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panda-noosh · 7 years ago

Text

Enough Of It {Hunk x Reader}

Words: 7k

Summary: Everybody wants a little bit more time with the person they love.

Genre: angst - nurse!au

Warning: lots of illness and death and overall sadness

Notes: masterlist – liSTEN I-

---

Hunk could not help but smile as he watched you interact with the other patients.

It never failed to amaze him just how much life you had within you, even though you had every reason to sit in the corner and pretend that nothing and nobody else mattered; it was what the majority of the people around here did. Looking around, Hunk could see the stone cold faces, the glares of the patients he had dedicated his life to helping – but then he would look at you. A beacon of hope, a light in the corner that shone brightly, illuminating those stone cold faces for the time being.

He could see now, as he leaned against the door frame of the living area, that you were having a tough day. You were in the wheelchair again, which was becoming a more frequent occurrence, though Hunk didn't like to ponder too deeply on that fact in fear of wounding himself with what it could mean. He could see now that your bones were aching, as you slowly reached out to take hold of the soup bowl that Mr Powler was trying to grab; you nudged the tray closer to him, grinning as you did so. Despite how well you hid the pain that such a little movement caused you, Hunk could see it in your eyes that you were suffering.

All you had done was move the soup bowl, and that had hurt you. Hunk bit down on his lower lip, tried to shove the thought away. He wasn't a doctor. He was a nurse. He wasn't here to diagnose you, to dwell on the fact that your illness may be getting a little worse with time – that was the doctors job. He was here to offer you comfort and to make sure you went to bed at the right time, to make sure you had food when you needed it, make sure you were taking your meds.

He knew for a fact that you were. He had stood over you – twice a day, just as he was ordered – and watched you pop the pills with a scowl – a scowl that very rarely showed on your face, but Hunk knew the reason behind its presence during these particular times of the day; you hated your medication. It made you tired, made your bones feel numb to the point where you could do nothing but sit in your wheelchair and wait for the next wave of static to pass.

Hunk tried not to think too much on those times. He liked these times, when you were sitting in the living room with your fellow patients, grinning from ear to ear and seemingly enjoying life whilst you still had a hold on it.

“Mr Garrett!”

Hunk's head snapped around to the far side of the room, where frail old Linda McKeevry was sitting in the rocking chair, the remote for the TV gripped in her trembling hands. The woman didn't even have to tell Hunk what she wanted – he knew from experience, as this very situation happened at least three times a day.

Hunk smiled as he walked towards her and took the remote from her hand, turning the channel over until the sweet old woman was saying “Stop, stop! I want to watch this!” She had to yell, her hearing long since deteriorated with time.

Hunk set the remote down on the arm of the chair, placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “You know you don't have to call me Mr Garrett, don't you? I prefer it when you call me Hunk.”

Linda scowled, her wrinkled nose gaining a few more lines. “That's such an absurd name. I don't like how it sounds.”

“But it is my name, Ms McKeevry.”

“And Garrett is your last name.” Linda looked up with grey eyes, gently patted Hunk's hand. “I'll call you Mr Garrett.”

Hunk hollowed out his cheeks, accepting his fate. As he nodded down at the elderly woman, he heard the familiar sound of your laughter coming from the opposite end of the room; perhaps it was the carer in him that made him turn around so quickly, the need to see your face lighting up in joy suddenly so desperate that he felt his own cheeks heating up in embarrassment at how quick he had looked up.

He told himself it was purely because it was his job to make sure you were okay. It most definitely wasn't because the sight of your grinning face forced his stomach into knots.

You were looking directly at him whenever he looked up. Whenever the two of you made eye contact, you waved, wincing at the movement but trying your hardest nonetheless. Hunk found himself walking over to you before he could really question the reason why; you were clearly fine, having not moved from your space beside Mr Powler.

“And what's going on over here then, hm?” he asked, putting on his usual, peppy persona.

Mr Powler looked up, a chess piece between his fingers. “We're setting up the chess board.”

“I can see Ms McKeevry's giving you a tough time,” you said. “I don't think she took her medication this morning – she did that tongue trick.”

