Title: When You Wake~ Chapter 4: Winter
Author: Naisumi
Rating: PG-13
Part: 4/4
Pairings: Lance/Pietro, Pietro/Lance
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?
Warnings: Um...angst. Like, MAJOR angst, slash...and I think that's all. Character death(s).
Notes:
I'd like to thank Shindo for thinking this fic 'rawked' ^.~
And I'd also like to thank Morwen for helping me find information on Pietro's condition. Oh yes, and I'd like to thank Michiko for betareading ^-^
All information regarding non-small cell lung cancer was found by the PDQ, and all links and information was founded at www.lungcanceronline.org.
If you have anything you'd like to clear up, you can e-mail me at [email protected]. Many of the scenes in this fic, especially in previous chapters, have double meanings. An example would be the phrase "I'll go with you" that Pietro says in Chapter 2. I have scattered foreshadowing and other symbolic mediums throughout this fic, and if you have trouble picking them out, you can e-mail me for clarification. Thanks for all your patience.
I'd also like to note that this is the first fic that I obsessively worked on. XD It was fun.
I felt really, really bad (not to mention weepy) about it, though...
Anyways, C&C please!! And enjoy!
"blah." People speak
blah. Mental speak
-- uh...scene switch
--
The silence was haunting as it permeated the household. Soft strains of music could be heard faintly through the haze of incredulity, but other than that...
"You're not joking..."
Lance shook his head, gazing gravely at the small teen. "I wouldn't joke about something like this."
Todd was quiet for a moment, then he shook his head--slowly at first, then violently.
"That's impossible, yo! We never noticed! There weren't any..." His voice trickled off into silence. Lance closed his eyes and murmured,
"We should've known. The fact is that every one of us is responsible because we didn't figure it out. It was our job to realize that there was something wrong...and we didn't."
Pained sienna met bewildered pale green. Todd shook his head again, dropping his face to his hands.
"No...no, no, _no_!" He moaned, shoulders quivering. Fred awkwardly offered tentative support as he scooted closer to the trembling youth.
Lance sighed heavily, glancing over at Fred.
"We're going to get through this," he said, despair cleverly disguised as false optimism.
Fred seemed to take heart at his words, though doubt still lurked in his uncertain eyes. Lance offered a brief smile before walking with forced calmness to the staircase. He took the stairs two with each step, and reached Pietro's room in no time.
Hesitantly, he lifted a hand to knock, only to have the door yanked open at the last moment. Pietro was there, looking rumpled and frantic, desperation shining in his red-rimmed eyes,
"Lance! ...Lance, my hair...m-my hair, it's--"
The older boy caught the cerulean-eyed boy as his knees gave out, and tenderly ushered him inside. Snowy tufts of downy hair littered the hunter green bedspread, evidence of the chemotherapy taking its toll. Pietro sniffled softly, burying his face in Lance's shoulder. The dark-haired boy surveyed the room, eyes widening at the sight of pale yellow staining the far wall and broken pieces of glittering glass scattered on the carpet.
"Pietro...the medici--"
"I don't _want_ to take the medicine anymore!" Pietro let out a heart-rending keen, clutching the side of his head with a trembling hand,
"I-I can't..."
Lance shook his head, panic surging briefly before he beat it back down. His throat tightened as he saw the willowy boy fling himself down upon his bed, arms thrown over his head. Carefully, he sat down beside the quivering figure, fingers gently stroking the thinning ashen hair.
"Why don't you want to take the medicine anymore, Pietro? Chemotherapy's the better way...you know that."
Soundless sobs wracked the emaciated frame as the miserable teen tried to overcome grief known only to him.
"Pietro?"
Lance pulled his friend and love into his arms, rocking him back and forth as comfortingly as he could. After a while, Pietro seemed to calm down somewhat, his tears stemmed. Lance leaned his head against Pietro's, silently urging the withdrawn boy to talk to him, to explain the outburst. After several minutes, he heard the downy-haired youth whisper,
"You won't think I'm beautiful anymore..."
The dark-eyed boy sighed and hugged the slender frame tightly,
"I would, too. You know I love you...this doesn't make any difference." He paused, then grinned, joking, "You'll always be hot to me."
