Lead Blanket

Stan wasn't just tired; he was geographically fixed to the mattress. Gravity had developed a personal vendetta, and Jeffrey was the only one brave enough to cross the event horizon of Room 304.

"You’re going to become part of the mattress. Like, biologically fused. A new species of furniture-boy."

"That’s the plan," Stan mumbled, his face pressed so firmly into the pillow that the words came out as a vibration against the cotton. "Symbiosis. It’s the future."

"It’s three in the afternoon, Si."

"Time is a construct."

"Lunch isn't. I brought a bagel."

Stan didn't move. He couldn't. It wasn't just that he didn't want to; it was that the laws of physics in Room 304 had fundamentally shifted over the last forty-eight hours. The air pressure had tripled. The duvet, usually a cheap synthetic thing issued by the Academy, currently weighed about as much as a small sedan. He could feel the threads of the fabric pressing a grid into his cheek, a tactile map of his own inertia.

He cracked one eye open. The room was swimming in a murky, underwater light. It was spring outside, the kind of aggressive, relentless spring that involved too much rain and the smell of wet dirt trying to drown everything. The window was cracked open an inch, letting in the damp chill and the distant, rhythmic thrum of the city. Rain tapped against the glass like nervous fingers.

Jeffrey was leaning against the doorframe, looking irritatingly three-dimensional. He was wearing his civvies—jeans that were ripped at the knees from actual friction burns, not fashion, and a hoodie that smelled faintly of burnt sugar and static. He looked sharp, defined, like he’d been cut out of a magazine and pasted onto the blurry watercolour background of Stan’s room.

"I’m not hungry," Stan said. He closed his eye again. The darkness behind his eyelids was filled with grey noise, like an untuned television channel.

"Liar. Your stomach just growled. It sounded like a dying bear."

"That was the plumbing."

"The plumbing is better conversationalist than you right now." Jeffrey’s footsteps were soft, barely audible over the rain, but Stan felt them. Every time Jeffrey’s sneaker hit the linoleum, a tiny ripple of kinetic energy shuddered through the floorboards and up the bed frame. Being a gravity manipulator meant feeling everything—mass, density, the oppressive weight of existing. Right now, Stan felt like he was collapsing in on himself, a dying star in a twin-sized bed.

"Go away, Jule. I’m serious. I’m contagious. I have the plague of… of sitting still."

"Sloth isn't contagious. It’s a sin, though. Father McKinnon would be very disappointed."

"Father McKinnon can levitate tanks. He doesn't get to have opinions on gravity."

The mattress dipped. Jeffrey had sat down on the edge, near Stan’s feet. The shift in weight was catastrophic. Stan felt the universe tilt. He groaned and pulled the duvet higher, burying his head until only a tuft of black hair remained visible.

### The Weight of Air

The room really was doing something weird. Stan knew it was his own fault—his control slipped when his mood cratered. The shadows in the corner by the wardrobe were dripping upwards, pooling on the ceiling like black oil. The poster of the periodic table on the wall seemed to be breathing, the elements expanding and contracting in a slow, rhythmic heave. It was surreal, hallucinatory, and entirely exhausting.

"We missed you at patrol," Jeffrey said, his voice dropping the banter for a second. It was quieter now, rougher. "Coach asked where you were. I told him you had food poisoning. The tuna casserole from Tuesday."

"Creative."

"Plausible. That casserole was a biohazard. Even the invulnerability kids wouldn't touch it."

Stan shifted his leg. It felt like moving through setting concrete. "Did I miss anything?"

"Not really. Stopped a mugging on 5th. Helped a cat out of a storm drain. The usual glamorous life of a junior hero. Oh, and Miller tripped over his own cape and face-planted into a puddle. I got video."

"Send it to me."

"I will. If you sit up."

"Blackmail. That’s low."

"I’m a pragmatist." Jeffrey poked Stan’s ankle through the duvet. "Come on. Up. Verticality is the goal."