Hunk's brows shot into his hairline. “Tongue trick?”

“Mm,” you hummed, now eyeing the old lady sceptically. “You put the medication under your tongue and then spit it out once the doctors gone.”

“Don't be giving away our secrets, you eejit!” Mr Powler hissed. “Do you want to play the black or white pieces?”

“Black, please,” you replied. “Black gives good luck, I think.”

“White is the colour of purity,” Mr Powler corrected.

“Purity isn't gonna give you good luck,” you shot back, before turning to Hunk as if only just realising he had been standing there. Hunk had settled into that odd space where he was just kind of hovering above you, his fingers working idly at the buttons on the bottom of his blue work shirt – just for something to do, something to mess with as he tried to figure out what to say to break into the moment.

You smiled at him whenever his eyes met yours. His stomach, once again, formed into knots. He wanted to reach out and brush the hair out of your face, wanted to make sure you were okay, but he held himself back with the professionalism he had been trained to undertake in moments like these.

“You can play if you want,” you said, nodding towards the chess board. “I can sit back and watch and you can take my place. My arms are feeling a little stiff today, if I'm honest.”

Hunk opened his mouth to say something, but quickly closed it and narrowed his eyes. “You did take your meds today, didn't you?”

“You were with me when I did it!” There was a slight rise of humour in your voice as you said this, eyes glittering with amusement.

Hunk shrugged. “That tongue trick you were talking about has me feeling a little bit on edge – I don't know who to trust any more.”

You rolled your eyes and, before Hunk could react, grabbed for his hand, tugging him down onto the sofa behind you. You shifted your wheelchair as best as you could with the stiffness in your arms, wincing with each movement, but managing to make room for him nonetheless. Hunk settled down, leaned over and started to play the game of chess with Mr Powler, though not once did he forget about your presence beside him.

----

It was rare that Hunk ever did the night shift. He didn't like night shift, first of all – it was boring. Most of the inhabitants of the home were fairly old, bar the odd patient who would pop in every now and then, meaning not many of them ever bothered to go wandering around in the middle of the night. If Hunk was permitted to night shift, he spent his evening sitting in the living area, trying to keep his eyes open as he flicked through the Freeview channels that mainly consisted of repeat western movies that he had absolutely no interest in.

Tonight, though, his channel surfing was interrupted by a noise coming from the kitchen.

Though Hunk had been trained for this type of thing, it still made him tense up in sudden shock. Looking at the clock, Hunk could see that it was currently ten past three in the morning – who could possibly be awake at this time? Most of the patients here could barely get themselves down the stairs without help, let alone at three am, whenever the house was damp from the warm and cold mixing together. Bones were rickety, people were sleeping, and Hunk was utterly confused.

Slowly, he arose from the sofa and made his way into the kitchen. The lights were on, but it took him turning the sharp corner to see you standing by the sink, trying to pull yourself up from your wheelchair with shaky hands.

“Y/N?”

You yelped, your arms finally giving in. You fell back against your wheelchair, cried out as pain surely doused your system with the sudden collision – you leaned your head back and groaned, running your hands through your hair. Hunk could see the sweat forming on your neck, a sure sign that you had overexerted yourself both trying to stand up and getting down the ramp in the first place.

Hunk rushed over and kneeled down beside you, grabbing your hands and placing them at your side. “What are you doing up at this time of night? You should be asleep!”

“I couldn't sleep,” you grunted. Your voice was wavering. You were in pain, fighting off whimpers. Hunk was all too familiar with the sound of suppressed pain in a persons voice.

“You should have rang your bell,” Hunk said. “Whatever you needed, I could have gotten it for you.”

“I didn't want anything specifically,” you replied. Hunk couldn't help but notice the way you refused to meet his eyes. “Sitting in bed whenever you can't sleep is boring – I just wanted to get up and moving, is all. I'm sorry if I disturbed you.”

“Don't apologise,” Hunk sighed. “I understand, but you know you're not meant to be wandering around on your own – especially at this time of hour. Your bones must feel tense as anything right now.”

