Where the Sun Shines Gray
White.

Everything around Luhan is white.

And beeping.

Everything around Luhan is beeping.

He supposes it shouldn’t bother him as much as it does; he’s worked in the hospital long enough for him to have grown accustomed to his surroundings.  Nonetheless the lack of color is another deep scar on his already battered heart.  He craves the sunlight, the blue sky, the green grass and soft rustling of healthy cherry trees.  But these are all things he must see through the windows of a hospital from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon as he runs through boring, daily routines and does halfhearted check-ups on people whose survival rates hardly ever exceed twenty percent.  He supposes that’s just what he gets for wanting to be a nurse.

Granted, had he known he would’ve ended up with one of the most miserable jobs in all of Seoul, he probably would’ve switched majors during his time at the university.  It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy being a nurse; he just doesn’t enjoy being a nurse in a hospital where everyone dies.

“You’ll be working in the cancer unit,” his employer had told him his first day on the job as he handed him a specialized uniform and identification card.  “You’ll be on the fourth floor, just going through and doing routine check-ups on everyone.”

“Why the cancer unit,” Luhan had asked, eyebrows drawn downward into a questioning frown.  His employer had given him a bright smile, as if promising an equally sunny future in his line of work, and replied, “Because you were the top of your class.”

He still finds it a stupid reason to put him through his daily misery.  Luhan does not enjoy going from room to room, adjusting the medical equipment of people who will be dead in less than a month – if they’re lucky.  He does not enjoy watching humans withering away in hospital beds, receiving medication for pain alone because, at this stage in their illness, treatment will do nothing more for them.  He does not enjoy having to give his patients reassuring smiles, even though the cold, bitter truth floats about unspoken in the air.

Luhan does not enjoy his job one bit.  It invites a disquietude and sorrow within him that never passes.

He’s promised himself from the very first week, from the very first day, that he absolutely will not grow attached to anyone in his unit.  He hates his job enough as it is; he does not need personal attachment and emotion added into his already despondent working life.  He knows he can’t handle the burden.  He takes his assignments with care, but with distance.  He is polite and professional, but not friendly and inviting.  He smiles enough to make himself likeable, but not enough to make himself too likeable.

It may seem selfish in a job like his, but really, he’s just trying to protect himself.  When his patients leave, he’ll be the one left with the pain; it’s perfectly fine for him to avoid it in the first place by just not growing too close to them.

Yet as he steps into his supervisor’s office to retrieve his new assignments for the day, he feels that something is not quite right – or at least more off than it usually is.  The world is tilted off its axis.  The winds are blowing in a different direction.  The very air around him is changing.  It does nothing to ease his daily discomfort.  Quite the opposite actually; something within him tightens uncomfortably.

He can already tell he’s especially going to dislike today in particular.

“Joonmyeon-ssi,” he half-mumbles as he nears the light-toned wooden desk professionally placed in the center of the room.  His voice is low, although the entire floor is so eerily silent that the brunet sitting behind it lifts his head from the medical journal he seems to be engrossed in and allows his eyes to scan Luhan’s face.  “Oh, Luhan-ssi,” he greets when he’s undoubtedly taken in Luhan’s light blond hair and admittedly porcelain skin, “Hello.”

Luhan nods wordlessly as his own polite way of greeting, and then inquires, “Who’s on the roster for me, today?”  The man behind the desk gives him a halfhearted smile for a fraction of a second, and then proceeds to hand him one of the clipboards set up on the corner of the desk.  “You have a new patient today,” he says somberly, extending his arm so that Luhan is able to neatly pluck the clipboard from his grasp.

“His name’s Oh Sehun,” Joonmyeon continues as he twines his fingers together, kind brown gaze fixated on Luhan’s face.  Luhan takes a brief moment to scan through his short cover-page list for the twenty-ninth of March, searching for the name, and then feels his heart drop when he spots the description information.  “The poor kid,” he murmurs, for once allowing his mouth to speak before he can control himself.  “He’s only nineteen.”

He raises his eyes to meet Joonmyeon’s almost mournful expression.  “Indeed he is,” he says, wringing his hands and giving Luhan a terse nod.  “He’s got two weeks at most.”

The familiar tightening sensation Luhan gets in his gut whenever he hears a new patient’s remaining time manages to squeeze his heart this time, and he hates himself for visibly wincing.  Joonmyeon’s expression shifts from melancholy to concerned in a heartbeat, and Luhan gives him a small, halfhearted smile to reassure him that he is fine.  Joonmyeon’s gaze lingers for a moment longer before he accepts the weak smile Luhan is giving him with a small sigh.  It is all he can do, Luhan knows.  Once someone enters the cancer unit, be it for work or as a patient, smiles become a dishonest thing.  All lackadaisical upward tilts of the corners of the lips and concealed pain.

