Life's too short to even care at all

[enlivenedaltruist]

 

Rosebud

“Oh.”

That’s all you can say, when the doctor gives you the verdict. Not, “This can’t possibly be happening,” or “You’re lying to me,” or even “Grandmamma, you’re hurting my hand, please let go.” You don’t think of saying any of that—well, maybe the last one, just a little bit—just…

“Oh.”

The next few days are kind of a blur, filled with Grandmamma pulling every last favor she can to arrange a transplant, only to be calmly and politely added to the bottom of lists that are miles long and cheerfully informed that she would be contacted as soon as something became available. When they tried to gently nudge her towards the Make A Wish Foundation in the meantime, Grandmamma generally ended up screaming and throwing her phone against a wall before breaking out into furious, melodiously ugly French.

You merely go about your normal duties, tending to your guests and your garden. It becomes easy after that, to dodge the horrified, pitying glances of the staff, the big extended family that has raised you up from the toddler who used to curl up somewhere for a nap and send them all in a panic. There’s something inside of you, something strange, something that’s just…waiting. Not to wake up, or anything silly like that, because you know very well that this is real, but just…waiting. You’re not really sure for what, though.



EA: Hey! I have a hypothetical question for you! c:
PS: |ay it on me i guess
EA: What would you do if somebody told you that you only had one year left to live?
PS: depends
PS: how |ong is a year?


When you finally decide to be selfish, you book a flight and head for Sparks. You go to Sparks because you’re a coward, and you have never been able to break bad news to Sparks, even when you really truly should. You’re picked up at the airport by somebody Grandmamma spoke to on the phone, and who Sparks has filled pages and pages about: Boss.

He doesn’t treat you like you’re made of glass or a leper, merely hauls your bag over one shoulder and starts heading out to hail down a taxi. But he looks back every so often to make sure that you’re still keeping up and checks his fingers when they twitch towards a carton-shaped lump in one pocket. You twirl a braid around one finger idly and decide that whoever sent Sparks Boss’s way when he was little really knew what they were doing.

Boss is either a little less or a little more sensitive to your condition than you expected, because he allows Sparks to bring you along to an audition for a guest appearance in a medical drama. The role is for the brother of a little girl losing the battle to leukemia, and Sparks delivers. His performance is raw and agonizing, and at the end there isn’t a dry eye in the room.

You aren’t sure if Sparks is always this spectacular or if having you there helped or something else entirely. Something the casting director says to him makes him light up like a big pink sun, though, and as soon as you’re both back at his place he sweeps you up and whirls you around, talking a mile a minute. That strange Thing in you shudders, but settles and continues to wait. You smile through the residual tears and press your foreheads together and are—horribly and selfishly—thankful that the next time Sparks has reason to look so broken you won’t be around to see it.

Next comes Elle, sweet and happy and full of fun ideas. You need this, need the idle chatter about nothing in particular as the two of you stare up at the sky. You need to breathe, need time for the Thing in you to settle after the violent tremor that shook it during your visit to Sparks.

After her is Eric, which is fun. Eric’s so excited about having you with her that she doesn’t ask the really hard-hitting questions, just takes your hand and runs off to show you everything cool within a mile radius of her home. There’s a scary moment, when your chest grows tight and your breath grows short, a moment when the Thing in your chest lurches and you think It’s over, I have to tell her but then Eric stops and lets you catch your breath.

“Hey, you okay? I thought you’d be up for a bit more, since you’re always talking about working in that garden of yours.”

“S…Sorry Eric.” You offer a sweet smile. “I’ve been doing stationary stuff lately. I must be out of shape.” Eric looks like she’s about to suggest that she helps train you back into peak condition, so you quickly diverts her attention and are merrily dragged off in a new direction. The Thing is soothed once again.

Once you finish there, you jet off to stay with the twins. It’s…definitely an experience. You end up trussed up in so many different outfits that you’re actually a little worried as to what your visit to Faye will bring. But even if it’s busy and there’s always one thing or girl or experiment going on, it’s enough to keep you smiling like a fool, your spirits high even as the Thing grows heavier by the day.

And then comes Cheriour.

When you arrive in France, you arrive to quirky glasses and lanky limbs and delighted, exuberant kisses on your cheeks. In France you learn about clocks and birds, and somehow manage to fall just a little bit more in love with Cheriour than you were before, which was kind of exactly the opposite effect you had been hoping for. But honestly you kind of expected it, so it’s fine.

The day before you leave, you and Cheriour are sitting together, looking out across the water at the lilies he had told you about all those years ago. It’s beautiful, breathtaking, even, and you feel so happy it’s a little hard to breathe. You tilt your head back and glance at the sun, slowly sinking down and painting the entire sky a fiery orange. You smile then nestle back into your friend. He wraps an arm around you. You smile against his neck, and muster up years of stored up courage.

“Cheriour?” You ask quietly.

“Hm?”

You shift up and kiss him, full on the mouth.


EA: Hey, Komesh? I have a question for you…but it’s a liiiiiiittle personal…
AU: well i’ll try t0 ^nswer it ^s best i c^n
AU: i /\/\e^n ^s l0ng ^s it isn’t t00 intrusive 0r ^nything
EA: Great! :D
EA: Okay, here goes! What does your Bucket List look like? :?
AU:
AU:
AU:
AU: w
AU: h^t


Even doesn’t ask you many questions, doesn’t ask you why you ignore Pesterchum more and more these days. He teaches you slight of hand, and accepts the tremble in your fingers as nerves. He explodes every now and then, but never at you. The Thing flips over, and you realize that a part of you wants somebody to yell at you, because you’re not doing what you’re supposed to at all, that somebody, at least, needs to get upset because you can’t. You don’t say anything, however, and cut the deck the way Even shows you too.