You smiled sheepishly, rubbing at your upper arm. “They are a little sore.”

Hunk knew you were vastly understating just how much pain you were in. He could see it in your face, in the way your lips quivered with every word and the way your hands trembled on the arms of the wheelchair. When he had walked in, you were trying to stand up, using the counter as leverage, but the pain had clearly spread to your legs at this point.

You were struggling, and the realisation was hitting Hunk like a ton of bricks.

He reached forward and brushed a single strand of hair away from your face. Three years he had known you, and for them three years, you had been his patient, the person he was assigned to care for whenever you couldn't do it yourself. He had seen you in your worst states, had seen you crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs whenever your legs had given out mid-step, had seen you barely able to lift a fork with the stiffness in your muscles. He had been there whenever you had grown ill and your immune system was unable to fight off the sickness – that had been a terrifying time, but you had gotten through it.

But now was a little different. The same circumstances, but with different feelings attached to it.

He sighed and lowered his head. “How about we sit and watch TV until you fall asleep?”

Your head shot up, eyes darting over to meet his. “You mean I can sit in there with you? At three am?”

Hunk chuckled at your eagerness, already standing up and grabbing onto the handles of your wheelchair. “If you keep your voice down, we might get away with it.”

“Oh, Hunk, this is bad. If we get caught-”

“We won't get caught,” Hunk assured, though he wasn't too sure of that fact himself. “I'm the only one booked in for night shift, which means we have until six am to watch as much TV as we want – though, I'm warning you, the channels aren't all that great.”

You scoffed as Hunk wheeled you into the living room. “You say that like I'm not forced to watch the same Freeview channel over and over again. Ms McKeevry refuses to turn it over.”

“Yeah. She likes her Wild West films, doesn't she?”

“They're in black and white!” you exclaimed, exasperated. “I could still quote every single one word-for-word, though.”

Hunk chuckled, settling himself down on the sofa after putting the break on your wheelchair beside him; he wanted to ask you if you wanted to pull yourself up onto the sofa, but the image of you trying to stand up only moments before flashed through his mind, convincing him that perhaps it was a little bit easier for you to just stay seated in the chair for the time being.

The two of you sat together that night, and Hunk forgot that you were meant to be trying to sleep. He had completely forgotten that the entire reason he had offered to sit with you tonight was so you could try and get a little whoozy, drift off in your chair, perhaps – he got too lost in conversation. The TV was playing, but it was not being watched. The exhaustion was there, but it was not being concentrated on. The two of you were laughing, trying to stifle the loud bellows by shoving your faces into pillows or covering your mouths with trembling hands – Hunk tried to ignore the injection scars in your knuckles, tried to enjoy the moment with you as much as he could whilst it was still lasting.

It was 5am whenever Hunk finally looked at the clock and realised just how late it was getting. His boss would be wandering through the door in another hour, and he could only imagine the scolding he would get for allowing a patient to stay up past curfew – as if you weren't a full grown adult who could make their own decisions.

“It's getting late,” Hunk said, though the words pained him.

You looked over at the clock and frowned. “Oh my. When did that happen?”

“I know.” Hunk pushed himself up off the sofa, stretched. He saw you looking at him in his peripheral vision and immediately he put his arms back to his sides, flushing.

You smiled at his actions. “I don't mind you stretching, you know. Just because I can't do it, doesn't mean I think you shouldn't.”

Hunk smiled nervously, but kept his arms down nonetheless. He turned the TV off, grabbed a hold of your wheelchair once again and started back up the stairs.

“Do you think you'll sleep at all today?” he asked as he wheeled you to your room. “I can leave a note for the next person who's in to let you sleep for a little longer than usual.”

“Nah. I don't think sleep is on the table for me today,” you replied. “It's okay. I've been having a lot of sleepless nights lately.”

Hunk frowned. “Why?”

You shrugged, looking down at your fingers; they were stiff against the arms of the wheelchair, looking cold and dead against the metal. He saw your pinky twitch, a sure sign that you were trying to get the stiff muscles to move, but very little movement was happening.

