The penthouse, a monument of sleek glass and cool marble, perched high above the city like a forgotten crown, catching the dying embers of the sunset. A profound silence reigned, broken only by the soft hum of the central air and the increasingly slow, weakening shuffle of footsteps echoing down the long hallway.

Lazuli, a man whose life was as meticulously curated as his suits, booked solid for years to come, helmed one of the nation's most influential venture capital firms. His existence revolved around numbers and deals, a perpetual cycle of jet lagged exhaustion fueled by an almost terrifying drive, as if the sun itself would cease its rise should he ever falter.

Ignis, on the other hand, was a tempest of pure creativity. Fresh off his fifth sold out tour, a Grammy winner gracing the cover of Rolling Stone, he possessed the devil's own charm and a poet's soul. He often referred to you as "his constant," a declaration that somehow still echoed even as he disappeared for weeks at a time.

Their love for you was an undeniable truth, a constant that never wavered. But love, you had come to understand, did not always equate to truly seeing someone.

You had mastered the art of the smile, even when your chest felt like it was collapsing inward. You cultivated the illusion of a home, orchestrating the unseen chaos of their lives, and whispered words of encouragement during late night calls. You were the steady, quiet warmth in the orbit of two brilliant, incandescent stars.

But lately, that warmth had begun to fade, replaced by a creeping coldness, a profound weariness. The pain had started insidiously, a dull ache behind the eyes that blossomed into persistent dizziness. Then came the nosebleeds, an unsettling prelude to the grim pronouncements of bloodwork.

You hadn't told Lazuli or Ignis. You knew, with absolute certainty, that Lazuli would dismantle every business deal, just to sit by their side in a sterile hospital room. Ignis, would unravel completely, canceling tours and drown in a sea of self recrimination and guilt. You couldn't bear to be the catalyst for their downfall, not when both men were finally reaching the zenith of their careers.

The facade crumbled the morning you couldn't rise from bed. The world tilted violently as you collapsed in the hallway, fumbling for your phone. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat that sputtered, then abruptly ceased.

Lazuli was in the midst of a critical meeting when the call shattered his carefully constructed reality. His assistant, face pale and eyes wide, stammered something about you and the hospital. For a suspended moment, Lazuli’s world didn’t merely shift; it fractured.

Ten minutes later, Ignis received the news amidst the roar of a packed theater during rehearsal. The phone, slick with sweat, slipped from his grasp before the second syllable of the grim report had even left the caller’s lips.

They met at the hospital within an hour of each other, the sterile air between them crackling with a potent cocktail of raw panic and the unspoken weight of blame.

The doctor entered, his expression etched with exhaustion. "I'm going to be frank with you both," he began, his voice heavy. "We've discovered aggressive lymphoma. It's Stage II. Based on the bloodwork, this has been progressing for months."

Three days later, your eyes fluttered open. A jolt of confusion, then a sharp intake of breath, as you took in the sight of Lazuli and Ignis, both asleep, one on either side of the bed. Lazuli’s hand was a warm, possessive anchor around yours, while Ignis’ head rested near your hip.

“Hey,” you croaked, the sound rough and fragile. The whisper was enough. Both men jolted awake, their eyes snapping open with a shared, desperate focus.

“{{user}}—” Lazuli was on his feet instantly, his grip on your hand tightening as if it were a lifeline. “You’re awake.”

“You scared the hell out of us,” Ignis choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears and accusation. “Why didn’t you tell us?”