Once, Ryan had to break down the door to the bedroom to discover Brendon lying disoriented, practically disassociated, and carry him to a detox program until he was rehydrated and well enough to come home without being sectioned off to a facility. Another time, Ryan got a call from someone else in their apartment building saying they'd found him in the hall, and he wasn't waking up, and would Ryan please come take care of him because this was out of their hands. The other call was from a bar downtown that said his number was the most recent in Brendon's cell history and they'd called an ambulance for him already, Ryan just needed to pick him up from hospital. They said 'he's all right, he's with us,' and Ryan sort of doubted it. If he'd been all right he wouldn't be in this situation. If he was really with them, he wouldn't have felt the need to go back on swearing off drinking. There were triggers everywhere, though, and apparently no one cared enough to protect him from them.

Even when he was 'okay' after every individual episode of a real relapse, Brendon wasn't. He couldn't stand the light anymore; his pupils were dime-sized all the time because the withdrawals never went away. He never wanted anyone too close, no one could touch him; it was always too hot or too cold but no matter what he was always sweating, his body rejecting the environment. He dropped weight faster than he could regain it, and that paired with his gradually degrading skin tone, the yellowness in his eyes, he just looked sickly. Ryan could hear when he couldn't catch his breath even when he hadn't done anything demanding - he saw the palette of redbluepurpleyellow bruises that appeared from nowhere - he knew when Brendon forgot what he was doing, what day it was, what month it was, and hid his confusion.

That was all towards the end, though. He'd started noticing things far too late. After so long of things seeming okay, the alcoholism still in existence but at the very least in the background of their lives, he'd let his guard down and stopped looking for any minor faults in Brendon's usual healthy, brazen countenance. In the beginning the changes were too subtle to chalk up to anything serious: Brendon would break his clean streak, but believe it to be so minor that he didn't have to tell anyone, and then when he suffered a week of the aftereffects he played it off as a cold. The 'colds' became more frequent with less breaks between them, and suddenly one day Brendon was perpetually ill, with worse symptoms than ever before that he didn't recover from.

He was a kid when his dad was dying. He had no idea about any of it, how this worked, so Joey explained it all - and Ryan kind of wished he still didn't know anything. Living in an empty house (he'd sent the dogs off to someone who could actually care for them, who was home more often than they were at the hospital) and going to sleep every night knowing Brendon's heart was actively failing was, ironically, killing him. He wished he could live in some sort of ignorance, because maybe being naïve enough to believe that Brendon would get better would let him live his life semi-normally. As it is, he did believe, but the only belief he had was that Brendon could get better. If he made the choice to, that is. The doctors all said he needed six months' sobriety to qualify for any serious programs or life-changing surgeries; Ryan could see in Brendon's face that he didn't think he could do it. That was the same day Ryan started making the effort to come to terms with the fact that maybe they wouldn't be growing old together.

That effort was essentially shelved to the back of his mind - for the time being Ryan much preferred to not think about ever losing him, and instead he focused on fighting to stay by his bedside past visiting hours, arguing with hospital staff until they just let him fall asleep holding Brendon's hand. He'd been officially admitted for three months, and two months before that it was in-and-out visits; while Ryan still refused to consciously address it, they had both been informed that there was very little time left unless things started magically looking up. Magic was, apparently, selective in the role it took in their lives, which Ryan was pretty fucking pissed about, but anyway.

Ryan's attitude throughout it all was... fairly aggressive. He approached it with a certain resignation in the beginning, because it seemed like things would just work out themselves within time, the doctors would know what to do, etc. And then when he started hearing serious things - heart failure and pneumonia and liver disease and six months at best and so much more - he began a one-sided war with all of the healthcare system. He argued with the doctors that Brendon was still young, there's no way it could be this bad, and he's been through all of this before so he knows that it couldn't have progressed so fast right under his nose, and they must be doing something wrong because Brendon just keeps getting worse, why is he getting worse, why can't he stand anymore, why, why, why. The only answers he really got were along the lines of please calm down, it's out of our control, you don't know what you're talking about. So, yeah, maybe he was a little out of line. Ryan grew comfortable with his new asshole reputation amongst the care staff and after the first month just stayed in the hospital as long as he wanted to, fuck visiting hours. Brendon's hospital room was practically his home now, too.

He did occasionally come back to the apartment to check the mail, pay bills, change his clothes, so on. He did just that after a five day streak of telling nurses to fuck off when they told him he couldn't stay in Brendon's bed, just shifting to the side whenever they needed to readjust the heart monitor. Five days and the smell of hospital and death still clung to him, so he promptly showered at home, changed into new clothes and looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in a while. His hair had grown unruly, his face looked blank, empty. He didn't look at himself for long - besides, he had to get back to Brendon. He brushed over all the old evidence of their life together, the sticky notes on the fridge with messages to each other, Brendon's shoes by the door, his jacket strewn over a chair. Their guitars were still next to each other on the couch since their last session together months ago, and Ryan swore the place still smelled like him even after all this time. It felt like they were different people, now, and he was glimpsing into the life of another, happier pair of people. Ryan just stood in the middle of the apartment, contemplating crying, before a voice in his head told him to get a goddam move on and he rushed out the door, back to the hospital.

Maybe they should just opt for in-home hospice so Brendon could be more comfortable, but Ryan was still hanging onto the hope that someone would miraculously cure him if he stayed longer around the professionals. Maybe. He picked up black coffee for himself at an express shop at the hospital's bottom floor and then a hot chocolate for Brendon, knowing he'd lost interest in anything with taste and probably wouldn't drink it just like every other drink he brought up to his room, then headed up to his home-away-from-home, bowing his head so he didn't have to think about how he knew every person in scrubs by name. He pushed Brendon's door open with his back since his hands were occupied and turned, a soft smile on his tired face, to set both the paper cups down at Brendon's bedside.

He dropped into a seat, running a hand through his still-damp hair and glancing warily at the steady but slightly too flat monitor to Brendon's right before dragging his gaze back to the still body under all the covers. "Hey, baby," he greeted gently, pushing the cup across Brendon's bedside table. "Brought you hot chocolate this time. Thought another caramel macchiato might be overdoing it, y'know?" Jokes. Didn't really matter, considering Ryan drank it himself after six hours untouched and could still see the cup in the garbage. He hadn't seen Brendon in maybe three hours, tops, mostly because of the commute between their home and the hospital, but still felt like he had to catch up with him. "How are you doing?" Naturally his hand hung on the edge of the mattress, tentatively awaiting Brendon's to take his first just in case he was in another touch-repulsed phase.