“It's been getting a little worse,” you said, voice a whisper.

Hunk inhaled a sharp breath, turned away so he wouldn't have to look at your struggling. “You should tell someone when you feel like that, you know. How long has it been getting worse?”

“A few weeks,” you replied. “It's not a big deal. I just need a higher dose of medicine-”

“You know we can't give you a higher dose if the doctor doesn't prescribe it. But I'm assuming the doctor doesn't know, does he?”

You bit your lip, shrugged again.

“Y/N....,” Hunk hummed.

“It's okay,” you insisted. “I'll tell him during my next appointment and get a higher dose. I'll be out of this wheelchair in no time – just you wait and see, Mr Garrett.”

Hunk tried to smile at your attempt to lighten the mood – again, he was caught in that head space where he had to remind himself that it was not his job to worry about your medication, or the illness you were fighting. It was his job to take care of you, and that was what he was doing. And yet there was a nagging feeling in the back of his brain that it wasn't enough, that he needed to do more or else there was truly no point in him even being there.

He tucked you into bed, your arms being much too stiff to do something so simple. He smiled at you one last time, bid you good night – despite it being 5am – and left the room, feeling a little bit emptier and a little bit more tired than he had when he first walked in.

---

I'll be out of this wheelchair in no time.

You had said that to him because you truly believed it was the truth.

You, forever the optimist. Even with bones that were as brittle as glass, even with the entire world fighting against you, you had looked at him and gave him hope, because it was hope that you were feeling yourself.

You never thought you would lose that tiny flicker of light in your mind. It was the thing that had kept you going after the diagnosis had been given, after you had been told that there was nothing they could do, that you would only grow worse as time went on. It could only be controlled by medication.

Even after this news was landed upon you, you left the doctors office with a thank you and a smile, trying your hardest to keep hope within you.

But as you looked at Dr Bourne now, you could feel the hope leaking out of your system once and for all. For the first time in three years, you were unable to convince yourself that this story of yours was going to finish with a happy ending.

He himself had a harsh look to him as he looked down at the pages bundled in his hands. He was frowning, a crease between his brows as if he couldn't quite believe what he was reading – you weren't sure why. This was the same person who had told you that the idea of complete recovery was impossible for you, the same person who had told you that your future consisted of you getting progressively worse, until eventually you would be unable to complete the most mundane of tasks.

“You can tell me, you know,” you said, hesitant to speak in fear of bursting into tears. “I can take it.”

“Y/N...,” Dr Bourne started, shaking his head at the pages. “I don't know . . . . I don't understand how this could have happened.”

“You keep saying that, but I still don't know what you're talking about.”

You did know what he was talking about. You could feel it manifesting in your body, could feel it dragging you down more and more every day.

Dr Bourne looked up, kind eyes trying their hardest to bring you comfort. “You're body has somehow started resisting the medication you're on. It's not doing the job it's supposed to be doing.”

There it was. The hard honest truth, laid out in front of you with zero filter to pillow it. You didn't want a filter – you needed the truth. Though you had known for some time now that this was the case, you needed to hear it from his mouth, to hear the professional side to it before you would ever bring yourself to believe it.

But then he added on a tiny bit of news you weren't expecting.

“There's nothing more we can do for you.”

You were certain you could hear fireworks going off in the distance; bombs, more like. Fireworks were nice and pretty, but the sound you could hear signalled impending doom, crashing down on you like shrapnel. It jarred your body. For the first time in weeks, you felt something skidding through your bone marrow and manifesting itself within your system – except it wasn't a good feeling. It coiled the inside of your stomach until you were leaning forward, your spine creaking and stiff, curling your arms around your middle.

Dr Bourne laid a hand on your shoulder, kneeling down in front of you. That's what they all did. They touched you, and they tried to make eye contact with you, and they pretended that that was enough to comfort you. They smiled warmly and tilted their head, telling you it was all going to be alright.

But nobody could lie to you now. Not whenever you had basically just been given your warning for death.

