Don't go outside, I ordered myself. Don't go outside.

     For a few minutes, I just stood there, right where I was. 

     I was sure Jamie must have driven away by now, so I began heading back to my room, planning on sleeping hard enough to convince myself that today had just been a stupid dream. I paused, however, at the sound of a knock at the door.

   I knew it had to be Jamie, not some neighbor or postman or Mormon. But I ignored it, no matter how badly my feet itched to answer. After a minute, he knocked again. I didn't move.

     Another minute passed. Then came Jamie's voice, floating through the wall, sounding coarse and pleading.

    "Liam, please open up. I need -- please, just let me in."

     I felt a shudder run through my body. He sounded wrecked. Like he was unraveling with every second he spent on the other side of that wall. I gave in -- of course I did -- reluctantly unlocking and opening the door. My expression was stony. I didn't say a word as Jamie stepped inside.

     "Please," he sighed, "just let me stay here for -- for twenty or thirty minutes. Then you can kick me out all you want. I just -- please don't make me leave yet."

     I nodded curtly, then turned to go to my room. "Wait!" Jamie called after me. I stopped but I didn't turn around. "Can you . . . can you stay? I don't think I can be alone right now."

    I let out an aggravated sigh and turned on my heels. He smiled gratefully, but the expression was pained, and I didn't return it.

    "Sit down," I grumbled, nodding toward the couch.

     Jamie nodded. "Can I still have that water?"

     I muttered a "yeah, sure," and began turning to go to the kitchen when Jamie started to say, "I can get it mysel--"

     I cut him off. "Sit. Down."

     For once in his life, Jamie didn't argue.

     I reentered the living room minutes later, handing Jamie a glass of water before sitting on the opposite end of the couch. Several long minutes passed in silence, and I could feel my anger ebbing away, layer by layer. The time was enough to cool me off, at least a little.

     "What's going on with you?" I asked for the second time that day, but this time, I was demanding an answer.

     Finally, Jamie provided one. "I'm trying to quit."

     For a moment, I didn't understand.

     Then it hit me, and I felt excitement for Jamie well inside of my chest despite myself; I had to work hard to push it down. With some effort, my voice remained neutral as I asked, "How long?"

    "A little over a week."

     I nodded. My anger was evaporating even faster now, and maybe I shouldn't have let it, but I did. "That's great, Jamie."

     "It doesn't feel great," he muttered. Hearing the sharpness in his own voice, he rubbed his eyes tiredly and said, "Sorry -- I'm sorry. It just . . . it really sucks."

     I didn't say anything, and we settled again into uneasy silence at our different ends of the couch. Minutes ticked by, and after a few, I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened Google.

     Nicotine withdrawal, I searched.

     After reading multiple articles, a lot of things made sense to me.

     Coughing, headaches, dizziness, fatigue. Irritability and mood changes.

     Something called the "quitter's flu." Which explained why Jamie had felt so feverish last Thursday.

     There were several other symptoms listed, but those were the ones I had seen on him so far.

     Those and cravings. I understood what was wrong with him now; he'd been checking his pockets for a box of cigarettes. That's why he wanted to stay. To stop himself from driving to some gas station and relapsing. 

     Knowing this, I kept a watch on him out of the corner of my eye. After twenty or so minutes, I saw his posture and breathing begin to ease. Five minutes more and he seemed to be feeling almost normal again, because he turned to me with searching eyes. I pretended not to notice, directing my gaze straight forward.

    "Are you still mad at me?"

     I shut my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath to clear my head — in through my nose, out through my mouth. When I opened them again, having made up my mind, I said, "I won't pretend I'm happy with you. But . . . no. Not mad."

     Jamie nodded. "I'm sorry. About earlier."

     "I know," I said, angling myself to look at him. I bit my tongue, forcing back what I really wanted to say.

   Did you mean what you said?

     I would rather not know than be rejected for a second time, this time when Jamie was thinking completely straight.

     So instead I brought up a topic that hadn't been mentioned since its proposal on Saturday night. "I'm leaving in a few days," I said. Jamie averted his gaze.

     "Yeah," he said softly.

     "I think, since you're trying to quit . . . well, doesn't that make it even more important for you to get aw--"

     "I'm already packed," Jamie interrupted. If I had been holding onto any last shred of anger, it disappeared in that moment.

    "Good," I said, biting my lip. "Good. Great."