After him is Gwen, who is startlingly quick on the uptake sometimes. But not even Gwen seems to suspect anything, or at the very least doesn’t want to think the worst. She probably attributes it to the whole you-kissed-Cheriour-and-decided-to-ditch-the-Internet thing, which has bled out and spread across your little network of friends. That’s fine. You smile and laugh and try to clean up her place, and just laugh some more when she gets huffy and protective of her clutter. The Thing swells more and more by the day, and you wonder what’s going to happen when it stops waiting.

Then comes Faye. Faye is less excitable than the twins, when it comes to fashion, or at least less hyper, but she insistently designs whole outfits, just for you. She talks about plans for a new winter wardrobe, too, and you have to cut her off somehow or else the Thing will explode, so you end up doing something horrible, because apparently that’s just how you’re going to spend your final days. Being absolutely, positively terrible to your poor, trusting friends. But you think that this really takes the proverbial cake, because somehow, without consciously acknowledging it, you ask Faye to make you a lovely, modest white gown.

“Oooh,” her eyes sparkle mischievously. “This wouldn’t happen to have to do with a certain mouth-to-mouth interaction that may or may not have happened between you and a certain carrot-topped Frenchman, would it?”

“Well…” The Thing rumbles dangerously and you smile all the brighter to make up for it. “Broadly…yeah! I guess it does, kind of.”

You hope that Faye will be able to forgive you for this someday.

The moment Donovan sees you, leaning against a wall and watching him put the fear of Archans into a batch of recruits, he barks out an order and the kids bolt away. Then he crosses over to you, bends slightly, and asks in no vague terms what the fuck has been going on with you lately.

Oh, you realize, as the Thing shatters and the floodgates open. So that was what I was waiting for.

You cry. You cry harder than you ever have in your entire life combined, clinging to Donovan like a lifeline. He bears with it like a champ, despite his obvious bewilderment. He comforts you as best he knows, and when you finally dissolve into hiccups and sniffles, he gently repeats his question, the words all but drenched in his gruff blend of concern. Your mouth trembles, and you get a few false starts before real words begin to come out. “There’s something wrong with me,” You blurt, and you can see him drawing in a breath to either argue or ask for clarification, so you hurry to explain. “With-with my heart.”

Something in his expression changes. “Leclair.” His voice is perfectly even, conversational, even, but it makes something in you shudder.

“No.” You say, with a bit more force than intended. You grip his sleeves, suddenly desperate. “No, it’s not—it’s not him, or his fault, or anybody’s fault, it’s…” You see his mouth tighten, and force yourself to say the words that nobody, not even the doctor, had been able to convey in their ugly, blunt, truthful form. “I’m…dying.” You take a breath, letting the shocking register, then reinforce it before the denial can leap up. “I’m dying, Donny. I have…at the last check-up, the doctor said I have a little more than a month left. I’m…” You wet your lips, and the words spring up more readily than before. “I’m going to die, Donovan.”

You see something in his eyes darken and crack and shatter, and you hate yourself for not being strong enough—cowardly enough—to lie to Donovan, who already believed enough horrible things about the world without your help. You hate yourself for not being able to go through with your horrible plan and die alone.


EA: Chrysi’s Super-Duper Hotel Touch-Log!

156 – Heart Medication!
These are kind of annoying to swallow, honestly… XP
And when you rub them, they’re super powdery too!

157 – Afghan!
It’s really soft and warm! It keeps my legs nice and toasty, heehee.
I’m not sure where Grandmamma got it from though…

158 – Jasmine!
They’re actually out of season! But Sparks found them somewhere.
They’re lovely, but I hope he didn’t spend too much. They…won’t last much longer :c

159 – Ice Cream!
I’m allowed to eat whatever I want now c:
Today, we all had chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream for breakfast. Even Donovan!

160 – Heart Rate Monitor!
It’s actually kind of weird! :o
It straps onto my hand…but the beeping is kind of annoying!


And that brings you here thirty-seven days later, nestled in a dozen blankets in a chair on the veranda, a heart rate monitor at the ready as you watch the leaves float down from the trees in lazy showers of gold and red and orange. Your hands hurt a little, but that’s mostly because everybody—Grandmamma and Sparks and Elle and Eric and Ira and Ria and Cheriour and Even and Gwen and Faye and Donovan—everybody has been taking turns holding them, like a tight grip could keep you here just a little bit longer. You sweep your gaze over all of them, noting the red eyes and trembling mouths on some, the stony faced shaking of others, and God, you love them. You think of how you once called Donovan and Cheriour angels, and you pray that the angels will be even half as wonderful as the ones you’ve lived with and adored.

You can’t go quietly, not with the monitor, and that’s actually what makes you realize that your heart isn’t aching just from all this love trying to burst out. You hear the beeps distort into something les steady, something with no rhythm whatsoever, and even as their faces twist with disbelief and horrified denial even as Grandmamma grips your shoulder like a vice and the nurse tries her best to keep you, even then, you smile, sweet and bright and adoring.

Your last words aren’t “I’m scared” or “I don’t want to go.” They aren’t even “Please stop crying,” or “Good-bye.” No, the last words you manage to breathe out, before things end and your heart gives out, before the darkness swallows up your vision and the rest of you too, are just a reiteration of what you have done your best to convey every day since you met each of these amazing, wonderful people.

“I love you. So much.” 

Comments

[fayeshionista]

GROSS FEELINGS EVERYWHERE. ;_;

Man, this is just. Augh. Yeah, I'm so heart-heavy, right now. Seriously. :c ♥

Thanks for sharing this.