You left Dr Bourne's office that day, into the arms of nurse Wakefield, who had been waiting for you outside. She knew. She must have known, as she immediately bent down to wrap you in a hug, and it was in her warm, comforting embrace that you finally let yourself unfold. You sobbed into her shoulder, gripping her tight, not wanting to let go in fear of losing all grip on life itself, as if letting go of this healthy person would break the rope that held you to existence.

----

“I don't have all that long left, I don't think.”

You had said it so casually that, for a second, Hunk hadn't even caught on to the words themselves. He continued to lift the fork up to his mouth, was ready to simply nod in dismissal of whatever it was you had said-

But then his stomach was coiling, and he lurched forward. The fork he had previously risen to his lips clattered back against his plate, spraying gravy across his lap and the table cloth, but he didn't care. His head shot up, wide eyes observing your face for any sign of humour, any sign that you may have just said that to scare him, to gouge his reaction.

That's what the elderly patients did all the time. They knew they didn't have long left, whether they went with old age or the illnesses which kept them tethered to the home, they knew they could get away with joking about such deep subject matters. They would often claim they had chest pains, scare the living daylights out of Hunk before breaking into cackled laughter as they exclaimed that they were just kidding.

That was what you were doing now, wasn't it? It had to be.

Hunk's eyes trailed over you. You kept your head down, continued to read the book you had brought down to dinner this evening; all of the other patients were eating in the living room around the TV. The other nurses were gathered with them, making sure Ms McKeevry didn't launch her walking stick across the room at anybody trying to change the channel.

Hunk had decided to come and sit with you.

“What?” was all he could manage to say.

Still, you refused to look up at him. “I don't have all that long left. I don't think so, anyway. Dr Bourne couldn't give me an exact length of time, but I can only assume it's not going to be too long.”

Hunk blinked. “I don't understand.”

You bit down on your bottom lip. Hunk watched your teeth sink into the flesh, saw the tremble – and then he saw the tear. A single tear streaking down the side of your face that you were too stiff to reach up and wipe away.

Hunk did it for you. He had moved across the table before he could even realise he was moving at all, but then his hand was gently brushing against your cheeks and he was swiping his thumb beneath your eyes to rid you of the tears that he knew for a fact you so dearly hated shedding in front of people.

“Tell me one more time,” he said, voice shaking. “What did Dr Bourne tell you?”

“He said my medication isn't working any more,” you replied. “He said my body – It's somehow become resistant to it, so it's not doing anything to help me.”

“And what do you mean you don't have long left?” Hunk urged. His heart was slamming into his rib cage. He was becoming slightly light-headed.

You looked at him. More tears spilled from your eyes, and Hunk reached up to brush them away before they got too far. Your hands snapped up, fingers wrapping around his wrists so you could hold his hands to your face for a little moment longer – you emitted a cry of pain at the sudden movement, your arms falling not long after as you grew too weak to hold them up. Hunk knew what you wanted, though, and he kept his hands pressed to your face, thumbs gently rubbing your skin.

“There's nothing else they can do,” you choked out. “I'm just gonna keep getting worse until – until my immune system gives in and I – I-”

Hunk hugged you. “You don't have to say it. You don't have to say it. I know.”

“Until I die, Hunk.” You said it in a whisper, a breath against his shoulder that had shivers running down his spine both from the heat of your breath and the impact of your words.

He held you impossibly tighter – as tight as he could without hurting your brittle bones. He didn't know what else to do, what else to say. He had been in the presence of dying people on multiple occasions – it was part of his job – but this was something else entirely. He felt numb. He was stuck in that faze of denial, refusing to believe that what you had said was true, refusing to believe that, soon, he would wake up and be unable to look over to the far side of the living room to see your beaming face.

So he only held you, and you didn't seem to mind. With your head buried in his neck, you sobbed against him. He let you. He didn't want you being comforted by anyone else, because nobody else cared as much as he did – as selfish as he knew it sounded, that was one thing he was sure about. The other nurses loved you, would be heartbroken to hear about your recent diagnosis of death, but none of them cared for you like Hunk did.

