They all had their own ways of helping JJ when he was having a flare up.

John B was tried and true, and he always knew when one was about to hit even before JJ saw it coming.  He never made a big deal out of it, just huffed a little and said, "Maybe we should slow it down."  And when JJ didn't listen, when JJ pushed it to far, he would help JJ back to bed or just carry him, strong and safe while JJ's body got the better of him once more.

Cleo was new to it, but she was practical about it.  She thought about the things the others didn't, coming up with plans and ideas that made life possible.  And when it got bad -- and it got bad a lot -- she helped JJ sit on the back porch and lit the blunt for him, holding it to his trembling lips until he got some semblance of relief.

Pope, as expected, was academic about it.  He always had a new idea -- a new blog post, a new research study.  Super foods that could make a difference.  Exercises that have been shown to provide relief.  Sleep techniques, routine modifications, equipment upgrades.  "Anything that makes your life a little better is worth trying," he reasoned.

Sarah was maternal about it, as only Sarah could be.  The years had softened her, melting her ice princess facade, and motherhood seemed to have made her complete.  She took care of the baby; she took care of JJ.  She made sure he ate and drank, and she learned how to prepare foods just the way JJ needed -- making it easier to swallow without taking away the fun of it.  When he was too tired to get up, she'd just smooth his hair back and kiss him on the head and asked if he wanted the TV on or the lights off.

The baby always squawked when she had to leave JJ, reaching and crying for her uncle.  Sarah soothed her, too, saying, "Uncle JJ will play later.  He needs nap time, just like you."

And Kiara was the best at it, because she didn't just help -- she lived it with him.  When he hurt, she hurt.  When he was happy, she was happy. She never wavered; she never hesitated.  "We'll get through it together, just like we always do."  It had meant something else once, when they were young and healthy, but it means something more now.  Something complete, something real.  They aren't chasing treasure, just <i>meaning</i> and when she curls up with him, wrapped around him to steady him, he believes, just for a second, that things will be okay.

The little voice in the back of JJ’s head, the one that screams at him that this is wrong, that he can’t do this, that he needs to run – doesn’t mean anything.  JJ nods obediently, limping his way out of the closet.  The movement feels exhausting, but James doesn’t offer any help, but he waits at the base of the stairs for JJ to make his way over.

His body feels oddly disconnected as they start up the steps, staggering one at a time, to the top.  It seems so simple.  So painfully simple.  

JJ’s just been downstairs.  That’s all.

He’s just been in the basement.

The door isn’t even <i>locked</i>.

James pushes it open, and the light almost blinds him.  He squints, wincing badly as he shakily braces himself on the railing.  James stands at the door, lips pursed.

“Are you coming?” he asks.  “Or do you need to go back inside?”

The idea of it makes his chest constrict.  “No,” he says, half gasping as he swallows.  He’s too weak to clutch his chest, and his finger curl on the railing as he forces his feet to work.  “I’m good.”

It’s such a dumb thing to say.  <i>Good</i> is so far removed from this situation that JJ can’t–

JJ won’t–

JJ <i>does</i>.

He climbs the last few steps until he’s teetering, unsteady on his feet in the kitchen.

James looks moderately pleased.  “If you go clean yourself up, you can join me for dinner.”

He stood there, looming over JJ, but he didn’t touch him.  His expression was expectant, and JJ shuddered under its scrutiny.  Head down, he blinked his burning his, limping through the kitchen, through the dining room.

Through the living room.

His heart pounded – the door was <i>right there</i>.

But James was there, too.

And JJ knew he didn’t have the strength.

If he went back in that room–

Well, JJ couldn’t go back in that room.

In the bathroom, he closed the door, almost collapsing against the sink.  A sob shook him – a wave of shame and humiliation that he couldn’t explain.  When he looked up, his own reflection shocked him.  Luke left him bruised and battered, it was true.

But not like this.

JJ’s face was a mottled mess, and his skin was blanched and sunken.  He looked like a fraction of who he used to be, and really, how long had it been?  Since he’d been skipping school with John B?  Since he’d been out laughing with Pope and Kie?  Since he’d been on a surfboard or in the ocean at all?

Maybe none of that was real, he thought as he looked at himself.

Maybe none of that had ever been real.

This, though.  <i>This</i> was real.

JJ sat on the toilet, shaking so bad he nearly fell off.  His vision was spotty as he finally managed to flush, and his hands were trembling as he tried to wash them at the sink.  He threw some water on his face, cleaning off some of the grime and blood.  His hair was crusted over in places – the lack of washing leaving the strands limpid and foul.

He needed a shower.

As if <i>that</i> would help.  As if the things that made him dirty could be washed away with soap and water. 

He stood there, on the verge of hyperventilating, before the inevitability settled over him.

James was waiting.

He looked in the mirror, his own pale, ruined visage.