Pietro chuckled weakly at that, feeling the chill of fear dissipate slightly. He felt nauseous, though, and miserable.
Slowly, Pietro opened his closed eyes, wishing he hadn't. The warm stickiness of drying tears felt awful and nauseating. He felt too warm, tired, and his chest hurt. Lance wrapped an arm around his shoulders as the slight boy shivered,
"You okay?"
Pietro nodded faintly, then managed to summon up enough energy to mumble,
"I need to go wash up."
The chocolate-haired boy nodded, concern shining from the depths of his eyes, and asked quietly,
"Need help?"
Pietro shook his head, stumbling slightly as he stood. Lance made to get up with him, but the slender teen held up a hand.
"I'm okay..." He hesitated as he saw his love wasn't convinced, and whispered in turn, "Don't worry...I'll call if I need help."
Lance frowned slightly, then nodded reluctantly, settling back on the disheveled bed.
--
The frail teen clicked the bathroom door shut, leaning his head against it and taking several large gulps of air. Blinking rapidly up at the ceiling, he whispered haltingly,
"God...I know I-I've never prayed to you before...I know that I don't...I don't ev-even believe in you that much...Hell, you haven't r-really been there for m-me...you know? But...but I gotta ask this..._please_...please, just _please_ grant me this...don't let me die...let m--"
Pietro's voice broke as he bowed his head, uncontrollable sobs escaping between ragged breathing and hacking coughs. After a few moments, he continued in a softer, calmer voice, his sobs minimized though the coughs only grew worse.
"I know I have lung cancer...he-hell, it's not even m-my fault...but I do. 'cause shit happens..." he glanced up at the ceiling again, not really seeing the cracked old plaster,
"B-but...but there's still a chan-chance...right? Th-there's always a chance..." He bit his lower lip, trembling as a chill surged through him, and leaned against the bathroom counter for support.
"Please...don't let me die. Not when I finally have a life...not when I finally, _finally_ have real friends...a person who truly loves me. I-I know I pro-probably don't deserve this, and I kn-know that...that, well, I-I've been a bastard sometimes...but please...th-they don't deserve this..."
Pietro closed his eyes, falling to his knees as the strength in his legs gave out.
"L-Lance...Lance doesn't deserve this. O-Or Todd...hell, even Fred doesn't deserve this. None of them..." He smiled thinly,
"Maybe I-I deserve this...but please...God...if you're li-listening...please don't let me die...if n-not for my sake...for th-theirs...please?"
Quietly, Pietro bowed his head, pressing his temple against the cool tile. He rocked himself to and fro, coughs relentlessly escaping his mouth. There was a startling silence, then he lunged forward, bending over the toilet and coughing up mouthfuls of blood.
Trembling, he stared at the thin red liquid, the crimson pieces of tissue darkening places. Pietro closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against his tightly gripping knuckles that had a desperate grasp on the countertop, and sobbed hysterically,
"Are you listening?!" he demanded, shuffling forward on his knees, his entire form quivering,
"Are you listening to me, God?! Huh!?! Why the hell won't you answer me?!?!!"
Vaguely, Pietro could hear Lance's frantic calls of his name, the violent pounding that vibrated the door.
"WHY WON'T YOU ANSWER ME?!!!"
His foot caught at one of the corners of the cabinet and he fell to his elbows, sobbing repeatedly before whispering miserably,
"Wh-why...why won't you answer me?"
The bathroom door banged open, shuddering as it hammered into the wall. Lance burst in, mahogany eyes darkened with panic. In a split second he took in the tear-stained face, the blood rippling in the toilet, the desperate sobs. In that instance he cradled the slender boy against him, whispering sweet nothings against the downy hair, wrapping comforting arms around the quivering frame.
And through it all, Pietro sobbed quietly,
"Why?"
--
"Since the cancer has already progressed to Stage IV, your only options are either radiation therapy, chemotherapy, laser therapy, or internal radiation therapy."
The doctor quirked an eyebrow and turned to face Pietro,
"Internal radiation therapy is out of the question because of the slightness of your frame and..." He gestured vaguely towards the portfolio, obvious dislike coloring his expression and voice, "Because of the mutation chromosome that you possess."
