Chapter XII: Heart Shaped Wreckage

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"We hurt so much because we have lost a part of ourselves. If we have loved much, we must have given much also, and when everything's over, we feel as though we have lost everything."

― Jocelyn Soriano, Mend My Broken Heart.

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What did you do when you had begun to give yourself hope, started to fool yourself into thinking everything could be okay someday, or if not okay then at least better than now? And then 'someday' came and everything was just worse, worse than ever, and you couldn't think of what to do, because you never allowed yourself to imagine it. There was no plan, suddenly, and you were just free-falling through space with nothing to grab hold of, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole except there was no light, no charming white rabbit, and no end, because the only ending you'd been able to think of had disappeared and all that was left was a black hole, inescapable.

Dex wondered how long you could survive in a black hole without suffocating.

"Dex, I was joking." Timmy's voice was harsh, annoyed, exasperated, and it didn't do anything to make Dex feel better. Dex turned away, so he could scrub at the tear tracks on his cheeks without Timmy seeing.

"Dex, come on, say something!" Timmy tried again, and Dex wondered if he's projecting the slight franticness into his words, or if Timmy had decided to actually care about his feelings for five minutes now. Because that would be a refreshing change from the norm.

"Dex?" Timmy huffed, and Dex knew he was rolling his eyes. Because Dex was stupid. He had always been so stupid and Timmy knew it and saw it and that was why he would never care. Because Dex was an idiot and would always be one.

"Would you at least look at me?" No, he wouldn't. Because if he looked at Timmy he would start crying again, and look like even more of an idiot.

"Fine." Timmy snorted, and there was a long pause after that, as Dex stared out the window and tried so, so very hard not to break. The sound of nurses and doctors outside, bringing medications and meals, cut through the silence with the jingle of metal wheels, the hum of lights. It had been three days since Timmy's surgery now, and this was the first time Dex had been able to see him, not because of doctors or schedules, but because Dex couldn't even handle the thought of seeing Timmy again after what happened. And even now, he was still swallowing down the tears, because he was still reeling over the sudden shift, still stumbling after the rug had been pulled out from under his feet and thrown in his face.

He'd been stupid. He'd thought Timmy cared.

When Timmy had asked Dex who he was, it had felt like everything had suddenly smashed apart. Like one of those glass figurines, the ones Dex would see when his mother took him to the Craft Fairs as a child, before she became so wrapped in her work. So tiny, exquisite, sometimes imperfect with little bubbles trapped in the glass, hidden away in the corner of a booth but still sparkling. Dex had knocked one over once, young and fumbling and too eager to touch. A little bird, perched on a branch, he remembered. It had shattered all over the floor, shards still catching sunlight. His mother had smacked his hand for not listening to her and pulled him away, but even as much as a mother's scolding could hurt when so young, it was the image of the broken glass still shimmering on the ground that made tears burn in his eyes.

It was like that, except he'd held the pieces in his hands, and they'd cut into his skin and made him bleed as he tried to glue everything back together, crying even as the nurses tried to tell him it would be alright. And then Timmy had rolled his eyes, croaked out that he was kidding, and it turned out that the little bird was still whole on its branch, and Dex was just grasping at air, air that cut and burned and choked, and he couldn't do it.

Finally, Timmy spoke again, and his voice was very small. "I'm sorry."

But Dex couldn't know if he meant it. He didn't even know why he was here right now.

"Happy?" Timmy asked.

"No," Dex grumbled, crossing his arms tighter across his chest and staring resolutely out the window.

"Oh come on..."

"Timmy," Dex snapped, "Don't."

Timmy sighed and thumped his pillow.

Finally, Dex groaned and buried his head in his hands. "Why would you do that to me?"

Timmy didn't answer. But Dex still couldn't look at him right now.

"I just...I don't get it," he whispered, and he knew his voice sounded wretched. "I mean...was that your first thought coming out of surgery? 'I wonder how I can f*ck with Dex today'?"

"No," Timmy mumbled into his pillow.