Luhan sighs and absentmindedly pages through the information for his day’s clients.  He’s got some of the usual, he notices, although they too are running out of time.  He’s got a few others who have been in the unit for a short while as well, although usually with other nurses.  His only truly new patient for the day is the nineteen year old kid; Oh Sehun.

Without another word, he gives Joonmyeon a curt nod, turns on his heel, and exits the office to begin his rounds for the day, beginning with the new guy.

He stops halfway down a short hallway, in front of a door with a standard hospital plaque numbered 412C screwed into the wall next to it.  He takes a breath to steady himself.  In slow, out slower.  A typical practice for whenever he’s going to meet a new patient.  Then, with tendrils of hesitance that only arise as a result of having to work another day in such a dark, sterile place, he pulls down the handle of the door and enters the room.

There is only one patient, which is understandable for a cancer unit in the most esteemed hospital in Seoul.  He lies upon the white bed sheets draped in a hospital gown that seems to hang off of his bony shoulders; small gracefully accented eyes peeking out from under a mop of light chestnut hair, absentmindedly glued to the flat screen playing some random, bubbly commercial perched on the wall opposite his bed.  Even from where he is standing, Luhan can see sharp clavicles and a rather poorly hidden ribcage.  He feels his core tightening at the sight, his hesitance growing.  However, with a stiff swallow and a few uncomfortable steps, he reaches the boy and extends a hand toward him.

“Hello, Oh Sehun-ssi.  I’m Luhan; I’ll be the nurse taking care of you,” he tentatively introduces, briefly grasping the younger’s thin hand and giving it a single, gentle shake.  He tries not to allow his mind to linger on the fact that, despite the illness eating him alive, Sehun’s hand is startlingly warm.  Sehun gives him a polite nod in greeting.  “Hello, Luhan-ssi,” he replies, and Luhan is surprised by how strong his voice sounds despite how weak he seems to be.

Luhan tries to not allow his astonishment to show on his face as he flips to Sehun’s page in the packet of papers Joonmyeon has handed him.  “Well,” he says when he reaches the boy’s page and quickly scans the full description of his condition; “It says here that you’ve got pancreatic cancer.”  He tries not to wince as he raises his eyes to look at Sehun questioningly, silently asking for confirmation.  Sehun nods without blinking, seemingly unabashed by what Luhan has told him.  Luhan himself senses that he feels sorrier about the boy’s illness than Sehun does.

He clears his throat and continues painfully, “It also says here that you’ve got two weeks to live.  I presume you know this?”  Again, he glances up at Sehun for approval, who, again, nods his head without giving any indication that the news upsets him.  Awkward silence settles in for a few long moments in which Luhan averts his gaze to the steadily dripping liquid of the IV bag, wondering how to continue.  He turns up blank and decides to go with what he’s been trained to say.

“Well, then I guess that’s all.  If you ever need anything, feel more than free to call for me and I’ll be over in a heartbeat, okay?”  Sehun nods twice, again as if Luhan’s words have no effect on him, although he does not shift his gaze from Luhan’s face.  Luhan bows his head politely, and then turns on his heel to exit the room.  His hand is halfway to the door handle when Sehun’s eerily strong voice stops him in his movements.

“Luhan-ssi, can I ask you a question,” he asks, and when Luhan turns around to face him, he sees the younger’s eyebrows drawn into a small, inquisitive frown.  “Uh, sure,” he replies, although rather uncertainly.  Sehun only takes a moment’s pause to seemingly gather his thoughts and let out a small breath; and then he asks, “Why do you look so scared to be here?”

The question catches Luhan off guard, and he feels his composure shatter into pieces around him.  He averts his gaze desperately, trying to avoid his patient’s analytical eyes because he does not want the other to see how shocked he is that someone has managed to see past his façade, or at least actually comment on it now that he’s noticed.

“Um,” he murmurs, finding himself stumbling over the words trying to spill from his lips; “I’m not scared.”  But the way he says it sounds more like a question than a statement of fact, and he knows Sehun notices because his eyes shift into little crescents as he smiles in amusement.  Luhan feels embarrassment bubbling within as the boy releases a small chuckle.

“It’s okay,” Sehun says, eyes sincere as he smiles reassuringly at Luhan.  The older of the two tries his best to ignore the way his heart seems to be trying to beat right out of his chest at the image.  “You don’t have to hide it.  It’s okay to be scared.”  Luhan struggles to breathe at Sehun’s words; how can someone so young suddenly sound so wise?  “Cancer is a scary thing.  I get it.”