"Cut to the chase," Lance retorted angrily into the disapproving silence, "Enough with this shit, okay? We got the documents, we got the mail--we know what we can do and what we can't."
Dr. Brandenbury's brow creased slightly in censure, and he turned slightly towards the window,
"Right now, because of your budget _and_ the limit on resources, radiation therapy for non-small cell lung cancer is absolutely unavailable."
He eyed the silent azure-eyed boy,
"It looks like the only choice we have is to continue the chemotherapy."
Lance frowned darkly and quietly reached for Pietro's hand, a gesture unnoticed by the smug doctor.
"The documents this hospital sent said that a dual treatment of both radiation and chemotherapy is possible," Lance murmured, voice quiet and venomous,
"I'm pretty sure that you don't _run out_ of possibilities for radiation therapy, otherwise this hospital could hardly call itself just that."
Dr. Brandenbury reddened and scowled deeply, the awkward silence stretching for minutes. After a moment, he snapped curtly,
"Fine. Check Mr. Maximoff in at the front desk and we'll start applying the x-rays this afternoon."
With that, the doctor left in a huff. The dark-haired boy stared after him, a small smirk tugging at his lips. A soft laugh called his attention to the slight youth at his side,
"Since when have you known so much about medicine, _Alvers_?" Pietro asked teasingly.
Lance grinned and tightened his grip on the slender boy's hand,
"Well...I've been doing some research."
"Oh, really?"
Azure eyes slid shut as the downy-haired boy kissed his friend and lover with quiet passion.
"Thank you..."
--
After Lance made a solemn phone call back to the Brotherhood's house, he returned to the hospital room that they had assigned Pietro. Two weeks had passed since he first discovered the willowy youth's ailment; two weeks since they had professed their love. One week since the chemotherapy had been coupled with high-dose x-rays. The lung cancer was getting worse. The cause? Secondhand smoking. Lance wanted to kill whoever had subjected his lover to such conditions, but they all knew that it had been the terribleness of the past, of whatever childhood he had had. Instead, all he could do was sit by and watch Pietro waste away, becoming gaunt and emaciated. The cerulean-eyed boy's appetite waned and he felt tired and dizzy often. His hair had been falling out at an alarming rate, looking almost like the feathers of some fallen angel, or a dove. The speed at which his body functioned helped it grow back quicker than most, at first, but after a week of having to regenerate at such a rate, his body was slowing. His breathing was slowing. His heart was slowing.
Pietro still smiled, though. It seemed as if after the outburst in the bathroom a week before and the doctor's check-up all the despair had seeped out of him. He smiled, though, not because of hope--but because he knew that dying wouldn't be as painful if it were in his lover's arms; Lance's arms. The dark-haired boy's embrace warmed him, made breathing a little easier, dulled the pain. But lately, even a gentle word, a tender kiss from the enigmatic teen had not been able to tame the blazing fire that was burning Pietro from the inside out. It frightened Lance to no end, but the slight boy smiled quietly and took it in stride. The fight had made him stronger, and after he accepted that this would be the end, inner peace had settled about his wandering soul with all the permanence of the waxing tide of the ocean.
--
"We're going to take him in for a last dose of the radiation therapy tomorrow," Dr. Brandenbury said, his brow furrowing in concentration,
"After that...if Mr. Maximoff hasn't recovered, then he probably won't at all."
Lance shook his head, grating out harshly,
"If he doesn't get better, we're going to try again."
The doctor stared at him before telling him with cool calmness perfected through practice,
"There are other patients, Mr. Alvers, with better chances to survive than he does. We can't spend all our efforts solely on him--it doesn't make sense. _He_ might not live, but that doesn't mean we can't use our resources to help others."
Lance closed his eyes and looked away, silently despairing.
--
That night, the moon was hidden by the clouds, as if they were mourning a death; as if they acted as a shroud to the grieving moonlight. Huddled in the stiff hospital bed were two figures, one calmly holding the other.
Pietro smiled tenderly, his cerulean eyes brighter and clearer than they ever had been since the diagnosis.
