From darkness, rise

The air carries the constant beeps of machinery, drops from the IV he's connected to and he should be scared and, yet, he can only think of Jinwoo, who lies on a similar bed next to him, his face a peaceful mask of tranquillity and calm, all serene despite what he's about to do.

He aches to hold him one last time, to kiss his glossed lips with the after-taste of sedatives and painkillers and the sweet flavour of flowers beneath it (a taste that belongs to him only and that Minho hasn't had the time to get used to it). He can only strain to hold hands though, the stretcher too far away to allow other commodities (and Minho sighs, defeated by the fact that he won't be able to kiss him good-bye). He is accustomed to it, though, has done more on them in better days, not today. Today he has to bury all hopes and all dreams; has to keep his mind clean so he will be able to undergo what he has to.

He has always known that this day was meant to happen so it doesn't come as a surprise. He, though, never expected that he would have the chance of being loved, to be in love, properly, to have Jinwoo who came into his life like ashes ready to ignite his empty chest, who took away his sadness, putting hues into his fears, painting them by numbers. It has given him strength, the force and the will to improve but a beating heart can't beat the sickness stuck inside his veins this easily, and his kidney is bound to failure, leaving him with little expectations, little hopes of surviving.

And, once more, Jinwoo has come in like rain, offering him his own gland in order to save Minho.

"So you can carry my heart with you," he had said among Minho's flooding tears. He was so flustered after it, bitten lips and hands fidgeting with the green, thin, paper covers of Minho's bed. He has laughed at his silliness, choked on his own spite before Minho held his hands, kissed the back of his fingers. A promise of love, of redemption. "It's just a kidney in the end," he had assured him, brushing away softly his prickling tears. "People doesn't die due to it," but Minho was, has been, until Jinwoo, who is all hopes, who is made out of winter afternoons: cosy and warm, homey.

Minho began to adore winter after Jinwoo: the long nights holding hands and talking over the cold, the snow batting against the hospital room, freezing glass that he turned into a masterpiece, drawing his features over the condensation, fingertips burning with ice that Jinwoo would later melt with his warmness. He had touched his face and Jinwoo shivered under it, giggling like icicles, clean, bright, joyous. He was his Polar Star, always pointing North, always carrying him home, wherever it was (it was always Jinwoo).

With Jinwoo pressed by his chest, sharing the same ceiling and the same bed, he could pretend that everything was OK, that they were both sane, that they weren't what they were: room-mates bound to be hospitalised before death parted them. Jinwoo was all faith and reliance, a prayer becoming true. He gave him courage, brought back dreams he long had dismissed, belittled. Jinwoo was all good intentions and resilience and, with him, he bloomed against the illness, the tumour halt midway. Jinwoo, too, improved with Minho's hand tugged inside his fingers, with the slow dance of lingering striking over his silky hair, lips brushing under flashes of white, his flavour melting with sedatives and painkillers under his tongue, his voice lulling him while his body trembled due to the aftermath of therapy, washing away the puke of his skin, brushing his locks stuck onto his forehead with pain and sweat. They met sharing a goal and they were discharged the same day, different cases that subdued illness, they left with bright smiles and entangled arms, giggling at the prospects, at the opportunities waiting for them, a sky of love above. They were going home. 

It didn’t last. Minho worsened in a year and not a single day Jinwoo left his side. He stayed through chemo, through the agony and the throwing up all he managed to eat. He stayed and, later on, got himself hospitalised because of Minho.

Jinwoo didn't need to.

"You would do the same," Jinwoo smiled when the test came back: when it was just a matter of time and Minho couldn't make Jinwoo change his mind. They had the same type of blood, he would be the perfect donor, and nothing he could ever say would convince Jinwoo to reconsider, to step aside and wait for another alternative (he never contemplated anything else, not when he got his mind into it, stubborn, persistent and lovely Jinwoo, who was so willing to give away his own kidney).

He offered it to him, yielding to him with all the wiring of his heart, his kindress beaming through his eyes like fireflies and stars.

