I Don't Care Much

by gangsterdorothy

Edward can't help but fight, but what happens when its not enough anymore? "I'd rather sing than suffer." Slash/Backslash O/S Contest Entry.

SLASH BACKSLASH ONE-SHOT CONTEST

Story Name: I Don't Care Much

Pen name: gangsterdorothy

Pairing: Edward/Riley

Disclaimer: I don't own that monster of a saga. Seriously, I wish I did. No more student loans.

To see other entries in the "SLASH BACKSLASH" contest, please visit the C2: http:/www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/c2/68069/3/0/1/

Thanks to Bublichka and mopstyle. Pre-reading and betaing rock stars.

WARNING: This is certified heavy on the angst and tissues may be required.

You Tube link to song: www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=SZsCvOyrlCQ

---

Here I am, back in detention. The pink piece of paper sits on the desk, like a third arm that refuses to see its unimportance.

"Mr. Cullen, we have to stop meeting like this." Ms. Birdie shakes her head, recognizing the lost cause I am.

She writes my name on a checklist, indicating the time I entered the room. "Sign here." She slides the clipboard along the desk.

I bend forward to sign it and take my seat a few rows back.

This is my third time here in two weeks. I've been given second, third and seventh chances, none of them forcing me into action. It's hard to enforce expulsion in this school. It's not for lack of follow through, but what happens to the kid who gets kicked out when they aren't old enough to do anything else but go to school?

No way would employers hire me. I barely hand my homework in on time, let alone show up for work at a reasonable hour. Plus, I'm not keen on customer service jobs or picking up after people. I refuse to deal with any kind of shit from anyone.

I am not a fan of the schooling system or the drones it churns out. It's ineffective on the restless and angry.

It seems, however, that other people like dealing with my shit. I'm sitting in my seat, watching the small hand on the clock on the wall move at an unbelievably slow pace when a wad of paper strikes the back of my head.

I'm not an idiot; I know not to start anything in the one place I would end up in again.

I turn around to see where it came from. And of course it would be who I thought it was.

James Nelson, basketball wizard of Forks High School. He ends up in detention every now and then for his bad grades. It's more like a study hall for the star athletes of the school. It's punishment for regular students like yours truly.

I pick up the balled up paper, unfurling it from its newly crinkled form.

'Your so gay'.

Typical, jock frat guy who thinks throwing that word around is cool.

He doesn't know it, in fact, no one does. I've never really discovered what sex I'm attracted to. I sort of live by the seat of my pants; this may have to do with never caring what kind of person I find attractive. The type of genitalia shouldn't have to do with what I like. That's my own personal philosophy. I can't say the same for anybody else.

James has made my response to his statement pretty easy. 'I know you are, but what am I?' It's childish and completely stale, but so is this guy.

I toss it to him and know his response. He silently fumes, damning himself because he didn't provide enough of a challenge for me.

I spend the rest of detention doodling in my notebook. It's aimless and that's what I aim for.

...

I wander down the hall after detention, not looking to go home too quickly. My mom's endless line of boyfriends continues on. This is number ten, by my count. I believe this one is a furniture repairman with longish hair. I don't want to know more details than that; I prefer to stay in the dark until it becomes serious. Which is likely never.

She's lucky my dad provides a great amount of child support, so she can still stay in the house they bought together when they first married. I visit him every other weekend in Seattle, where he works in the District Attorney's office. If he had been less of a man, my mom and I would be in the run down apartments at the end of town. I feel bad for my dad at times. He doesn't know how carelessly my mom handles his money. What do I know though; I'm just a kid, right?

At the end of the hallway is the entrance to the auditorium. On the door is an audition sign up sheet for the school musical. They haven't announced what this years production will be, but I can guarantee that I will not be anywhere near it. I'm not one for being in the spotlight. It's impossible to get me to stand in front of a class to do a speech. Public speaking is nothing I plan to pursue. I can stand up and defend other kids when bullies pick on them, but when I need to raise my voice to talk, I can't do it.

I step inside the auditorium and let the heavy door close behind me. There is a small down slope as I walk down the center aisle toward the stage. It's a decent size auditorium, fitting enough family members for the annual shows. The blue curtain is open and multi-level platforms line the front of the stage.

I walk up to the piano that is to the left of the platforms.

Playing the piano is my true passion. There is nothing more basic or beautiful than the crisp sound of a well-tuned piano. My mother always had a dream that she would teach her children how to do many things. One of them is playing the piano. Unfortunately for her, she doesn't know how to. She hired an old lady, Ms. Terry, with a tendency to slap my hands if I hit a wrong note. I remember she also smelled like meatloaf and toothpaste.