"It's going to be okay, Lance. The pain's gone now."
The dark-haired boy cradled him closer, grasping one hand and intertwining their fingers. A thin arm wrapped itself around him, slender fingers playing at his hair. He shook his head jerkily, whispering,
"I'm not going to let them take you..."
In the still darkness, he heard the soft breathing of the slight boy,
"Lance...I'm not going to get better."
In response, mahogany eyes squeezed shut tightly, attempting to withhold the first tears in so long.
"Yes, you will."
Lance gripped the slender hand tighter, wanting to cry, to scream, to sob as he felt the delicate bones against his clammy palm. "You're not going to die," he told the silver-haired boy, his voice too calm, too detached. His mind was numb yet chaotic in the extreme. Shaking his head, he pulled the thin frame closer to him, feeling the point of Pietro's chin dig into his shoulder, feeling the gentle lips against the curve of his neck.
"You're going to wake up in the morning, and you're going to be fine. And when you do wake up...I'll be there."
He quietly held him closer, eyes open and unseeing, pinned on some sight in the distance that only he could see.
"I'll always be there when you wake."
--
In the morning, the nurse found a slight boy curled up in the arms of an older one, crystalline tears tracking down the tanned face. She reached them, and asked what was wrong, only to find the slender pale youth's skin cool and unresponsive; the slim chest unmoving in the wake of what would be breaths of life.
The dark-haired boy wept, burying his face in the side of the other's neck, and whispered pleads into his love's ear; beseeching him to open his eyes, to wake up, to not leave him alone.
Five days after the funeral, an 18-year-old senior, fresh out of high school, was found slumped against the grave of another boy with blood pooling beneath him, a slender letter opener beside him.
It was reported in the newspaper that the grave was that of the recently deceased Pietro Maximoff, and the boy who had committed suicide was none other than Lance Alvers.
Before he died, though, the newspaper copied the words on the epitaph that the dark-haired boy had lovingly carved, one simple phrase that had been said before in the tender moonlight, and still spoke volumes of the affection and love between two destined souls;
'I'll always be there when you wake'
~fin~
Author: Naisumi
Rating: PG-13
Part: 4/4
Pairings: Lance/Pietro, Pietro/Lance
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?
Warnings: Um...angst. Like, MAJOR angst, slash...and I think that's all. Character death(s).
Notes:
I'd like to thank Shindo for thinking this fic 'rawked' ^.~
And I'd also like to thank Morwen for helping me find information on Pietro's condition. Oh yes, and I'd like to thank Michiko for betareading ^-^
All information regarding non-small cell lung cancer was found by the PDQ, and all links and information was founded at www.lungcanceronline.org.
If you have anything you'd like to clear up, you can e-mail me at [email protected]. Many of the scenes in this fic, especially in previous chapters, have double meanings. An example would be the phrase "I'll go with you" that Pietro says in Chapter 2. I have scattered foreshadowing and other symbolic mediums throughout this fic, and if you have trouble picking them out, you can e-mail me for clarification. Thanks for all your patience.
I'd also like to note that this is the first fic that I obsessively worked on. XD It was fun.
I felt really, really bad (not to mention weepy) about it, though...
Anyways, C&C please!! And enjoy!
"blah." People speak
blah. Mental speak
-- uh...scene switch
--
The silence was haunting as it permeated the household. Soft strains of music could be heard faintly through the haze of incredulity, but other than that...
"You're not joking..."
Lance shook his head, gazing gravely at the small teen. "I wouldn't joke about something like this."
Todd was quiet for a moment, then he shook his head--slowly at first, then violently.
"That's impossible, yo! We never noticed! There weren't any..." His voice trickled off into silence. Lance closed his eyes and murmured,
"We should've known. The fact is that every one of us is responsible because we didn't figure it out. It was our job to realize that there was something wrong...and we didn't."
Pained sienna met bewildered pale green. Todd shook his head again, dropping his face to his hands.
"No...no, no, _no_!" He moaned, shoulders quivering. Fred awkwardly offered tentative support as he scooted closer to the trembling youth.
Lance sighed heavily, glancing over at Fred.