Luhan doesn’t respond, only stares at the younger in two parts bewilderment and three parts bemusement, because he isn’t sure how to reply.  Sehun doesn’t seem to mind his silence, for he continues.  “It’s a scary thing, but sometimes it can open your eyes to a lot.”  Luhan only nods in mock agreement; he probably should honestly agree, although he doesn’t quite know why he should.

Sehun seems to notice this too, for he gives Luhan another small smile, and Luhan suddenly finds it hard to breathe at its brilliance.  How can someone with only two weeks to live smile so brightly?  Luhan has the rest of a lifetime ahead of him and he can’t even manage to pull half of the brilliance of Sehun’s smile.

“I have two weeks to live,” Sehun says, and it surprises Luhan that he can say it without the slightest bit of fear or negative emotion in his tone.  “In those two weeks, Luhan-ssi,” he continues, “I promise I will show you just what cancer has shown me.”  His voice is strong and sure, although his smile is gentle and inviting, and Luhan feels his rules about not getting attached suddenly crumbling around him.

He hesitantly asks, “Why waste your last two weeks showing me what cancer has shown you?”  And he feels his stomach flip when Sehun meets his gaze and replies, in the surest of voices, “Because you’re going to be watching me die for the next two weeks, and I want you to see that it’s okay to be scared, even if there’s no real reason to be."

The air around him is thick, the wind outside blowing in a completely different direction, the world itself rotating off its axis.  Luhan feels himself beginning to spiral to the point of no return.

The first time Sehun calls Luhan over to speak to him, it is three in the afternoon on the thirtieth of March and cloudless in the happy world outside the window.  Luhan, true to his word, appears within the space of a heartbeat, curious eyes locked on Sehun’s frail-looking figure on the bed.  “Is there something you need,” he politely asks, absentmindedly adjusting the hem of his uniform shirt.

Sehun smiles and gently shakes his head.  A delicate frown falls upon Luhan’s equally delicate features, and he tilts his head and questions, “So then why did you call me over here?  Are you alright?”  He tries his hardest to ignore how his voice escapes him in a more concerned tone that he should allow, although when he fails, he blames his lapse in judgment on the fact that he feels sorry for his newest patient.  Sehun is only nineteen, after all, and his time is ticking.

“I’m fine,” Sehun says, although he reaches out a hand in Luhan’s direction.  “Come here for a minute.”  His tone is just as gentle as his nod of the head, and although Luhan could easily tell him he will not, that he has work to do, paperwork to fill out, he finds himself entertaining the young boy’s wishes.  He doesn’t take Sehun’s hand; however he does bring himself to stand right next to the patient’s bed.

When he makes no other movement, Sehun reaches down and tenderly grabs his hand, and again Luhan is fazed by how warm his hand is, how well he is able to wrap it around his own.  He glances down for a fraction of a second to briefly analyze how Sehun is holding onto his hand, and then hurriedly averts his gaze when the sight of it causes his heart to flutter about in his chest.  He is entering dangerous territory.

“Look out there,” Sehun says, voice soft but strong, almost as if he is trying to create some sort of effect.  He gestures toward the window with his free hand, and Luhan allows his gaze to follow.  The sunlight peeking out from between the high rises and skyscrapers of Seoul succeed in blinding him for a moment, and he wishes with all his might that he could be outside, basking in its warmth rather than being blinded by its brightness.  He sees how the light reflects across the glass of the buildings in the downtown metropolis area of the city, reshaping and reforming and refracting into infinitesimally smaller rays of light that seem to make the city glitter in the light of the day.

How he wishes he were out there instead of in here.

“It’s nice out there, isn’t it?”  Sehun’s voice succeeds in snapping Luhan out of whatever reverie he was able to slip into in the space of five seconds.  He nods his head and hums in agreement, gaze still fixated on the window and the great view of the outside world. 

“Everything’s so lively and bright,” Sehun continues; “There are people bustling about all over the place, going from establishment to establishment, walking together in groups, hanging out after school or getting a drink after work.  There are kids out shopping with their parents, spending quality time with them, and there are loners working long nights in the office because they have nothing to return home to.  There are people holding hands and eating in cafes and walking together in parks, all on dates.  There are people mugging and occasionally murdering, and there are people defending and fighting back.”

He suddenly stops, and Luhan soon after feels a placid tug on his hand.  He looks down at Sehun and finds himself meeting that dark gaze with his own, drowning in those dark eyes with the bruise-like shadows underneath them.  He finds that the patient looks exhausted, almost as if he’s been struggling to stay awake for days now, but when he speaks again, he does not sound tired.  He sounds strong and sure.  Far wiser than any nineteen year old ever should sound.