---

It wasn't long before you couldn't get out of bed and Hunk was visiting you in your room every day.

You awaited his daily visits with anticipation. Every movement hurt. Your head was suffering through a constant migraine, and you had very little energy to do anything except take light sips of the water that was left by your bedside, refilled hourly.

But when Hunk popped his head around the door, the pain suddenly became a little more bearable.

“Have you ever wondered what death feels like?” you asked him on this particular day. He looked up at you through his bangs, didn't seem shocked at the question. He simply shrugged, leaned back in the chair and regarded you with a raised brow.

“I don't really like thinking too much about it, if I'm being honest.”

“Yeah. Me neither,” you replied. “But it's kind of difficult not to whenever I am, indeed, dying.”

“You can think about other things.” Hunk reached down and tugged his iPod out of his bag. He brought this during every visit, and you never complained. Though you liked talking to him, liked to hear the sound of his soothing voice, the music was a nice change. It pierced the dark atmosphere of the room, made you feel a little lighter.

“What shall we listen to today, hm?” he asked, grinning. “Michael Jackson? Frank Sinatra? Queen?”

“What are some songs on the charts these days?” you asked.

Hunk raised a brow, tilted his head forward. “Stupid pop songs that all sound the same – choose something authentic! Something. . . classic.”

“Lady Gaga, Bad Romance.”

Hunk frowned. “Michael Jackson, Bad.”

“Rihanna, Umbrella.”

“I said classics.” He sighed in mock exasperation, placing a hand on his forehead. You giggled at the dramatics, the noise causing Hunk to flash you an award-winning smile before he leaned forward and started messing with the buttons on his iPod. “Alright then, if you want to listen to some trashy twenty first century tunes, then trashy tunes you will get.”

And that was what you both listened to. Hunk managed to find some Rihanna on this playlist, and though neither of you were too invested in the song, it didn't stop the moment from being special. It always was when it was with Hunk – his presence alone had an effect on you that you could never explain, never would be able to explain, because you didn't have very long left to figure out how to word it.

It was special, though. He was special. You realised this as you laid back in the covers of your bed – your death bed, inevitably – and watched as he bobbed his head to the song playing. He had his eyes closed, a small smile appearing on his face that – despite being one of his smaller smiles – still managed to light up both the room and his features.

You had the urge to reach over and take his hand in your own.

You realised you didn't have long, and you reached over and took his hand.

His eyes slowly fluttered open at the touch, his smile fading only for a second before he was curling his fingers around yours properly, and smiling again.

It was with a heavy heart that you realised you didn't want that smile to leave so soon. You wanted the chance to wake up to it every morning. You wanted the chance to be able to be the reason behind it, but knew that could never happen. A future was impossible for you now, and that was something you would have to come to terms with sooner or later.

But for now, you could sit with Hunk in peace. You could lay in this room with Rihanna playing, loud and clear, and you could cherish the feel of his hand in your own whilst it lasted.

---

Hunk brought you flowers for the first time, and was very surprised and disappointed that it was the first time.

You looked at the bouquet of tulips in his hand and raised a brow in question. He faltered, unsure whether to continue towards you with them – were you perhaps allergic? Did you not like flowers? These were all things he hadn't thought about until now, and he silently cursed himself for being so unprepared, so stupidly-

“You've never brought me flowers before,” you said.

Hunk's eyes immediately widened. “I haven't?”

“Nope,” you replied. “Three years we've known each other, Mr Garrett, and you wait until I'm on my death bed to make me feel special.”

Hunk flushed, stepped closer to you nonetheless. You giggled in your attempts to lighten the mood, allowed Hunk to set them on the bed-side table. It was another one of your flare up days, meaning you couldn't reach out to grab onto them yourself. You just barely managed to stretch your neck, give them a small sniff before you were falling back into the pillows with a blissed-out smile on your face.

“They're beautiful, Hunk. Thank you.”

“Ah, well,” Hunk grumbled, shrugging nonchalantly. “It's the least I can do. You've kept me company these past few weeks.”

