Author's Note: More angst? From me? Nooooo...

Disclaimer: I wish I owned Charlie Dalton...

They sit in the one ray of sunlight that streams through the window of Charlie Dalton's dorm room window. He's got his arm securely fixed around Steven Meeks' shoulders and he's trying to keep his eyes from letting the tears that pool behind his lids fall down his face. Charlie's the one that's dying, but Steven's the one that needs to be comforted. Steven's the one that still hasn't accepted it. Not that Charlie's happy about this. He never thought he'd be dying at seventeen, but he knows that nothing is going to change. He knows that his lungs have already decided to give up on him, so early in the game, and he knows that he can't do anything about it.

Charlie licks his dry lips, his free hand slipping into his pocket and pulling out a quarter full pack of Lucky's. He shakes one out of the pack, holding it gingerly between his fingers as he examines the small tube of nicotine and poison that he's held so many times before. He gulped, taking a deep breath, and places the cigarette between his lips, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. There's no use in lighting it. He and Meeks' are inside the dorms, and smoking isn't allowed. Not that Charlie's going to be around much longer, but for once he respects the rules.

"Put it away."

Charlie opens his eyes, squinting against the setting sunlight, and glances down at Meeks. "Hmm?" he hums in question, his lips pressed tightly around the cigarette that dangles innocently from his mouth.

Meeks, previously crumpled against Charlie's side, sits up, his eyes hard, and wipes at his nose. "Put it away," he repeats, his voice gravelly and low.

Charlie takes a deep breath, his eyes studying Meeks' face. He nods, reaching up and plucking the stick from his mouth, flicking it in the direction of the garbage can under Cameron's desk. He smirks lightly when the cigarette disappears into the bin. He's got a limited amount of time left. May as well take pleasure in the little things.

Meeks gulps, his eyes locked on Charlie for a few more moments before he slips back into his old position, clinging to Charlie's side and burying his nose into Charlie's chest, taking in the smell of his cologne. And the smoke. That horrible, horrible smoke that always lingered around Charlie like a cologne of its own.

Everyone smokes.

Charlie gets cancer.

It's not fair.

And Meeks can't get over that. Can't accept that. Because the moment he accepts that, Charlie dies.

Charlie takes a shallow breath and runs a hand through his tousled hair, which he hasn't bothered to style since the day he got the news of his impending death. He had hoped that if he were to die young, it would have been in a final blaze of glory and heroism, driving fast down a highway after hijacking the slickest ride around, two classy chassises in the back, Meeks—his ever loving side-kick—in the passenger seat.

Then again, that wouldn't have been a good way to die, because he probably would have brought Meeks down with him. And that would have been worse than death.

Charlie licks his lips and stares over at his packed suitcases, ready for him to be shipped out of Welton and back home, where he'd have to wait until it was a convenient time for death to pick him up. He sighs and lets his head hang for a moment, watching as Meeks holds steadfastly to his sweatshirt, as if just holding onto Charlie will keep him there, in the natural world.

"You know," Charlie muses, just to break the silence, because for once he just can't handle it. "I'm not going to know what to do in hell without the rest of you boys."

Meeks doesn't smile or laugh like Charlie wants him to, but Charlie knows that he shouldn't have expected that kind of reaction in the first place. He clears his throat and tugs at the collar of his sweatshirt. "You're not going to hell, Charlie."

Those words make the tears pour from Charlie's eyes, and now his body is wracked with spasms of sobs as he tries to choke down the cries being emitted from his throat. He can't break down in front of Meeks. Not when Meeks is counting on him so much to be strong. Not when Meeks needs him to be strong.

In the end, Meeks wraps his arms around Charlie tightly, pulling him into his chest and running one of his hands through Charlie's soft hair lovingly, shushing him and crying along with him. Neither of them have any words to express what they want to say to the other, and so their muffled, choked sobs fill the room.

They don't notice the door open—not that they would care since time is of the essence—and the deep voice of Mr. Dalton breaks through their sorrow. "Charles…" For once his father isn't condescending or demanding. For one his father understands that Charlie needs to do what he needs to do, one last time. "It's…we've got to go, son."

Charlie wheezes, trying to control his emotions as he clutches Meeks' face between his hands, staring deep into the bespectacled boy's eyes. "See you on the other side, Meeksie," he whispered, his bottom lip barely quivering. He crushes Meeks into one more hug, and then he releases, standing from the floor, hefting Meeks up to his feet.

Charlie steps on the pack of cigarettes he had taken from his pocket earlier, not cringing over the fact that 'perfectly good' cigarettes have been wasted. Something the old Charlie would have lamented over for hours.

He grabs up one of the suitcases, glances over his shoulder, and considers saying the 'L' word. He bites his lip, and decides to nod his head, saluting Meeks instead.

Love would only make this worse for Meeks. Hell, Charlie knows love is making this impossible for him.

Meeks gulps, standing by himself in the middle of Charlie's old dorm room, and nods back.

The door closes, and Meeks finally accepts the facts.

Author's Note: aaaaaangst