“The first thing cancer teaches you,” he begins again after a moment, “Is that even when it feels like your own little world is ending, the rest of the world’s world goes on.”  Luhan scrunches his nose up in confusion, the words ringing around in his head.  Sehun gives him an understanding smile and softly begins to the back of his hand with his thumb.  Luhan feels something stirring deep inside of him at the smooth, easy touch.

“When I first found out I had pancreatic cancer, my first instinct was to ask if the doctors were sure, and then my second one was to question how I, of all people, could get pancreatic cancer.  Cancer doesn’t run in my family and pancreatic cancer, of all things, is one of the rarest forms.”  Luhan nods, knowing full well how extremely rare Sehun’s case is.  Pancreatic cancer is extremely rare, and when found, it is usually found in people who have already had time to live out their lives, not teenagers.  Much less teenagers with no family history of cancer.  It is so rare, in fact, that there is no specific treatment other than generic cancer treatment, and the survival rate once an afflicted individual has reached metastasis is less than one percent.  Before then, it is two.

A two percent surivival rate, if it is caught early.  Sehun has had practically no chance to fight from the beginning.  He tries to not think about how that saddens him just a little more than the usual drifting from room to room in his unit does.

He’s only nineteen.

“I was almost at that point of questioning why it had to happen to me,” Sehun continues; “I almost started feeling sorry for myself.  I almost fell into depression.  When my doctor told me I had three months left, at best, I almost wanted to give up on life.”  Luhan isn’t sure why, but for some reason, he feels his heart beating harder in his chest.  A harsh banging on his ribcage that he consciously knows he shouldn’t be feeling.  A harsh banging on his ribcage that he can’t control.  Everything is spiraling out of his hands.  He can feel it.

“But then I realized something,” Sehun says, breaking him out of his over-attentiveness towards his heartbeat.   “I realized that I’m only nineteen.  There are so many things that I had yet to do – still have yet to do – and while the thought of having only three months to live almost made me feel frustrated about what small a timeframe I had to do all of the things in life I want to do, it also made me realize that life goes on.”  He pauses again, brows furrowing.  He seems to consider something, and then starts up again in that same smooth, strong voice.

“I may have been given only three months to live, but I realized that that was no reason for me to be upset.  Life will go on whether I sit and mope about my illness or not.  The only one who would be affected if I wanted to wallow in my sorrow would be me.  I would be the one missing out on all the life around me.”

He gives Luhan a small, proud smile, and Luhan feels something within him melt because of its radiance.  Somehow, the sun doesn’t seem to affect him as much as Sehun’s smile does.  Somehow, it doesn’t seem as bright.

The next time Sehun calls Luhan over to speak to him, it’s the last day of March, and his skin seems just a bit less pale as Luhan walks in.  Luhan would take it as a good sign, as a sign of hope for recovery, if it were not for the fact that he knows that no one makes it out of his unit alive.  The patients always leave in stretchers, some just days after their arrival.  Pale, fragile bodies barely covered by the thin, white hospital blankets used when escorting the dead to the morgue, much like the way their skin just barely manages to stretch over their bones from the effects of their illnesses.  Plastic skin and sallow faces.  Useless tissues and clogged lungs.  Lifeless eyes and apathetic misery.

Sehun gestures with his hands for Luhan to come closer, and Luhan wordlessly complies.  No questions.  No questioning gazes.  When he reaches Sehun’s bedside, the teenager grabs hold of his hand again, and again, he can’t contain the feeling of his heart fluttering about in his chest.  Another slip up.  Another crack in his cautiously placed armor.  Another bruise on his already battered heart when he remembers why he should not allow himself to get attached.

Just as the day before, Sehun gestures out the window and tells him to watch life going on outside of the hospital.  Luhan does so without inquiry, even though he’s not quite sure why he just complies with whatever Sehun says.  Once again he finds himself examining the way the sunlight reflects off the buildings, reshapes into another beam on the surface of the glass, refracts out at a completely different angle, the whole city seeming to glimmer under the sun.

“Take a look at the life going on,” Sehun tells him, and Luhan averts his gaze from the buildings to instead focus on the ant-like people bustling about on the busy street four stories below.  Some are jogging, some are walking along the sidewalk hand in hand, some are standing and watching the scene, as he is.  There are groups of students walking around, probably heading home.  There are people entering and exiting shops and restaurants.  There are cars steadily driving down the street, occasionally beeping and whipping past each other.

