Every Day

David sees him every day, sitting at the same desk. He takes small steps. He smiles at him when he passes by. One morning David brings him a coffee and watches the flicker of surprise in his eyes and it’s addicting, lovely.

It’s weeks before David asks him out, the slight dark-haired man who hums while he works. The man looks up at him, and doesn’t flinch when he says yes.

It’s hard to get to know Oliver. He doesn’t want to answer the questions David puts to him, he wants to ask them. David talks until he hates the sound of his own voice, but even then Oliver’s eyes follow his mouth, his expression, his gestures while he speaks. When Oliver does answer the questions David asks, it sounds like he’s following a script. He was born in Wales, and when David asks where, Oliver tells him the corner where the faeries live. David laughs but Oliver doesn’t laugh with him, instead, his eyes narrow curiously, like a cat that is just beginning to learn about the world that exists outside of its bubble.

Somehow despite all this, David finds himself unable to tear his attention away and hours slide by without him noticing. When he does ask for the cheque, he does so reluctantly, and he and Oliver argue over who’s going to pay. Neither of them win and so of course, they both do.

They say goodbye in the parking lot, but somehow that’s not enough for David. Oliver’s walking away when David catches up with him, out of breath, and leans over to put his hands on his knees before straightening up to ask him out again. Oliver’s eyes dance with muted exhilaration before he says yes, and then kisses David on the cheek before blushing and leaving.

It’s several dates before David can work up the nerve to kiss him. Something tells him that Oliver isn’t one to take physical affection lightly. He waits until his heart is nearly bursting from adrenaline and he’s standing awkwardly outside Oliver’s apartment, shifting from foot to foot. Oliver is leaning against the wall, keys clutched in one hand. He thanks David for taking him home, and then it’s too much, David can’t take it, and he leans forward and kisses him hard on the mouth. Oliver’s head hits the wall and he groans, and David pulls back to apologize breathlessly. He doesn’t get the words out before Oliver’s chilly fingers are curling into his shirt and jerking him forward again, tilting his head so their mouths fit together like puzzle pieces. David presses forward and his arms cage Oliver in, fingers digging against the brick. But Oliver feels no such obligation and his hands move restlessly, tracing up his sides, pressing hard against his chest, moving across his jaw and then working his fingers slowly through David’s hair, making small, eager noises into David’s mouth all the while.

Only the sound of a door opening and shutting makes them break apart, faces flushed and shining, panting and trying to hide it. A man a little older than them walks by and gives Oliver a wry smile, which he returns with a sheepish wave. David doesn’t ask to come in that night. Instead Oliver kisses him again, soft and warm and wanting and then closes the door behind him, grinning face peeking out of the crack of the door between them until David finally chuckles and tells him to go to bed, they’ve got a long day tomorrow. Oliver laughs, the loudest David’s ever heard and the door is thrown open again, and before David can catch up, Oliver’s in his arms and kissing him again. David grips him tight, lifting his feet off the ground so Oliver squeaks and wraps his arms tighter around David’s neck. David laughs again and sets him down before gently nudging him back in his door. Oliver gives a small, shy wave before the door finally shuts between them and David leaves, giddy with delight.

Work is suddenly much more difficult to concentrate on. David can’t think for looking at Oliver, little glances just to make sure he’s still there, that he’s still real. But the fluorescent light still glints off of Oliver’s dark hair and he still bites his lip while he’s thinking, and so with smiles almost wider than his mouth can stretch, David returns to his work. They eat lunch together all the time now, sitting at the same chipped table in the break room, chairs pulled so close together their knees knock against each other. They steal quick little grins at each other, like they’ve got some sort of secret that’s almost too bright to contain, plastic spoons and cooling soup forgotten.

