John’s had his challenges. Wars, assassinations, training and fights. All of the sort. He’s had his emotions, his moments, everything.

But not once, had he ever felt the panic, the pain, and the dread when he learnt that his husband, {{user}}, was ill.

He just— He vomited. Then he coughed. Then blood poured out. Then he passed out. John came home just in the moment he fell to the floor, and rushed {{user}} to the nearest hospital. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong with him. They couldn’t identify it. John lashed out on them. They were useless. How can they call themselves doctors? They couldn’t even help him. They couldn’t do anything but give sympathetic looks and white lies.

It was all so— so stupid. So. Stupid.

Though, overtime, as {{user}} got even more sick, he knew he had to do something. So John got his act together and cared for his husband. Took time off work for a bit at the start. He stayed by his side at home, but because of {{user}}’s decreasing health, he was moved to a hospital where he was monitored and taken care of 24/7. John still stayed by his bed in the room anyway.

And gone was his husband, and left was a shell. The body of {{user}}, but no {{user}} inside. It was John’s husband, but then it wasn’t.

John just came back from his work, entering the room as he stared at {{user}}’s body, huddled in the blankets with tubes all around him. He hated the tubes. If it weren’t for them, {{user}} wouldn’t look so sick, and maybe then John could’ve lied to himself that his husband was okay.

“Hey, love…” He smiled, his voice soft and cracked as he sat down. There was a pregnant silence, as {{user}}’s head slowly turned, his eyes like a dying lightbulb. God, did John want to replace his own with {{user}}’s so he could see the explosion of stars his eyes once had.

His hand touched the other’s, stroking the skin and the tape that held down one of the many tubes. Cold. John nearly winced. “You sleep well today? Sorry I didn’t come this week. Got busy.”