I sit on the bench, my feet flat on the floor. I stare at the keys for a moment, before I press the ivory. It's surprisingly in tune for once. While I know how to read music, I prefer to improvise and play what I'm feeling.

Shostakovich sounds promising.

I start off with one of his piano concertos, my fingers flying across the black and white. I pound notes and let any lingering aggression flow out of me.

Soon, I'm caught up in the high energy of the piece, the chords speaking to me and knowing how I feel. I find myself bent over the keys, hair hanging in my eyes. I attempt to blow them back, but they hang still, a nuisance. I finally close my eyes to be rid of the situation. I know this piece by heart and could play it in my sleep.

The sensation in my body is elation, stress rolling off of me in waves. It is nothing but the music and me. I forget where I am. I am not in this town; I am in a place that has no significance or consequence.

I do not dream of big things; only the music and what it does to me. The notes aren't notes to me, but different tenors of voices. They sing to me and call me; they speak to me and yell at me. They drive me on and I continue to the next part of the piece.

Sweat is gathering in my hair and dripping down the sides of my face. I don't hesitate, letting them fall where they want. I should stop and wipe my face or drink some water, but I remain undeterred. I don't want to stop until the end. I can have water at anytime; I may never have another moment like this.

I reach the finale of the piece, the kind of end people remember. It's a somber one as it fades out, leaving questions that remain unanswered.

My fingers are finally resting, remaining in place over the ending keys. I breathe a sigh of relief.

I'm aware that I am not alone in the auditorium. I look up and see a boy near the front door, his eyes dart down to a book in his arms.

I stand up quickly, the bench scraping across the linoleum. I don't like people watching me play how I did just now. Especially someone I don't know. I grab my backpack, slinging it over one shoulder, and exit out the side door.

I don't offer him a second glance.

...

Thankfully when I get home, my mom is by herself. She's sitting on the couch, watching the Home Shopping Network. The house phone is cradled in her hand, waiting for the phone number and item she wants to buy. I don't understand why she does it. We need nothing and yet she keeps buying.

"Good, you're home. We need to talk." She stands up to face me. She brushes her skirt and crooks her finger to follow her to the kitchen.

I know what is coming. She got another call about my fighting in school.

We take a seat at the table, she entwines her fingers. "What happened this time?"

"Terrence was walking to class and got tripped by James. No regard for anything at all. He was trying to get to class. That warrants no reason to bother someone."

My mom sighs. "Honey, I know you want to do what's right, but what is the benefit for you?"

"That I helped someone. By doing the right thing."

"Who is Terrence to you?"

"A classmate."

"Personally. Do you have some sort of relationship with him?"

"No."

"Are you looking to be a friend of his?"

"Not right now, no."

"Edward." She sighs, throwing her hands up in defeat. "You have to pick your battles. Not every fight is worth fighting. You can't always defend people, sometimes they don't want you to, sometimes you can't. However, you should always fight for the ones you love."

She likes to philosophize and encourage peace. Even if turning a cheek is her solution.

I fiddle with the placemat in front of me. "I'll think about it. No guarantees from me."

"I don't want anymore calls from the principal about detentions. I might have to send you up to your father's."

I wouldn't mind living with my dad. Better options and less aggravation. I wonder what he thought of my getting in trouble. His job is making sure justice is served; I like to think that he would agree with me.

...

It's hard to discern the days when all you do is sit in front of chalkboards. School is a motionless pit of sluggish creatures. I'm lucky if I gain anything other than contempt for this system. I guess I start fights to stop the monotony sometimes.

I can't help myself when I hear voices escalate and jump octaves. Or when a finger is shoved in a face and hands push against shoulders. Adrenaline and the need to get in there pump through me, pulling me into a situation I had nothing to do with.

On my way to math, I hear the telltale signs.

"Hey, new kid?" I hear someone calling.

I watch the boy from behind; his stance is at least half a foot shorter than his bully. The bully is one of James' crew, Laurent Grant. The kid doesn't have a chance; Laurent is a giant at six foot four.

Laurent walks up to the boy, knocking the books out of his hand. "You dropped something."

The boy bends down to pick up his fallen materials. Once his belongings are gathered again, he turns to continue down the hall. However, Laurent reaches for the boy's bookbag, launching him back into the lockers.

"So, you think just because you come from some fancy school, we're gonna treat you nice? Huh? Answer me, Four Eyes." He grabs the kid by his collar. The boy remains silent.

My fingers itch to shove Laurent the way he did that kid. It's not my place, I tell myself.

"Well, let this be a message. Don't park in my fucking spot again." He shoves him against the wall a second time.

He's fighting with him over a parking space? This is not right. It's not like we have a huge school to worry about that kind of thing.

"Hey!" I shout to Laurent, pacing my way over to the scene.