Their dates transform from restaurants where the waiters wear ties and the plates are real china to evenings spent lying on an old yellow couch in David’s flat, the tinny television blaring in the background, kissing almost drowsily. Their mouths move together slowly, hands trailing up and down each other’s bodies. One night Oliver breaks away, breathing hard, and pulls off his shirt in one swift movement before tugging David’s off. David sits up and Oliver climbs into his lap, legs slung around David’s hips. His fingers are digging into David’s shoulders as he moves against him, precise and teasing and exquisite, and David’s hands grip Oliver’s hips almost hard enough to bruise. Oliver doesn’t seem to mind. His head bows into the curve between David’s neck and shoulder, and when he whispers for David to touch him, he does as he’s told.

They take a shower together after that, kissing in the drifting steam underneath the spray. Oliver’s hair is even wilder once it dries and David grins at it, then laughs at Oliver’s wounded expression. The night is mild for early winter but David still gives him one of his sweaters, which hangs off Oliver’s frame, and sweatpants, which don’t fit him at all. Oliver is reduced to pulling his shorts back on and they lie buried underneath the covers together, whispering luminescent secrets and tracing unfamiliar skin, until at last they fall asleep with damp hair and interlocked hands.

The days pass by and the nights are bitterly cold, white flakes drifting aimlessly outside the window. Nothing seems less likely to David than the strange, lovely man that is now occupying his bed, all his likes and dislikes that he worked so hard to learn, the way Oliver’s hair sticks up in black tufts, the crinkle of his eyes when he laughs, his inability to say no to Chinese food, his nimble fingers…all of it is unbearably human, and David cannot stop thinking about it.

Weeks later, Oliver is sitting at David’s table at seven in the morning. He’s wearing nothing but glasses and one of David’s old t-shirts and new daylight shines on the kitchen, pouring in from the window. Oliver is eating toast, but he’s reading the news with such concentration that he doesn’t notice the jam sliding off and hitting the plate. It’s when David’s watching the sunlight shine through the drop of red currant jam that a swell of affection unexpectedly hits him, and he says it right then and there without meaning to. Oliver looks up with such a dumbfounded expression that David laughs, and a grin breaks across Oliver’s face. He puts the toast down, still ignorant of the missing condiment and tells David that he loves him too, of course he does, and David laughs again, the sound ringing through the kitchen, and pulls Oliver forward for a kiss.

The daily poetry of their lives tangle together like stitches in a tapestry. It’s another ordinary Saturday evening when David absentmindedly asks Oliver to get him another coffee, wholly absorbed in his work, and he nods and picks through the documents David’s got scattered on the floor.

David doesn’t notice anything else until he hears a mug shatter and the heavy thump of a body collapsing to the floor. He’s up and through to the kitchen in an instant, where he finds Oliver on the ground, empty-eyed and unresponsive. Such terror crackles through David that he’s forced to his knees. He calls Oliver’s name, shakes him by the shoulders but nothing happens, and David dials emergency services with a shaking hand, tears spilling from his eyes. He can barely choke out his address to the operator, and once it’s done he’s on the floor again, rocking Oliver back and forth, clutching his hand and praying that he’s okay.

In the end they won’t let him in the ambulance, and he has to follow. The road is black as pitch, snow flies at the windshield, and stark neon signs leak yellow reflection on the road while the ambulance trails bloody light but David doesn’t see any of it, only Oliver’s eerily blank eyes.

When they arrive at the hospital, he’s told that Oliver woke before they got there. Relief sweeps through him so thoroughly that his knees nearly buckle, and he stumbles blindly to Oliver’s room, where indeed, he’s awake. David has never been so grateful to see those brown eyes blinking at him, and he has to wrest with anger and relief and love, all of which roil inside of him in equal, searing amounts. Oliver reassures him that he’s fine, really, he is, and even the doctors say there’s nothing wrong with him. None of this dissuades David from falling asleep in the chair beside Oliver’s, holding his slack, warm hand.

Oliver is scheduled to spend time in the hospital at the end of February, and in the intervening months, his fits become a weekly occurrence. More often than not David is able to catch him, keeping him from a concussion or something worse, but no one has any answers, and the call to emergency services never gets any easier. Oliver grows drawn and tired, and when he’s put on medication, he loses energy and appetite. His already slender frame grows thinner and David takes to cooking in the hopes of enticing him to eat, but it does no good. Oliver picks at it and smiles and says thank you, and leftovers that don’t get eaten pile up in the fridge.