Stan squeezed his eyes shut. It was stupid. It was so incredibly stupid. He was a superhero trainee. He could crush a car into a cube the size of a dice. He could increase the gravity in a room until people couldn't stand. But he couldn't lift a two-pound blanket off his own chest. The paralysis was total. It wasn't physical, exactly—his muscles worked fine—but the signal from his brain to his body was getting lost in the static. It was like trying to start a car with a dead battery. You turn the key, and there's just a click. Nothing catches.

"I can't," Stan whispered. The admission tasted like copper and shame.

There was a pause. The rain intensified, drumming harder against the windowpane. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed, shaking the walls.

Jeffrey didn't say 'You can.' He didn't say 'Just try.' He didn't offer any of the useless, shiny platitudes that the guidance counsellors printed on pamphlets with pictures of sunsets. He just sat there, warm and solid, a fixed point in Stan’s wobbling reality.

"Okay," Jeffrey said. "Then we sit here. I’ve got nowhere to be. My speed training isn't until tomorrow, and if I run any more laps today, my calves are going to explode."

"You’re vibrating," Stan noted.

"Am I? Sorry. Too much coffee. Or just… energy." Jeffrey laughed, a short, sharp sound. "It’s weird, you know? Being this fast. Sometimes it feels like the world is moving in slow motion and I’m just waiting for everyone to catch up. But here…" He tapped the mattress. "Here, it’s slow. It’s nice. Quiet."

"It’s depressing," Stan corrected.

"It’s moody. Atmospheric. Like an indie movie where nothing happens for two hours and then someone cries at a bird."

Stan felt the corner of his mouth twitch. A smile, or the ghost of one. "I hate those movies."

"I know. You like the ones with explosions and terrible dialogue."

"Explosions are honest. They don't pretend to be deep."

Stan pushed the duvet down to his chin. The air in the room was cold, smelling of old textbooks and the peculiar, metallic scent of damp radiator pipes. He looked at Jeffrey. Jeffrey was looking at his hands, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. His knuckles were red, scuffed from the patrol. He looked tired too, in the way that people who moved too fast often were—a burnout around the edges of the eyes.

"Why are you really here?" Stan asked. "You hate missing training."

Jeffrey shrugged, a jerky motion. "Coach was yelling. The weather sucks. And…" He hesitated, glancing at the dripping shadows on the ceiling. "The room felt wrong. Down the hall. I could feel the pull. It was getting heavy. I figured your dampers were malfunctioning again."

"They're fine. I'm just… heavy."

"Yeah. I know."

Jeffrey reached out and placed a hand on Stan’s knee, over the blanket. His palm was warm. The heat seeped through the layers of cotton and down, grounding. The surreal warping of the room seemed to stabilize slightly. The ceiling stopped breathing. The shadows retreated back into the corners.

"It’s a bad one, huh?" Jeffrey asked softly.

"The worst in a while," Stan admitted. He stared at a water stain on the wall that looked vaguely like the continent of Africa. "I just… I woke up and the idea of moving felt like… like lifting a building. And then I panicked because I couldn't move, and the panic made me heavier, and… yeah."

"Feedback loop."

"Yeah."

"Well," Jeffrey tapped his knee again. "I’m an external force. Isn't that physics? An object at rest stays at rest unless acted upon by an idiot with a bagel."

Stan huffed, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sigh. "That’s Newton. I think."

"Whatever. Eat the bagel."

Stan slowly, painfully, extracted an arm from the warmth of the cocoon. The air hit his skin like ice water. He felt clumsy, his limbs uncoordinated. He reached for the foil-wrapped package Jeffrey was holding out. His fingers brushed Jeffrey’s. A spark of static electricity—real static, not the mental kind—snapped between them.

"Ow," Stan muttered.

"Electric personality," Jeffrey deadpanned.

Stan unwrapped the bagel. It was plain, untoasted, and looked a bit squashed. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He took a bite. It tasted like dry dough and preservatives.

"Good?"

"Solid," Stan chewed slowly. "Very dense matter."

"I thought you’d appreciate that."

They sat in silence for a while, Stan eating the bagel one small bite at a time, Jeffrey watching the rain streak the window. The room was still dim, still messy, but the crushing pressure had alleviated slightly. It was no longer a black hole; it was just a messy dorm room on a rainy Tuesday.