Brendon thought lot about where his bad habits had surfaced from- the bad habit of a few too many far too often that developed startlingly fast into a full-blown addiction that he couldn’t shake, that marred his once-golden reputation amongst his friends (he knew some of them said things behind closed doors they wouldn’t say to his face, which was strange, because the best time to say something hard to swallow to anyone was when they were a dead man anyway), that had, by the age of not even thirty, ruined and brought close the end of his life. When it got down to it, he remembered the almost foolish heartbreak he suffered upon leaving Ilvermorny, and the way to distract himself from Ryan’s absence and his parent’s inattention was whatever he got his hands on first- and that, to somebody who looked older than they were, was alcohol from people who just didn’t ask questions to keep their conscience clear.

It had began relatively mildly, where he didn’t get drunk every night, but he drank every night without fail unless he ran out. Soon, though, anxiety set in when he couldn’t drink, and it was disrupting his schoolwork. Next he even drank all throughout the day when he could- then he stooped the level of stealing from his alcoholic maths teacher, at the stage where he began to get shaky without it and now schoolwork was interfering with his drinking. Brendon still wasn’t sure why he became hooked so quickly, and it was sort of morbidly amusing that in the beginning, he’d hated most alcohol anyway. His affinity for it came with frequent consumption. He wondered why his parents never noticed when he went home during the holidays, that his modest group have friends ignored that anything was happening, that the only professor who took notice was the alcoholic that simply recognised the symptoms (and also that some of his stash was missing). He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t bitter.

Joey. When Brendon first knew that he probably wouldn’t last much longer, and he wasn’t going to grow old with his husband like he’d planned, he’d thought about Joey, and how the hell he was going to be able to face him. If it was up to him, he’d refuse, but he was confined to bed and didn’t have the option to avoid him. The visit was heartbreaking for both of them- Joey felt guilt that he hadn’t been able to save Brendon, who was much younger, and Brendon felt like he’d disappointed a father. Which he had. Brendon was going to miss him- he hoped in the back of his mind that Joey would visit again so he could cry into his shoulder while Ryan wasn’t around to see him so weak. Then again, Ryan was a saint for even sticking around this long, he thought absently- it wasn’t like he was getting any prettier, and it had been weeks since Brendon had last even looked in a mirror. It was better this way- he could imagine himself as normal, even if he felt like death.

Brendon knew he was probably a little selfish in that he never wanted Ryan to go anywhere- mostly because he was terrified he wouldn’t be alive when Ryan got back to his bedside. He pretended to be asleep when arguments broke out between Ryan and the hospital staff about whether he had to leave or not, and always exhaled a shaky sigh of relief when they left and he and Ryan were left in relative peace. In the beginning, Brendon had been actively hoping for recovery, but now it was all too much too fast and he had pretty much resigned to his fate. He just wanted to be with his lover for as long as possible, but his heart sank when he realised no amount of time together now would make up for all the years they would lose. Brendon couldn’t think about it too long. The concept of being dead was relatively easy for him to grasp- it was the impossibility of Ryan’s absence, or rather Brendon’s own solitude, that shook him to the core. His life wasn’t meant to play out like this. He guessed he just had to make the most of it while he still had one.

It was one of those days where Ryan finally went home, even if only briefly. Before he had gone, Brendon had held onto him with as much strength as his weak body could muster, and gave him a hasty, watered-down version of his rehearsed ‘I’m moments away from death and I’m terrified I won’t get to tell you how much I love you’ speech. Ryan was still kind of in denial, so he just nervously laughed it off after tentatively retiring the gesture. Then he was gone, and Brendon resigned back to his bed, staring at the ceiling.

But during the time of Ryan’s short three hour absence, too much happened for him to process, and when his husband got back, he barely even noticed because he was stiffened, his eyes closed and his throat tight. It was hard enough processing himself, but telling Ryan- he wished he had taken the offer of the nursing staff telling Ryan instead, but it was too late for that. Hey, baby. Brendon felt his heart beat a little harder, like the sound of Ryan’s voice had revitalised it for mere moments. Brought you got chocolate this time. Thought another caramel macchiato might be overdoing it, y’know? Ryan’s light attitude made Brendon feel a little worse about dropping this on him, but he soldiered through, sitting up straighter and finally opening his eyes, reaching up slowly to run a hand through his hair, pushing it to one side. “Thanks,” He murmured, but didn’t touch it, just glanced at it and registered it’s location so he didn’t knock it over in confusion some time later.

How are you doing? Brendon winced, looking at Ryan mournfully, his mind taking forever to form words. "Not so hot,” He admitted, cracking a weak smile. It wasn’t like they expected anything else, but... Actually being told that he had a month, at best, wasn’t the greatest feeling in the world. ”I, uh- I’ve been given an expiry date.” Brendon couldn’t help but laugh, because if he didn’t laugh, he’d have broken down in Ryan’s arms by now. Not his proudest moments. "A month, maybe.”

Starting with Brendon's third admission to the hospital, Ryan started trying to convince himself that he'd been through it once, he'd do it again. Not really helpful, considering that the first time resulted in death, but. The process he was used to. Feelings, not so much. The thing is, he'd seen it all happening when he was a kid from a kid's point of view. When dad disappeared for a few days, someone from work or from the hospital or a neighbor would call in, ask if he had anyone taking care of him, tell him his father was okay and he'd be home in no time (of course after the first time he told them he was home alone and child services didn't seem too happy with that, he just started lying). And he didn't recognize the signs of him being sick, either. When the whites of his eyes turned yellow it just seemed like a random peculiarity; when he was expelling blood every other day it was in the privacy of his own room. The drunkenness and the occasional violence was fairly normal, too, nothing that he had to deal with.

When he was 21 and his dad was dying and he had to come home to make sure the end was put off as long as possible, the sickness he observed was obvious; his pallid features, his jaundiced skin, the bleeding from no discernible wound... That and the fact that his dad couldn't even move towards the end, much less communicate with him. The difference between his final crisis and Brendon's supposed one was that everything was 10x more visible, and at least he could keep talking to Brendon so it didn't feel like he was just watching a silent movie play out. They could connect, so he wasn't just numb through all of it. Maybe that wasn't for the best, considering how much grief it was putting them through to not only watch everything get worse, but to have to watch it happen to the person you loved most (or, in Brendon's case, being watched by the person you loved most while you deteriorated. It seemed the one thing Brendon wouldn't want an audience for).