"Oh really?" Dex heard his own voice grew higher, thinner, as he fought against the lump building in his throat. "Did you think I would laugh, Timmy? When all of a sudden you wake up and you don't know who I am? Was that funny to you?" He stood up, running his hands through his hair and looking everywhere but Timmy, still stuck in his bed. "You know...I know you don't care, you don't give a flying f*ck about me, but I loved you. I really did. And...and can you imagine how much that...that hurt, thinking that...that..."

He slammed his hands down on the windowsill and stared outside. "How would you have felt if your sister couldn't remember you, huh?" He whispered. "And...and you..."

Timmy spoke up, voice tiny. "If you'd actually listened to me you'd know that my memory wouldn't have been..."

"I don't care!" Dex yelled, whirling around, and Timmy had shrunk back into the pillows, pale and thin and actually looking frightened. "You knew I didn't know that! You knew! What are you trying to do, huh? What was the point?"

"I..." Timmy started, but now Dex's gone, all the words that have built up in his mouth spilling out into the air and he can't take them back, not now, not now that the dams have burst and the water is spilling out over the world.

"Was there even a point, or were you just doing this to have a laugh? God, Timmy, you are just so f*cking selfish at times and I can't stand it, Jesus Christ, how can you just do that to people, I don't get it!" He tore his eyes away from Timmy's face, tried to force back his rational self which was screaming at him to not upset Timmy, not when he was like this. But even the simple expression on Timmy's face was enough to remind him that as much as he wanted to yell and punch the wall and stamp his feet at the sheer unfairness of it all, he couldn't. Not now. He took a shuddering breath, rolled his shoulders, and studied the blankets on Timmy's bed, as if the answer to what he should do now was written across them in bold black marker. His voice came out soft, but steady. "And I...I tried, you know? But it's really hard when all you do is just take and take and take from people and then act like it doesn't even matter, and then you do, and it's so confusing and I don't know how to feel and..."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" Timmy interrupted, and suddenly Dex realized how very vulnerable he looked, pale and thin, outlined against the pillow with eyes wide. He looked better, now, at least, than when Dex had first seen him, his eyes brighter, color returning to his lips and cheeks. But it all seemed so dead, now.

A butterfly, fully formed but still drying in the sun, unable to fly, and so easily smashed.

"Nothing," Dex whispered. "That's the problem."

And Timmy smiled, the motion just barely tugging at his mouth.

Dex sighed, and sat back down, waited for something to make sense. "Can you tell me why, please?" He sounded old even to his own ears. "I just need to know."

The smile faded away, and Timmy blinked hard, turning his face away as much as he was able. "I guess..." he whispered, "I guess I just needed to see...what you would do."

"And why...why?" Dex asked.

Timmy looked up at him, stared, and he was alive and there and real but the problem was that Dex realized now that he could fall out of love. He hadn't, not yet, but suddenly the realization was there, the idea that not all romances could last, not all yearning hearts would yearn forever.

And he couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not.

And Timmy said, "You cried for me."

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The thing about crying was that Dex didn't do it very often. He stopped seeing much of a point to it years ago. He didn't understand why all of a sudden he couldn't seem to stop.

Dex went home to his apartment that evening, and realized that he had already forgiven Timmy. By the very fact Timmy was able to give him a reason, no matter how vague. The fact that Timmy could explain why he did it, even in the privacy of his own head, was enough.

The idea that Timmy could do something like that, something so cruel, to Dex, was inconceivable. Dex still reeled from the fact that Timmy would toy with him like that, pretend not to remember him, even if only for a second.

Yet, he did it for a reason. And Dex knew that if Timmy had a reason, it was one that made it worth it. Because Timmy did so many things without reason, or at least without even admitting to himself that there was one. And the fact that he could hurt Dex so easily, but have a reason for it, made it better.

Because if Timmy had a reason, Dex knew, then it couldn't have been easy for him to hurt Dex at all.

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"Why was that important?" Dex asked, after a week of thinking about it. Timmy was lying in his bed, now relocated to the recovery floor and after an hour of physical therapy. He was exhausted now, Dex could tell, limbs heavy and face slack with exertion. Dex found this was the best time to come, right when Timmy was done with his therapy-he was mellow, tired, gentle. He was getting better now, stayed awake for longer periods of time than right after the surgery, and Dex loved these moments, when he could just sit in the chair and talk to Timmy. Not even necessarily with him, but at him, because that was all Timmy needed, and Timmy would just roll his eyes or sigh or smile, and that was all Dex needed in return.

