Notes

Sometimes I can feel time slipping away from me.

I'll blink, and hours will have gone by that I didn't even realize were passing. I don't know where they go, I can't keep track of them anymore.

This is one of those moments, where I'm in the inbetween of reality and these weird dream bubbles. I've decided to call them that, because it's much nicer than admitting the bigger issue that lost time is a part of. Kato created Earthquakes, having coined that term to describe the moments where my brain would shift and grind against itself until I was knocked off my natural axis.

Nothing is real when I'm in this state. Everything is far away and untouchable, the safety of this bubble sheltering me from the outside world. I would live here forever if I could, because this state of mind is relaxed and calm, gentle rivers flowing through delicate forests. No hurricanes or earthquakes.

But the funny part is; when I'm inbetween a dream bubble and coming back to reality, I can see my life through a new perspective. I see it like someone would if they were to be cleaning up after someone who just died, which, I could only wish for.

The thing is, my life makes me miserable. Not only living it, but having to see it as well. I drift around the apartment walls like I am light and floating, unable to be harmed by anything because of how high up I am. This dazed little half-disconnection from reality is the greatest feeling I will ever experience.

While I am drifting around, bouncing weightless from each wall, I see my empty food cabinents and unused guest silverware. I see picture frames filled with Kato because he never cares to keep photos of us, passing all of them to me for my "collection" that he thinks I'm building, and the vinyl I would much rather drown in rather than having to engage in actual human conversation. This way to living is sad, but I can't change it. This is what I'm comfortable in. I don't know what else there is that could possibly make this a better home than the nest I've built around myself for protection. My safety. Concrete walls that the world can't penetrate.

I look at the clock and see that a little under four hours have escaped from me.

I don't mind losing time, in fact, I'm kind of glad. I don't like this reality, so the longer I can stay away from it, the longer I can tolerate being alive.

There's only one other thing that can prolong the feeling of self destruction. I wonder what he's doing, as it's been three days since I've seen him. Maybe four? Who knows, the dream bubbles have been calling for me more and more lately.

I find myself in the elevator before I can even process what's happening. My body likes to move on it's own sometimes, like when I go to the roof without realizing it. I think that's a sign that I should end it, but for some reason, I always chicken out. Or someone pulls me down.

I stare at the gold plated numbers on his door for a few moments, wondering if I should be the one to come to him for a second time. What if I bother him? What if he wishes to get rid of me? What if he regrets letting me live?

I knock anyway, because the thoughts of him telling me I make him feel start to surface in my memory. I make him feel, and he makes me feel.

Yori opens the door just a crack, the chain of his lock separating us teasingly. I offer a smile, to which he only shuts the door on. I wait for a few moments, listening to the sounds of him unlocking every padlock he has, and then he's standing in front of me in all his divinity.

"Carter," he says, a little weakly. I notice his messy hair and tired eyes, the boy looking as if he's been under quarantine for weeks. "Hey. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I just thought we could hang out," I suddenly feel very, very stupid. Of course he doesn't want to hang out with me, who would? I'm disgusting. I'm foul. Nobody loves me, and nobody ever will, because I'm-

"I would, but I don't want to get you sick," he breathes out. His voice sounds raw and scratchy. "Otherwise I would have come seen you by now. I'm sorry."

"You're ill?" I step forward. Yori looks away, and I examine the way his ears stick downwards and his sweaty paws. His eyelashes flutter delicately over glossed sky blue eyes, and he sniffles a little in a way that resembles an upset child. He moves backwards, curling in on his body in the slightest way.

"I have a very weak immune system," he explains. "I get sick easily, it's fine. Just stay away, I don't need you to get sick too."

"Are you resting?" I move past him to enter his apartment, looking at the empty room in dismay. "Yori, this isn't a good way to be getting better. Have you been staying hydrated? What have you ate today?"

"rmn," he mumbles in consonants and shame. Yori looks away, his fluffed up arms wrapped around himself in embarrassment.

"What was that?" I ask. I look at his couch, a singular blanket thrown over it, with an empty snack bag and Coca Cola bottle sitting on the ground.

"I said ramen," Ian admits. "It's fine, George. I get sick, like, every month, you don't need to worry."

"But I am," I reply.

He guides me out of the apartment carefully, his touch gentle and electric all at once. Once I'm back on the other side of the door, he looks at me sympathetically.

"Really, George. I'll be fine. Go, I promise you I'll come over when I'm feeling better," he sighs. He looks reluctant, like closing the door is the last thing he wants to do.

But that doesn't stop him from doing it.

I stand in the hall for a few seconds, my blood stream working twice as fast just to pump cells through my heart at a doubled rate.