Luhan sees it all happen, although he isn’t sure if he’s seeing what he’s supposed to be.  He turns and gives Sehun a questioning look this time.  The young patient just gives him a small smile and asks, “Do you see everyone down there?”  Luhan frowns, perplexed, but nods nonetheless and awaits Sehun’s explanation.

“Do you see how they’re all doing something with themselves?”  Luhan nods again, frown deepening.  Curiosity settling firmly into his gut.  If Sehun notices his expression, he doesn’t seem to be hurried by it, and Luhan briefly wonders how someone with so little time to live can take his sweet time with everything he does, from blinking to breathing; Sehun does everything slow but steady.  He watches as Sehun gently lays his other hand on the back of his own and begins to rub his thumb in small circles against the wrist.

There is a long silence between them.  The only sound that fills the room is the steady beeping of the monitor keeping track of Sehun’s pulse.  Luhan watches, mesmerized, as Sehun his hand oh so gently with his thumb.  He doesn’t feel how time slowly but surely slips through the spaces between his fingers.

When Sehun speaks again, his voice is strong enough to startle Luhan.  Luhan jerks where he is standing, trance broken as Sehun says, “Another thing cancer teaches you is that every moment is special.”  He tilts his head in the direction of the window, silently motioning for Luhan to look outside.  Luhan lifts his gaze to peek outside yet again, allowing Sehun’s explanation to wrap around him and caress his eardrums as he speaks.

“Do you see all of those people down there going about with their lives,” he questions, and when Luhan nods, continues; “They all, whether they know it or not, are creating their own special moments.  They may be good moments, they may be bad moments, but either way, they’re all moments.  Each person down there is creating a special moment for him or her self, and they’ll keep that moment with their self until they die.”  Luhan nods twice in silent understanding, flicking his eyes from person to person, observing them for a brief few fractions of a second before examining the next one.

He waits patiently for Sehun to continue, although the latter never does.  Once the silence falls, it does not lift.  Luhan turns to see why Sehun isn’t speaking and finds that the young patient is staring right back at him.  His dark eyes seem to glide over every inch of Luhan’s face, and Luhan suddenly feels himself flushing under the gaze.

Sehun chuckles in amusement and raises one of his hands to softly pat his cheek.  “That’s all there is for today, Luhan-ssi.”  He gives Luhan a soft smile and releases the latter’s hand, and Luhan feels a sudden sensation in his stomach begin to overwhelm him.  “Call me hyung,” he says without thinking, and then he grimaces and mentally scolds himself because he’s never told a patient to call him anything other than “Luhan-ssi.”

He hesitantly inspects Sehun’s face only to find the young patient smiling at him, something like happiness seeming to brim at the tilted corners of his lips and shimmer in the soft smile lines by his eyes.  “Alright, hyung,” he says, and his voice sounds so sure and happy that Luhan is sure that, if not for all of the medical machinery the boy is wired to, he would believe that Sehun isn’t really sick, that they aren’t really in a hospital, that the young boy isn’t really dying.

“You can go now, if you want hyung,” Sehun says, and for some reason Luhan feels as if he doesn’t exactly want to.  He’s curious about what Sehun has told him; it seems as if he’s holding something in; as if he’s keeping something from him; as if there is something Sehun’s not telling him.  But, being the obedient soul he is, he gives Sehun a curt nod and exits the room, the pounding in his chest a constant reminder of the fact that he’s allowing himself to break his own rules and, along with them, the walls he’s spent his time since his first day on the job trying to build.

Sehun calls him in every day for the two weeks that he is in the hospital, each day calmly telling Luhan to look out the window and watch the people below, and then recounting yet another lesson cancer has taught him.  Luhan listens wordlessly every day, absorbing everything Sehun says with the utmost interest.  Each day is a new lesson, a new story, and, as much as Luhan hates to think, in Sehun’s case, a blessing.

Luhan tries to ignore it in the beginning, but as time wears on he can’t help but to notice how much more exhausted Sehun seems to be, how much more he sleeps throughout the day as Luhan does his rounds, how much more medication he is being told to give the patient.  Sehun was all peachy pale skin and scarily prominent bone structure when he first arrived; now he is startlingly pale, almost translucent skin stretched over steadily weakening bones and deteriorating muscle.  He resembles more and more, with each passing day, a living corpse, and the thought itself tears open a hole in Luhan’s already decrepit heart, because each day that Sehun has been in his life has been a painfully wonderful lesson that rules are meant to be broken no matter who creates them.

