He’s alive.
He keeps vomiting, but he can hold himself up now—palms braced against the shower floor, shoulders shaking as his body forces out whatever he swallowed. I stay behind him, arms hooked under his, steadying him when the spasms hit. My forehead rests against his damp curls, breathing in the only thing that matters right now.
I’m not leaving him. I’m not letting go.
He keeps gagging, throwing up. His body tensing in my hold every time it pushes the drugs out.
I’m not letting you go.
We’re all scattered on the shower floor, water still off, marble cold beneath us. Kiara kneels in front of him, gently sweeping his curls off his forehead so she can check his temperature, her fingers trembling.
Adrien finally stops vomiting, but neither of us moves. I’m still holding him upright, while he’s leaning into me like the last thing keeping him conscious.
We just stay there, all three of us, until his breathing evens out.
Kiara stands up and turns on the shower. Warm, heavy droplets finally fall onto us, waking us up.
I slowly lift my head, not letting go of Adrien, his body still limp in my hold.
But he’s awake. Alive.
I rest my back against the other shower wall, taking Adrien with me so he’s resting his back against my chest, the water now falling onto him. Kiara kneels next to us and starts unbuttoning his shirt that is still completely soaked with blood.
I’m not sure if she’s checking for wounds or if she knows that the blood isn’t his. But as soon as she sees his body is clean of wounds, she just gives him a quick look and then continues to take the shirt off.
I stare at her, frozen and confused.
Why is she helping us? She called for me. Why was she crying? Who are we to her?
I can’t take my eyes off her. They sting but I don’t let the tears slip out. Her eyes are red from her own tears, dried salty drops cling to her cheeks. Her face is all shades of pink now. She’s so tender.
The way she was touching his forehead and the way she’s pulling the sleeves of his shirt off his arms, as if he was a little child.
She was always so tender, innocent, so fragile.
She’s too pure for all of this. She’s not supposed to be here. She was not supposed to be there that night six years ago. She was never supposed to meet me.
I’m a fucking curse to her, to Adrien and to my sister.
“Hold him like this,” her soft voice snaps me out of my self-destructive thoughts again as she signals me to hold him differently so she can pull his shirt off his arms.
She takes it off, leaving him in his suit pants. She stands up and comes back with a towel, soaking it under the water and cleaning his neck and chest of the vomit and blood. I keep holding him, not taking my eyes off her.
Her eyes flick to mine only for a second and I don’t catch the emotion in there.
Adrien is awake, but not really responding.
We clean him completely under the shower, and he cooperates even as we force water down his throat.
After it’s done, I take him, placing one of his hands around my shoulders, holding him upright while Kiara does the same on his other side.
We take him to the closest room next to the bathroom, which is an empty guest room with a huge bed draped in black sheets. We slowly sit him on the bed, and he immediately falls down on his back when we take our hands off.
We end up standing above him, staring at him. His half-naked body sprawls across the bed like he’s making a snow angel. He really does look like an angel with those curls on his head.
Fucking idiot.
A silent chuckle escapes me, and Kiara looks at me, confused, wondering why I’m laughing.