At night Oliver falls asleep easily in David’s arms, and he sleeps for much longer than he usually does. He’s not allowed to go back to work anymore so he wanders restlessly around the apartment, traversing the same couple of rooms over and over and over again, and all the while worry simmers in David’s stomach. He comes home in the afternoon when Oliver is usually sleeping again, a quilt drawn up over him on the couch, and the television playing quietly in the background.

When at last the end of February arrives, Oliver arrives at the hospital at nine o’ clock in the evening.

Out of the ten people in the ward, he is one of the lucky few to get a bed by the window. It encompasses almost the entire wall, and from it Oliver can look down on the city to see the sun curve across the sky and fail beneath the horizon.

He’s not allowed to pull the curtain across the end of his bed, so Oliver gets to know the man across from him. The man turns the television on at seven am and turns it off at eleven pm. It’s usually the news, but sometimes House M.D is on. He has eight grandchildren and his hand shakes when he goes to pick up a cup, and he tells Oliver that when they glue the electrodes to his head that it will itch, but don’t scratch. Ask the nurse for a Benadryl instead. He smiles and says his name is John, and neither Oliver nor David ask for a last name.

The first day Ralph gets there, he has six seizures in as many hours. Oliver and David, who spends all day sitting in the stiff chair beside Oliver’s bed, listen to the steady beep that alerts technicians to a possible change in the EKG, and it goes off so many times David forgets what the room sounds like without it.

There are three bathrooms meant for patients, and one is broken down. Oliver hates the idea so much that he uses his fifteen-minute pass to go to the public bathroom, colourful braided wires swinging from the twenty-five electrodes in his head down to his back, twining into a little purse that reads RETURN TO UNIT. David’s not sure whether it’s meant for the equipment or for Oliver. The scrub cap tied to Oliver’s head covers almost everything, but nothing can hide the braid.

The rest of the time Oliver spends in bed or on the chair next to it. He watches shows on a laptop with David and reads and listens to music, he gets his vitals taken as David holds his hand and eats off of bluish-grey trays, but what he does most is wait, and pretends like the camera glaring down on him isn’t there.

Eleanor is two beds down from him. She gets migraines, and right now her eyes are screwed up and she sits rigid in her bed, straining for peace, as Oliver passes her. It isn’t long before David hears the bed tremble, and then begin to shake, and the nurses come running, soft shoes slapping against the floor. The alarm goes off again and David hears her name repeated, and then the test they all dread.

“The time is twenty to ten,” Adeola, a nurse, says. “I want you to remember that.” She holds up a plastic binder. “Can you read this for me?”

She can’t.

“Can you repeat after me? ‘The car will not start.’”

Eleanor repeats it slowly, as though the words will not bubble up to her lips, and every word is hardly a breath that hangs in the air.

“Good,” Adeola says briskly. “Now read this for me, Eleanor.” She holds up the binder again, stark black words staring Eleanor in the face.

“They heard…him speak…on the radio,” she says, and then leans back into her bed as though those few words have drained her of what energy she had left.

“Wonderful. And what was the time I asked you to remember?”

“Twenty to ten.”

The nurse puts the binder back down and smiles. “Good."

Murmurs of sympathy and jokes float around the room.

“How was that?” Eleanor asks.

“I’d say seven out of ten. You’re a percussion section all by yourself, the way you rattle around on that bed,” Ed says, and Eleanor laughs.

“I can do better than seven.”

It’s true, she can. Everyone can.

Oliver has three fits while he’s there, more than usual. When he has them, the sympathy and utter kindness in the room is palpable. When he’s too weak to reach the button that lowers the bed, John unhooks the little purse he’s connected to from the machine by the bed, and hurries over to release the button for Oliver. He shows more pictures of his grandkids and asks him if he wants anything, and when Sara from the next bed over goes down to the cafeteria, she brings muffins for everyone.