     Jamie looked at me again, and cracked a small, sad smile.

++++

My family was back the next day, happy to see that I'd recovered in the time they were gone -- except for Jacob, who seemed to wish I had died of my fake illness.

     Even he and I, however, managed to get along for the next few days, though that may have been thanks to Stevie, who drove down on Christmas Eve to spend her favorite holiday with us. Much fun was had exchanging presents and singing carols by the fire, but eventually Christmas came to an end, and the afternoon after, I was sat in my car, driving ahead of Stevie to Jamie's house.

     He was already outside when I arrived, shivering in the cold despite his heavy layers. I hardly had the chance to park before he was rushing into the passenger side, muttering profanities about winter and unceremoniously chucking his bag into the backseat.

     "Hello to you, too," I chuckled, turning up the car's heat for his sake.

    "Hi," Jamie said, clasping his gloved hands. "Jesus, it's cold."

    "That tends to happen when it snows," I pointed out, and Jamie untangled his hands just to flip me off.

     I laughed, watching through the windshield as Stevie pulled in front of us. I drove behind her and turned on the radio to get away from the white noise. After several minutes, however, I grew tired of the silent drive and said, "Let's do something. I'm bored."

     "Like what?"

     "Twenty questions?" I offered, glancing at Jamie for a brief second to see him looking doubtful. Rolling my eyes, I said, "You know, it wouldn't kill us to get to know each other a little."

     Apparently, he wasn't convinced, because another moment passed in silence.

     "Nothing personal," I promised. "Come on, how long will it take for you to start trusting me?"

     Jamie was silent again, and I was thinking in annoyance that it really wasn't that big of a deal when he said, "You think I don't trust you?"

     Somewhat taken aback, I said, "Uh, I don't know. Do you?"

     "I trust you."

     My stomach did a nifty little backflip. So Jamie trusted me.

     Did I trust him? I wasn't sure yet. I didn't have much reason to. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to.

     "Favorite movie?" Jamie asked, taking me by surprise again.

     "What?"

     "We're playing twenty questions, big guy. So what's your favorite movie?"

     "Oh," I blushed, because wow, I'm a dumbass. "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."

     Jamie laughed quietly. "That's so . . . you."

     For some reason, my stomach decided to compete with Simone Biles again. "What's yours?" I asked to distract myself.

      He thought for a moment. "Call Me by Your Name," he decided. I made a face.

     "Never heard of it," I admitted.

    Jamie gasped. "That's, like, gay sacrilege. I'm making you watch it."

     The game continued for a good while, and we definitely asked way more than twenty questions. I loved the transparency -- so long as I didn't ask anything that Jamie might keep guarded, he answered openly. It was the first time, after all these weeks, that I felt I actually knew much of anything about him. Sure, the new information was trivial at best, but it was these trivial things -- like the favorite color blue and the middle name Riley -- that I had been dying to learn, because they made him seem so much more human.

     Half of the two-hour drive was spent sharing favorites and embarrassing stories and weird talents. I wasn't sure if I'd ever seen Jamie in such a good mood, so laughy and talkative, and I found that Happy Jamie was really, really infectious. I was all smiles behind the wheel, spilling more and more with every question, like I couldn't shut my mouth up now that he was being so much more responsive than normal.

     It looked like Happy Jamie was a roadway Happy Liam.

    The last question of the game turned out to be, "What's your favorite flower?"

     It was a pretty random question, even I had to admit, but Jamie didn't miss a beat before answering, "Lilies, for sure. Purple ones if we're getting nit-picky."

     Lily. That jogged something. "You called your sister that," I remembered. "When I was at your house."

     Sure that I had just ruined our pleasant streak by mentioning that, I was fully expecting Jamie to go into full shut down mode. Instead, he chuckled and said, "Your memory is ridiculous, Bane. That was, like, forever ago ago."

     I grinned, surprised (but not complaining) that he hadn't gone reclusive on me. "You know what they say. An elephant never forgets."

    "If you're calling yourself an elephant, I fully agree," Jamie teased.

     "Well, certain parts of me are definitely elephant-like, don't you think?"

     He choked out a laugh. "God, you're an idiot," he said.

     "And you're an asshole," I remarked. "Match made in heaven."

     He laughed again, softer this time, leaning his head against the window. "I'm gonna try and take a nap," he said. "Wake me up when we get there."