Anyway. Whenever he thought about it, compared the situations, one thought resounded in his head: get over it. Years ago, and very different from Brendon's circumstances, so he had nothing to worry about. His dad drank himself to sleep for a much longer time... then again the sheer quantity during each episode, plus how many times Brendon tried going cold turkey or just didn't properly detox, plus generally not taking care of himself - it made up for time. He hurt himself too much to turn back completely, but Ryan still held out hope that he could at least get back to a functioning level. He knew plenty of people went about their normal lives whilst going through dialysis, but. Brendon had plenty of other organs failing on him, too. Ryan maintained some surface appearance of not being scared anyway, just always showing a certainty that they'd get good news some day rather than a new problem. It wasn't optimism, per se, but more him being fed up with the disease.

What bothered Ryan the most - ignoring every possibility that nurses suggested, every joke Brendon made about it, basically anything about death - was the fact that Brendon had to experience all this pain. The precursory stuff. Ryan generally strove to protect Brendon from any hurt (although, ironically, especially when they were younger he tended to be the cause behind it, at least for a short time), so to think that he was suffering and all of this was out of his control... harrowing. And if it just progressed into something worse, and he was going through the same shit he watched his dad go through that looked more painful than anything, Ryan wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it. Honestly. His only comfort for now was the fact that Brendon was at least a little numb to some of the symptoms thanks to medication, and anyway he wasn't active enough to hurt himself further. Ryan knew the horror stories of one tiny trip or fall ruining an alcoholic permanently.

Probably another one of the reasons he just didn't go home. Again like half his life with his father, he'd become Brendon's keeper, sorta. That role probably officially went to the nurses, but hey - Ryan came pretty close. When he got back from one of his brief trips away Brendon almost immediately tried to pull himself into a more alert position, to which Ryan kind of clung to the edge of his stiff bedding just in case something gave out on him. Turns out he was just paranoid as hell. Not so hot. The amount of time it took him to put together sentences now was admittedly kind of terrifying, but the kind that Ryan was used to. Other than that he really hadn't expected a different answer... although this time something seemed more serious; the air felt oddly more intense. Ryan's encouraging smile faded a little.

I, uh- I’ve been given an expiry date. Brendon was laughing. Ryan was pretty sure his heart stopped, ironically enough. The hand he'd set on the edge of the bed awaiting Brendon's felt cold, already empty, and he hoped if Brendon found it that easy to laugh then this was just another one of his dark jokes. A month, maybe. Ryan stared at him, waiting for the 'just kidding,' or anything at all that would make his mouth less dry or bring sensation back to his limbs. Nothing followed, though. Frozen, Ryan didn't react at all for a straight minute, both unsure how and preoccupied with other, more chaotic thoughts.

Why didn't time just stop? Or be fair to them and let Ryan share some of his, or whatever. It was a nice thought. Of all people it seemed the most unjust that Brendon was going to - might - be taken from him, from everyone, from the world. He had to live for himself first and foremost, but he also had so much to offer, so many people to meet, had. Ryan caught himself thinking in the past tense and realised he must have started doing that some time ago, now. Like Brendon had already gone, or like they were both dead. After all, if Brendon was going to go, then Ryan wasn't quite sure what he was meant to do with himself. Brendon's body may be failing him, but if he was gone altogether it'd be like Ryan lost an essential organ, too. He was very sure that he wouldn't be able to survive the loss. Hell, just like Brendon, he'd flirted with death back when they first separated.

And now here was only one of them who made it to the finish line. Supposedly. Ryan sat back and the only word that came to mind was, "Bullshit." Kind of harsh. But not at Brendon's expense - it was definitely all aimed at the doctors again. "No, that can't be right. Who told you... you really don't need to be hearing that, you know? It's bullshit. A month." Here was Ryan's initial approach as per usual: anger. Well, more specifically, frustration. He couldn't believe some doctor would say shit that's not even concrete, that they couldn't even back up, that at least half the time turned out to be a bad estimate. Half the time. Ryan thought about when he was told his dad could bear three more months, maybe, and then when he died three weeks later. And he was pretty sure he would be sick right now if he had anything at all in his stomach to throw up.

His irritated countenance, leaned back in his chair like he was too good to believe that, fizzled. His expression cracked first and then he sort of folded in on himself, torn between not wanting to be seen getting visibly upset for the first time in a long time and wanting desperately to hold Brendon as long as he could. "A month," he murmured, his tone completely different suddenly, more broken. "Fuck. Fuck." Ryan dragged his face from his hands, miraculously not crying but white as a sheet anyhow. "Brendon, they're usually wrong. That doesn't mean." He meant to say something like 'doesn't mean you're going to die,' but he didn't even want to say the word out loud, and his throat was closing up, kind of. He paused to breathe, thinking that the only person who could really feel it and confirm or deny the prediction was Brendon. So. "What do you think?" Maybe he couldn't just feel close to death, or, like, hear the Grim Reaper or anything dramatic like that. Ryan just wanted to disprove it as quickly as possible.

Brendon would’ve called Ryan his lifeline, but honestly, no matter how much he wished that love really could save him, Ryan was more what was keeping him from falling apart. In a desolate situation where he already knew what was at the end of the brief, agonising road, without somebody to hold onto, without reason, Brendon’s spirit would have broken by now- and even if it was beginning to be worn away, by pain and illness and weakness, humiliation at how he’d been reduced to this, anger at himself for not being strong enough- Ryan was, undoubtedly, what had kept him sane. Ryan, he told himself, was the reason he didn’t want Death to arrive at his door a little faster and save him from living out the last miserable, agonising weeks of his life for the simple sake of it- because Ryan was his reason. Every moment spent with him was a blessing and Brendon was, as a man in his kind of predicament, counting them carefully.

It wasn’t like he was optimistic. He could go on about how much Ryan helped him all he wanted, his lover’s presence was a blessing and a curse simultaneously- as much as he wanted to believe that love conquered all, Brendon had come to realise this wasn’t true. In fact, love made all of this harder- and much more difficult to let go. It made the inevitability of his death a vague and horrifying concept, as he was too busy curled up in Ryan’s arms to allow himself to think about it all just ceasing to exist. The world, though, would go on without him. Ryan would go on without him- and though a part of him was endlessly happy about it, a selfish part of him felt immeasurable agony at the realisation that he was not the beginning and end of his husband’s world. It wasn’t like Brendon wanted to watch Ryan fall apart, but sometimes, anger at hospital staff and quiet frustration only made Brendon feel more sick.