He wants me to leave him alone, but we both know that I just can't do that. Not when he pulled me down from a ledge. I have a lot to owe him at the moment, even if I do sometimes plan on going back up there on a night I'm sure Yori won't be there. But still, I owe it to him.

So I come back to his apartment a little over an hour later, letting myself in instead of knocking. He thankfully didn't relock anything, perhaps hoping I would come back. He's laying on the couch with a limp body, the boy curled up with all of his long limbs, and my eyes travel down the length of his spine helplessly.

"Told you not to come back, Carter," Yori says without even turning to face me.

"I've never been one to listen that well," I say, sitting on the edge of the couch by his legs. He rolls over and looks at me, his body trembling from the fever. My hand rests softly on his knee, and I say "Come on, sit up. Come here."

He does so, letting me push his curling hair back with a thin headband. Then, I reach down into the bags of items I collected at the corner shop, handing Yori a cold bottle of water as I fumble with a box of cold medication.

"I don't like to take medication," Yori tells me. His hands wrap tightly around the bottle, the plastic crunching under his touch.

I look at him, and I say "This won't change your brain chemistry. I promise."

Yori stops for a second, like he's trying to consider the theories and ideas I'm suggesting. Eventually, he nods, and says "Okay."

So I punch the little tablets out into his palm, starting him off only with two. He'll have to take more in an hour, but no more than six in the span of two hours. The instructions are clear.

"I don't feel any better," he says. His mouth is shiny from the water, he rubbed his the back of his lightly.

"Of course not," I put a hand to his forehead. "You've still got a fever."

Yori looks over the couch at the bags I've carried in, asking "Is that all for me?"

"Yeah. Do you have a cough?" I dig through the bag until I find the two boxes of tea.

He shakes his head and says "No, but I've got a sore throat."

"Okay," I stand up. "Rest for now. I'll be back in a moment."

I carry everything to the kitchen and stock Yori's fridge with containers of fresh fruit, seeing as he's got only Italian and leftovers in his desolate fridge.

I make a simple rice porridge with egg and leek in it. It's really not special, nor does it have any health benefits that will greatly impact Yori, but I just want to make sure he eats a proper meal. My mother would make this for me whenever I was feeling poorly, so it's only fair.

Once I'm done there, I start to heat up the pickled plums that I traveled across town for. While they're simmering on low heat, I begin to make tea for Yori and I. He doesn't have much when it comes to kitchen appliances, but judging by the junk food and takeout containers, something tells me he doesn't do much cooking himself.

Yori's tea goes into a mug that has a Nasa logo on it, while I dip my earl grey into a white mug with a chemisty equation printed on it. I let the plums drop into Yori's tea, and while they're flourishing, I check on the rice.

"Yori," I call out from the kitchen.

I stand for a moment, before he weakly replies "Yeah?"

"How do you take your tea?"

"Little bit of sugar just for something sweet. But I'm sure I'll be fine with you here," he says.

I find myself smiling in embarrassment. Fever from hell and he's still finding it in himself to slide in such comments so smoothly that not even a hummingbird could see Yori at work.

"You're lucky if I don't spit in it," I reply. I listen with strained ears until I hear a gentle, vulnerable laugh. This soothes me a little, so after mixing in sugar to his tea, milk and honey in mine, I start to prepare the second drink. I dig around in the bag until I find the two ingredients I need.

When I'm slicing the ginger needed to go with the alcohol I'm serving him, the knife blade runs close to my skin. I stop and think about all the ways I could do damage with this, but I don't want to let myself slip into that state of mind when Yori needs me.

I have to take several trips to get everything out to him. With his lack of table, the drinks go on the floor, but I hold the bowl of porridge out to him carefully.

"It's hot," I warn.

"What's this?" He asks. He sits up to hold it on his lap, then looking over at the two cups I've made for him. I hold my own tea close to my chest, feeding off the warmth it spreads throughout me.

"That's rice. It's kind of a soup, kind of not. It's good, I promise," I watch him carefully. "Eat. You need your energy."

He eats carefully, most likely afraid to branch out from what he's used to. I know Americans love to rely on the classic chicken noodle soup when they're sick, but this is just what I grew up with and what I know best.

Ian eats until he feels full, mumbling quiet "thank you"s and "you didn't need to." I take the bowl from him after he absolutely can not eat more, only to fill his hands with the tiny cup of alcoholic remedy.

"And this?" He asks.

"Yomeishu and ginger," I say. "It helps with fatigue."

He takes a tender sip, his face screwing up at the taste. I laugh a little, helping him choke it down. Then, as if the tea will revive his tastebuds, he chugs that down as well.

"Oh, for fucks sake, George," Yori coughs. "Are you trying to poison me?"