"We're going to get through this," he said, despair cleverly disguised as false optimism.
Fred seemed to take heart at his words, though doubt still lurked in his uncertain eyes. Lance offered a brief smile before walking with forced calmness to the staircase. He took the stairs two with each step, and reached Pietro's room in no time.
Hesitantly, he lifted a hand to knock, only to have the door yanked open at the last moment. Pietro was there, looking rumpled and frantic, desperation shining in his red-rimmed eyes,
"Lance! ...Lance, my hair...m-my hair, it's--"
The older boy caught the cerulean-eyed boy as his knees gave out, and tenderly ushered him inside. Snowy tufts of downy hair littered the hunter green bedspread, evidence of the chemotherapy taking its toll. Pietro sniffled softly, burying his face in Lance's shoulder. The dark-haired boy surveyed the room, eyes widening at the sight of pale yellow staining the far wall and broken pieces of glittering glass scattered on the carpet.
"Pietro...the medici--"
"I don't _want_ to take the medicine anymore!" Pietro let out a heart-rending keen, clutching the side of his head with a trembling hand,
"I-I can't..."
Lance shook his head, panic surging briefly before he beat it back down. His throat tightened as he saw the willowy boy fling himself down upon his bed, arms thrown over his head. Carefully, he sat down beside the quivering figure, fingers gently stroking the thinning ashen hair.
"Why don't you want to take the medicine anymore, Pietro? Chemotherapy's the better way...you know that."
Soundless sobs wracked the emaciated frame as the miserable teen tried to overcome grief known only to him.
"Pietro?"
Lance pulled his friend and love into his arms, rocking him back and forth as comfortingly as he could. After a while, Pietro seemed to calm down somewhat, his tears stemmed. Lance leaned his head against Pietro's, silently urging the withdrawn boy to talk to him, to explain the outburst. After several minutes, he heard the downy-haired youth whisper,
"You won't think I'm beautiful anymore..."
The dark-eyed boy sighed and hugged the slender frame tightly,
"I would, too. You know I love you...this doesn't make any difference." He paused, then grinned, joking, "You'll always be hot to me."
Pietro chuckled weakly at that, feeling the chill of fear dissipate slightly. He felt nauseous, though, and miserable.
Slowly, Pietro opened his closed eyes, wishing he hadn't. The warm stickiness of drying tears felt awful and nauseating. He felt too warm, tired, and his chest hurt. Lance wrapped an arm around his shoulders as the slight boy shivered,
"You okay?"
Pietro nodded faintly, then managed to summon up enough energy to mumble,
"I need to go wash up."
The chocolate-haired boy nodded, concern shining from the depths of his eyes, and asked quietly,
"Need help?"
Pietro shook his head, stumbling slightly as he stood. Lance made to get up with him, but the slender teen held up a hand.
"I'm okay..." He hesitated as he saw his love wasn't convinced, and whispered in turn, "Don't worry...I'll call if I need help."
Lance frowned slightly, then nodded reluctantly, settling back on the disheveled bed.
--
The frail teen clicked the bathroom door shut, leaning his head against it and taking several large gulps of air. Blinking rapidly up at the ceiling, he whispered haltingly,
"God...I know I-I've never prayed to you before...I know that I don't...I don't ev-even believe in you that much...Hell, you haven't r-really been there for m-me...you know? But...but I gotta ask this..._please_...please, just _please_ grant me this...don't let me die...let m--"
Pietro's voice broke as he bowed his head, uncontrollable sobs escaping between ragged breathing and hacking coughs. After a few moments, he continued in a softer, calmer voice, his sobs minimized though the coughs only grew worse.
"I know I have lung cancer...he-hell, it's not even m-my fault...but I do. 'cause shit happens..." he glanced up at the ceiling again, not really seeing the cracked old plaster,
"B-but...but there's still a chan-chance...right? Th-there's always a chance..." He bit his lower lip, trembling as a chill surged through him, and leaned against the bathroom counter for support.
"Please...don't let me die. Not when I finally have a life...not when I finally, _finally_ have real friends...a person who truly loves me. I-I know I pro-probably don't deserve this, and I kn-know that...that, well, I-I've been a bastard sometimes...but please...th-they don't deserve this..."
