Empathy

When the rain falls like drumbeats of a manic song on the roof of the cabin Rico does not sleep. There is a inexorable eeriness in the sound that drives tremors up his spine like demon fingers dancing across the bony ridges in the darkness. He does not fear water nor has he ever disliked it. Yet the sound of heavy rainfall has frightened him since he was a small child, more so than monsters in shadowy corners and the moans of phantom breezes through the trees. When he was toddling his mother positioned herself beside him and caressed his hair until he dozed off before quietly stealing away to her own bed. Rico would later wake when the crash of water beat out of time and sleep no more until the rain had ebbed.

He knows not precisely why he is afraid, only that it sets his heart to an uneasy rhythm and his muscles coiled with tension. In the harshly contrasting lighting (black splashed with the sickly yellow glow of battery-operated night-lights and the reading lamp someone has neglected), he lies awake and observes the shadows shift across the belly of the bunk above. His mind is hyper-sensitive and alert as a small creature of the woods. It convulses with each trifling sound and refuses to be sedated by rational thought. A shift in the bunk above, a droning snore from another, the soft kitten-murmurs that one of his fellow campmates utters (though Rico has never known precisely whose they are). In general Rico slumbers akin to a man long laid into his grave, but tonight it is raining as if in preparation for a second cleansing of the earth. Will the cabin be Noah's Ark, he wonders, or shall they all be drown?

Rico’s oldest friend, Sandy, grumbles idly in his bunk and his spectacles wink with light from his tiny reading lamp like the eyes of a cat (because he has forgotten to set them aside again). Out of impulsive compassion Rico wishes to rise and take the glasses from his friend's long nose but he is afraid to move very much with the thunder of nature screaming against the windows. He can see Alejandro’s hair whorling wild and sun-bleach-laced over the edge of his voluminous blankets and wonders if the mass of curls shields the boy’s ears at from the sounds that Rico finds so aggravating. Everyone sleeps soundly while Rico quivers and it seems silly and absurd to be so unsettled by mere rain. But he is the baby, he reminds himself, and in being the youngest can stubbornly defend himself despite the fact that the deeply-asleep Sandy is only one year older.

Someone rustles their bedsheets and Rico's dark eyes widen as he stills and listens to the sound of fabric being roughly shoved about. It must be Dillon, Rico decides, for it sounds as if stuffed animals are being sleepily tossed to the safer side of the bed. Dillon is clumsy and uncoordinated and yelps softly as he knocks his head against the underside of Alejandro’s bed. Rico procures consolation in the sound of Dillon's drowsy curses, the husky voice familiar against the striking rainfall overhead. They could be shouting, Rico thinks, and it would be as if the words were whispered in the chorus of raging water. In the dimness of a Nemo-shaped-night-light Rico sees small white feet touch the timeworn floorboards. The limbs shuffle forward and are almost swallowed by black skeleton-patterned pajama pants as they stumble slightly before gaining proper balance. Rico turns over onto his side, watching in the murky negative space as Dillon rubs his eyes with a petite fist and yawns audibly, nearly falling over his own coltish limbs as he tries to walk when he has yet to fully wake. Dillon is going toward the bathroom, Rico decides.

The youngest resident of Cabin #10 raises his head from the pillow, heart hammering a rude tatu against the confines of his chest as he prays for Dillon to return from wherever he is going quickly. It makes him feel secure to know that someone so dear is only three feet from his bunk and though the fear of abandonment is absurd Rico cannot help but feel alone. But Dillon has stopped beside Rico's bunk and is gently impelling Rico's shoulder with his slight pink-polished hands while muttering something unintelligible. Though words seem to be failing him Dillon's message is eventually communicated and Rico scoots back against the wall to make room.

Dillon manages to become tangled in the bedsheets and elects to give up squirming beneath them, instead lying half-in-half-out of the blankets and half-heartedly irritated. His hair is poking up at odd angles, severely bedhead-ridden and the diffuser long worn off (rendering his hair back to its natural state of disarray). It causes him to appear very young and Rico wants to giggle but stays quiet because he does not want to startle Dillon and give rise to the elder child falling from the bed (as he has done on numerous other occasions). Instead they lie quiet and peaceful, shifting about to accommodate one another. Rico is not confused by the sudden intrusion into his private world for they spend a great deal of time sharing sleeping space and always have.

He feels Dillon's lanky arm wind around him, drawing their bodies tight enough that there is no gap between them. Though Dillon is the taller by three inches he is smaller in the torso than Rico is and he fits like a lover into the space against Rico's chest. Rico is surprised (and yet not very much so) by the flutter in his stomach, a rush of adrenaline that makes him light-headed. He still feels awkward and like a school-child when Dillon is near like this. Dillon is hot and soft (everything about him has always been soft and warm) and Rico finds himself forgetting entirely about the roar of the storm as he presses his nose into Dillon's soft purple-streaked hair. Inhale, exhale. In, out.

His hand finds Dillon's angular cheekbone and begins to softly stroke it as a silent expression of gratitude. He feels the skin shift, muscles undulating as Dillon smiles sweetly and contently. They constantly feel the whole when they need not feel apart. Rico wonders if he should say 'thank you', but his tongue is thick and limp in his mouth and he cannot find the will to move it. It is beautiful that Dillon always knows these things, for he is very empathetic and not inhibited to give everyone exactly what they need. Some people, like Rico, have always been grateful.

“Love you.” Dillon murmurs sleepily as his mind drifts toward the secret world of slumber.

Rico does not answer but instead presses a soft kiss to Dillon's hair (because it is the closest part of him). There is a sigh but neither is sure who has exhaled or even if it wasn't mutual. Dillon knows that Rico loves him and because he is asleep he need not hear it.

Rico is not afraid of the rainfall now.