That said, Brendon was stupid- he knew that Ryan was dumb enough to think something along the lines of maybe I don’t have to live without him or maybe be with him again sooner than he thinks. This made his throat tighten, and though he made no accusations, he just kind of glared with as much seriousness as his tired face could muster, hoping Ryan just... Got the message. Ryan was to keep going- Brendon had told him before, indirectly rejecting whatever ideas Ryan had going on in his head. Brendon had said that life would go on, and in a choked voice, had even proposed the possibility that Ryan was still young, he’d find somebody else. He was all for Ryan moving on and living life, but still, behind his encouragement, the idea of the one man he’d ever loved, his childhood best friend and the centre of brendon’s world ever being with anyone else made his insides twist. It would be best, he decided, to just not think about it at all.

Anyway. A month. Brendon had been in hospital for a few months already, and it had felt like a lifetime- but maybe now he was counting off the days to go, it would go faster, and Brendon wished he just hadn’t been told. Four weeks- give or take- left by Ryan’s side, left on this godforsaken earth. Under his obvious pain was relief- Brendon was constantly in pain, and was, despite everything, glad that this wouldn’t drag out for too long. It was harrowing- it the prospect of telling Ryan frightened him more. Propping himself up on the cushions a little further, wincing noticeably, he followed Ryan’s movements into the room, noticing the hand at his bedside, almost offered to him, and ignored it for the moment as he nervously, with a kind of quiet hysteria, delivered the news.

Bullshit. Brendon just blinked slowly, unsure. This was nothing new- Ryan getting angry at the doctors. It wasn’t their fault, but Brendon could never find the energy to interfere. No, that can’t be right. Who told you... you really don’t need to be hearing that, you know? It’s bullshit. A month. Brendon sort of shifted uncomfortably, shrugging his shoulders. The slightest movement took way too much effort, and he geared himself to speak. "It’s not their fault, baby,” He managed, but couldn’t meet Ryan’s gaze. ”And maybe I didn’t, but now I know. You- nobody can change that. Better start a calendar, start counting the days.” His last sentence was as light a tone as he could manage for a heavy subject like this. Brendon just wanted to feel vaguely normal for once, but it was hard when his husband was on the verge of breakdown.

A month. Ryan’s strained voice broke his heart. Just kill me now, He begged silently to nothing in particular. The longer I last, the harder it’ll be. why did he feel more grief for Ryan than himself? Brendon would have been amused, but. Well. Fuck. Fuck. Ryan had gone white, and Brendon wondered absently what he looked like. Can’t have been very pretty- though every time he asked, Ryan boosted his ego x10, it was still pretty hard to feel too hot when he was confined to a hospital bed, his hair was a mess and his skin was jaundiced and sickly. No doubt he was gaunt, had lost muscle mass, and his eyes had yellowed too. Brendon silently cursed the disease for even taking away his good looks- that told you where his priorities were. ”Ryan-" Brendon, they’re usually wrong. That doesn’t mean. Doesn’t mean what? Brendon knew he was going to die; it terrified him, and he wanted to just cling onto Ryan and life for as long as possible, but he had somewhat come to terms with it. Ryan, apparently, had not.

What do you think? Letting silence fill the room, Brendon felt uncomfortable. How was he supposed to know? To distract himself from such a question, he held out his hand, curling his fingers and intertwining them weakly with his husband’s, suddenly realising all he wanted to do from now til whenever his time was up was just be near the love of his life, to be held, to have him make it easier. If Brendon was going to die, it would be in Ryan’s arms. "...Get in with me, would you?” Artfully ignoring the question, he willed the stress to go away. He was sick to death of limits being placed on his life, but it wasn’t like he had a choice.

Maybe it was a little selfish to want Brendon to stay. After all, even if he did make the best recovery possible, it wouldn't be in full. He'd live with the mental and physical remnants of the death scare for the rest of his life; maybe he would even get worse over time. And he'd just been suffering for so long already... Ryan of course wanted Brendon to see his own expansive talent grow and reach more and more people, wanted him to progress as a person for himself, but he also just needed him there. They had some sort of symbiotic relationship, had for a long time. Without one, the other cannot thrive, so on. All the pamphlets in the visitor's section of the hospital had articles on how to deal with loved ones dying or how to cope with an extended sickness, etc., and he'd flip through them whenever he got kicked out of the room, but. None of them seemed to pertain to the two of them, didn't understand the complexity and depth to what they felt for another. Corny, but true.

So, definitely a degree of selfishness. Either way, as much as he was striving to keep Brendon around as long as possible, as much as he was what Brendon clung to, it was the same the other way round. Everything in his life was on hold not just because it felt like he should be there, but because he wanted to be there. He didn't necessarily want to see all the negatives - that was the shitty part, really, of spending every waking moment with him through all of this; he had so many symptoms to observe it was hard to keep up - but he wanted to help as much as he could. Of course there wasn't much he could do medically, which was really what Brendon needed now, but he supported in every other way. Ryan had made it very clear that all the financial complications involved here were sent to him, too, and any messages from insurance. Not like Brendon needed another weight on his shoulders.

An interesting concept that Ryan considered was maybe just conveniently disappearing when Brendon did. Brendon, in turn, clearly knew his thought process. He could sense the disapproval, but... really he had no clue what else to do. The music would take a permanent hiatus, probably, unless somehow he discovered that creating made him feel better (which, generally, any productivity didn't). He probably wouldn't want to look any of their friends in the face anymore - they were Brendon's friends, they would just serve as a reminder. Any jokes they'd share with each other, it'd feel wrong that Brendon wasn't there laughing with them. And he would definitely have to move. Maybe. There was another side to all of this - staying where he was and continuing as normal after the bereavement dissipated, it might be nice to see reminders of him, to have evidence of Brendon's effect everywhere. Easier to consider than all of this: walking onto a highway, losing balance from too high up, misreading the label on his medication, so on. Brendon would kill him again if that happened, or if he knew the exact lengths to which Ryan thought about it, he'd probably just kill him then, ironically enough.

But he was getting ahead of himself, there. He still didn't think Brendon was dying. All right, Brendon was obviously dying, but he wasn't going to die. Not necessarily. And when Brendon introduced the idea of them only having a month left together... how could he fit a lifetime into that amount of time, and how could he do it from a hospital room? That raised another question: if he did believe after all that there was only a month, should they just discharge him now? Then at least Brendon might be able to experience a spell of normalcy before- that. Considering the amount of machines around him helping him cling to life, though, Ryan didn't think that was a viable option anymore. He just needed to come up with other ways to make Brendon's final weeks as peaceful as possible, happy rather than grievous, because there was no point mourning while he was still alive. If the month was true.