When the week is about to come to an end, Oliver is led to a small room with a doctor in it, clutching David’s hand so tightly it hurts. Despite her nametag, Oliver doesn’t remember her name and neither does David. She hands Oliver a form and tells him kindly that what he has isn’t actually a physical affliction, but a mental one. Oliver starts and his eyes go wide at the words, and only David’s hand on his keeps him sitting down. The doctor tells him that it’s okay, that fifteen per cent of the people who come through the hospital with symptoms like these turn out to have what he has. When she breaks the news that the medication he’s been taking has been useless, Oliver’s jaw shuts with an audible snap. He’s prescribed something different, the electrodes are pulled off of his head with a liquid solution that cools his head and stings it at the same time, and at last, he gets to take the first shower he’s had in a week.

They take a cab back to Oliver’s flat, because David doesn’t want to drive and Oliver has now had his license revoked. Oliver sits with his head on David’s shoulder the whole time, eyes fluttering shut, and David traces soothing circles on his knuckles as he falls asleep.

He almost has to carry Oliver through the door and to the elevator, along with the belongings he took with him to the hospital. Once they get through the door, all Oliver wants is another shower and a bed that doesn’t belong to a hospital. So David carefully strips him down, and tells Oliver that he’s drawn a bath instead. A corner of Oliver’s exhausted mouth twitches upward and David smiles, leads him to the bathroom and helps him into the tub. Oliver makes a small sound of pleasure as he sinks into the warm water, and David breathes easier than he has in weeks. He doesn’t dare leave Oliver alone, so instead he washes his hair, methodically stripping it of the fragments of hard glue that’s been left in, and rubs a wet cloth over his body. Oliver is nearly asleep at this point, so David wraps a towel around him, picks him up amid a barrage of tired protests, and lays him in bed.

Gratitude swells in David until tears prick at his eyes, so relieved is he to see Oliver at home again. He looks almost peaceful for the first time in what seems much longer than a single week, a thin hand lying on his sternum, eyes closed, hair clean and soft again, dressed in fresh pyjamas. David has to resist the urge to drop to his knees and thank God right then and there, and instead, climbs into bed with him.

Over the course of a few months, Oliver begins to get better. He goes to a group for people with psychogenic non-epileptic seizures, and as much as he makes fun of the people who go with him, David knows he doesn’t mind it that much. He begins to look healthier, developing a pink tinge to his pale cheeks and putting on weight so he’s more than skin and bone and a hollow face. David begins to sleep easier at nights and Oliver’s seizures lessen to the point where he’s allowed to start work again, and when he gains his license back, they celebrate with childish giddiness equivalent to a New Year’s Eve party. David tells Oliver why he loves him every night, whispering the details he loves so much and Oliver reciprocates in kind, legs and arms tangling until it’s hard to tell who is who.

Soon after a year to their first date, Oliver comes into the kitchen to find David making breakfast. A confused frown creases his forehead but he doesn’t question it, just kisses David on the cheek and sits down when David puts a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. He doesn’t notice the almost foolish way David watches him eat, and it’s only when he chokes on a forkful of eggs and spits out something hard and round that he glances up to David’s nervously excited expression. Oliver picks out the offending item and finds a simple gold band with flakes of yellow egg clinging to it.

Oliver’s jaw drops and he stares at David, who grins, shrugs, and then drops to one knee. He doesn’t have to say anything before Oliver’s laughing and nodding, tears falling down his face, and David beams with happiness. He gets up and Oliver throws his arms around him, kissing him so David stumbles back and knocks his head rather painfully against the wall. It’s a minute before he can actually slip the ring onto Oliver’s finger, and then they’re laughing again, peals ringing through the kitchen like bells. David picks him up and spins him around, whirling around two or three times before he feels sick and has to put Oliver down, who’s wiping at his face and still grinning with teary, blinding happiness.

It’s not always easy. It’s not always simple. But David sees him every day, lying in the same bed, eating at the same table, and it’s addicting, it’s lovely, it’s home.