Part I:
Breathe Again
The worst is over now
And we can breathe again
I wanna hold you high
You steal my pain away
There’s so much left to learn
And no one left to fight
I wanna hold you high
And steal your pain…
- “Broken” by Seether
Chapter 1
Golden rays of sunlight streamed through the sheer, billowing curtains, chasing away the shadows and filling the room with the light of dawn. In a large bed in the center of the spacious, sunlit room, a man stirred. He rolled over and sat up slowly, pushing a fluffy, white down comforter off of him to expose his tanned, bare chest. His head turned to look down at the woman lying beside him, still fast asleep, the covers pulled up to her neck. He smiled slightly and lowered himself back down. Propping himself up on one elbow, he turned to face her. He reached out to her, lightly running his finger over her face, making a trail down her porcelain cheek, tracing her plump, perfect lips.
At his touch, her eyelids fluttered, and she awoke, those perfect lips curving into a perfect smile at the sight of him.
“Good morning,” he whispered, his voice low and sultry, and leaned down to kiss her. Her arms rose to encircle his neck, and a moment later, the covers were swept aside, and he was on top of her. “You know what the best thing about morning is?” he asked, as he dotted her neck with kisses.
“What?” she moaned beneath him.
He lifted his head to meet her eyes. “Waking up next to you,” he answered, and before she could respond, leaned in closer and caught her mouth in a passionate kiss.
“I love you,” she whispered, as his lips left hers.
“I love you too…”
“What is this crap?”
The sound of her voice woke him up, or maybe it was the lawnmower. Whichever it was, it was enough to draw Nick Carter out of sleep. He awoke with a moan and blinked a few times as he looked around. He groaned when he found himself curled up in one corner of the couch. Claire was sitting up at the other end, throwing disdainful looks at the TV, which was turned on and probably had been all night.
“What crap?” he muttered, grimacing at how croaky his voice sounded. He cleared his throat a couple times as she pointed to the TV.
“This crap,” she replied, making a face.
“What is it?” Nick asked, as he watched a happy, perfect-looking young couple roll around beneath a fluffy comforter in a big bed, their skin glowing bronze and their hair shining in the morning sunlight that filled the room.
“I dunno, some lame movie. It was on when I woke up.”
He wondered how long she’d been awake. Apparently not long, he decided when he took a closer look at her, trying to hide his smile. She was a sight to see; that was for sure. Lost in one of his old hooded sweatshirts, her light red hair in tangles, her blue eyes still bleary with sleep…
Not that he probably looked any better. He ran a hand through his cropped blonde hair and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was met with the sight of a cluttered coffee table, hardy visible beneath the grease-stained pizza box, half-empty bags of chips, beer cans, and various dishes that had been haphazardly set down on it. He groaned again at the sight of the mess. Oh well. He’d take care of it later.
The loud buzz of the lawnmower next door met his ears again, and he scowled. “Who mows their lawn this early on a Saturday morning?” he ranted in annoyance.
“Friday,” Claire corrected, “and it’s not morning anymore. It’s noon.”
“Huh?” Instantly, his head turned toward the clock on his wall. The stiff muscles in his neck protested the movement, making him wince. Bad idea, falling asleep on the couch. Massaging the crick in his neck, he checked the time and saw that it was indeed just a couple minutes past noon. What a waste. They’d wasted the night away, watching movies and eating junk food, gotten rather wasted themselves, and then passed out on the couch and wasted the morning sleeping.
But Nick didn’t really care. A night of eating, drinking, and watching movies with Claire and then waking up by her side the next morning (okay, afternoon) – that was his idea of perfect.
Well, almost. He had a headache from the alcohol he’d had the night before, and that stupid lawnmower was only making it worse. Glancing over at Claire, he found her rubbing her temples and figured she had to feel about the same way.
“Headache?” he asked sympathetically.
She nodded. “You too?”
“Yep.”
“Ugh, we suck. You and I gotta work on building up our tolerance again. I only had… how many beers?” She counted the cans on the coffee table and smiled sheepishly. “Yeah… never mind.”
He chuckled. They had both had to give up alcohol at one point or another in the last two years because of chemotherapy treatments, and even though he hadn’t had chemo since the previous June, he hadn’t drunk much since then either. A couple beers here and there, but rarely more than that. Gone were the days when he would go out clubbing with his friends every weekend he was home and get plastered. These days, he was alienated from most of his friends, besides Claire and the “the guys” – the Backstreet Boys. They were the only ones who understood him and what he had been through, the only ones who were not at least slightly weirded out by what had happened to him. His other friends had drifted away, and he had let them. It only took a near-death experience to show you what and who was important, so he’d kept those who really mattered close, and screw everyone else. If they wanted to hang out, they could call him, but he was sick of trying to make small talk and listening to awkward silences on the other end of the line. He didn’t need that. He had people who cared about him and who accepted him the way he was, and that was all he needed.
That and a nice big mug of black coffee.
He stood up slowly and swore under his breath as he remembered something.
“What?” Claire asked, looking up at him, puzzled.
He patted his prosthetic leg. “Fell asleep and forgot to take this thing off and charge it,” he said, rather embarrassed. It was not the first time he’d done that, fallen asleep in front of the TV and forgotten to take off the C-Leg, which was battery-powered and meant to be plugged into his computer and re-charged every night. Usually, it was not much of a hassle, since he always took the leg off to sleep anyway. But then there were times like these when he would forget and have to charge it in the morning.