On April the eleventh, Sehun calls in Luhan for his last official lesson.  Luhan doesn’t hesitate in coming to his bedside this time; he hasn’t hesitated for the past week and a half.  It should startle him how quickly he has grown accustomed to getting so close to a patient, and it does to an extent; but more than anything, when he stands by Sehun’s bed he gets the strongest sense of belonging.  It is as if he is meant to stand by the young patient’s bed and allow Sehun to grab hold of his hand and shakily trace the lines of his veins with his thumb.

“Look out of the window,” Sehun says, and Luhan tries to ignore the fact that his voice no longer sounds strong and healthy, although he knows deep within the depths of his heart that it is because the end is growing rapidly nearer.  “Look at all of the life happening outside.”  Sehun’s hoarse voice is barely above a whisper, although in the stillness and silence of a floor where everyone is slowly withering away, it is more than loud enough.

“Do you see all of those people,” Sehun asks after a moment of silence in which Luhan soundlessly watches the usual three o’clock scene play before his eyes.  He nods, turning his head to look steadily down at Sehun, who is giving him a weak, ghostly smile.

“Remember when I told you that all of them are making special moments, whether they realize it or not?”  Again, Luhan nods, and something almost like excitement threatens to break through the despair that has slowly but surely been creeping about within him, eating him alive for the last thirteen days.  He’s finally going to have his questions answered; he can feel it just as much as he can feel the way his heart hammers against his chest at Sehun’s feather-light touch.

“Well, hyung, what I didn’t tell you that day-” he pauses, coughs feebly, and then continues in a throaty voice; “What I didn’t tell you was that even if they do realize that they are making special moments, they won’t cherish them.”  Luhan finds it almost comical how Sehun is calling him hyung and enlightening him on life’s lessons all at once.  Except that Sehun stops his explanation to cough again, this time longer than the last time and ending with him watery eyed and shaking.

Luhan finds himself Sehun’s hands back in return, and he watches as the boy closes his eyes and heaves in an unsteady breath, seeming to enjoy the soft touch.  When he opens his eyes again, there is strength in them – all of the strength that has gone missing from his voice in the last few days.  He clears his throat, and begins where he left off and Luhan can see the amount of strength it takes for him to speak.

“They won’t cherish those moments until it’s too late,” he says, unwaveringly meeting Luhan’s gaze.  Luhan realizes that he wouldn’t be able to move his eyes away even if he wanted to; Sehun’s dark eyes are locking his own bright ones in place.  He is a statue where he stands.  Immobile.

“They’ll be too caught up living in the future to appreciate what’s happening now, what’s happening as they make memories and moments that last lifetimes.”  He pauses, inhales a shaky breath, clears his throat, continues.  “They won’t cherish what they have until they realize that their time is almost up, and it’s a real waste.”

Here, he hesitates, as if there is something he is unsure he should say.  There is a battle in his eyes, a war raging about in his mind and clouding over his eyes.  Something flashes over his face before it settles into a resolute expression, and Luhan listens intently as Sehun says, “I was one of those people.  I only ever lived for the future.  I was so certain that everything would go well for me; that I’d grow up and get married and have a family of my own.  I’d be some form of an art teacher – most likely dancing or something like that – and every day I’d come home and listen to my kids blabber about their lives and smile.”

Luhan feels his heart wilting, falling apart petal by petal until all that is left is the stem.  The bruised, battered, torn stem.  Something like tears wells up in his eyes at the way Sehun smiles happily at his own naivety, seeming to silently long for it to be true.  Luhan can’t help the hopeless despair rushing within him as he silently listens to Sehun’s story.

“I thought we’d all live together in a comfortable but not large home and eat meals together and be happy as a family.  I thought my kids would take full part in things they were interested in and I’d happily drive them back and forth wherever they needed to go, and that I’d take days off from work to watch them shine in what they love – whatever it is.”  He stops, and Luhan waits for Sehun to slowly realize that he will never actually get to that stage, waits for the tears to build in Sehun’s gracefully accented eyes as they are gathering in his own.  But nothing.

Sehun does not cry.  If anything, he smiles brighter and gestures for Luhan to bend so that he can extend a hand and gently pat his cheek.  Luhan tries to not let the tears spill at the frail touch, at the weak pats, at the way Sehun still has a hand tenderly grasping his own.

“Of course I was wrong, as you can see,” he continues, and his words squeeze whatever is left of Luhan’s defeated heart.  “I was diagnosed with cancer and suddenly the only future that mattered was the one three months ahead of me; the one where I died at nineteen years old, maybe legal age if I was lucky enough.  I realized that I wasted so much time focusing on the future instead of enjoying the present.  I realized that I was wasting my time, so I changed how I thought about time.”