Pietro closed his eyes, falling to his knees as the strength in his legs gave out.
"L-Lance...Lance doesn't deserve this. O-Or Todd...hell, even Fred doesn't deserve this. None of them..." He smiled thinly,
"Maybe I-I deserve this...but please...God...if you're li-listening...please don't let me die...if n-not for my sake...for th-theirs...please?"
Quietly, Pietro bowed his head, pressing his temple against the cool tile. He rocked himself to and fro, coughs relentlessly escaping his mouth. There was a startling silence, then he lunged forward, bending over the toilet and coughing up mouthfuls of blood.
Trembling, he stared at the thin red liquid, the crimson pieces of tissue darkening places. Pietro closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against his tightly gripping knuckles that had a desperate grasp on the countertop, and sobbed hysterically,
"Are you listening?!" he demanded, shuffling forward on his knees, his entire form quivering,
"Are you listening to me, God?! Huh!?! Why the hell won't you answer me?!?!!"
Vaguely, Pietro could hear Lance's frantic calls of his name, the violent pounding that vibrated the door.
"WHY WON'T YOU ANSWER ME?!!!"
His foot caught at one of the corners of the cabinet and he fell to his elbows, sobbing repeatedly before whispering miserably,
"Wh-why...why won't you answer me?"
The bathroom door banged open, shuddering as it hammered into the wall. Lance burst in, mahogany eyes darkened with panic. In a split second he took in the tear-stained face, the blood rippling in the toilet, the desperate sobs. In that instance he cradled the slender boy against him, whispering sweet nothings against the downy hair, wrapping comforting arms around the quivering frame.
And through it all, Pietro sobbed quietly,
"Why?"
--
"Since the cancer has already progressed to Stage IV, your only options are either radiation therapy, chemotherapy, laser therapy, or internal radiation therapy."
The doctor quirked an eyebrow and turned to face Pietro,
"Internal radiation therapy is out of the question because of the slightness of your frame and..." He gestured vaguely towards the portfolio, obvious dislike coloring his expression and voice, "Because of the mutation chromosome that you possess."
"Cut to the chase," Lance retorted angrily into the disapproving silence, "Enough with this shit, okay? We got the documents, we got the mail--we know what we can do and what we can't."
Dr. Brandenbury's brow creased slightly in censure, and he turned slightly towards the window,
"Right now, because of your budget _and_ the limit on resources, radiation therapy for non-small cell lung cancer is absolutely unavailable."
He eyed the silent azure-eyed boy,
"It looks like the only choice we have is to continue the chemotherapy."
Lance frowned darkly and quietly reached for Pietro's hand, a gesture unnoticed by the smug doctor.
"The documents this hospital sent said that a dual treatment of both radiation and chemotherapy is possible," Lance murmured, voice quiet and venomous,
"I'm pretty sure that you don't _run out_ of possibilities for radiation therapy, otherwise this hospital could hardly call itself just that."
Dr. Brandenbury reddened and scowled deeply, the awkward silence stretching for minutes. After a moment, he snapped curtly,
"Fine. Check Mr. Maximoff in at the front desk and we'll start applying the x-rays this afternoon."
With that, the doctor left in a huff. The dark-haired boy stared after him, a small smirk tugging at his lips. A soft laugh called his attention to the slight youth at his side,
"Since when have you known so much about medicine, _Alvers_?" Pietro asked teasingly.
Lance grinned and tightened his grip on the slender boy's hand,
"Well...I've been doing some research."
"Oh, really?"
Azure eyes slid shut as the downy-haired boy kissed his friend and lover with quiet passion.
"Thank you..."
--
After Lance made a solemn phone call back to the Brotherhood's house, he returned to the hospital room that they had assigned Pietro. Two weeks had passed since he first discovered the willowy youth's ailment; two weeks since they had professed their love. One week since the chemotherapy had been coupled with high-dose x-rays. The lung cancer was getting worse. The cause? Secondhand smoking. Lance wanted to kill whoever had subjected his lover to such conditions, but they all knew that it had been the terribleness of the past, of whatever childhood he had had. Instead, all he could do was sit by and watch Pietro waste away, becoming gaunt and emaciated. The cerulean-eyed boy's appetite waned and he felt tired and dizzy often. His hair had been falling out at an alarming rate, looking almost like the feathers of some fallen angel, or a dove. The speed at which his body functioned helped it grow back quicker than most, at first, but after a week of having to regenerate at such a rate, his body was slowing. His breathing was slowing. His heart was slowing.