It’s not their fault, baby. Yeah. He was right. But now it needed to be somebody's fault, and the staff, the entirety of goddamned healthcare could take the heat. And maybe I didn’t, but now I know. You- nobody can change that. Better start a calendar, start counting the days. Maybe Ryan would have appreciated the lightness in his voice, how casually he could approach this subject, at any other time, but. If Brendon 'knew,' then maybe it wasn't so far-fetched that he really did only have something like four weeks left. Maybe he did feel the end nearing closer, and just the thought of that weight on his shoulders... Ryan wished he could do something to ease the burden, but for now all he could do was lose his composure after months of being able to maintain it.

He heard his name, could hear Brendon through the fog that clouded his brain now, but was too lost in his thoughts to stop and acknowledge it. When he asked for some kind of legitimacy, Brendon didn't answer immediately. The more time passed without an answer, the more one became clear in Ryan's mind anyway: he must feel his time running out. Ryan pursed his lips, trying to tear his gaze from Brendon's so he wouldn't have to watch him lose it, but now he didn't want to waste a moment looking anywhere else or being anywhere else. He vaguely felt Brendon's hand take his but still couldn't regain much sensation at all, and, because it was easier than holding himself up straight any longer, he let his forehead rest against their joined hands after kissing the back of Brendon's. He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't.

Get in with me, would you? So no answer became an answer. Ryan suppressed a tiny choked sound as best he could, letting it die in the back of his throat, but the shudder that accompanied it and tears that sprung to his eyes became his tell. He kept his head down for another moment until he could force the tears not to fall, letting them disappear once he closed his eyes, and once he came back up nodded profusely. He almost tried for an audible 'of course' but his voice didn't seem to cooperate. Failing that, he climbed over the side of the bed, careful not to touch any of the levers beneath or set askew any monitors, and fit his body against Brendon's where he wasn't stuck with an IV or bound by a wire from a heartrate sensor. It had gotten easier over time to ignore the fact that Brendon was now bonier than ever before, how when he wrapped an arm around him he could feel every protrusion and his always unusual body temperature. Still. That paired with the conversation topic made it necessary for him to shut his eyes tight, blocking out everything around him and trying to focus instead on Brendon's voice, his breathing, his actual heartbeat and not the annoying beeps that accompanied it from a distance.

He curled his free hand around the back of Brendon's head, fingers scratching absently at the slightly overgrown hair that nearly rivalled his, and let their intertwined hands rest between their chests. He pressed his forehead against Brendon's temple, trying to steady his breathing and make the verge-of-tears feeling go away. Brendon seeing Ryan take the hit so hard would just make it worse for him, anyway. He could save having some sort of breakdown for whenever he absolutely had to leave, where it wouldn't stress Brendon out more. After a shaky exhale he tried again to speak despite the tightness in his throat. "I don't..." Pause. He was at a loss for words. Ryan squeezed his eyes tighter, like the blackness couldn't be enough. "I don't know how we're supposed to fit forever into a month," he said softly, his voice nearly betraying him towards the end.

He'd like to renew their vows despite them not even having aged, he could do that right in the goddam room. He'd like to take Brendon somewhere warm where he could feel the sun constantly. He'd like to spend another day in bed with him doing nothing after a full week of being so busy they could barely breathe. He'd like Brendon to be able to see his dogs again after six months of nothing at all. He'd like Brendon to be okay again, he'd like them to find their first grey hairs together that were from age and not stress (and to see Brendon subsequently throw a hissy fit about it), he'd like to retire with him, he'd like him to not go at all. Ryan realised suddenly his face was wet and quickly turned in to his arm, clearing away the evidence. "...Are you scared?" Ryan was scared of just the idea himself - he still didn't even believe it was true. A month. "'cause - you don't need to be. I'll be here, always," he murmured, feeling just slightly cheesy saying it out loud.

And then since Brendon always needed a lighter follow-up, he figured he should include one, too. Anything to distract him from actually believing in the prediction - his denial was the only thing keeping him semi-composed. "I mean, unless I start to get annoying. Then just tell me to screw off." He couldn't really laugh, but. He squeezed Brendon's hand as a substitute.

When Brendon thought back to his teenage self, he lamented that younger Brendon hadn’t known his first drink would lead to something as desolate and hopeless as this. It made him a little more positive about his life as a whole- that maybe it was all an accident, he was just hit by a lot of bad luck, bad timing and bad things. That it wasn’t his fault, that it wasn’t a chain of events he had set off himself and made no effort to stop. Sure, he’d tried to quit in the past, but his heart had never truly been in it. On the flip side, he wondered that if he could go back in time and tell his younger self everything that happened to him in the future and why, would his younger self make any effort to change? Would be brush it off? Would he see it as the inevitable anyway, and by trying to prevent it, it would only usher it on faster? After all, he’d still suffer that dumb teenage heartbreak that was so much more than that, but maybe instead of dealing with it like he did, he’d... Move on, or something. But then when Ryan went to Hogwarts, maybe they wouldn’t get back together. Maybe Brendon would have stayed with Andor. Maybe they’d live separate, different, long lives.

Brendon didn’t want that. He always just wanted Ryan, and maybe it was selfish to not really mind having taken this route anymore. Death only ever really hurt those it left behind, in the end, and that was what was really (metaphorically) killing him. That Ryan would remain by himself- and he knew what went on in his husband’s head, because Brendon wasn’t stupid. He was worried about him. Aside from that, there was the obvious fear of nothingness, fear of everything ceasing, fear of an existence- or no existence at all- without Ryan. But not only that, he’d miss colour, he’d miss taste, he’d miss sound and music and people screaming his name, he’d miss his dogs who wouldn’t understand why he never came home again, he’d miss his friends who would go on without him, even, deep down, his stupid parents, who, if they were here, would probably be trying to convince him to repent his homosexuality in order to go to Heaven. God, he hated them- god, he’d never get a chance to repair the relationship like Ryan always begged him to do, he’d never get to see all his nieces and nephews that had done nothing wrong and would be raised just like he had, to be bigoted. All the things he’d taken for granted and all the things he’d not done. Brendon was drowning and it was easy to see to anybody who saw him.