     "No, I was just gonna leave you in the car," I scoffed. Whatever clap-back Jamie had been planning -- something brutal, no doubt -- was cut off by a yawn.

++++

He looked so peaceful in his sleep, I almost didn't want to wake him.

     That, and I was scared that his mood would have done a complete one-eighty over the course of his hour-long nap. I liked Happy Jamie.

    Nevertheless, I shook him awake once I was parked at Stevie's apartment. It took a moment, but his eyes eventually flickered open. "We there already?" he asked amidst a yawn and stretch.

    "Sure are, sleepyhead," I said as I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Up you go."

     With an exaggerated groan, Jamie followed me in leaving the car, stumbling slightly on drowsy feet. Stevie joined us moments later, a pleasant smile on her face as she ignored me completely and turned to my companion.

    "You must be Jamie," she said, offering her hand. "I'm Stevie, Liam's sister."

    "Nice to meet you, Stevie," Jamie said, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't surprised by his politeness. He took her hand, expecting a shake; I chuckled at the little yelp he made when Stevie pulled him in for a hug.

"Okay, you'e adorable," she said as she leaned back to see him blushing. She shot me a sly wink, to which I responded with an eye roll, and said, "Let's go inside, yeah?"

     She led us into the building and up the elevator to apartment 416. I had been there once before, back when she first moved in, and it hadn't changed much since, with the exception of some new furniture. Stevie had ranted time and time again about her buzzkill, anal-retentive roommate, who refused to let her personalize any space other than her bedroom. The living area was as bland and generic as possible.

    "So here's the deal," Stevie said, leaning her forearm against the kitchen counter. "My roommate is gone all break to be with her family, and she said she's okay with you guys using her room. Which leaves us with some choices. You guys can share the room if you don't mind that," she snuck a suggestive glance at me, "Or one of you can take the couch -- it's a pullout. Or Liam, you can come share my room if you want -- you know, like you did for the first eleven years of your life when you were scared of monsters under your bed."

    Jamie did a poor job of concealing a snicker. "Eleven?" he mouthed to me, and I flipped him off.

    Ignoring my reddening cheeks and glaring at Stevie in an I'll get you back for that sort of way, I said, "I don't care. Whatever you want, Jamie."

     Jamie shrugged. "I don't mind sharing," he said.

     "Awesome," Stevie clasped her hands together. "That's the room right there, and it has its own bathroom to the left once you get inside. Now that that's settled, let's go eat; I'm fucking starving."

     After stashing our bags in the bedroom, we walked a few blocks to a cute little Italian restaurant, and I noticed as the three of us were seated in a booth that Jamie had fallen quiet. He didn't seem to be in a bad mood, but he definitely wasn't as talkative as he had been earlier. He mainly watched and listened as Stevie and I spoke, occasionally offering a small smile or laugh.

    Halfway through the meal, that changed (at my expense, because everything always happens at my expense). Stevie called me Bub around Jamie for the first time, and he laughed so hard, he choked on his Sprite. Which started the story about where the nickname came from, and next thing I knew, they were having a full on conversation, and I was gaping as they shared animated stories about stray animals they'd found and brought home when they were younger -- how did they even get there?

     Something almost as surprising as the sudden friendship was Jamie's appetite. I had always figured he didn't eat much -- he was so thin -- but he had enough food that night to feed two of him. He ate as much as I did, which was saying something.

     By the time the three of us left the restaurant, we were filled to the brink and in very giggly moods. Stevie had told enough horrific stories from my childhood for Jamie to write a book about, but I didn't even mind, because the air around us was light and fun, and I was in too high of spirits to be butthurt.

     There had been quite the snowfall while we were inside, adding an extra layer to the already-thick blanket of white on the ground, so the walk back to the apartment was tedious. Poor Jamie could hardly get one foot in front of the other, and after laughing at his struggle for a few minutes, I took pity on him and grabbed him under the shoulders, hoisting him with ease into a fireman's carry despite his loud protests.

    "Liam!" he shrieked, pounding my back with his fists. Stevie watched us with quiet amusement. "Put me down! Put me down!"

     "No can do," I said, smirking as passing strangers gave us odd looks. "You're slowing down traffic."

    "Liaammmm," Jamie whined as I carried on walking as easily as if I didn't have a sixteen year old boy slung over my shoulders, punching my back relentlessly. Pleeaaaase."

    "Fine, but your slow ass is getting on my back," I compromised.