“How long does the battery last?” Claire asked.
“It’s supposed to last for I think thirty-six hours,” replied Nick, “but I better go charge it up now. I’ll be right back.”
His whole body rather stiff from sleeping in an awkward position on the couch, he hobbled off to his office, where his computer was, and returned a few minutes later on crutches, his prosthesis left charging beside the computer.
“You want coffee?” he asked Claire.
“Sure,” she said. “If you can handle making that, I’ll take care of clean up, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan,” he replied with a nod and made his way into the kitchen. “Aw, fuck!” he exclaimed when he saw the mess there. Sitting on the counter beside the refrigerator was a caved in container of ice cream. A sticky puddle of brown liquid that had once been chocolate ice cream surrounded it, slowly dripping off of the edge of the counter and leaving a trail of chocolate goo all down the cabinet below.
“We left the ice cream out all night,” he muttered flatly to Claire, who had come to see what his “aw, fuck!” was for.
She winced when she saw the mess and bit her lip. “Oops.”
“Yeah, oops is right. Ugh.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean that up; you start on the coffee.”
He shrugged. “Okay.” Glad that everything he needed for coffee was stored in reach of the coffee maker (since trying to carry a Folgers coffee can and haul himself around on crutches at the same time seemed sort of impossible), he propped his crutches up against the counter and set to work, while Claire mopped up the melted ice cream with a wet dish towel.
“Just throw that out,” he said when she walked by with the sodden towel, which was now the color of mud.
“Oh, it doesn’t need to be thrown out; it’ll wash up fine,” she replied, carrying it off toward his laundry room.
“No, seriously, throw it out,” he said again. “I don’t want it to get my clothes all nasty, and it’s gonna be all stained anyway.”
She shook her head, looking at him in disbelief. “Rich people… I swear.”
“What?!” he demanded, raising his eyebrows. “It’s just a stupid dish towel! I have plenty of ‘em already.”
“Yeah, but why throw it away? It’s only chocolate, it’s not like it’s dog shit or something.”
Because throwing it away just seemed easier, he thought with a shrug. “Fine, put it in the laundry,” he muttered, waving her off. Let her have her way; this was not something worth arguing over.
When the coffee was done, he filled two mugs. Claire carried them both over to his kitchen table, and they sat down together. He watched in amusement as she proceeded to dump several heaping teaspoons of sugar and a liberal amount of creamer into her coffee, stirring it until the once-black liquid was a creamy, light brown.
“What?” she asked sheepishly, when she saw him grinning at her. She chuckled. “I don’t really like coffee that much,” she admitted. “I love the smell, but not the taste. It’s only good for staying awake… or for hangovers.” Smirking, she took a sip, making a face as she swallowed.
He laughed and took a sip of his own coffee. “Yeah, well, after enough years of not enough sleep and not enough time, you grow to like coffee. Even black.” Yes, between jam-packed schedules, early wake-ups, and late night partying, coffee had always been a necessity for the Backstreet Boys, so he’d acquired that taste early on.
It wasn’t like that anymore though. Now he could sleep as much as he wanted and had all the time in the world. Whenever he was on the road touring, just one day to sleep in would have been a real treat. But now that he had every day to sleep in, he missed his hectic former life, with its jam-packed schedules, early wake-ups, and late night partying. He missed recording and touring and singing… hell, he even missed dancing. He couldn’t look at a folding chair without wanting to pick it up and bust a move from the “As Long as You Love Me” choreography. But he knew that would never happen. There were a lot of things he could still do on his prosthesis – walk, swim, play basketball… and hopefully one of these days, even run. But he would never be able to dance again. And as much as he’d once complained about the cheesy dance routines he and the guys had performed over and over again for years and years, he missed them. The chair dance, the hat dance, the “Everybody” dance… never again.
But he was convinced that other things would happen again. He could still sing, and that was all that really mattered. They could still record, and some day, there would be another album. And, hopefully, a tour. They hadn’t even toured for their last album yet. After what had happened after the last concert they’d done, Nick wasn’t sure there would be a tour anytime soon… but someday there would. Someday he’d be back on the road again.
For now, he was trying to enjoy his life at home. And he was. It was easy to enjoy life once you’d faced the fear of having it taken from you, and although life hadn’t exactly treated him kindly the last two years, things were all right now. His health was improving, and at home, he had peace and quiet and plenty of free time. And, of course, he had Claire. So basically, he had everything he wanted.
Well, almost everything.
***
Story Notes:
Thanks for checking out By My Side! I hope you have already read its precursor, Broken... if not, you should definitely go back and read that first, or you're going to get quite the shock to your system when you start this one.
This is the first sequel I've written in a few years, and when I started it in March of 2004, shortly after finishing Broken, I honestly had no idea how it was going to go. I was afraid, for one, that I was going to run out of ideas... after 150 chapters, what more could there be left to write? As it turned out, plenty. And not just romantic stuff either. I originally plugged By My Side as a romance, much more so than Broken. And that's true - it is a romance. But it's not all romance. You can't put your two lead characters through physical and emotional hell and then expect to have them just skip off into the sunset together and live happily ever after, with no repercussions of any kind. It's just not realistic. Once I realized this, my concept for BMS changed.
This sequel is not just a story about the romance between Nick and Claire that began at the end of Broken. It's a story about two people living in the aftermath of the disease that brought them together, but also nearly killed them. I hope you enjoy it.
Happy reading!
~Julie (RokofAges75)
