Disease

The first attack she’s had in months hits her, right after he’s left to spy on one of the board’s representatives. She’s kind of confused—the reps are a part of the legislature, their target is the head of the executive. But if Matt says it’s important, then it must be. Probably.

She’s going out too, is supposed to keep tabs on the first lady. Supposed to watch where she goes—memorize her schedule. Lena grins a bit—she’s good at memorizing.

Her hand ghosts over the door knob, then the pain hits her. Stabbing and twisting along her spine, her lungs her chest—

She coughs, hard, and stagers up against the wall, resting her head against the peeling plaster. The beloved plaster.

(It’s the first apartment she’s ever shared with him—not a hotel but an apartment—not temporary.)

She hisses and gasps, hunching over herself. The coat she’s wearing is too big—swallows her up.

(Matt’s coat. The one he had given to her for Christmas because she was too shy to ask for some money to buy her own.)

She licks her lips, tasting the blood on them and swallowing it down. Her legs are shaky, and give way to let her slam down onto the floor. She curls up there, coughing and choking. Her lungs burn.

She breathes.

Her vision flickers—going blurry and then clear again. Her cheek is comfortable against the itchy carpet whilst her fake lung burns.

(She blinks—a clod of mascara stuck to one of her lover eyelashes.)

Sighs. Air whooshing out. For a few moments she tries breathing with only one lung and finds that she cannot do it—a physical manipulation that is beyond her grasp. A spasm rips through her body, leaving her dizzy and weak.

The phone rings—a jaunty little marching tune that dances through the air and around the rim of her ear. She shakes, but pulls the cell from her pocket and flips it open.

“He…llo?” Her voice cracks when talks. She gasps a little and regrets it—breathing seems to be a bad idea right now.

“Hey, I—Lena? What’s up?” It’s Matt, she thinks, and tries to steady herself.

“Nothing, sorry I’m running late. I—cut my hand.”

“Oh. Well, hurry up and come down—I’ll take you to lunch.” Matt’s voice has turned back to flat, business. She glows, because even if it is all business, he’s still taking her out to lunch.

“Okay, see you in a bit!” The cheer in her voice isn’t hard to come by—it’s real. Saying it without screaming is.

---

She clambers down the apartment steps, slower than usual. It takes her a second to spot Matt—with his hood up it’s hard to see that obnoxiously purple-black hair. (He tends to get a little eccentric with his dye jobs.)

She pads over, greeting him with a smile and a shy ducking of the chin. He nods a bit, swinging his leg over his bike and tossing her the spare helmet. Her arms are slow to catch it—she winces when it hits her in the chest.

“Len—”

“Let’s go!” she says, because she refuses to be a burden. Carefully, he nods. Starts the engine.

(Vroom vroom vroom…)

---

“Hey, Lena…” Matt dips his french-fry in his milk shake. She wrinkles her nose—ew.

It still hurts to breathe. Her hands push hard against her ribcage as she focuses on math.

(1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512…)

“Mmn?” She eats her ketchup smothered fry pointedly—this is how you do it.

“Where’s that cut on your hand?” He asks her nonchalantly, hooded grey eyes appraising her over the linoleum table. She freezes, breathing so fast and painfully that she chokes, coughing.

She tries to keep her hands hidden, tries to make it so he won’t see the crimson splotches now adorning her palms. When she’s able to talk again, she doesn’t choosing to instead stare silently out the window.

Across from her Matt is equally quiet. He stands up after a second and starts to trudge out. She throws some money down on the counter and goes after him because—

(she’ll follow him until the day she dies

She needs a ride back home.

He doesn’t speak to her for the next few days, except to order her around. The ache in her chest isn’t just from her sickness.

(She misses him telling her to punch the next person to give her any crap.)

On the third day of his silent treatment, he relents. She looks up when he crouches down next to her, blinking at something that isn’t plugged into the wall of glow.

“Hey, you’re going to the clinic tomorrow,” he says, and reaches past her to type something on the computer.

“But—!”

“Relax, they told me there wouldn’t be any needles,” his eyes roll, and he trudges past her and collapses onto the couch.

She stares at his unmoving silhouette, and trembles. He just hacked past a level five government security—something that only she’s supposed to be able to do. Something she had spent the past ten minutes staring hopelessly at.

If he can do this—why is she even here?

---

She leaves the clinic, shaky and unsteady. Painkillers boggle her system, confusing her and causing her to trip over air. She leans against a grimy light pole, and waits for him.

It takes him over an hour to pick her up—

(You’re ALWAYS too slow, Matt…)

—and by this time she’s fallen asleep, propped up against the pole and the pavement.

“Hey,” Matt says, poking her shoulder.

She blinks, groggy and confused. “Hi.”

“They fix whatever was wrong?”

“Yeah…it—I think they said it was an infection. Low grade, but with the potential to turn into cancer. They got rid of it.” She mumbles sleepily, stretching out her hands towards him.

“Ah,” he says and tugs her up. “You get sick a lot, don’t you?”

“…Yeah,” she says, and climbs onto the motorcycle after him.

(He’s one disease she’d like to catch.)