"It's umeboshi," I explain. I pat the back of his shoulder, and he only looks at me dangerously. "It'll make you feel hot, and when you do, you'll sweat your fever out."

"God, you really know how to talk dirty to a boy," he grimaces. "So do I sleep now?"

"You can, yeah," I nod. "Drink some water first."

I gently tilt the water bottle back as he drinks, his throat bobbing as he swallows repetitively. He grasps my wrist with flower petal soft paws as I hold the bottle, and then once the bottle is empty, he pulls away with a sigh.

"You sure this'll work?" He asks me.

"It did when I was younger," I tell him. "These are remedies my grandma used to share with me."

"I'd love to hear about her," Yori says.

"One day, sure," I nod. I use that superficial voice when I know I'm not telling the truth, but that's for Yori to find out in the future. "Get some rest."

I stand to my feet, and Yori reaches out to grab my hand. "Can you..."

He trails off with the feverish embarrassment written on his face. Yori looks so small and vulnerable in this moment, that for once, I don't feel like the inferior one.

"Yeah," I say, "Yeah. Yeah, I'll stay."

Yori lays back against the couch and rests his arm over his eyes. So I sit back down; the boy stretching his legs over my lap, the blanket falling off of him just slightly, his chest expanding and collapsing with each inhale exhale routine. Carefully, I cover him back up, and rest my hand against his leg. The TV idly plays old sitcoms, so I find myself getting sucked into the lives of fake people who are still living much more lively than I am.

Yori wiggles around restlessly in all of his fever dreams, sweating and groaning in pain. Every once in awhile, he will reach out and touch me, just to graze my fur. His hand always drops back down as he goes limp, but it'll be back soon. Maybe he's checking to see if I'm still there, maybe he's just having a nightmare. Either way, I want to stay here so that he can feel me when he reaches out. That much I know I can do.

With Yori sleeping his sickness off, I feel the emptiness of the day start to pull at me. The walk to the Asian Imports store across down made my legs ache with soreness. I look at Yori, and I know that I can't leave him. Not when he's ill. I know he wouldn't leave me either, but what would he do in this situation?

Put yourselves in Yori's shoes. How would he handle this situation?

So I find myself lying down beside him, the tiny couch not fit for two of us. My body overlaps his, hot and sticky with perspiration, but still the most comforting human contact I've ever gotten. When I rest my head against his chest, I can hear his heartbeat working all of its might to keep him alive. It's a beat that I can make lyrics to, a beat I can make a song out of. My god, this boy is a symphony on his own. Some people like to live in music, floating from song to song. Some people are music from the inside out, and I never thought I would get to meet someone like that.

I wake up in my own apartment.

I check the time, knowing that too many hours have passed. Was I in another dream bubble? Consumed in this fantasy that will never happen, lost in the thought of all my dreams?

God, I don't want time to slip away from me anymore. Not when it's time that I can spend with Yori I can't keep visiting him in my dreams when he only lives a couple floors below me.

I stroll out into my living room with the feathery feeling that comes with a dream bubble. Still stuck in the euphoric high of such a good dream, high on the feelings of being with someone such as Yori.

I stop in my tracks when I see them. There, on the counter, a vase I have never seen before. It's overflowing with sunflowers, which only makes me wonder where they would have come from for them to be so vibrant and alive.

There's a note stuck under the vase. I pick it up carefully, wondering if this is the dream bubble in itself. How many layers deep can my mind go? Will I ever return to reality, and if so, how much of what I know will still be there when I finally come to? Will Yori still be there?

The flowers are from him. The notecard is written so neatly that it almost looks printed, tucked under the stained glass vase with care.

'george,

you fell asleep on me, which was so fucking cute to wake up to. maybe it was the remedies that helped me get better, or maybe the extra strength cuddles. either way, i woke up feeling far better because of you.

you left your keys on my counter so i wanted to make sure you got some rest in a clean germ-free environment so you wouldn't get sick. you're a surprisingly heavy sleeper, so you didn't even wake up when i nearly dropped you in the elevator.

vincent van gogh loved sunflowers and the color yellow. he tried to drink yellow paint once to feel happier, and i think maybe you might be my color yellow. the sunflowers are to make you as happy as they made that man, because i think it'd be a lot safer to get you flowers than to cut off my ear for you.

sleep well. come down when you're awake, and we can go get some breakfast. doesnt matter what time it is, i'm down for pancakes whenever you are.

yours,
yori.'

It doesn't matter if Yori isn't there if I come out of this possible dream bubble. He's here now, and that's what I have to focus on.

Not my regretful past, not my dismal future...

The present.

The present, with Yori.