BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

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THURSDAY
07.11.1996
ISAIAH

               I clasp the plastic number hanging from my key as I unlock the door so the metal rings won't clink. A whiff of gentle herbs welcomes me at the first crack in the door and my ribs constrict but next, I clock the pitch dark. The scent of dinner still lingers but Dorian is asleep, confirmed by the steady breathing that greets me when I slip inside.

Thank God.

I don't want to talk to him tonight. My knuckles still throb from punching Badrick and I've no reasonable explanation for doing it. I don't want to think about what that made Dorian feel. Disgust? ...Fear?

Easing out of my shoes and jacket, I go to place my keys on the round linoleum table only to freeze. It's set for two, bowls on top of plates with cutlery lined on either side. My gaze snaps to the stove, then to Dorian's sleeping frame, and finally slumps to my own feet. He made dinner? asks one voice and the other replies, obviously, why else would we have been at the shops, you genius?

How many hours did he wait?

An ache in my jaw, I hunch over my bag to search blindly for clean underwear. Dorian has never known how to fold clothes and they're muddled into a mass I navigate mostly with touch. How much of the time I spent sunk in the soggy grass by the river did he spend waiting? Couldn't I have rung, let him know I wouldn't be back for a while? Isn't that the point of owning a cell phone?

A groan severs my regret spiral. I snap my head up.

My fear that Dorian is awake and cross with me is elbowed out of the way by the understanding of what truly is happening. He twitches and a whimper escapes him.

Dropping my pyjamas on top of the rest of my clothes, I rise up and stare at his frame in the dark. His face is turned away from me. My heart shivers in my throat. 'Dorian?'

The only response is another whimper, louder this time.

With one knee on the mattress, I reach over my empty half to press his shoulder. 'Dorian?' Still unsuccessful, I climb properly onto the bed and, as if sensing the proximity of a potential threat, Dorian snaps rigid as a plank.

Is he afraid of me?

I reach over him to turn the side lamp on and try again: squeeze his arm and repeat his name but he's unresponsive to both. By the time I was twelve, I'd learnt that forcing him awake is not the right strategy — though it gets him out of the nightmare quicker, the panic in the moments straddling consciousness is doubled.

So I settle beside him and hold his hand, a little tighter than I normally would, and keep talking. Tell him about River Arene, about the way I've been a wreck since we arrived back here but two hours by the water, with my shoes and socks off to let my toes get muddy and cold even at the risk of getting more ill than I already am, has healed me from five years of city-induced apathy. 'Dunno. I were so stubborn to leave, I never let myself admit how much I love this town—'

Dorian's eyes snap open. His breath shackles in his chest, body frozen in place with a death grip on my hand.

'You're alright.' I pivot, place my free hand on the spot triangled by his shoulder, sternum, and armpit and press down. His heart races against my palm. 'Everyting's criss.'

For three more seconds, Dorian stares at me with drowning eyes before he empties his lungs in one rattling breath. His skin cools under my palm. 'Nightmare,' he croaks, though it must be to himself because I certainly don't need the explanation.

As his body releases, one muscle at a time like a row of domino blocks falling over, he starts to shiver. Regardless, Dorian places his own hand over mine on his chest and the incessant electric pulses in my knees slow to a gentle bumblebee-like buzz.