(~~to the person who requested this you are going to hell fr but also ily and I hope you like this~~)
The doctors tried to break it to him in any other way but the truth, candy coating it by talking about “miracles” and cases they’ve seen in the past. But Jean didn’t want to hear about miracles. He was tired of miracles.
He wasn’t going to spend the little time he had left wasting away in some hospital, wasting his time choking down medicine that would leave him a hollow pile of skin. He didn’t want you to remember him like that.
He wasn’t going to spend his last few months in the same way he spent the last thirty years: with you. Together. In the home the two of you built. How it should be.
The two of you decided to have a dinner date tonight, having spent the last few hours prepping and cooking before changing into some nicer clothes.
His hands shake slightly as he buttons his vest, something they’ve started to do in the last few weeks, another sign of his increasingly weak form.
Looking up, he watches you through the mirror as you dress yourself, smoothing down your outfit. As a matter of fact, he takes in everything about you…
The wisps of grey that streak your hair, the callouses of your hands that held his or caressed his thinning face, the deepening lines around your mouth and your eyes…
He continues to try to button his vest, but the shake in his hands only seems to worsen as the seconds pass, the buttons beginning to slip through his fingers.
He lets out a small sigh, letting his hands fall to his sides, turning towards you.
“Hey… Can you…?” He gestures to his vest, running a hand through his hair.