“I think it's the other way around,” you chuckled, though your laughter soon faded into a fit of coughing. Hunk immediately grabbed for the water by your side, tilted it gently into your mouth with one hand resting on the back of your head, rubbing soothing circles into your scalp.

You patted his wrist, telling him you were okay. He pulled the water away from you, examined your face despite having no idea what it was he should be looking for – again, he was no doctor.

“You've been keeping me company,” you continued. “Although that might just be because it's your job to make sure we don't get lonely.”

Hunk scoffed. “You know full well that's not why I come and visit you.”

“So you've said-”

“I come and visit you because you mean a lot to me,” he continued before he could stop himself.

You both froze. The room fell silent again, the only sound coming from the ticking of the clock on the wall. Hunk zoned in on that noise, grounded himself upon it in any attempt to lock down his sudden surge of confidence.

He had realised weeks beforehand that you were dying – he needed to stop convincing himself that you weren't. If there was anything he wanted to say to you, he would need to say it now because the world wasn't waiting for him this time. You weren't waiting for him this time.

The first part was over. He just needed to get the rest out whilst he still could.

He sighed heavily, leaned forward and placed his hand on top of your own. Your fingers twitched, desperate to flip over and hold his hand, but your muscles were tense and swollen and there was no way such an action would be made without you wincing in pain.

“You mean a lot to me,” he repeated. “A lot more than I think you realise.”

“That's dangerous,” you choked out.

“I know it is,” Hunk replied.

“You can't – You can't like me, Hunk. Not like that. You're just gonna get heartbroken-”

“I don't care.” He didn't. He really didn't. “I know how this is all going to end, Y/N, and I'm prepared for it. As – As prepared as I can be. I'm gonna be heartbroken either way, so why not just get my feelings out there whilst I still can, you know?”

You shook your head. “I don't wanna die knowing you're-”

“I'm gonna be okay,” he forced out, because it was a lie. It was perhaps the biggest lie he had ever told, and you knew that. He could tell that you knew by the way your eyes softened, in the way you tilted your head forward as if to say really?

He looked away from you, nerves slowly making their way back into his system. He was replaying his own words back in his head, regretting them, thinking of all the ways he could have rephrased every little sentence.

He fought through it, knowing it was too late to back out now.

“I just need you to know that you changed my life. You really did,” he continued. “You really have. And I know I was so shy around you at times, and I must have made you feel like shit because of it, but it was only because I liked you – loved you – love you.” He shook his head, trying to stop himself from floundering any further. “I just . . . I love you, Y/N, and I needed you to know that before you . . . before you go.”

You were silent, but it was the loud type of silence. The type of silence that deafens, not because it's awkward but because its full. It's brimming with emotions that are going unspoken, unseen save for the grip that Hunk had on your hands, tightening with each passing moment.

You inhaled then, shattering the delicate silence. “I love you, too. You know that.”

Hunk closed his eyes, leaned forward until his forehead was resting against your shoulder. “This is going to rip me apart, isn't it?”

“Hey,” you whispered. He looked up slowly, meeting your eyes. “I'm still here, aren't I? We may not have all the time in the world, but we have time. Enough of it.”

Hunk nodded. “Enough of it.”

“Now, please kiss me.”

And Hunk did just that, because he wanted to, because he wouldn't get the chance to if he waited any longer, because you were his love and his light, and you were so fragile, and you had asked him. You loved him back, and in that moment, Hunk was content with the time you had. Hunk was content to just have this moment between the two of you – he wouldn't complain. He would cherish it, ravish in it until the reality came crashing down upon him, just like it always did.

But until then, you had enough of it.

---

The sickness had come on suddenly. A simple cold for most people, but a life threatening illness for you with the state you were in.

Hunk knew this was it. Even without the confirmation from Dr Bourne, with whom he had seen an awful lot of as of recently, he knew this was it – your time.

He stayed outside of your room whilst Dr Bourne checked on you. You had told him on multiple occasions that you didn't want him seeing you in the state you were in. He had told you not to be ridiculous, but had agreed to stay out of the room during your check-up's.