Pietro still smiled, though. It seemed as if after the outburst in the bathroom a week before and the doctor's check-up all the despair had seeped out of him. He smiled, though, not because of hope--but because he knew that dying wouldn't be as painful if it were in his lover's arms; Lance's arms. The dark-haired boy's embrace warmed him, made breathing a little easier, dulled the pain. But lately, even a gentle word, a tender kiss from the enigmatic teen had not been able to tame the blazing fire that was burning Pietro from the inside out. It frightened Lance to no end, but the slight boy smiled quietly and took it in stride. The fight had made him stronger, and after he accepted that this would be the end, inner peace had settled about his wandering soul with all the permanence of the waxing tide of the ocean.
--
"We're going to take him in for a last dose of the radiation therapy tomorrow," Dr. Brandenbury said, his brow furrowing in concentration,
"After that...if Mr. Maximoff hasn't recovered, then he probably won't at all."
Lance shook his head, grating out harshly,
"If he doesn't get better, we're going to try again."
The doctor stared at him before telling him with cool calmness perfected through practice,
"There are other patients, Mr. Alvers, with better chances to survive than he does. We can't spend all our efforts solely on him--it doesn't make sense. _He_ might not live, but that doesn't mean we can't use our resources to help others."
Lance closed his eyes and looked away, silently despairing.
--
That night, the moon was hidden by the clouds, as if they were mourning a death; as if they acted as a shroud to the grieving moonlight. Huddled in the stiff hospital bed were two figures, one calmly holding the other.
Pietro smiled tenderly, his cerulean eyes brighter and clearer than they ever had been since the diagnosis.
"It's going to be okay, Lance. The pain's gone now."
The dark-haired boy cradled him closer, grasping one hand and intertwining their fingers. A thin arm wrapped itself around him, slender fingers playing at his hair. He shook his head jerkily, whispering,
"I'm not going to let them take you..."
In the still darkness, he heard the soft breathing of the slight boy,
"Lance...I'm not going to get better."
In response, mahogany eyes squeezed shut tightly, attempting to withhold the first tears in so long.
"Yes, you will."
Lance gripped the slender hand tighter, wanting to cry, to scream, to sob as he felt the delicate bones against his clammy palm. "You're not going to die," he told the silver-haired boy, his voice too calm, too detached. His mind was numb yet chaotic in the extreme. Shaking his head, he pulled the thin frame closer to him, feeling the point of Pietro's chin dig into his shoulder, feeling the gentle lips against the curve of his neck.
"You're going to wake up in the morning, and you're going to be fine. And when you do wake up...I'll be there."
He quietly held him closer, eyes open and unseeing, pinned on some sight in the distance that only he could see.
"I'll always be there when you wake."
--
In the morning, the nurse found a slight boy curled up in the arms of an older one, crystalline tears tracking down the tanned face. She reached them, and asked what was wrong, only to find the slender pale youth's skin cool and unresponsive; the slim chest unmoving in the wake of what would be breaths of life.
The dark-haired boy wept, burying his face in the side of the other's neck, and whispered pleads into his love's ear; beseeching him to open his eyes, to wake up, to not leave him alone.
Five days after the funeral, an 18-year-old senior, fresh out of high school, was found slumped against the grave of another boy with blood pooling beneath him, a slender letter opener beside him.
It was reported in the newspaper that the grave was that of the recently deceased Pietro Maximoff, and the boy who had committed suicide was none other than Lance Alvers.
Before he died, though, the newspaper copied the words on the epitaph that the dark-haired boy had lovingly carved, one simple phrase that had been said before in the tender moonlight, and still spoke volumes of the affection and love between two destined souls;
'I'll always be there when you wake'
~fin~