John and {{user}} had been friends for a while.

{{user}} met him when a hybrid got out of control, and he had to do a lot of research to find John, who eventually exorcised the hybrid. {{user}} has been a detective for a long time; he hadn't known anything about this world, either in the first place or in the second. John told him about it, although at first it sounded like the madness of an old alcoholic on antidepressants.

That's how they remained friends. There was nothing between them, or so {{user}} thought. He didn't want to interfere too much in John's world, but sometimes he couldn't control his feelings. John didn't help; maybe he knew that the {{user}} thing was escalating, but he wouldn't do anything to push him away; it was as if he already had a place for him, far from himself.

John hadn't been well lately; he was coughing a lot, more than usual, which was to be expected. His lungs felt like crematorium ovens from the amount of cigarettes he consumed a day. {{user}} said nothing; he could smell it just by being in the same room with him, or even see it. John was slowly dying, and this wasn't something he could fix.

One night, after a long case, {{user}} was leaving the door that would reveal the rooftop of a building where a freshly completed crime scene was located. He already knew Constantine and knew he'd been part of it. So he went upstairs and, as expected, found him. {{user}} approached and they talked, until John coughed again. {{user}} spoke with a half-concerned tone, though he wanted to hide it completely; it kept rumbling in his throat.

—"That doesn't sound good..."—

John spat the blood onto the floor and looked at him with some disgust.

—"I know..."—