and diving onto the bed for the landline phone, a cordless handset in the charger by his side of the bed. He fumbled the numbers before realising he was half lying on his dead girlfriend.

Freaked out just slightly, then ashamed with himself, then angry as he tried to convince himself she wasn’t actually dead, he just didn’t know how to take a pulse properly, he tried to calm himself down enough to answer the questions launched at him by the answerer at the emergency hotline.

But it wasn’t enough.

He did know how to take a pulse properly.

And nothing he could do, or anything the paramedics tried when they finally arrived, could save her.

Or so he thought.

He came back to consciousness in a hospital bed, in a stark white room, covered in a thick sweat with his tongue feeling like a dead weight, a ton of weight actually, near the back of his throat. He struggled to sit up but failed, a -wounded, animal-like noise, coming from the back of his throat.

“Calm down…”

It was her voice, the sudden realisation hitting him like another ton of weight, and he struggled to see her. And there she was, Lying in the bed beside his, looking pale, sickly, but still alive.

“They say you were hallucinating, they thought you’d go into a coma.” She informed him gently. “You got in the way when they were using those…jump starters…electricity…uhmmm…you know?”

“Defibrillator?”

“Yeah, those. They were using them on me again, and you got in the way and got a bit of a shock, which knocked you out. Then they assume stress and weakness took you over, and you probably caught a bit of what I have. Streptococcal Laryngitis Furonza really weakens the immune system and the stress of it on your body starts slowing down your mind a bit, or at least, with me it does, and apparently you as well…” she paused while she coughed, and he couldn’t help shuddering at the sight of blood in her hand mixed with the phlegm.

Unaware that he had drifted off into unconsciousness, he suddenly woke up, days later. She was sitting up now, and was still seated beside his bed, even though it was way past visiting hours, which meant she was still under surveillance, he gazed up at her, the light, even though it was dim, hurting his eyes.

“Here.”

Her voice sounded strange, and he realised it must have been ages since he had actually heard it, even if he hadn’t been conscious during the time, his mind still knew how long it had been.

Automatically he put his hand out to take it, but then withdrew, even before her hand left her pocket, causing her to look at him, her head tilted to the side slightly in a silent question.

“Why did you send off that Will thing? Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly, his throat aching and his voice scratchy from days without use.

She gazed back at him quietly without saying a word, not seeming to think over the question, just gazing at him.

“I seriously thought I was going to die.” She said simply. “I could feel myself get weaker and weaker, and after how I had treated you…I thought I deserved to die anyway. And I couldn’t tell you because I was too scared. Because telling you, using words, sounds, seeing or hearing your reaction would make it feel truer.” She pulled a face after realising her bad English. Before she had come down very sick she had been a stickler for proper English and grammar. “So…I ignored it.” She murmured, squeezing his hand and he found hers. “In a way…I guess…getting you to post it was my way of telling you, but I never thought you’d be bothered enough to read who it was too…and it turns out by the time you got home it was nearly too late anyway…”
He couldn’t believe with how calmly she spoke of all this. How they had both nearly died, and she just murmured it all, not whispering, not looking at him, just holding his hand as she spoke on it softly. She looked at him, and smiled, and it was such a soft, sweet, sad smile, he couldn’t help but fall in love with her again, even more deeply than he had just minutes before.

“I thought you were planning your own death…” he murmured.

To think, he had avoided seeing her. He had spent hours away from her side while she nearly died, when if he had taken just another half hour more she might have been gone forever.

“I thought you had died…” he murmured, squeezing her hand so tight he wondered why she wasn’t in pain.

“So I heard.” She answered wryly. “It was all you would hallucinate about for days. I feel quite special, to be the only one in your thoughts like that…you nearly died for me…”

He looked up at her, and managed to pull her down into a tight hug, so she wouldn’t see the tears escaping from the corners of his eyes.

“We’re getting married.” He demanded in a whispered murmur, his voice so rough and low it made her smile. “As soon as we’re both well enough to walk and not look crap in the photos. We’re getting married, and I’m not losing you.”

She laughed softly, from joy, and she wound her arms around him gently at first, to then hugged him tightly, just as roughly as he was hugging her.

“Here.” She said again, the token now out of her pocket and in her hand as she tried to push it into his fingers. He brought it up into his line of vision so he could see it, and was greeted with the sight of a dull grey coloured, round piece of some kind of metal or something, quite heavy, looking slightly familiar and for the life of him he couldn’t work out what it was.

“It’s a weight.” She prodded him gently. “Remember that day you and I snuck into the drama room before we’d even started Drama, just to get out of the heat and into the air conditioning, and we found something heavy in the corners of the old black heavy curtains that surrounded the stages? And we cut them out and practically vandalised the drama room curtains?” she was smiling at the memory of their wilder, more immature and teenage days.

“Where did you find it?” he asked, amazed that they even still existed and hadn’t been lost. They were small, roughly the size of an Australian 20cent piece, and even though they had ended up with uncovering about 24 of the damned things he had no clue what had happened to his haul. He hadn’t thrown them out, they had way too much sentimental value for that, he just had no idea what had happened to his. It was weird how something they had cut crudely out from the heavy black curtains, giggling as they ducked out of sight from the teachers walking past the windows, could mean so much.

She shrugged. “I’ve always kept them close, you know those annoying girly boxes people give you for your birthday? Heart shaped or circular, plated in mother of pearl or imitation gold, fake gems glued on, etc. For putting small nick-nacks or earrings, whatever you wanted into them, so in the end you had about twelve filled with broken pieces of eraser of half an earring in there, and nothing that important, usually.

“We’ll be okay now.” She promised him. And they were.