His next breath is unsteady and heavy, as if he is struggling to breathe, and when he speaks again, his voice seems just that much weaker.  “So in conclusion – because I’m not sure if I can teach you any more than this, hyung – cancer has taught me to cherish every moment, because you never know which one is your last.”  He gives Luhan a smile that almost manages to force the tears out of the latter’s eyes.

Luhan leaves work on the eleventh of April with his heart like lead in his ribcage.

Luhan’s final, albeit unofficial, lesson is a day later, on the twelfth of April.  He goes about his morning rounds as usual, although the lingering pain in his heart assures him that today is no typical day.  At half past two in the afternoon, Sehun calls for him.  He can’t deny the fact that he makes it to Sehun’s room in record time.  It’s half an hour earlier than Sehun usually calls for him.  Worry is settling in his gut.

“You called for me, Sehun-ah,” he asks as he walks over to Sehun’s bedside.  He notices for the billionth time that day the ghastly pale color of Sehun’s skin, the sharp clavicles unhidden by the neckline of his hospital gown, the dark, bruise-like circles shadowing his eyes.  He swallows the lump in his throat, simultaneously swallowing the small sob that wants to escape with it.  He fights down the tears in his eyes with little more than a struggle.

“I did,” Sehun says, and Luhan feels something tighten painfully in his chest at the fact that Sehun’s voice really is nothing more than a whisper anymore.  “It’s half an hour earlier than you usually call me,” Luhan says, trying to fill the harsh void beginning to consume his beaten heart by filling in the silence around him.  He feels Sehun’s frail fingers weakly grip his hand and tug on his arm.  “Take a seat, hyung,” he gently suggests, voice just as frail as his grip on Luhan’s hand.

Luhan smoothes out the blanket next to Sehun’s thin form and takes a seat on the small space.  Sehun is smiling at him in a way that makes his heart both flutter and shatter all at once.  “Hyung, I just wanted to thank you for spending these last two weeks with me, even if you were getting paid for it.”  His lame attempt at a joke coupled with his sincere word of thanks has tears springing to Luhan’s eyes again.

“It’s no problem, Sehun-ah,” he says, gently running his thumb against the back of the boy’s hand.  Wasn’t it just two weeks ago that Sehun was doing the same thing to him?  “It was my pleasure.”  He offers Sehun a soft, tentative smile – one that is genuine rather than polite and professional; one that Luhan feels Sehun has drawn out of him over the course of the past two weeks.  Still all lackadaisical upward tilts of the corners of the lips and concealed pain.  But genuine emotion behind it, this time; Sehun deserves to see a smile.  Sehun deserves to see the world.  Sehun deserves to not die.

But life is never fair.

“Are you still scared, hyung,” Sehun asks, and Luhan finds himself hurriedly shaking his head.  He’s not sure why, because he’s not sure of the answer, but he finds himself declining the notion.  “Are you sure,” Sehun presses; “It’s okay to still be scared.”  Luhan nods twice, solemnly, and shakily whispers out, “I’m not scared.”

Sehun smiles weakly, the muscles in his face straining to pull the corners of his lips up just enough to make the expression identifiable.  “Good.  I’m glad.”  He coughs into his free hand, and he coughs long and hard enough to have him teary eyed when he’s done.

“Hey hyung,” he suddenly begins, and Luhan meets his gaze and listens as intently as he possibly can.  “Can I try something really quick?”  Luhan frowns, purses his lips, gives Sehun a quizzical look.  “Don’t worry, hyung; I won’t have to get out of bed for it.”

Luhan’s frown turns curious, but he nods nonetheless.  His heart almost lurches out of his chest when Sehun suddenly tries to push himself up into a sitting position.  “Wait, what are you doing?  Don’t push yourself,” Luhan worriedly warns, although Sehun waves him off with a frail hand and a light smile.  “I promise, it’s not too much, hyung.  You said I could.”

Luhan’s scowl deepens, although he allows Sehun to sit up.  The process seems to be brutal for him, and when he is finally in a sitting position, his breathing is labored and uneven, and another series of coughs wracks through him before he is able to calmly meet Luhan’s gaze with his own watery one.  “Okay, hyung,” Sehun says; “I just need you to stay really still, okay?”

When Luhan goes to nod his head in approval, Sehun stops him with, “Ah, hyung, remember; stay still.”  So Luhan hums in approval instead, watching Sehun carefully as the latter raises his feeble hands to weakly but gently, oh so gently, cup his face.  His thumbs drag slowly across Luhan’s porcelain cheeks, and Luhan’s eyelids begin to fall as Sehun’s face draws ever nearer to his own.