He turns his head in my direction. "Eddie. Can't stay away can you?"

"Let him go."

"At your wish." He lets go the boy's collar, lifting his hands up in surrender.

Everything happens slow yet fast at the same time. Laurent fists his hand, charging at me, when I see a separate pair pull him back against the lockers. It's the kid who was pinned to them not more than two seconds ago.

Laurent pushes off of the lockers, hurling the kid to the middle of the hall. His anger is focused on the boy again. I quickly step in, throwing a right hook at Laurent's cheek.

He hits the lockers again and soon we push against each other, keeping ourselves at arms length. Laurent knees me in the stomach. I wince in pain, but don't falter. I find it in me to get away, but he comes back with a punch to my gut.

With this, I push him on his back, on the ground. I smash him in the face, landing blow after blow. I feel two arms wrap around my shoulders, pulling me off of Laurent.

Finally, a school official walks toward the scene. "Mr. Cullen, Mr. Grant. At it again, I see."

"It wasn't Mr. Cullen. It was me." The boy steps in front of me, hoping to take the fall.

I don't know what his motivation is and I'm baffled that someone would want to be punished for a fight they didn't cause.

Mr. Benson is clearly at odds with this boy's decision. "Mr. Biers? Do you realize what you're doing?"

"Yes. I'm admitting to a fight I started."

I chuckled to myself; either this kid was stupid or just….I don't know what.

Mr. Benson takes a second to think about his answer. "Fine. Mr. Biers, detention for you. You're starting on an interesting foot here. And Mr. Grant? I believe this is your second time in two weeks. Keep it up." He warns him.

This Biers kid is issued a pink slip as the crowd that's gathered disperses. He looks at it puts it in his pocket.

"Why'd you do that?" I can't help but question an unusual act of kindness.

I notice he's bleeding out his nose and about to say something, but he pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it away.

"I did start in with him. I said something to him before you came over."

"Really? What'd you say?"

"He was angry about his parking space and saying things about my mom. I told him 'well at least my mom isn't so fat she got hit by a parked car.' Not the best joke in the world, but it got the message across. Plus, I've always wanted to tell a 'your mama' joke." He pushes his glasses up his nose. "Name's Riley, and you're…Edward?" He offers his non-handkerchief occupied hand.

"Yeah." Somehow, a shake isn't enough to thank him. I have no clue what to do, so I stand still.

Riley doesn't look disappointed when I don't shake his hand. He bends down to pick up his books. I watch him get his things together, shuffling papers in the right order, stacking books so the biggest is on the bottom. "You play the piano beautifully."

"Say what?"

"I…saw you yesterday, playing. I thought the stage was empty, so I went inside. You have a gift."

So it's him that saw me. I clear my throat, embarrassed to be facing my audience. "Thanks." I glance at my feet, burning holes in the floor with my eyes.

"Do you…just play for fun?"

"Mostly." I can't seem to form more than two word sentences around him.

"Huh."

The first bell rings. I look up at him and give a tentative smile, before saying, "Thanks again. I have class now." I point in the direction of the class.

"Me too. Last period was my off period. I guess I'll see you around?"

"Yeah. See you." I shuffle to class, stealing one last glance at him over my shoulder.

...

I hesitate outside the auditorium door, agitated that I was caught yesterday. I'm self-conscious now more than I was before. If Riley is around, I'm leaving and sticking with playing the piano at home. The auditorium provides better acoustics, but I'll take comfort over a better sound any day.

I don't know if he has his detention today or tomorrow. Cracking open the door, I poke my head in. No sign of him.

Once inside, I sit in front of the piano and fiddle around for a bit. Eventually, I flow into a piece I have memorized. The classics always come to me quick and soon I'm in my own world.

Then, my world feels off. The side door to the auditorium slams closed. Riley is standing in front of it, looking at me over the piano.

"Darn. Thought I could sneak up on you." Riley says through a smile.

"No detention today?"

"Tomorrow."

I roll my eyes, scowling at the piano.

He senses something is off. "Is it a problem if I'm here?"

I lick my lips, standing up to leave. "Yeah. I don't like people listening to me play."

"What's the sense in playing if no one can hear?"

I ponder this. He obviously has a point, but it's not the point I want to make. "I like playing for myself."

I shuffle out from behind the piano.

Riley sticks his hands in his pockets. He walks over, blocking my path. "I had the same problem with my singing. I never let anyone hear me sing. Then I realized 'what's the point in keeping it to myself?' So, I decided recently to just…sing. Just do it. I plan to audition for the play. I never did at my old school and decided to turn over a new leaf and stop being scared."