     "Absolutely no --" Jamie began to protest, but he seemed to decide against it, because he said, "Okay. Deal. Anything but this."

     That's what we call the door-in-the-face phenomenon.

     With a cheeky smile, I crouched to let him get down, only to carry him again in a piggy-back moments later, and we stayed like that the entire way back to the apartment building, with Stevie complaining that I never spoiled her like this.

     Right when we were about to enter the building, as Jamie slid off of my back, several voices behind us shouted, "Stevie!"

     All three of us whipped around, and Stevie screeched excitedly (may my ears rest in peace) and ran from me and Jamie to hug every single person in the group of college kids -- I counted five in total.

    "What are you guys doing here?" Stevie asked when the dramatic greeting was through.

     "We were coming to get you," a tall Asian guy with a big smile and a puffy coat said. "Figured this was a perfect time for war."

     I had no idea what he meant by war, but apparently Stevie understood perfectly, because she cheered, pumping her gloved fists into the air. "Oh, hell yeah!" she exclaimed. She turned to me and Jamie. "You guys down for the most epic snowball fight you'll ever experience?"

     Jamie looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to answer. "Uh, yeah," I decided with an excited nod. There was no world in which I would say no to a snowball fight.

     "Yes!" Stevie cheered. "Guys, this is my brother, Liam, and his . . . friend, Jamie. Liam and Jamie, this is Tony, Lola, Emmet, Sarah, and other Sarah."

     I instantly forgot all of those names except for Sarah, but I nodded as if I was following along; next to me, the vacant look in Jamie's eyes told me he was just as lost.

     "To the park?" one of the girls -- I decided to assume she was Sarah, because there was a 2/3 chance that I was correct.

     "To the park!" another girl -- I would also call her Sarah -- cried.

    "Vamonos!" yelled the third girl, and fuck, I was out of 'Sarah's.

     The group of eight hurried past the apartment, down the sidewalk for another block, Jamie and I following cluelessly behind like dogs on a leash. Jamie made a point of being quicker this time, but his skinny-ass self just wasn't suited for trudging through the snow.

    We came to a small park and split into two teams; Jamie, Stevie, other, and (maybe) Sarah against me, Sarah, other, and other (one of which may have also been a Sarah). Then the chaos began.

    There was a lot of screaming, diving, and falling. This really was war -- a fight to the death that both teams refused to lose. And of course, I had my sights on Jamie.

     After the first snowball I sent to his face, the fight became personal. With an indignant yell, Jamie rolled a massive ball of snow and threw it with bullet-like speed at me. I dodged at the last second, narrowly missing a snowball to the crotch.

     "Dirty move, Alexander!" I laughed, already forming his next weapon. "I think you're forgetting that if you destroy the merchandise, we both suffer!"

     Instead of answering, Jamie sent another snowball barreling into my chest, laughing proudly when the force knocked me straight over.

     The two of us battled like our lives depended on it. What started as throwing snowballs turned into pushing, what was pushing turned into tackling, and at some point we fell over and ended up on the ground, sunk into the white around us.

     "On a scale from one to ten," I said, staring defiantly up at Jamie, "how bad do you wanna make out right now?"

     Which made Jamie burst into giggles (ridiculously cute), giving me the chance to shove him off. We lay next to each other in the snow, panting and laughing to ourselves, and if I had to answer my own question, I'd say a solid fifteen out of ten.

     After a few minutes, my view of the sky was interrupted by Stevie's form appearing above me, her arms crossed over her chest and a very Liam-like smirk on her face. "What great warriors you are," she said sarcastically. "Real team players."

     "Fought too hard," I said, grinning lazily. "Needed a break."

     "Oh I'm sure," Stevie said, her voice teasing. "Well, we're gonna go watch the sunset, if you're down. Or just, like, keep dry-humping or whatever you were doing before. Don't give a fuck, long as I don't have to see it."

     Turning red at her blunt delivery, we hastily agreed to join her. So the group migrated to a different part of the park -- at the top of a hill facing the city -- and sat shoulder-to shoulder to watch as the sun sank lower and lower behind the buildings. Stevie and her friends were engaged in conversation, talking about whatever college kids talk about, but I didn't join in or listen, and neither did Jamie.

    No, the two of us stayed comfortable in our own little world of silence.

    We sat out there until the last rays of color faded into deep blue and the stars sprang forth -- very few of them, thanks to the lights of the city. It was really, really nice.