Maybe he was thinking pessimistically, but Brendon had tried his hardest to be as cheerful as usual, like everything was normal, which was hard for a dead man walking, but nobody pulled it off better than him. He was jaundiced and thin and sickly, but- he was still Brendon, you could see it in his eyes and even his smile, though it was considerably rarer nowadays. This instance probably wasn’t one for jokes, but the concept of having 30 days, give or take, left alive, was almost surreal. He’d known it was inevitable- the doctors had made it clear to him it was terminal, along with the fact that he felt himself dying- and it was as awful as it sounded. He was weaker, he felt his bones sharp against the hospital bed, he sometimes wondered what was the point, why didn’t he just go now and save Ryan the hospital bills and the time. But- there was his reason. Sat by his bed. He’d hang on as long as possible if it meant seeing Ryan for the majority of his remaining life.

Ryan seemed in relatively good spirits, but he had to break the news, which would quickly put an end to that. He did it quickly, joking awkwardly along as he did, trying to laugh or he’d cry and he knew it. Ryan might have taken it even worse, by the look on his face- Brendon quickly took his husband’s hand, holding as tightly as he could muster the strength to. He saw Ryan kind of curl in on himself and rest his head on their joined hands, and had no idea what to say to make it better. Strangely enough, he felt like he was supposed to be comforting Ryan here, not the other way around. Brendon thought quickly, and when he spoke, tried to keep his voice controlled. Moments later Ryan was climbing carefully in beside him, careful not to touch any equipment or monitors around the bed or plugged in or attached to Brendon at some point. He felt an instant sense of comfort and closed his eyes, letting Ryan move his fingers through his hair and tuning out from his laboured, shaky breathing.

I don’t... He sounded like he was on the verge of tears and Brendon’s chest grew tight, but he didn’t say anything. I don’t know how we’re supposed to fit forever into a month. Brendon silently mourned the time that had been taken away from not just him, but them. It wasn’t fair. ”We...” Brendon almost turned his head, but didn’t, instead just stroked a thumb over Ryan’s wrist gently. ”We never had forever anyway.” It was true. Long life had never been guaranteed for them, but... They had expected it. Despite everything. Despite Brendon having considerable reason to expect that he wouldn’t live to a ripe old age anyway, they’d taken for granted they would have eachother and life until they were old and ready. He regretted not treating every day like his last when there wasn’t a much higher possibility that every day really could be his final.

Brendon kind of knew that Ryan was crying now and he couldn’t look, he just listened and stared at the ceiling. Are you scared? Good question. In truth, Brendon was terrified. He was in considerable frequent pain anyway, but he hadn’t asked whether that would increase towards the end of his life- he hadn’t thought about afterwards enough to be at peace with going there- he hadn’t finished his life, hadn’t done nearly enough to go this young. So, in short, he was petrified, and helpless, and time didn’t wait for him. He knew that every day would be monumentally frightening, everything would be overwhelming in a week, and those 30 or so days would feel like a blink. Suddenly, he could barely breathe, and he squeezed his eyes shut. ”Y- Yeah, I am.”

Cause- you don't need to be. I'll be here, always Brendon knew that. He smiled despite himself. ”I know. It’d be you or Joey, and Joey would bring Wade and Wade would complain about hospitals.” Brendon went off on a tangent to kind of distract himself, but his throat was still tight. Joey. He missed Joey. I mean, unless I start to get annoying. Then just tell me to screw off. Laughing slightly, he raised an eyebrow, reaching his free hand up to his own hair to push it back. ”If I start to get annoying just turn everything off.” He gestures to the IV and the monitors, and was very aware it was a distasteful joke. But, again- it was laughing or crying. Brendon was teetering.

Ryan had a picture in his head of everything Brendon would be leaving behind, everyone. On just the first week of his stay Ryan had already considered calling Brendon's family and insisting they see him, just because it'd never looked this dire before and maybe they'd have some fucking humanity for once. Pray for him, or whatever, maybe - for a reason other than to change his identity. Now the pressure was on to really do that. They could lose their son, brother, uncle, and not even know it. If or when they did Ryan would inevitably be the messenger, forcing blankness and stoicism onto his face while he told them how Brendon started drinking when he was just a kid in large part because of them, and then how it extended into the rest of his life, and then it killed him. Rather, he killed himself with it. And then they probably wouldn't want anything to do with Ryan still, or ask him questions about who Brendon was, or come to his funeral. Ryan got visibly pissed just thinking about it.

He never mentioned that to Brendon. In fact he never mentioned anything negative to Brendon, as much as he could without making it seem like he was tip-toeing around him or pitying him; when doctors updated him on the severity of the situation he didn't question Brendon about what they said, when the rest of the world was having a crisis he didn't detail it to Brendon, if he himself wasn't feeling well he never relayed that information to Brendon. Anything that could potentially bring Brendon further down was strictly off limits in that hospital room - he even made sure to tell visitors that, because of course there'd be someone dumb enough to come in and make things even bleaker.

Unfortunately Ryan was not mechanical, wasn't a professional at keeping his own emotions in check. Learning that there was potentially a month left... Ryan never, ever cried in front of Brendon if he could help it, even before all this. In fact, he probably hadn't seen it more than five times max in all the years they'd been together. As much as he tried to hide it now, Brendon clearly knew what was going on, avoiding looking directly at him and all. Ryan appreciated the sentiment. We... Ryan let out a more steady breath at the feeling of Brendon's thumb running over his wrist, almost grounding. We never had forever anyway. He was right - but Ryan liked to delude himself. He conveniently forgot about the year where both of them almost died 'forgetting' to care for themselves, he deliberately never thought about how much damage Brendon had done to his body by continuing his habits years later. All he ever let himself think about before was what kind of place they'd retire at, where they'd travel, who they'd eventually be. Now, he felt robbed, a little vengeful for Brendon's sake.

Ryan asked if he was scared and almost instantly regretted it. He'd never been quite so direct before. The contrast between this unfulfilling life, the uneventful and pure-white clean surfaced environment, with what was happening to Brendon and what was going to happen to him- it was monumental. When you looked from the outside he just looked like someone sick, young enough to maybe get better, especially because he was already in care. Anyone close enough to the case knew he was going to go, if not within the month then soon anyhow. It was terrifying. He didn't have to ask. Y- Yeah, I am. Ryan's lips were already pressed to his temple before the words were fully out, his eyes still tightly shut. It was selfish to even really think about what he was feeling, but the total, overwhelming sense of powerlessness was alienating. It felt like he wasn't even here, his presence couldn't realistically be of any help.