He doesn’t close his eyes when Sehun’s lips lightly press against his own, and Sehun’s own eyes aren’t closed either.  As a matter of fact, their gazes are locked and Luhan realizes with a slight jolt that he wouldn’t be able to avert his eyes even if he wanted to.  Time freezes around them, and Luhan curiously ponders if this is what it feels like to savor a moment, to enjoy the present instead of plan and prepare for the future.

The kiss is brief, no more than a couple of fleeting seconds in reality, and when Sehun breaks away and opens his eyes all the way, he gives Luhan the happiest smile the latter has ever seen in his life.

“I can get in trouble for that, you know,” Luhan says, although he can’t help the small smile elegantly stretching over his face; “You’re a minor after all.”

Sehun’s subsequent laugh is small and weak, and it ends in a series of rib-shaking coughs as he eases himself into reclining against his pillows again.  When he stops, the coughs have managed to force out a few tears and his smile is weaker than before; Luhan can see that he is in pain.  But he is still smiling.  “No you can’t, hyung,” Sehun says, and Luhan swears he almost sounds smug.  “Today’s my twentieth birthday.  I’m legal.”

But as soon as he says it, he falls into another coughing fit, and the tears escaping from his eyes are more and more frequent until it seems as if he is crying.  It takes Luhan a moment to realize that it’s because Sehun really is crying, and then another fraction of a second for him to realize why.  He jerks in his seat and begins to get up to go get a doctor, but a soft hand on his own glues him to his spot.

He meets Sehun’s gaze, noticing the resolution in his eyes.  “No, hyung, it’s okay,” he says, and his voice is no more than a strained whisper slowly thinning out into the air around him.  Luhan feels the frail fragments of his heart shattering again and again, tearing over and over and over in his chest as the situation fully sinks in.

“No, no, this is not okay, Sehun!  You’re dying, it’s not okay!  You need help,” he responds, worry making his voice thick with emotion and the tears welling up in his eyes forcing his voice to crack halfway through.  Sehun’s still gentle smile forces him to panic.  “Hyung, we both knew this day would come.”

“No, no, Sehun don’t say that.  You’re going to be fine, Sehun-ah, you’re going to be fine,” Luhan gasps out as the tears begin to spill, falling onto the white sheets of the hospital bed beneath him.

“We both know that’s a lie, hyung,” Sehun says as his eyes slowly begin to close for the last time.

“Sehun-ah, stop talking nonsense!  Don’t close your eyes!”  Luhan’s voice is steadily growing louder, and it’s not long before he is almost screaming instead of whispering.

“Thank you for making my last two weeks worth living, hyung.”

“Sehun-ah, quit it!  You’re going to be fine!  You’re going to be fine!  Don’t close your eyes!  Stay with me!”  He’s desperate, he realizes.  He’s desperate because he’s scared; he’s terrified, as a matter of fact.  “Please don’t go, Sehun-ah.  Please, Sehun-ah, I’m scared; don’t leave me.  Please.”  A sharp intake of breath for his suddenly burning lungs.  “Sehun, please.  Don’t leave me.  I love you.”

He swears he sees the corners of Sehun’s lips twitch upwards just before the machine monitoring his pulse falls into a flat line.

Gray.

Everything around Luhan is gray.

And beeping.

Everything around Luhan is beeping.

He supposes it shouldn’t bother him as much as it does; he’s worked in the hospital long enough for him to have grown accustomed to his surroundings.  Nonetheless the lack of color is another deep scar on the fragments of his already shattered heart.  He craves the sunlight, the blue sky, the green grass and soft rustling of healthy cherry trees.  But these are all things he must see through the windows of a hospital from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon as he runs through boring, daily routines and does halfhearted check-ups on people whose survival rates hardly ever exceed twenty percent.  He supposes that’s just what he gets for wanting to be a nurse.

He also supposes that the never-ending heartbreak he feels is what he gets for allowing himself to grow attached.

Gray.

Everything around Luhan is gray.

The world outside is gray, the world inside is gray, the fragments of his heart are gray and dead.  The light has gone out of his life.  The world without Sehun is gray.  He realizes now, a week after his death and three days after his funeral (which he may or may not have attended and broken down completely at) that Sehun brought light and life into a place where everything was white and colorless.  Sehun brought color into his world.

And when he left, he took the color and life with him.

Gray.

Everything around Luhan is gray.

And dead.

Everything in Luhan’s life is dead.  Including his own heart.  And he knows in the depths of his soul that he’ll never find the light to motivate his heart into beating again.

I would say "Don't kill me," but I feel as if I might actually deserve it after writing this.
Well...
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed it (even if that is a weird thing to say about angst)
Thank you so much for reading Lovelies!
Word Count: 7,580
Love Always, K