Maybe he could fall out of love, but he hadn't yet.

Timmy looked up at him, lifted an eyebrow.

"That I cried," Dex elaborated, "Why was it important that I cried?"

Timmy rolled over onto his side-the incision near the top of his head was healing nicely, and he was allowed free movement now. He pillowed his head in his folded arm and blinked up at Dex, like a lover. "You could have left," he finally said, voice soft and slurred. "When you thought I...I couldn't remember you, you started crying. And...trying to tell me who you were and...and you told the truth. You could have lied-told me you were my boyfriend or something."

"I wouldn't do that," Dex interjected, but Timmy kept going.

"And...I guess...I wondered if you would leave. And I...I needed to see if you would."

"I thought we'd established already that I'm not leaving," Dex reminded him gently. Timmy shrugged.

"People make promises that they can't keep."

And Dex knew Timmy was referring to her. Because how could he trust anyone else when he knew what a person was capable of?

"Would it...would it make you feel better if I...if I wrote you a check? And you could pay the money yourself? That way, you'd have the money and wouldn't have to worry about me...leaving," Dex told him.

Timmy turned around and frowned slightly, lips parting with a sad sigh. "No," he whispered. "It wouldn't make me feel better at all."

"Why not?" Dex asked.

And Timmy looked away, and whispered, so soft Dex could barely be sure he heard it right, "I could still lose you."

Dex felt his eyebrows lift with surprise, his mouth twist with bewilderment. And now once again everything was turned around and all muddled and blurry. "Why does that matter?"

Timmy's eyes seeked out his, bright and clear and broiling with turmoil. "Please don't make me say it," he begged.

So Dex didn't.

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Another week, and Timmy was home. Home. Because for some reason the concept did not seem so foreign anymore. Because even if Timmy couldn't say it, the words were still strung between them, like dew on a spider web, delicate, fragile, but sparkling.

These last few weeks had seemed like a dream to Dex. He knew it was a cliché, but he could think of no other way to describe it. Everything was blurry in his mind, half-remembered snippets of conversations, the hours all squished together and compacted, running together like ink droplets on paper. He suspected a lot of that time had been blotted out by tears. He had allowed himself to cry. More than he had in years. First with the hurt, and then the confusion, and then some more because it had been so long since he'd allowed himself to cry for the sake of crying and it felt like a valve had been released and he couldn't stop, not until his throat was raw and his eyes practically swollen shut.

He remembered learning when he was young that little boys were not supposed to cry. Only little girls. As if little boys couldn't hurt just as bad. And then soon the little girls were told not to cry either.

What a terrible thing, he thought, that anyone should be told not to cry. As if crying was a crime.

Maybe people would be a whole lot less screwed up if they were allowed to cry without feeling ashamed of it.

He mentioned this to Timmy the first night he was back, eating soup on the couch and solving Sudoku puzzles, because he was certain that Timmy would understand. Timmy just stared at him for a long time before putting the soup down and holding his arms open.

Dex raised his eyebrows and shuffled a few feet closer. "Timmy?"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"Offering to hug you."

"Why?"

"Because maybe if more people hugged each other, that would make it all a little bit easier."

Dex could feel his forehead creasing with concern as he lowered himself gently into Timmy's arms. It was funny, because right now, Timmy felt so much stronger than he did himself. But then, Timmy had always been stronger. Dex had known that since the beginning.

Timmy took Dex in his arms, and for once, it was nice to be the butterfly. He was warm beneath Dex, steady, solid. He pulled and shifted until they were lying lengthwise on the couch, Dex tucked between Timmy and the back cushions. Dex could feel Timmy's heartbeat beneath his fingertips, a steady thump-thump, like music. Timmy rested his cheek against the top of Dex's head.

It was a future, like this, a future wrapped up in pretty paper with a bow on top.

"Timmy?" Dex asked after a moment.

"Yes Dex?"

"What is this?"

"A hug, Dex."

"Is that all?"

Timmy didn't answer for a long time, but he wrapped his arms a little tighter, held a little closer. Finally, he sighed, chest rising and falling beneath Dex, like a mountain shifting. "I don't know."