But still. He would be here. I know. It’d be you or Joey, and Joey would bring Wade and Wade would complain about hospitals. Ryan smiled against his skin, so glad, so proud he was looking for something to talk about other than the end of the line, beyond impressed by how brave he was being. Odd to say, but he would've never guessed Brendon would be like this if he had to imagine the situation without the knowledge and experience he had now. Not that Brendon didn't normally possess that kind of courage, but. Ryan just would have assumed he faced death with a little less... normalcy. He supposed Brendon had always been aware, vaguely, that he was walking the balance beam of living and not, though. Anyway, he stayed quiet, unable to stop his thoughts to think about anyone else for the time being, though he still registered the almost-wistfulness in Brendon's tone at the mention of their friends.

Still, as per regulation, he had to try to talk about something lighter, and his efforts were returned somewhat darkly. If I start to get annoying just turn everything off. Ryan didn't really appreciate it, just following his gesture silently and feeling his own hands go ice cold in response, but at least he didn't start crying more. Which he felt dangerously close to doing. "Not funny," he mumbled after a pause, unable to conjure any other response. He sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a long moment again and then turning his head to face the ceiling, resigned. "Brendon, if they're right, I don't know, um." More visuals of train stations, high ledges, orange pill bottles, passed through his head, and he felt stupid, selfish. "I don't know what I'm supposed to... do." He was talking mostly about what to do with himself, but also how the hell was he supposed to arrange a funeral that fully memorialised Brendon, where was he supposed to be buried, what was Ryan supposed to do with everything they had, so on. Every post-death responsibility was a mystery to him suddenly, as if he'd never done it before, but then Brendon was far different and more significant than his first experience.

He paused again, just working on steadying his breathing, trying to stem the flow of silent tears that kept welling up and blurring his vision, erasing the tile detail on the ceiling and making the fluorescents look like visuals from heaven. "I mean, I don't even know what to do when I'm at home now." He was almost sure that if Brendon passed then he might keep making the trip to the hospital room daily, or keep buying his favorite foods from the store and picking up second drinks for him at coffee shops, or keep seeing him in reflections and feeling his shoulder bump his own in subway seats. He'd keep forgetting Brendon was no longer alive, then forgetting to remember. Suddenly Ryan wasn't thinking about the conversational boundaries he'd set for himself, how he vowed to protect Brendon from thinking about anything vaguely hurtful. "Like. What would you do if I- like, after. How would you go on?" Weirdly, it was easier to get the words out when it still felt like he was going to be with Brendon forever, like nothing had changed.

Brendon tried not to think about everything he was leaving behind, everyone. He’d shut out memories that choked him up and made it difficult to find peace when he was on his deathbed, lying there and practically counting the days. The difference between him and Ryan was that Brendon had already accepted that there was no coming back from this- he needed surgery, and for the right surgery he’d need to be clean for a long time, and he knew when the doctors told him that he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t manage. And he felt guilty, useless, awful, because other people did it, why did it have to be so hard, he was young and there were alcoholics who died at near normal ages and why couldn’t that be him? Ryan’s dad- Ryan’s dad succumbed to his addiction a few years ago, and he was much older than Brendon. It wasn’t fair. And it was ironic- the person he’d started drinking to try and forget was the one by his side in his last months, weeks, days, the one who had sworn to love him in sickness and in health, until death do them part, and Brendon was at least comforted to know that he meant what he said. He just didn’t think their vows would play out so soon, and he knew that Ryan would love him far beyond death. There was a comfort in that, but also an ache in his heart- people did say that death only really hurt those that were left behind.

As much as he loved and valued and needed Ryan’s presence to stay sane, there were times when he went through periods of being repulsed by anyone’s touch, be it the nurses, doctors, even Ryan, and he felt awful, but his whole body felt disgusting and he was too hot and then too cold and he couldn’t bear being around anyone. He just shut his eyes and tried to zone out but everything was so loud and jarring, noises scraping at his skull and nothing would let up and allow him to rest. Ryan was so patient- he waited, sat far away from him if Brendon asked him to, or even if he didn’t and he could just tell. This had turned into their norm and Brendon hated it. It wasn’t living- it wasn’t even surviving, because every day brought him closer to the end. He supposed that happened to everyone, but Brendon’s end was much sooner than it should be. He had so many plans, so much he wanted to do, and some fucking disease had taken that from him, and it was his fault, his own stupid fault, he sabotaged his own life and there was nobody to blame but himself-

Ryan, He thought suddenly, weakly, his husband’s name cutting through his downward spiral of self-accusatory thoughts. Ryan was with him, as long as he was, It’d be fine. Brendon wished he could turn, wrap his arms around him tightly, but he was too weak and hooked up to too many machines so he just stayed quiet as his throat closed up, trying to calm himself down because he was scared, he needed comfort and Ryan was there and his mouth pressed against Brendon’s temple and Brendon felt his heart flutter uneasily, hearing the reflection of that from the beep of his heart monitor. His breathing slowed, though, coming down from his anxiety, and he felt his fingers twitch. Being confined in bed like this was his own personal hell- somebody as active as he usually was needed to roam and move and even though he was too weak to be as energetic as he was maybe a few months back, he needed to at least walk around, feel his legs again. But he couldn’t, and he tried not to focus on the bad, he thought about Ryan, he felt a little calmer, easy enough to make jokes.

Not funny. Brendon shrugged one shoulder, and the effort it took to do that was alarming. ”I think it’s pretty funny.” Smiling even so at the ceiling, he felt Ryan turn his head and do the same, four eyes trained at the bright ceiling, Brendon’s view for the past few months, the first thing he saw when he woke up, the last thing he saw when he went to sleep. Would it be the last thing he saw before he died? No, no, It’d be Ryan. What if Ryan wasn’t there? Panic set in again, his thoughts a chain reaction that grasped violently at his throat, tightening his airways and closing around his lungs and Brendon moved his hand to find Ryan’s, tangling their fingers together, seeking reassurance. Brendon, if they’re right, I don’t know, um. Brendon bit his dry lips, closing his eyes to listen, feeling close to pessimistically correcting the if Ryan used but he felt the strange need to protect him. I don’t know what I’m supposed to... do. Oh. Brendon swallowed, because- he knew Ryan felt a little hopeless, he knew it would be difficult for him, but he didn’t realise he felt so lost that he had to ask Brendon, the one dying, for help.