     Then I noticed that Jamie was holding his stomach, and that he had that pained look on his face of someone who was suffering and trying to hide it. "Hey, are you okay?" I asked, quiet enough that nobody else would hear.

    "Yeah, I'm f --" but Jamie cut himself off and shook his head.

     I turned to my sister, who was sat on my other side listening to one of the potential 'Sarah's tell a horror-story about her job at Panera. "Hey, Stevie?"

     "Yeah, bub?" Stevie responded, and despite his pain, Jamie snickered from my left.

    "Can we get the key? We're gonna head back inside."

     "Oh, sure," she said, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Everything alright?"

     One of the things I loved most about having a close sibling was the telepathic bond that seemed to come with it. Stevie understood just by my expression, and reached into her purse to hand me her key.

     "Don't lose it," she warned. "And there's a spare on the counter, so you won't need mine all week. I'll come up soon, kay?"

     I nodded, smiling gratefully. "Thanks sis," I said, and gave her cheek a quick kiss. I bid goodbye to Sarah, Sarah, other, other, and other on both my and Jamie's behalf. Then I stood, helping Jamie -- who, in the moonlight, looked like he was turning a bit green -- to his feet, and we set off as quickly as his current state allowed.

     The moment we were inside Stevie's apartment, he bolted to our temporary bedroom -- with me on his heels -- and into the bathroom. I just barely managed to raise the toilet seat when Jamie collapsed onto his knees, holding his stomach and coughing into the bowl.

    I stood with him, rubbing his back as he vomited, wishing there was more I could do to help. Minutes passed before he stood, not looking at me, and flushed the toilet for the last time. Quietly, he said, "Can you leave?"

   The question wasn't harsh. I understood; he was embarrassed. And I wanted to tell him that he didn't need to be, that the only thing that mattered was whether he was okay. But I swallowed the words and did as he asked, getting one last glimpse of the other boy taking a toothbrush from his bag before the door was shut between us.

     Jamie emerged a few minutes later. I watched him from where I sat on the edge of the bed, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. He wouldn't even come closer; he leaned against the closed bathroom door, staring down at his feet.

     "Are you feeling better?" I asked eventually. Jamie just nodded, and the room was quiet for a few moments until he said,

    "Bet you're already regretting inviting me, huh?" his voice was bitter. My eyebrows arched; regret hadn't even crossed my mind.

    "What, because you got sick?" I said disbelievingly. "Are you kidding?"

    "Because you must realize by now that I'm not gonna be . . ." Jamie faltered. "It's not gonna be fun having me here."

    I shrugged. "Today was plenty fun, if you ask me," I said. "And I'm not gonna blame you for going through a rough time. I'm choosing to be here for you right now; you don't need to apologize for that."

    Jamie sighed, finally meeting my gaze. "You're an idiot," he said. The playful glimmer was, fortunately, back in his eyes now.

     "As you've told me," I said with a smile. "So, why do you think you got sick? Was it something you ate?"

     Jamie shook his head, pursing his lips. "I think it was how much I ate."

     I'd read that withdrawal could make someone's appetite flare up. But it wasn't like Jamie had eaten a ridiculous amount. Not enough to make you throw up.

     Then I remembered something else, something I'd completely forgotten from my time at his house. His little sister coming in with a box of -- had it been pasta? -- for him.

    "Do your parents not feed you?" I blurted, far sharper than I'd meant it to come out. I couldn't help it; the thought alone made me want to kick another door. Jamie winced at my outburst.

    "They feed me," he said carefully. "Just -- just not much, and they're really strict about . . . my parents act like I'm someone they only let into their house because they have to. They don't want to waste food on a stranger. Pip will sneak me extra, but they notice everything, so she has to say she ate it, which means we have to be careful about how much, and how often . . ."

    Jamie was too skinny to be healthy. His sister had to literally fucking sneak him food. And now he was throwing up because his body was so used to being borderline starved that it couldn't handle a big meal.

    "Jamie, you have to get out of there," I said seriously. "The amount of abuse -- what about child services? Your parents can't just get away with that. You're still a minor, you can --"

    "No, I can't," Jamie said suddenly. I was about to ask -- to demand -- why, but one look into his eyes answered that question. Penelope.

     He didn't run away because he didn't want to leave her. He didn't contact authorities because he didn't want to take away her parents. Jamie was living through hell, all for his sister.

++++
Clearly I love a good snowball fight scene