His confidence is intense and intoxicating. His composure from the fight and now is clean and unwavering. If I possessed half an ounce of what he is giving off, I would be able to play in public. I don't intend to take up piano playing professionally, but I do want to be comfortable with a small audience. People I know sitting in my living room, hearing the music I play for them.

I want to make memories from this.

I realize this thought is brand new; the future is not something I ponder about often. I survive and live from one day to the next. It makes my chest ache to look past tomorrow.

We stand, not moving. Almost not breathing.

He continues. "Anyway, I want to know if you can help me with this piece."

I blink, shaking my head out of my stupor. "I don't sing."

He laughs. "Accompany me on piano." He hands me sheet music, as he takes off his backpack and jacket. I stare at the cover, surprised and delighted.

"This is one of my favorites." I poke a finger at the cover in front of me.

"The whole show is brilliant." He leans against the piano.

"Joel Grey or Alan Cummings?"

"Ugh, that's like choosing a favorite child."

I open up the page to the beginning bars of 'I Don't Know Much' from Cabaret.

"Joel Grey is a legend, but Alan puts a whole new spin on it."

"I like Alan's version. Maybe because I associate him with many different things, but he gives a depth that I can associate with." I test out the first bars of the song.

"Nice." He peeks over the piano, watching my fingers. "Can you handle this?"

I laugh. "This is a walk in the park."

To my surprise, Riley takes off his glasses and places them in his shirt pocket. I see his eyes are a deep brown before he closes them. His mouth forms a relaxed pucker, a long breath escaping his lips.

"Ready?" I whisper.

He nods. He rolls up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing a light pink scar on his forearm.

I don't care much,
Go or stay,
I don't care very much
Either way.

His words have a slight German accent.

Hearts grow hard
On a windy street.
Lips grow cold
With the rent to meet.

So if you kiss me,
If we touch,
Warning's fair,
I don't care
Very much.

I stare at Riley, lightly illuminated by the lights in front of the stage. He's a cross between a boy and a man, his hair holding onto youthfulness, his clothes like a man struggling with how old he needs to look.

I don't care much,
Go or stay,
I don't care very much
Either way.

The song is a sad declaration of indecision and want that can't be fulfilled.

Words sound false
When your coat's too thin
Feet don't waltz
When the roof caves in

Riley belts out the last few notes, a tinge of loneliness in his voice.

So if you kiss me,
If we touch,
Warning's fair,
I don't care very much.

I let the pianos final note hang in the air, watching Riley lower his head to his chest. I wait for him to move, but he is in a moment. The lights above hit the top of his head, the browns and blondes creating a halo.

Finally, Riley lifts his head and looks in my direction. He smiles and walks to my side of the piano. He plops down on the bench with me. He presses a finger to a random key, and then another.

"Do you play?" I ask, as he plays the same two notes.

"No. Not the least."

"Well, once you know the basics, it's easy."

Over the next couple weeks we meet after school where I play for Riley and teach him piano. He tries to convince me to sing, but I'm not budging on that.

There are times when I have to place his fingers on keys he struggles to reach; a spark ignites inside me I didn't know could be lit. The small bench provides no room to be self-conscious as our thighs graze each others. It's easy to stare at him and get lost, the good kind of lost. I'm positive I feel the same thing from him, when his arm brushes mine or his eyes watch me.

There is a comfortable fire in my belly when I see him in the hallway at school. We send each other small smiles and it's among the highlights of my day. I still don't pay attention in class, but at least I'm not angry about it. I know that I will be with Riley in a matter of hours, in our world behind the piano.

I can't figure out what is pulling us together, but it holds me here to this Earth. I don't feel as angry or want to lash out as much. Being around him is cathartic.

The auditorium is occupied at times, so our sessions move to my house these days. Riley says that his family is in the process of redecorating, redesigning and moving everything into their new place. We've driven past his place and it's the biggest property in town, even larger than the long strip mall we have.

"Any particular reason your family moved here?" I make a U-turn back to my house.

"My parents had me when they were a little bit older; my dad is almost sixty, my mom is a couple years older than him. He retired about a year ago and wanted to move to a smaller, quieter place. We found this place and here I am."

I nod noncommittally. The air remains open as I ponder things to ask him. All things I think of would have answers too long for the short drive to my house.

At my house, it's empty. My mom is probably out with furniture repair guy. Inside the house, I see dirty boot marks on the floor; my mom is always adamant about guests taking their shoes off. I guess she let this guy slip by.

Riley and me settle behind the piano, I instruct him to play the chords of 'I Don't Know Much'.

I notice the way his shoulders move as they move gently when he plays the song. The small roll in them makes the fabric taut, forming a smooth pattern and outlining the shape more. I follow the path to his rolled up sleeves, forearms flexing and soft hairs leading to his wrists and hands. His fingers performing quick work on the keys and all I could do is imagine these components touching my skin.

