i wouldn't ask you, clairo
12TH DECEMBER, 2019
TWENTY TWO YEARS

I was an asshole for not seeing Seth sooner than I did. I refrained for days, scared to see the state he was in, scared to face the inevitable truth that he was dying, and that he would only have days, weeks at best, to go. The idea didn't seem plausible to me. Seth, who was of life and light, was fading away. Seth Marken, a boy who did nothing to deserve the fate he had, was being taken to early. The idea didn't make sense. The reality didn't make sense—but somehow it would have to, because it was truly happening. Seth was dying.

Five years ago the notion would have meant next to nothing, dare I admit. Four, three, two, one year ago, it would have been the same as saying Your distant relative, Sarah? Oh yeah, the one you haven't seen since you were two and never knew? Yeah, she's dead. I don't think I would've cared as much back then. But now? Seeing him, looking at him, falling back in, dare I say, love with him? It was selfish, but I couldn't meet his face. I couldn't stand to see him fade away.

But the thought of never seeing him again was worse.

Mathilda only spared me a glance before buzzing me in. "Hand-sanitiser." Was all she said before letting me walk through the two white doors, the clopping of her heels filling the silence that engulfed the room. I could see why she wouldn't want to talk to me. Not only had I hung up on her, but I'd ignored the one person that actually wanted to see me—a dying man, attempting to fulfil his last wish. I was an asshole, definitely. The fact was indisputable.

The steps I took were slow, each one more daunting than the last. I'm sure Seth heard me from a mile away, though. The silence allowed for a pin dropping to be heard, and my shaky exhales only gave away my presence. Seth was always good at things like that: knowing, guessing, observing. He'd observe someone so well that he'd know a person just by the shadows they made on the wall, or by the flexing of their hand from the corner of his eye. An artists trait, I had dubbed it many years ago. Now, I think it was just a talent that only Seth possessed. I didn't wish for it to go.

"Hey, Ainsley." His usual greeting sounded the room before I'd even reached him. I could smell him from round the corner, though: sickening like perfume, but with an odour of cleanliness, as though he'd been scrubbed head-to-toe in bleach. Perhaps he had. I didn't know what happened in the last six days.

"Hi, Seth." I exhaled shakily once more, swallowing my anxiousness. Dread exhumed from me, much to my annoyance. I didn't want him to see me like this. I was calm, I was always level-headed, I was always stoic—and yet here I was, trembling, fearing for my life. I felt like I was going to shit my pants.

"Are you going to come round the corner or am I going to have to get my ass off my seat and come see you myself?"

I bit my lip to stifle my laughter. Even as he faded away, Seth shone bright. "I'm coming, I'm coming." I poked my head round the corner, then my torso and my legs. Beside my trouser pockets, my hands twitched sporadically. The nerves, it seemed, were taking over me. "And I'm here."

"And you're here." I didn't dare to meet his eyes—didn't dare to see that face of dimming light. My gaze focused on his slippers instead, the colour a worn blue and the thread fraying. I wondered how old they were, and then I wondered how long he'd been in this room, and if he thought of it home. And then I wondered if I would ever stop wondering at all. "Are you going to look at me, Ainsley?"

I swallowed, eyes blinking. "No."

"Wrong answer." His voice was soft, like his touch against my cheek many years ago. Like a light breeze against the tips of pointed grass. "Try again."

I exhaled again, meeting his eyes. I blinked once, twice, thrice. I couldn't see him, though. The tears had blurred my vision. "Yes?"

"Ainsley ... "

I ran over to him, hugging his body which was small in my own arms. He hadn't grown since school, his height still short, his figure petite. The only difference was the prominence of his bones, their sharp edges driving bullets into my skin—but I wouldn't let go. No matter how much they attacked, how much they prodded and stabbed and sliced, I wouldn't let go. "God, I'm sorry, Seth. I'm an asshole. I should've come sooner, I should've called, I should've—"

"You didn't need to do anything." His arms wrapped around my hovering figure, easing me onto the sheets of his bed. I didn't notice the tears until he wiped them away, that rare smile on his face once more—the one that tugged shyly at his lips, that saw his eyes of brown light up like the sun. "Don't feel guilty."

I sniffled, wiping at my eyes. I hated crying. I wasn't meant to be a cryer. I was always calm, always level-headed, always stoic—

"Hey." Seth interjected my thoughts, his brows raised. The freckles had grown fainter on his face, his skin of honey diluted by milk. The corners of his eyes fell more, and his lips appeared even more cracked—less moistened than before. Still, his hand was firm against my face: the strength of a living man. "It's okay to cry, Jasper."

He called me Jasper, I thought. That means shit got serious. "Is it?" I asked, the question genuine. I hadn't cried in so long because I had no reason to. I didn't know of the feeling.

"Yes, it is. Know that always, okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"Good." He sighed lightly, the smile still tugging at his lips. As his hand dropped from my face and went back to drawing, the absence of his warmth became more prominent. How was I meant to live one day without it? I had before, but now it was going and I was aware. That was new. That was unexpected.

"If you're thinking about what I think you're thinking of, I'm going to slap you, Ainsley." Ainsley. Good, things were normal again. I smiled lightly, my eyes sore from rubbing them.

"Distract me, then."

A sigh. I could hear his pencil drop. "If you insist." He said, voice slightly croaky, although it was well concealed. "Come look at this." He pointed towards the drawing before him, a sketch of tones light and dark. I went to it, head resting on his shoulder lightly. "Can you tell me what it is?"

I gasped.

I, Jasper Ainsley, gasped.

On the paper sat my own face reflected back at me. From the eyes, the lips, the nose, the jaw line, the shoulders, the collarbones—it was as though I looked into a mirror. He'd captured a portrait of me smiling, one I didn't remember ever being taken. I didn't even know what day it was that he'd drawn it from, or where we were, but I knew that he'd drawn it. There was a certain Sethism to it that made me know such a thing. That, and the fact that Seth was a brilliant artist. He never failed to astonish me.

"You drew me." I whispered. All those years of promising to draw me, I never actually believed him. I always thought he was joking to lift the atmosphere, or to ease some tension that was unknown to me. But no, he'd actually gone ahead and drawn me.

"I told you I only draw pretty things, did I not?" I could hear the cockiness in his voice, the smug smile drawn across his lips. I could hear it, and I was blessed to be able to still see it. "And I think that this here," he tapped the page, "is truly the prettiest thing I've ever drawn."

"You drew me." I repeated.

He chuckled back, arms resting behind his head. "Yes, Ainsley, I drew you. Get over it. I told you that I would draw you one day, didn't I?"

I exhaled, my eyes never leaving the drawing. "You did."

"So why didn't you believe me?"

I swallowed. "I don't know."

"I think you do."

Seth, once again, was right. Seth Marken was always right. Once there was a time when I hated that about him. Now, I couldn't help but love it. God, I loved him. I loved Seth Marken. I always had, and I always would.

My eyes left the drawing and looked into his own. Brown against green, a hazel in-between. The New York winter thrived beyond the window, yet he still managed to exhume summer. Somehow, Seth always did. "What are you staring at, Ainsley?" He taunted, the smile never leaving his lips. I never wanted it to leave his lips, never again.

"Something pretty." I whispered.

Then I crashed my lips onto his, and everything in the world was right again.