Charlie and Miles

Charlie

"Give me one last kiss while we're far too young to die. We're far too young to die." - Far Too Young To Die, Panic! At the Disco.

***

The door opened and I looked up from a Shane Dawson video to find everyone.

"Mom, Dad? Dr. Morse? Miles?" I looked from each, looking for something in their faces to give me something. Was this it? Was 3 months of chemo doing nothing? Am I already dead? Even Miles was closed off, not going anywhere near me, my mother taking my hand instead. I didn't want her cold hands; I wanted Miles' warm ones. But he wouldn't look at me.

Dr. Morse sat down in the chair, opening the manila file he had.

"Look, Charlie, I thought it'd be best if we were all in here together."

"Okay?"

"I've already discussed this with Miles and your parents, and they seem to share the same opinion." As much as I was paying attention to Morse, I couldn't stop watching Miles' body language. He shifted his weight, crossing his arms in the process.

"We've come to the conclusion that while the chemo has been helping keep you in that 31 percentile, we'd like to perform a surgery to cut out some of the more reproductive cancer cells personally. This way, we get the worst of it, and then medication and rest should clear up the rest of it."

Miles' hand was twitching. Coffee deprivation or trying to slow the urge to hit.

"So, what's the big deal? Why is everyone here?"

Miles looked towards my father, who gave him a stern look in reply. Shit, does Mom and Dad know about us?

"It's just that the surgery has some risk factors involved. We've been taking you off of the chemo, which means that the cancer cells will be more volatile as time progresses. We'll also have to cut into the lung and lymph nodes, which of course is extremely risky, but I trust that my team will be able to save you."

"Wait, wait, wait. Cut into my lung? Don't I need that to, you know, breathe?"

"But this could cure you entirely," my mother said, squeezing my hand.

"But I could also die," I argued.

In my arguing with my parents, I didn't Morse having a separate, silent conversation with Miles.

"Like I said before," Morse said, standing up. "I've discussed this with both your parents and your nurse, but it's entirely up to you. I'll let you have a moment to decide. Cynthia, James," he called, my parents following like lapdogs.

I felt heat behind my eyes, but I pushed it down. I'm not crying. Miles relaxed his shoulders, walking over to me.

"Miles, Miles, don't let them. P-please, M-miles. I d-don't want to-o die." I stuttered out, grabbing the hem of his shirt, a shirt that read "I love sleeping. It's like being dead without the commitment."

"I know, Charlie. I know you don't want to die. But I'm not going to let you die." His hand pried mine off of him, placing it back in my lap. Keeping his distance. Why?

"Why are you acting like this?"

"I'm not acting like anything. I'm being serious. I don't want you to die, and if Morse even starts to give up, I will take over, like a hospital coup or something." But his words sounded empty, like he'd prepared to say that.

"What's wrong with you? Why won't you look at me?" I grabbed his face with my hands and forced him to lean over. Tears were threatening to spill over, but I'd been crying too much. Twice in one week isn't good. "I thought you said you wouldn't leave me. Don't push me away."

"I'm not pushing you away. This is for your best interest." I couldn't tell what he was talking about, the surgery or his distance.

"Yes, you are. You told me you wouldn't leave, and a few days later, you forget that promise. Screw that, right. Because I'm going to die, whether in this stupid bed, or on a fucking operating table, and you don't want to deal with that. Well, maybe next time you don't start crushing on your patient." I was near screaming by then, long ragged breaths in between sentences and his empty stare crushing me, until he blinked.

It was like something broke inside him, like the careful glass he'd kept over his eyes for the last hour shattered by some invisible force. Now it was his turn to cry. He pitched forward, letting his head slam into my shoulder, sobbing into my bacon-spelled-by-the-periodic-table shirt.

"I'm sorry. I thought I could protect you by distancing myself. I thought love was clouding my abilities. I'm so sorry for making you think I would leave. I don't want you to die. I love you, Charlie, I don't want to let this go. God, falling in love with you wasn't a mistake. It will never be a mistake. I'm so sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

I didn't say anything. I just let him cry. Growing up, watching my dad cry, watching most men cry was uncomfortable, but I just wanted to protect Miles. Finally, he pulled himself up.

"I promise," he started, his voice breaking ever so slightly. "I promise that I won't let you die. I will make sure you survive this, and whatever comes next. I-I love you."

My chest hitched. "You what?"

"I love you so much. I know it's only been, what, six months since we've known each other, but these six months have been better than most of my life. You make everything brighter, everything better."

I pressed my palm on his damp cheek, and he looked up at me. A surge of love hit me deep as I looked at him, and I knew what I wanted to say.

"You don't have to say it back or anything, I just thought you should--"

"Miles, I want to. I love you, too. I love you, but I'm scared I'll hurt you somehow, by the words I say or the things I do, or the fact that I've got a 31% chance of surviving any of this." I cleared my throat, certain of what I had to do. "I'll do the surgery."

***
Why do I do this to myself?