“You know,” Dr. Kwang says as he passes over several papers and pamphlets to Kyung, giving him a gentle pat on his shoulder before pulling away, “I’m glad you felt nervous enough to get this checked out. It could have been a lot worse if you had waited.”

Kyung nods, staring down at the papers, fingers tracing the words but not reading. There’s a picture of an older man with his wife on the cover; his smile is so wide, he looks so comfortable to be sitting outside with his wife in a beautiful garden, her arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders. They look so confident, with their grins and loving touches, as if they know that they are a success story, and the picture makes Kyung’s stomach lurch.

“Yeah.” The word isn’t meant for much other than filler, and Dr. Kwang uses the silence to fill out an appointment card, repeating the date and time slowly as he explains what the next visit will entail. Kyung still doesn’t move, only continues to stare down at the picture, his thumb covering the old man’s smile. The words don’t register to him, and the doctor sighs before carefully placing the card in his palm. Kyung finally looks up when Dr. Kwang holds onto his hand for a moment longer, encasing it in his own two.

“Mr. Park, I truly am sorry.”

The words are genuine, solemn, but Kyung can hear the calculated professionalism in his tone. He wonders how many other patients Dr. Kwang had to give the same news to just today.

“Yeah.”

Kyung shuts down; his body moves without him, his lips stretch into cracked smiles and say bright words that don’t match his sinking heart, his brain reminds him what is left and right and that he needs to use turn signals when driving. His mind strays, instead focusing on who, how, when, why. Why should he go through this, when he was finally becoming successful; how does he deal with this, when they have so much planned for the next year; who should he tell—who does he need to tell, with the estimated deadline he was given. There’s a weight that settles on his shoulders, a clock that starts ticking somewhere, and Kyung sags more and more in his seat with every passing second. His hands feel numb, he’s suddenly terrified that he’s not gripping the steering wheel hard enough, and his heart strikes his ribcage, echoing the clock. His eyes stare ahead, his cheeks remain dry, and his body trembles.

His fingers take the key out of the ignition at the same time Kyung comes to the conclusion that he can’t tell anyone just yet.

The thought of revealing the news gives him whiplash, and his hands rattle the steering wheel when thinking of the reactions. They will cry, they will question, they will touch and cradle and give false promises and demands and expectations, and Kyung can’t. He can’t remind them that there’s a projected time limit, that there’s so few treatment plans, that the success stories only show up on the pamphlets and not on the streets, because they won’t understand. He thinks of his parents, of his sister and brother, of his friends, of the managers and co-workers and Block B, of Jiho—Kyung knows they won’t understand.

Time is something that seems very delicate to him, but also seems incredibly essential to waste right now.

Except he can’t prolong it, can’t hide behind smiles and personas because Kyung isn’t given enough time to prepare before opening the apartment door to see that Jiho is home, sitting at the kitchen table with Minhyuk’s stolen book in one hand and a fork in the other. He doesn’t look up, Kyung’s opened the door too gingerly for him to have heard, and the blonde watches the leader’s eyes follow the words on the page, absently stirring the noodles in his dish as he reads. A tongue flickers out to catch a spot of sauce on his bottom lip before Jiho lifts the fork, leaning in but never looking away from the page as he slurps at the pasta. He’s using the sunlight that streams through the windows behind him as his light source; there’s no background music, only the faint sounds of Jiho’s chewing and pages turning, and the mood is so calm, so ordinary, that Kyung feels dizzy from the imbalance.

Anger scorches his veins, despair freezes his limbs, envy beats against his head and need strangles his heart, making him both want and despise the leader’s presence. Jiho looks up, finally noticing when the blonde’s shoes fall to the floor, and gives a distracted “hey” before his eyes fall back down to the book. He looks so normal, his response so predictable and expected, that Kyung snaps.

The sound of his stomping echoes in the room and he yanks Jiho away from the table, away from his typical lunch of ramen and typical need to read whatever Minhyuk’s read, and kisses him hard. He grips instead of cradles, his fingers digging into the leader’s head, and their teeth scrape against lips when Kyung tries to deepen it, pressing himself against the other’s mouth. Jiho struggles to keep up at first and then tries to pull away, small shouts escaping him every time their lips disconnect slightly as he tugs on Kyung’s wrists. The blonde is fighting him, keeping him in his grip while kissing him, and Jiho has to jab his fingers hard into Kyung’s sides before he is finally free.  

“Park Kyung, what the ! Not so hard!” Kyung can see that Jiho’s lips are too red, hair is too disheveled when he pulls away to assess the damage, and fear quakes through his body at the thought of possibly hurting his boyfriend, but the leader still has one hand gently gripping Kyung’s arm, rubbing his thumb over the exposed skin, making sure to keep him close. While it may be meaningless to Jiho—purely automatic even—right now it means so much to Kyung.  

The trembling starts in his core, smashing his heart against his ribs before leeching into his limbs, causing even Jiho’s fingers to shake in their place on his arm. His stomach tightens, almost as if aware of its own aliment, and the pain seeps in, alternating between dull blows to Kyung’s lower abs and finite needles picking and tearing at his upper stomach, digging in deeper every time he tries to inhale. His breath comes in little gasps and his vision flickers in and out of focus as the imagined pain spreads through his body, just like Kyung pictures it soon will because he’s not a success story.

“K-kyung!”

He can dimly hear Jiho’s worried shout of his name but everything is washed away when the roaring buzz overtakes his ears, forcing him to focus solely on himself. The pain pounds into his head, turns his skull to glass, drums into his eyes and jaw and everything is aching and ringing. He desperately tries to grab onto something, anything, but fingers fail to latch onto the fabric of Jiho’s shirt. His heart is beating in his head, imitating the ticking of the second hand on the clock, thrashing against the glass wall of his forehead. It takes all of his strength to breathe out a whimpering “Jiho” before his throat closes up and his knees hit the floor.

Jiho is down next to him within seconds, mouth spewing, “K-kyung, oh my god—what happened? What did they say? Kyung! P-park Kyung!” His hands roam in futile attempts to comfort; brushing the sweaty blonde hair from Kyung’s eyes, rubbing circles into his back, holding his face as he tries to get his boyfriend to look at him. But he can’t soothe away the trembling, and Kyung’s eyes remain unfocused as his breathing quickens. Jiho pulls at bony shoulders and cradles the blonde in his arms, forcing him to rest his head on his shoulder.  Partly because he can’t think of anything else to do, mostly because he doesn’t want Kyung to see the fear on his face.

He finally gets a response when he starts rocking , swaying back and forth, leaving long soft kisses on his temple and his damp hair. Kyung clings to him and wheezes as he inhales, struggling to breathe past the needles.  

Jiho can’t see that Kyung’s eyes are wide and glassy. He can’t see his hands spasmimg as the trembles wrack his body. He can’t see his mouth flop helplessly as he tries to get his blocked throat to work. So he isn’t ready when Kyung breaks apart in his arms. The loud, shattering sob that rips from Kyung’s lips catches him off-guard and rattles in his head, making him sick.

The air is stolen from Jiho’s lungs when Kyung finally speaks.

“I have c-cancer!”