I'm not sure what I'm feeling when I am the way I am around him. It's similar to the sensation of being on a roller coaster. In the beginning, I anticipate what is going to happen, my stomach tight and strangling. Then, once I jet off, I enjoy myself and don't have to think twice.

Is this attraction? I can't tell since I'm a stranger to this situation. Whatever I want to consider it, I don't mind having it around.

Riley masters his audition song easily. "It sounds great. The singing and the playing."

"Thanks." He takes a beat. He makes a fist and coughs into it. It's phlegm-like and doesn't sound great.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just a bit of a cold." He rubs his hands together. "How about we have a little fun?"

"What kind of fun?"

He reaches for his backpack. He pulls out a hat and a song book. "Frank Sinatra, old standard kind of fun." He smiles, holding the book out like a child hoping to hear a bedtime story.

I laugh. "I know every single song in this. Just tell me what you want and I'll play it."

I can't help but see how confident Riley is when he sings. He looks much older as he belts out songs about life and infidelity.

I know I shouldn't determine what sex he likes based on his song choices, but I'm too scared to even ask him.

He finishes the song, holding the Sinatra hat to accentuate the effect.

The final notes of 'That's Life' fade from the piano. I smile at his pose; his arms out, hat in hand. "How do you do it? Sing without getting nervous?"

He flips the hat onto his head, smiling wide. "Easy. I imagine people watching me in their underwear."

I smirk. "So, you imagine me in my underwear?"

He tips his hat up, revealing an expression that I can't mistake. "Yes. I do."

The tumbling feeling in my stomach is telling me to ask. It's pulling me to say what I need to say. And I know this is the moment to do it.

He takes his seat back on the bench. His cheek is right there, a pink target from the exertion of pretending to be Old Blue Eyes.

I lean in and press my lips to his cheek. The warmth of him lighting my lips and every inch of skin.

It is here I wait. Wait for him to slap me, dismiss me or kiss me; preferably, the last option.

He turns his head, looking me dead in the eyes. They are unreadable and I can't fucking stand it.

It's then that his eyes dart to a space behind me. "I think someone's coming."

I turn my head and see my mom's figure in the window, walking toward our house with furniture guy in tow.

"Fuck, she's with that guy." I rub my face, trying to calm myself.

"Don't like him?"

"I never like any of them. I want to punch them all in the face."

To counteract exactly how I feel, my mom and her latest loser come into the house laughing. "Oh, Bob." She makes eye contact with me. "Edward, I didn't know you were here."

My car is out front. I stand up from the bench. "That's alright. I'm going upstairs. This is my friend, Riley. Riley, this is my mom, Elizabeth."

Riley gets up to shake her hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

My mom smiles. "Same here." She doesn't introduce 'Bob'; he's looking at the floor, standing behind her.

There's a silence in the room that is too big for all four of us.

"Alright, we're going upstairs to work on homework."

We make a swift departure, clunking slowly up the steps. Once in my room, I shut the door.

I'm not sure what to do. I lean back against my door, arms and feet crossed. Riley is looking around my room. It's making me a little uncomfortable that he hasn't said anything or had any kind of reaction I would expect. Not that I know what he'll do, but when someone is kissed, a reaction is warranted.

He sits on the edge of my bed. "Why don't you like your mom's boyfriends?"

I blink, shaken at the sudden subject change - there really was none, but at least in my head there was. "They're all scumbags."

"Scumbags? What does that mean?"

"They're pieces of shit who just want some of her money and…use her and leave her."

He stares at my desk, looking at no particular spot. There's a part of me that wants to know if he's judging me. Before I can open my mouth to ask, he pats the spot next to him on the bed. I join him, my boots scuffing against the wood floor.

"Promise me something?"

"What? What do you mean by promise?"

"I care about you. Do you care about me?"

"I…do."

"Then promise me this: you need to let your mom be."

"What's that suppose to mean?"

"Let her do what she wants, mistakes and all."

"I don't get what this has to do with…" I want to say us, but that sounds too definitive. "…anything."

"Everything. Edward, you're angry. I can tell, everyone can see, including your mom. She knows that you don't like seeing her with anyone."

His analysis surprises me. I thought my disdain was very well concealed. "What do you want me to do about? Roll over and let her ruin her life?"

"Let her be. She's not going to listen to you."

"She might, eventually. Once she sees how much it makes me angry to see these dicks take her for a ride."

"That's never going to happen."

"Stop being so fucking dismissive." I can't sit next to him, he makes me so angry.

"Edward, I'm giving you a solid truth. She can't help but love, she won't give up love for you."

