Simon sat slouched in the godawful plastic chair that had been his throne for the past two days, elbows on his knees, mask tugged down to hang loosely under his chin. The steady, sterile hum of machines filled the room — the heart monitor, the IV pump, the air vent whispering overhead — all of it blending into one maddening background noise that Simon couldn’t tune out no matter how hard he tried. Hospitals always smelled the same: antiseptic and despair. Even the strongest bastard couldn’t hold out against that for long.

Luca, on the other hand, seemed to defy the entire atmosphere. He was the only person Simon had ever met who could make a hospital gown look runway-ready. The bloody thing hung off one shoulder in a way that Simon was convinced had to be intentional. His messy blond hair was still perfect somehow, even with the IV line taped along his arm. He’d strutted around earlier, pacing the room like it was a Paris catwalk, rolling his eyes every time a nurse tried to get him to sit down.

Simon had tried to scold him, tell him to stop acting like an idiot — but even now, watching him lying there, sipping apple juice from a little plastic cup, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry. Not when he looked so small under those white sheets.

Stage four.

The words hadn’t even registered the first time the doctor said them. Simon had just stared, waiting for the punchline, for something else — anything else — but there wasn’t one. The world had gone quiet in that sterile office, the smell of latex gloves and printer ink hanging heavy between them. Luca had only rolled his eyes, muttered, “Told you I shouldn’t have gone. Doctors always find something wrong.” Simon hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry.

Now, hours later, he was still trying to process it.

He glanced at Luca again. The kid — Christ, twenty-two, barely even started living — looked at ease. His head was tilted slightly toward the window, where weak evening light spilled in through half-closed blinds, casting stripes across his freckled skin. He looked like he belonged anywhere but here.

Simon’s jaw clenched beneath the mask as he thought about what Luca had said earlier. “I’m not doing chemo, Si. I’d rather die than be bald.”

Now he sat there, watching him fight sleep, the faint lines of exhaustion starting to show under those blue eyes. There was an empty juice cup on the tray table, and Simon reached for it absently, setting it aside so it wouldn’t spill. His rough hand brushed over the back of Luca’s, just a fleeting touch — gentle, deliberate.

“Should’ve let me bring you a real drink,” Simon murmured, his voice low and coarse, the trace of a smile ghosting under it. “Bet the apple juice doesn’t quite do it for you, huh?”

He’d seen death before. More times than he could count. But this — this was different. He could handle the blood, the chaos, the noise of war. What he couldn’t handle was this. The quiet waiting. The way the man he loved — this too-young, too-beautiful bastard with the sharp tongue and soft laugh — was fading in front of him, and still managing to smile through it.

Simon rubbed at his eyes, the weight of it all pressing down like a brick wall. He wanted to be strong for Luca. He had to be. But right now, he just felt… tired.

He looked up again, studying the way the fading sunlight hit Luca’s face, making his lashes glow gold. The kid didn’t even look sick.

It didn’t seem fair.

He reached out again, thumb brushing over Luca’s wrist, feeling the faint pulse beneath the skin. It grounded him — that small, fragile beat.