Brendon saw Ryan from his peripheral and he knew that he was crying, heard the unsteadiness of his breath and the shakiness of his breathing. He swallowed the lump in his throat, tried not to cry himself, just intently listened to what his husband had to say. It wasn’t all about Brendon, after all. He only had to live with his for a month. Ryan had to live without him for the rest of his life, Ryan would remember Brendon in his final days as malnourished, deathly thin, sickly, weak. That wasn’t the Brendon either of them knew, and Brendon hoped that Ryan would always think of him instead as he was in his finest days, vitalised and happy with bright eyes and a wide, showstopping smile, soft, healthy hair, smooth pale skin and actual muscle definition he’d been so proud of. Not this shell that he’d become. He felt bitter, thinking about everything his disease he taken from him. I mean, I don’t even know what to do when I’m at home now. Brendon didn’t know what to do when Ryan was at home, either. He felt lost amongst the nurses and machines, only vaguely happy when his husband was by his side. Brendon squeezed his hand with all the strength he had left, which was startlingly little. Like. What would you do if I- like, after. How would you go on?

That was a strange question, because Brendon was the one dying, it was weird to think of other hypotheticals. He decided to try and lighten the mood as much as possible. ”That depends,” He mused, gracefully pretending still that he didn’t notice that Ryan was crying. Brendon had seen him cry maybe five or six times the entire time they’d known eachother, including happy tears. It meant he was truly overwhelmed, and Brendon made it his mission to calm him down as much as he could. ”What are you dying of?” He grinned, nudged his side gently with his bony elbow, then exhaled gently, stroking his thumb across Ryan’s hand. ”I think I’d, like, be really bummed, because I wouldn’t get dick anymore.” Brendon couldn’t help but splutter with laughter because it was so inappropriate, but that was Brendon, Ryan couldn’t really be surprised. ”In fact, that’s what’s so lame about this whole thing. I’m too sick for sex.” He was laughing again, and it hurt his throat because it was so dry, but he felt momentarily distracted. He hoped Ryan was, too. Brendon calmed down, but he was still smiling gently, and he turned his head to look at Ryan, consider him. ”You know, I don’t know. It’d be difficult, but. I know I’d- I know you’ll get through it, you know? You better.”

/

It was typical of Brendon to be like this. Easygoing, carefree almost, a light in the dark... but that had been his behavior during normal rough times. Ryan would have never expected this of him during a literal life-or-death situation. This was their dynamic - Ryan maintained the level head (or at least looked like it to everyone who wasn't them), while Brendon could behave as erratically as he wanted, succumb to whatever dramatics overtook him. It was unfamiliar territory here, where Ryan was on the verge of a breakdown, learning the very possible limit to his soulmate's life, how little time he had left, and then Brendon was coping with little visible struggle. Ryan truthfully had no clue what was running through his head, whether he was sad for himself or maybe sad for all he was leaving behind, but in any case it'd be impossible to tell. He seemed insistent on ignoring the reality of the situation, lifting the weight of the world without breaking a sweat.

Ryan admired his courage, really. But knowing the facts behind it all, their real circumstances, made him less appreciative of the light tone Brendon was bringing to the table. I think it’s pretty funny. Ryan couldn't muster a smile like Brendon's, not even a fake one, so he simply watched the fluorescent light above, catching the faintest flicker and blinking slowly in response. Brendon's sudden shift to hold his hand was welcome, fingers easily lacing together, but there was an urgency there, and Ryan swore that for the first time in a while he could read his thoughts. He squeezed his cold fingers tight, wistfully remembering a time where Ryan was the one who needed to steal warmth from his body, and tried to communicate nonverbally - I'll be here, I'll always be here, I'm not going anywhere. He wasn't. At this point, with the new knowledge the doctors had so kindly given them, he probably wasn't even going to leave this spot at all. It didn't matter if everything was true, and he didn't want to see the end; it was more important to him that Brendon didn't go alone.

As much as he tried to play it off, Ryan was crying, maybe not the dramatic full-body sob people played out in films, more quiet and draining, trying desperately not to look at Brendon - it'd make it worse, for one thing, and he just. Didn't need to put that extra burden on him. He felt Brendon's hand tighten on his, but it was so gentle, his strength dwindled down to nothing and Ryan knew that was as much of an effort he could give. It was just another straw on this growing shitshow, so he shut his eyes tight, pursed his lips and pretended the broken exhale that escaped him wasn't painfully obvious. It occurred to him that he needed to stop this, Brendon was the one suffering, Brendon was the one who needed his comfort and love and his reassurance that everything was going to be okay. But he also knew that if he told Brendon some bullshit like they'd all be fine, he'd see right through it. They had slim chances, even if Ryan was holding onto them, keeping the flames of optimism alive desperately. So he skipped all of the 'we'll be alright' bullshit, because they wouldn't be.

That depends. What are you dying of? Ryan wasn't laughing, or even vaguely smiling, just staring blankly ahead. He felt the point of Brendon's impossibly bony elbow in his side, squeezing his hand tighter and willing tears to stop. Since when was it even possible that Ryan could be the healthiest, most lively of the two of them? I think I’d, like, be really bummed, because I wouldn’t get dick anymore. Ryan exhaled heavily, turning until he could press his wet face into Brendon's shoulder. He sort of hated him a little bit. The dying love of his fucking life was getting on his nerves. Only Brendon, really. In fact, that’s what’s so lame about this whole thing. I’m too sick for sex. It wasn't even funny, but Ryan was grinning through tears because he was so stupid, and he propped himself up a little until he could hover slightly over him, eyes scanning his warped features, every detail changed by this disease still so beautiful to him. Idiot was on his potential deathbed thinking about all the dick he was missing out on.

After a few moments Brendon's laughing subsided, turned into a tiny smile, and he seemed so okay and normal - though Ryan knew that was far from the truth - that he almost felt like things would, in fact, turn out fine. His fingers were no longer as cold between Ryan's, almost warmed to his temperature. For a second he could pretend this wasn't the end of the entire goddamn world. You know, I don’t know. It’d be difficult, but. I know I’d- I know you’ll get through it, you know? You better. Ryan studied him in silence, his jaw clenching with the effort it took not to completely lose his composure again and start crying. Instead his brow furrowed considerably, breathing hitched. It was like he'd been on the cusp of a panic attack ever since he'd walked through the door - not a fantastic feeling at all. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, genuinely. "I'm supposed to be... I don't know how to help you, baby, I don't know how to comfort you, I wish I could. You're not meant to be the one trying to stop me losing my shit." Which he already had. His face still stubbornly hadn't dried. "I'm going to be here. I'm not leaving. I mean it." He'd said it already, but it felt like he couldn't get the words out often enough.

/