He is drawing a line in the sand that I won't accept. I want to cover my ears like a child. "Shut up. Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Because I can't be around you anymore if you continue to be this way. Your anger and lashing out…" He stops to choose his words. "…aren't good for me."

"I haven't gotten into a fight in weeks and what do you mean not good for you to be around?"

He glances at his vibrating cellphone. "That's my dad. It's almost five; I have to get home for..." He stands up, shuffling to the door, and leaving his sentence unfinished. "We'll talk later about this."

I follow him out my bedroom door, looking to settle this now. "Why later? You always rush out of here at the same time everyday."

At the door he turns to me, staring me dead in the face. "Edward, I like you. You're passionate, caring, and sometimes your being misguided is…adorable. But, your anger turns you into an ugly person that I can't be around. Sometimes, I think you need more help than me at times."

I open my mouth to add to that last sentence, but he stops me, his finger pushing a strand of hair off my forehead.

"I'll call you later." He leaves my house; my back meets the door once it's shut.

I hear my mom laughing with Bob in the kitchen. I smell the coffee she brewed fresh specifically for her company.

Why does my mom go to great lengths for strangers that don't give her the amount of love she deserves? I don't think she needs these guys as much as she thinks she does. My dad offered love, more than any other man that has trounced through our front door in the past ten years. He could give her security, undeniable amounts of love and among many things people want in relationships. My dad tells me on several occasions that he still holds a special place in his heart for her.

Somehow, fear of commitment sounds too trivial a reason why.

Despite the anger I harbor, I realize my mom and I are similar. We don't look beyond today. When we have passions, we hold onto it and take it for all its worth. We live our lives in a bubble of what we like. We fear the unknown. Of course, we have entirely different ways of dealing with it. I thought I was handling it rather well.

Until Riley outright said it to me.

Fighting is how I handle the fear. I hold onto everything inside and when I can unleash like a slingshot, I am a force to be reckoned with. I itch and ache each time.

It's a never ending cycle and unlike a dog chasing its own tail, it gets tiring.

Riley is a welcome change to the monotonous.

And as the days go on, and he continues to be my friend, I can't help but want more. He likes me; it's a 'solid truth', to coin his own phrase. I can't define what that want is, but I know what it entails.

I want to hold him. I want to hold his hand and let our palms sweat against one another's. I want to press my lips to his temple and feel him blush at the spontaneity. I want to admire him when he thinks I'm not looking.

But every time I attempt these things, there is no reciprocation. He shies away, but he doesn't outright tell me no. There is no resistance, but a distance. And it grows day by day. He is withdrawing from me and I feel self-conscious.

The day before the play auditions, I notice he is not as energetic in practice. His arms don't extend as far they usually do. His voice is scratchy and slightly off key. He is not the same as he was when we first started practicing.

On the day of the audition, I am sitting next to him in the audience to cheer him on.

I whisper in his ear. "All these other guys suck. That Felix guy couldn't carry a note if his life depended on it."

He nods, but not looking at me.

I lean in close to kiss his cheek and catch sight of a big bruise close to his hair line. "You bang your head?"

"What?" He turns to me, almost nose to nose.

"You have a nice size bump. It's very purple too."

"Oh." A light bulb suddenly goes off in his head. "Yeah, I did." It's a conclusive, end of discussion sentence.

"Riley Biers." Mrs. Jacobson, the play director, calls his name.

"Good luck."

Riley makes his way to the stage, handing the sheet music to the man behind the piano. He stomps his way up the platforms to center stage.

I watch as Riley belts his heart out at the beginning of the song, with as much vivre as the first time I heard him sing it. He makes proper eye contact and slight gestures that accentuate the words.

Toward the end, I hear him sing off key twice. I know he is nervous and I see him sweating bullets.

As he holds the last note of the song, I see him stumble.

And then he falls to the ground, his head smacking against the wood stage.

I rush the stage, along with everyone else in the auditorium.

"Riley? Wake up!" I slap my hand against his cheek. It's cold, sweaty and clammy.

Soon, the ambulance arrives and they put him on a stretcher.

I run to my car and drive straight to the hospital. In the waiting room, I see Riley's parents, Cathy and Harold, rush through the doors.

My heart is pounding as I wait. I fiddle my thumbs and wish there was a way to find out what is going on; I would think fainting involves dehydration, so some fluids and he'll be fine.

I call my mom and tell her where I am.

"Oh God, honey are you okay?" I hear her grab her keys in the background. "I'm coming right now."

"No, Mom, I'm fine. It's Riley. He's hurt or something, I'm in the waiting room."

"Oh, dear." She takes a breath, collecting herself. "Do you know what happened?"

"Just that he fainted but other than that, nothing else."

"Okay, call me as soon as you know. Please, don't forget."

"I won't."