Dr Bourne quietly made his way out of the room nearly an hour later, fixing the lapels of his doctors coat. He glanced over at Hunk, gave him a small smile that told Hunk everything he needed to know.

“No change,” Dr Bourne confirmed. “I give them a few weeks now, at most. The immune system is basically non-existent at this point.”

Hunk could only nod, not knowing what else he should do. If he spoke, he would cry. If he moved, he would collapse because the numbness in his legs was no longer a subtle spasm of nerves. Dr Bourne said no more, noticing Hunk's dismissal, and left with a nod.

Hunk forced himself to stand up and enter your room. You were asleep now, the medication having knocked you out, as it usually did. Hunk watched you from the doorway, too nervous to step any closer in fear of seeing the details – the hollowness of your skin, the bags under your eyes, the trembling of your bones that, once upon a time, used to be unable to move at all. The medication the doctors had put you on – the useless medication that made Hunk so angry – had started giving you the trembles, which only put you in even more pain at the end of the day.

“But it's helping the immune system!” the doctors insisted whenever Hunk complained to them about it.

You looked peaceful when you were asleep. He loved talking to you when you were awake, learning about the world from your perspective and using up that time he had been given to be with you, but there was a certain beauty in seeing you asleep, out of pains way for the few hours of rest the medication allowed you to have.

He made his way over to your bedside and sat down. As usual, he reached over and took your hand in his. Your muscles spasmed beneath his fingers; he ignored it, having grown used to the odd sensation by now.

He let you sleep. It was easier for you that way.

He was starting to think that it was easier for him that way, as well.

----

You passed away that same night.

Hunk heard about it from the nurses as he had laid down to bed in his own home. The phone had rung, and he knew immediately what it was. There was nothing else it could be. For a second, he simply stared at the blaring device on his bed side table, hoping that, if he ignored it, it would go away. The truth would go away.

He was crying when he picked up the phone. He was sobbing when the nurse told him the news. He was running after he put the phone down, not bothering to change out of his sweatpants and shirt as he rushed to his car and drove. Drove in the pitch black, a half hour commute taking him fifteen minutes. He may not have even had his lights on. He didn't notice.

Your body wasn't there when he burst through the doors of the home. The other nurses were all gathered around your bedroom door, sobbing into the circle they had formed. The other patients were still sleeping, completely oblivious to the devastation that had happened in their presence only hours before.

Hunk couldn't really feel anything. He simply stared at the closed door of the room that used to be your bedroom, and he realised with a jolt that the time he had been given to spend with you perhaps hadn't been enough after all.

---

He placed the tulips on the grave stone, gently lowered himself down beside it and sighed. He never knew how to go about this. He had been visiting you weekly for the past month and a half, and yet he could never quite get comfortable with the idea of talking to a headstone.

He sometimes imagined you were listening – he hoped you were. There was a lot of stuff he was telling you – important stuff. Stuff that he knew would make you laugh if you were genuinely beside him to listen to it. He wanted you to laugh, wanted to think that he was still making you giggle, wherever you had gone.

He sat beside you now and idly played with his thumbs. It was getting colder nowadays, and his work schedule was getting more and more hectic. He would have to visit you every two weeks, if his schedule was anything to go by – you wouldn't mind. You would understand, but that didn't make it any less difficult for Hunk.

He silently cursed himself as the thought crossed his mind; there he went again, acting as if you were truly still with him. It had been his locked mindset from the moment you had left. Even now, months on, he still couldn't quite bring himself to believe that you weren't with him.

He reached out a trembling hand, traced his fingers over the name engraved in the stone. Your name. The name that would forever be in the back of his mind, for as long as he shall live. The name that would always be on his lips. The name of the person who had opened his eyes to the world so abruptly, so against his will. The name of the person who had ripped his heart from his body without really meaning to.

And though he never knew what to say whenever he was visiting you, there seemed to be only one thing he could say now, and he said it with his chest, meaning every single syllable.

“I love you.”

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