"Okay," Dex told him.

"Okay?"

Dex let a small smile touch his face and reached out to pat Timmy's hand. "We'll figure it out."

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"I love you Timothy Ryeille," Dex said to himself that night, mostly because he needed to hear it more than anything. He needed to say it, to confirm it to himself, and he knew it was alright, because the words did not taste like ash in his mouth.

For the first time, he allowed himself to wonder if Timmy thought about him in the same way.

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The problem with figuring things out was that things change.

They changed when Timmy went in for his first radiation treatment. Because suddenly everything has started back up again.

Because this wasn't over. No matter how they might try to delude themselves.

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Dex knew he had to start back at work again. He had missed so much, and he knew his bosses were beginning to get annoyed.

He hated it. He hated that he had to go back and rejoin a world of the privileged few with good jobs and nice apartments and big, fat insurance policies, while Timmy stayed at home, tried to recover, tried to bind himself in life once more.

He hated that he couldn't be there when Timmy went into the hospital for his radiation treatment. He wanted to, wanted it so badly he imagined he could actually feel the particles of his body trying to pull him away from his desk, back home, back to the hospital, back to Timmy where he belonged. But he went, and every night he came home, and Timmy looked a little bit more exhausted. Each treatment only took a few minutes, while Timmy laid there under the laser, and his oncologist was optimistic, but that didn't stop Dex from worrying, and it couldn't stop how it changed Timmy. Three weeks, Timmy told him. Three weeks, every weekday, and it should be gone.

The fourth day, Dex woke up in the middle of the night to the sudden flare of light in the bathroom. He rolled out of bed, rubbing at his eyes, and stumbled across the floor to find Timmy hugging the toilet, face white and body covered with sweat as he threw up the entire contents of his stomach. Dex sat beside him and wiped his forehead with a cool cloth, one arm wrapped around Timmy's shoulders to prevent him from toppling over.

"You should go back to bed," Timmy croaked, even as he clung to Dex's shoulders, rested his head against the warmth of Dex's bare chest. "You have work tomorrow..."

"It doesn't matter," Dex told him, and he turned his face away as Timmy pitched forward and retched up stomach acid before reaching out and dabbing the cloth across Timmy's face. "This does."

He waited until it had been ten minutes since the last time Timmy threw up, before he stripped Timmy's sweat stained shirt from his skin, washed him down with warm water and gently guided him through a rinse of mouthwash. Timmy was lax, half-asleep, and incoherent. Dex knew that made it easier, that Timmy was too weak now to fight Dex's help, but he hated it all the same. He helped Timmy out of the bathroom, and took him to his own bed, instead of all the way back to the sleeper sofa. He folded Timmy under the blankets, stroked the hair back from his forehead.

Timmy's eyes were still closed, but he moved his arms up slowly until his hands and gripped tight around Dex's waist, and he tugged weakly. Dex followed, allowed himself to be pulled onto the bed and right next to Timmy, skin to skin, heartbeat against rapid heartbeat.

"Mmm..." Timmy mumbled, hiding his face against Dex's neck, breath hot on Dex's collarbone. "You suck."

Dex grinned, hand finding its way to the back of Timmy's head, right below where his hair was clipped away to allow for the surgery. He held him steady. "Why do I suck?" He asked with a soft chuckle.

He could feel Timmy smile against his skin when he answered sleepily, words blurring together in a jumble of consonants as he slipped into unconsciousness. "For making me fall in love with you."

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What did you do when you had started to fool yourself into thinking everything could be okay someday, and if not okay, then at least better than now? And then 'someday' came and it was more incredible than you ever could have imagined. There was no plan, but that no longer mattered, because you might be falling but suddenly there was someone there to catch you.

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αυтнσя'ѕ иσтє:

A shoutout to Dex @D__E__X for being such an avid reader and awesome chat buddy!

Moving on... LE GASPS! Timmy said what? Did he really mean it?

This wasn't what you were all expecting, ain't it? Teehee! Yup, Timmy has his memories. It's still there, in that big head of his! Come bombard me with hateful comments! Bad press is still press. XD

Until next chapter...

*offers everyone huuuge vanilla snow cones*

PS. Glassy Sky by Donna Burke.