As soon as I hang up, I see Cathy come out. Her arms are wrapped around her body. She looks at me, a brief smile on her face. "Riley's asking for you."

I take a brief moment, before walking to his room. I've never had much of a relationship with hospitals. All the fights I've been in never amounted to more than a few cuts or bruises.

This is the most serious thing I've ever experienced.

I peek through the window to his room. He is propped up, staring ahead at the wall. The television is on, but it's on mute.

Pushing the door open, he looks at me. His eyes take me in, analyzing my condition, when I'm the one who should be worried about him.

There is a chair already next to his bed. I sit in it; the material of the cushion under me makes a squeaky noise, letting out some air in the process.

"How you feeling?"

"A little better." He looks tired. I don't know if that's because that fits with the hospital setting though.

"You scared me."

These are the only words we speak for ten minutes. I trace the plastic railing on his bed with my fingers, glance at the silent images on the television (a rerun of a crime scene investigation series) and look out the window.

The bruise on his head is less swollen. He does have a new one on his cheek from falling on the stage; it looks like he was in a small fight.

"Edward, I need to tell you something."

I wait for him to begin.

"I'm sick."

"Well yeah, you're in a hospital."

"No, I'm sick sick. Before I fainted, before I moved here."

"What do you mean?"

"I have…I have leukemia."

The word pummels me like a train. I know this word is ugly. It's deep and invading. It has a meaning but I refuse to know it. I shouldn't have to know it. He shouldn't have to know it.

"Wait, no you don't."

"Edward, I do."

"No, no. This is not-" I stand up, pacing in front of Riley's bed.

"Edward, listen to me. Stop panicking and listen."

I stop and let him know the first thing on my mind. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"So you can have a pity party? So that every time we'd hang out, I'd see the look in your eyes that you have right now? I didn't want that; I had that at my last school." He sounds bitter. I've never seen him this way.

And he's right. I would've acted differently, but that doesn't mean anything to me. I would've still hung out with him and still fallen for him. "If I would've acted the way you thought I would, would you like me any less? Even if I did everything the same up until now?"

"I would like you the same."

"I'm not saying you should've introduced yourself as 'Hi, I'm Riley, I have leukemia', but a simple mention of it would've…it'd still hurt."

I grasp the foot of the bed, leaning my head forward to stare at his blanket covered feet.

I feel nauseous and dizzy. There is a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit, but it won't go down. The only solution is to sob, but this is not how I want to be right now with him. He doesn't want that.

I know this situation is not hopeless. I hear about treatments for these kinds of things all the time. "Are you being treated now for it? Uh, there's chemotherapy, right? Or-"

"This is my third recurrence, Edward. I've been through every possible treatment plan. I'm exhausted and tired of fighting."

"So you're giving up?"

He doesn't say anything.

"You want to die?" I can't hold in the choking sound on that last word.

"All the things I want, I can't have while I'm weak from the medicine. That fight I got into with Laurent? That was the most exhilarating thing that's happened to me in years. And then you stepped in? You were fearless and nothing short of amazing. You were willing to fight for me. Someone else was doing the fighting for me for once."

"And then finding out you played piano? You were making many of my wishes come true. You still do."

"I'd rather sing than suffer."

He gestures for me to sit next to him on the bed. I maneuver myself, so as not to mess up the wires connected to him and the machinery.

The short autumn day fades before our eyes. The setting sun casts rays of sun onto the floor. Items that see only dark and dank moments receive a welcome respite of light.

The sun catches the tiny hairs on Riley's arm. They look so warm and normal. I ghost over them with the tips of my fingers.

If it weren't for the setting, this could've been any other couple, enjoying time away from the world.

The ambiance of the room calls for a quieter voice. "Did you ever plan on telling me?"

"I'm not sure, but I couldn't explain what happened today purely on dehydration."

"Is this…" I gesture to the wires and hospital atmosphere. "Why you were shying away from me?"

"Yes."

I scoot down, laying my head on his shoulder.

"I can't hurt you, Edward. My time is limited and I can't have you standing by, watching me become less and less like myself."

"You don't need to protect me. I'm more than capable of doing that."

"It wasn't about protecting you, but protecting myself."

I look up at him.

"I know my fate. I know what I will be missing and I'd rather start missing it now than when I can't anymore."

"But, in essence, that's suffering. You're starting it before it begins."

He sighs, letting the moment stew and presses his cheek to the top of my head.

"As I hung out with you, knowing what I had, I realized how much I didn't want things for myself, but for you. I didn't like seeing you angry and I wanted to help give you happiness. I didn't like seeing you fight for the wrong reasons, especially with your mom. Or how you feel about school.

"I could wish to have a million dollars to spend or sing like the greatest tenor in the world. But, I realize that I want a lot of small things. The big things never matter. They never ever matter. And I want to share the little moments with you."

