Follows Off
Zac came up to the attic at some point. He'd spoken through the door. Julian must have known because he knew he said something in response. They had a conversation.
He just couldn't remember what about, or how long ago.
Of course, he didn't really remember where he was, or how he got here, either.
For a while, there wasn't any point in trying to piece it together. Julian didn't want to think about it, or anything.
He thought he was sleeping, at first. Floating in some dark, empty space. Consciousness tugged at the fraying edges of his mind, but far enough away that he could avoid it. Shapes appeared, after a while. Squares--boxes? Something round--a case. Oh, a violin case. His violin case.
What was it doing here in space?
No, not space. It was too dark. There were stars in space. Was anything else floating? No, just him. Nothing else was moving.
Something above him. Dangling. No, hanging.
Oh, clothes.
The closet. That's right.
This wasn't space. Or a dream.
His body remembered to blink, and he was suddenly aware of the painful burning in each eye. Dry. Very dry. He blinked a few more times.
His body was stiff. He didn't feel it, but it cracked twice. He wasn't sure why, he hadn't moved. Oh--yes he had. There was a finger in his eye, massaging away--
It didn't hurt. Maybe his eyes hadn't been burning at all, actually. Were they closed now, or was it just darker?
He could have moved his arm to check, but he forgot how. It seemed like too much effort to try.
He was fine where he was anyway.
Awareness came and went. In the darkness of the closet, he became aware of a few things. His back was to the wall. He was sitting on the floor. His knees were drawn to his chest. One arm was wrapped around them. He couldn't figure out what the other one was doing. Sometimes it was around his knees, and sometimes it was moving his hand to his eyes, and sometimes he thought it might have just fallen off.
It was dark outside. Not just in the closet, but in his room. At some point the natural light from outside had been enough to see under the door, but now it was gone. It was quiet. It had been quiet for a while.
He could hear his heartbeat, sometimes. Or his breathing. But sometimes, he couldn't hear anything except for a low, metallic ringing.
Julian didn't sleep. Or, he didn't think he slept. His body forgot to be tired. Or maybe it was too tired to remember how to sleep.
The weight above his head was clothes. He realized that, and forgot it, and realized it twice more before it stuck.
Most of the night was spent like that, with half thoughts and realizations that came and went.
When Julian felt anything, he felt cold. Sometimes he flexed his fingers, or wiggled his toes, but mostly he stayed still.
Thoughts were far away and out or reach. He wasn't trying to hold onto them, so they floated away.
And then light peeked from under the door again. Bright, loud. He'd missed the sun coming up.
--Had he? Had any time passed at all?
Maybe he'd just imagined that, too.
There was a shadow at his door. His eyes landed there instinctively. Static in his ears.
Oh, a voice. Zac, again. --Or still?
"--Julian...breakfast...desk..."
Silence. The shadow moved. Zac was waiting for an answer.
"Thank you," Julian croaked. His voice scraped out of his throat, brittle and forced.
Zac didn't leave. It felt like listening to the radio while you were just barely within range. Mostly static, but a few words came through. Julian couldn't force himself to focus enough to catch them all, but he tried.
"--all night?...try to eat...bed..."
He didn't sound mad. He sounded tired.
Julian guessed, "Yes, sir. Thank you."
It felt like the wrong answer, suddenly. Zac was quiet for too long, and Julian strained to hear. The rushing in his ears grew louder, and the static crackled, but Zac wasn't speaking. Julian offered, "I'm sorry."
The silence was broken by a sigh. Not mad, tired. Disappointed?
...
No, tired. Zac spoke again, without the weight of frustration. He must have had a lot on his mind. He must have been so busy. How selfish, to make him come up here--up, and down, more than once. What trouble he was causing. Zac had better things to do. Oh--wait, what was he saying?
It was quiet again, he had spoken, but Julian hadn't heard anything over his heartbeat, and thoughts that bore down on him like boulders.
"I'm sorry," Julian said again, scrambling for something, anything, in the haze. There was no urgency, though. Just--nothing. He was supposed to be better, and he wasn't. He was making everything worse, again.
"It's okay," Zac said. Muffled through the door, but clearer than ever. "Try to eat a little. It's on the desk."
"Okay. Thank you."
Zac lingered. "Okay. Can I come visit for lunch?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"...Okay. I'll see you in a bit, Julian."
"Okay, thank you."
Zac left. Some time passed, but Julian hadn't tracked it.
Words echoed in his head, stripped of meaning until every sentence was dissected and put back together. It happened passively, while Julian stared at the latch on his violin case. It looked different then he remembered, and every time he blinked, it half-melted and reformed before his eyes.
Try to eat was a task. Tasks could be completed. Zac wanted him to do this. If he didn't do it, Zac would be upset. He couldn't upset Zac. More.
But the desk was outside. Julian didn't want to leave the closet. His feet brought him here, which was the right choice, even if he hadn't been the one to make it.
He wanted to stay here. He wanted to press into the corner until he melted into it, until he dissolved into the floor. He wanted to scurry into the walls and disappear. He wanted--
Julian stood in front of his desk. Zac made banana oatmeal for breakfast. It was Julian's favorite, usually. Quick to make and easy on the stomach. Julian hadn't tasted a single bite of it, but he blinked and it was half gone, and the spoon was in his hand.
He drank the water bottle--all of it--and ate half a piece of toast. Then, he wiped up the crumbs.
He blinked again and he was in bed, forehead pressed to the wall. The heated blanket was on. The light flashed on the middle setting. He couldn't feel it. The bed was as hard as the floor. The comforter was pulled up to his chin. He used his arm for a pillow.
He wasn't tired.
He didn't remember falling asleep.
