Chapter 4-
Clara opened her eyes, and then closed them again just as fast.
Woke up on the floor again, cheek stuck to something.
carpet.
no.
maybe a shirt. ya, she had balled it up as a pillow when she couldn't stand being present any more.
Sweat had dried in the crease of her neck, itchy where her hair stuck to it. Her stomach rolled once, hard enough to make her swallow. She had no idea what time it was. There was a fuzz at the edge of her memory.
snatches of music,
the hiss pop of foil,
Jonas's voice saying something she didn't catch.
She'd ridden it out until her body finally shut down, giving her no choice in the matter.
Her mouth tasted like copper, her tongue felt like a strip of dry leather. but it was the crick in between her shoulder and neck that finally made her move.
She rolled onto her back and the light filtering through the blackout curtains spilled across her face.
The shirt was still in her hand. soft where it had been pressed against her face, stiff in the spots where sweat had dried.
she remembered stripping it off last night. It's been to hot to want a blanket anyway.
The neckline was stretched out and it should have been musty.
Clara didn't remember if it had been washed, but that smell.
That smell.
A warm electric scent she could never describe right. Not cologne. Him.
It was warmer, sharper, than sweat and almost like the singe of ozone right before lightning. She'd smelled it on him after the first time he showed her what he could do
when the air had still been crackling between them and she thought she might never sleep again. She wondered if he smelled this way when he did tricks for other people. The thought made the feeling in her stomach that much worse.
He sat cross-legged in the corner, Jonas. Shoulders loose, back straight. Confident and proud, like the whole world belonged to him.
Beautiful, at least to her. turning a piece of scrap metal over and over in his hands. so that it caught the light. Small flashes, like stars through smoke.
Even from across the room she could see the pale blotches creeping up from his collarbone, skin dull where it should've been sun-browned. The scrap in his hands was ugly, just a piece of twisted metal, but light bent across it like water. Every time it flashed, she blinked harder, wondering if she was still half dreaming.
He'd once made the shape of a bird form out of cigarette ash on the table, its wings beating twice before collapsing into dust. She'd been thinking about that one for days after.
"You needed to sleep," he said, voice didn't match his posture. It was low, and worn thin.
"I wasn't out," she rasped. Her throat burned. "Just… resting I guess."
He smirked. He knew she was lying. He always knew when she was lying. He usually let her get away with it for some reason. Maybe he shouldn't so much. The metal shifted in his hands. She blinked and it was longer now, stretching between his fingers. Then shorter. Then gone.
Clara's brain wasn't working right quite yet.
She wanted a bump.
Or a pipe.
Or something.
The want was already there, sharp, steady growing under her skin.
She rubbed her arms, like that might push it down, but it only made her jaw clench tighter around her sandpaper tongue. Her foot tapped against the floor without her telling it to. She thought about the last little bit she'd had, how she'd promised herself to save it and then didn't.
To smooth out the edges,
make everything line up. Have the rest of the world shut the hell up for a while.
She felt the pull for it under her skin like nails on a chalkboard. more and more these days, but when he was here,
sometimes.
She could forget about the other thing. Not for long, but enough.
"Show me something," she said, dragging herself a little closer. "Not the disappearing trick. Something new."
He leaned his head back, and back, until he was laying on the floor, eyes closing.
For a moment she thought he was ignoring her. Then the air between them seemed to sort of hum. it's not a sound exactly. Though you could call it a vibration.
More than anything like the air pressure change right before a storm.
Her hair lifted slightly from her forehead.
When she breathed in, the air tasted sweet, like fruit.
It felt like the inside of her ribs were warm.
She wanted to tell him to go further, push harder, make it last, but the warmth in her ribs made her sink down onto the floor instead. She laughed, and it came out louder than she meant. Her eyes stung like she might cry. And then, just as it started to crest, it fell away. Everything always did.
The sandpaper in her mouth was gone, the crick in her neck didn't hurt anymore, even the pinching pull under her skin just,
stopped.
Clarity.
But his eyes were closed too long.
She didn't say it right away.
She just watched him, waiting for his breathing to even out. But it didn't. His chest rose too shallow, too slow, and his eyelids twitched like something was alive under them. The gray at his temples was worse than she remembered.
His hands had fallen slack, fingers curled just slightly toward his palms.
Shaking, The same as hers sometimes did after she had been partying to hard.
She remembered noticing the first little tremor in him months ago, told herself it was nothing."You're sick," she said finally."Not yet," he murmured."You are."
"Not yet," he said.
"You are."
He didn't answer.
Clara stayed there a little longer, waiting for him to open his eyes back up and look at her. When it was clear he wasn't going to, she shoved the shirt over her head, twisting it until the stretched neckline sat right.
Her backpack was by the door, half unzipped, the canvas stained at the bottom from something that had leaked weeks ago. She slung it over one shoulder, wincing at the weight.
She knelt down beside him and ran a hand through his thinning hair. then leaned down and kissed him."I've got to go, back later, I love you." Clara said, "you need sleep too" though she didn't know if he was listening.
before she stepped out the door his voice followed her
"I love you too"
her shoulders were set as she pushed the door open, adjusting the strap of her backpack. The weight pulled on her collarbone, Eli would be around by now, and Eli still wanted his money. Her money, technically, but she'd spent it a week ago and then some.
The electric smell of the apartment faded. the hallway outside always smelled like piss and boiled cabbage. The stairwell groaned under her steps, and at the bottom door to the street stuck at first, then let go all at once against her shoulder. More hot air, and light that was to bright rolled over her body