We watch the room fade into black. The moon shines in on us as we lay next to each other. Every now and then, I hear the door open, a nurse coming in to check on his vitals.

Once I realize the hour, I give Riley a kiss on the corner of his mouth and leave.

The bright fluorescent in the stark white hallway forces me to squint. I feel more tired than I did before. My body drags as I pass by the nurses' station and out to the waiting room.

I see a face that I didn't expect to see but am relieved I do. My mom is sitting in a chair, glancing at her phone before she stands and looks at me.

I go to her, my arms encircling her body. It's instinctual, like brushing my teeth or suppressing a yawn. She attempts to shush me as I sob into her shoulder.

I can't fight the tears anymore.

...

Riley is released a few days later. He misses some of school, but I find out for him that he got a part in the play. It's not the main part, but a good size one nonetheless.

When I tell him, he smiles. He is looking better, but I wonder if it is my eyes deceiving me.

He's right; I can't look at him without seeing his illness.

Riley returns to school and he has a cover story in case people ask. He tells them that he was nervous about auditioning and hadn't slept or taken care of himself in days. He tells them he feels better now.

He doesn't want anyone to know.

In the halls, we hold hands. I try to not make these moments a sad occasion but I don't know how long he has. It's all I think about. I've replaced anger with sadness; its not anywhere near a step up.

I can't help but jump when Riley coughs or when he almost collides with someone or a structure; its bad enough his nose bleeds like an endless geyser. I have tissues handy at all times.

The only times I feel at ease are when we sing and play piano together. We are the happiest in these moments. There's no getting around the meaning behind music. Music is black and white, it's concrete.

I watch Riley during his rehearsal days. He is fantastic when he sings, but I recognize the signs of weakness in him.

He tells me that I am making something out of nothing most of the time.

"I'm perfectly fine or as fine as expected to be." Riley holds my hand as we walk up my driveway. "The doctors say I'm relatively healthy for my condition."

"It's just…I worry. Is that so bad?"

"No, it's not. I wish you would relax though. Some of these things are normal for what I have. I could do everything right, but nothing is going to make it go away."

We enter my room. I collapse on my bed, lying on my back. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to handle this." I cover my eyes with my hand, forcing tears to stay down.

I feel the bed press down as he moves close to me. "Hey. Let's just be us before you knew about me. When we play our songs, when we talked for hours on end. None of that has to change just because I'm sick. I don't want it to. Edward, I've never been happier than I am with you."

He removes my hand from my eyes, revealing the start of tears. He leans down to kiss my eyelids before pressing his lips to mine. It's a kiss that lets me forget, that gives me hope. It would give anyone hope.

Tumbling around in my bed; we tangle in each others arms, filling the room with declarations of love.

...

I let four more months go by, living and breathing him. I am more resilient than when I first learned of the news. I genuinely smile and live those little moments that Riley wished for.

We sit in my kitchen, helping my mom wrap pigs in a blanket. She is introducing me to a guy she's been seeing steadily for three months now.

I'm glad Riley is here with me. I'm less bitter about so many things now with him around.

The doorbell rings and my mom runs to get it. When she returns, she peeks around the corner from the doorway, a look of trepidation on her face. Is she nervous that I might dismiss the guy?

Riley sees it too, as he reaches for my hand. I feel lighter and less stressed.

She pulls the guy into the kitchen, smiling bright and ready. "Edward, this is Thomas."

...

A few months later, Riley gives not one, but two stellar performances in the musical.

He receives a huge round of applause for his portrayal.

Anyone who truly knows him sheds a tear.

...

Two weeks later, I'm sitting next to him in the hospital; he's haggard looking but still in a fighting spirit.

He doesn't tell me, but I have this feeling.

I know what will be happening to him soon.

I don't want to waste a moment not looking at him. He forces me to sleep, eat, and do everything that I should be doing.

My mom brings me things. I sit with Cathy and Harold as they spend as much time with their son as they can.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to him." Harold tells me. "You're our son's blessing."

I receive hugs from both of them.

And just like that, a nurse tells us that Riley only has minutes.

I enter to see him one last time. To look into his eyes and see dreams and aspirations. To feel his warmth against my skin. To hear him speak.

I can't hold myself together as I approach him. He doesn't say anything, but smiles reassuringly.

"Sing for me." He whispers groggily. "Sing our song."

And I sang really and truly for the first time in my life. I sang about false words and touching. I sang about roofs caving in and not caring if I'm kissed.

I did it all with as much spirit as Riley would muster up. I sang it in tribute to him because only he could sing best.

I gently kiss his cheek.

I hold his hand as he fights one last time and, for the first, I give up.