"You know," Jeffrey said, tracing a pattern on the denim of his jeans. "You don't have to fix it today. The paralysis thing. You can just… exist. We can watch a movie on your laptop. I can read you the comms logs from patrol so you can laugh at Miller."

"I should get up," Stan said, staring at the empty bagel wrapper. "I have to shower. I smell like despair."

"You smell like sleep. It’s distinct."

"I need to move, Jule. If I don't move now, I’m never going to."

"Okay," Jeffrey nodded. He stood up, stretching. His joints popped, a series of small firecrackers. "Strategy?"

"Small steps," Stan said. "Sit up. Feet on floor. Stand up. Walk to bathroom. Try not to fall over."

"Sounds like a solid tactical plan. Need an extraction team?"

"No. I got it."

Stan pushed the duvet back. The cold rushed in, seizing his chest. He gritted his teeth. He focused on his centre of gravity, trying to make himself lighter, trying to float just a little. But his powers were dormant, sluggish. He had to do this the hard way. With muscles.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet, clad in mismatched socks—one grey, one black with little skulls—hit the cold linoleum. The shock sent a shiver up his spine.

He sat there, hunched over, hands gripping the edge of the mattress until his knuckles turned white. His head spun. The room tilted left, then right.

"You good?" Jeffrey’s voice was close. He hadn't moved to help, sensing that Stan needed to do the mechanics of it himself, but he was hovering, vibrating slightly, ready to catch.

"Dizzy," Stan rasped. "Blood pressure thing."

"Take a second. Breathe."

Stan breathed. In. Out. The air tasted of dust and rain. He looked at his socks. The skull on his left foot looked like it was laughing at him. He focused on that. A laughing skull. Stupid.

"Okay," Stan said.

"Okay."

Stan pushed off the mattress. His knees wobbled, threatening to buckle. He swayed, a skyscraper in a high wind. A hand grabbed his elbow—steady, firm, anchoring.

"Gotcha," Jeffrey said. He wasn't looking at Stan with pity, which Stan would have hated. He was looking at him with a critical, assessing gaze, like he was checking the structural integrity of a bridge.

"I’m up," Stan said, surprising himself.

"You are up. Achievement unlocked."

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. Standing up is hard. I tried to stand up after leg day last week and just sort of… poured myself onto the floor. It was tragic."

Stan leaned into Jeffrey’s grip for a second, just a second, letting the other boy take a fraction of the weight. Jeffrey smelled like the outside world—wet asphalt and energy drinks. It was a good smell. It cut through the stale air of the room.

"Bathroom," Stan commanded his legs.

"That way," Jeffrey pointed helpfully.

"I know where my own bathroom is."

"Just checking. You looked a little confused. Thought maybe you were navigating by starlight."

Stan took a step. Then another. It felt like walking through molasses, but he was moving. He reached the bathroom door and leaned against the frame, breathing hard, like he’d just run a marathon.

"You want me to wait?" Jeffrey asked from the middle of the room.

Stan looked back. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets, a crater left where his body had been. It looked inviting. It looked like a trap.

"Yeah," Stan said. "Wait. Don't… don't go yet."

"I'm not going anywhere," Jeffrey said, dropping back onto the mattress and pulling out his phone. "I haven't sent you the video of Miller yet. You have to see the face-plant. It’s artistic."

---

Stan closed the bathroom door. The silence in the tiled room was different—sharper, colder. He leaned over the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises, hair sticking up in violent directions, skin pale and waxy.

He turned on the tap. The water ran cold, then hot. He splashed it on his face, the shock of it making him gasp. He grabbed a towel and scrubbed his skin red.

He was still heavy. His bones felt like they were made of lead piping. The thought of the shower—the effort of undressing, of standing under the water, of drying off—seemed insurmountable.

But Jeffrey was in the other room. Waiting. Probably vibrating his leg and scrolling through memes.

Stan looked at his reflection again. He didn't smile. He didn't look heroic. He just looked like a kid who was trying very hard to stay vertical.

"One thing," he whispered to the faucet. "Just one thing."

He reached for his toothbrush.