"It's nothing much. I would give you my life if it was possible," he had said and Minho had never cried this hard before, messy and ugly, his head hidden on the crook of Jinwoo's neck, tears storming over the robe, sobs subduing to the kisses, to all of Jinwoo's words of love. Just the thought was overwhelming and, yet, Jinwoo was there, offering him like a dream: a prospect of living and it was hard to breathe, to grasp the idea of defeating the tumour, of finding a cure instead of palliatives. 

Minho doesn't deserve him, this miracle, this warm, blooming heart that beats inside of Jinwoo's chest, he knows and, yet, Jinwoo is willing to give him his chest, more than that: a life together, a project, something he hasn't dare to assume, sure that his days were counted, that his time was running thin, out.

Jinwoo lays next to him, his hand cold and lifeless, drowsy with meds flooding his system to prevent any infection. Like this, so peaceful, he can close his eyes and reminiscent how he was when they first met, four years from now. And, with his lashes down, he can speak what lingers in his mind, all the dread that has piled up inside his heart.

"You have done more than enough for me, this is not necessary, hyung," he mumbles, voice wavering, cracking at the edge with sorrow and pain. "If this goes bad, I should be the only one to go," he continues, feeling Jinwoo's heart beats from the distance, the soft breathing.

"What if it goes right?" Dr Seunghoon butts in, smiling. "You have little faith in you," and he is right, Minho has never managed to think ahead of this moment, too caught up in the present, the certainty that he wouldn’t make it (but Jinwoo has other plans, he has to challenge his cancer with possibilities, removing his kidney, replacing it with a new one, his own). "You can have a life with Jinwoo," he adds, squeezing his hand affectionately, he who always supported him, who has been more than just a doctor (and who is now bringing hopes back to his core).

"I would do anything for Jinwoo," he says, reverently, eyes locked on the sleeping form on the strecher, covered with soft blankets that sway in a slow cadence, accompanied by the sounds of the machine connected to his heart, the IV dropping, the perfume of drugs and sanitizers. 

"Then, survive," and Minho nods carrying the weight of a vow. "Give Jinwoo all the time you can gather, make him smile and beam," and he hates to admit it, but that's all he should have done from the start, from the moment he was discharged, his cancer in remission for a while, able to feel the world on his bones, see the light of the sun under his flesh, get lost in the stars of Jinwoo's eyes. He has let time escape through his fingers, cut it down like an hourglass.

Jinwoo has been with him after getting out of the hospital, has welcomed him to stay at his place, has taken care of Minho, has seen the ugliness in him (and never said a thing). He has smiled when the tumour kicked in again and he was admitted to the hospital. When the pain was so great that Minho begged him to end his torment: he endured it with him (the solitude, the scares, the dejection and the harm he felt, hiding it from Minho, the source of his troubles: Jinwoo never held grudges, aware that it was the pain talking, taking away Minho, the person he loved: he never spite it back at him, despite having all the rights to leave him, to abandon him as he has done to himself, thrown to a destructive spiral of self-loath and despise). He has collected the pieces, mend him with sweet kisses and bathed him with a love as immense as the oceans. He was there when he yelled him to go, to leave him alone. He never let go of Minho, and Minho regrets all of his words, all the threatening, all the screams filled with pain and medicines and all his love getting slim (breaking to the ache, to the idea of leaving Jinwoo to mourn him).

"I'll fight cancer with my bare hands if the transplant doesn't work out," he promises, "before my last breathe comes, I'll do all I can to live, only for Jinwoo,” only because he is too scared to let him go, to be without him, the source of his happiness, the light of his universe, the spark that keeps him safe, the place they build together and that means the world to him. 

He can't risk losing Jinwoo though (it will be worse than losing himself), but it's been a week after the results came in positive and Jinwoo has been adamant to do it, even if that puts him over the edge, his life on the lane, ready to be taken away. But he is stubborn and persistent, and Minho wants to give in but can't give up Jinwoo.

It's been so long and Jinwoo has been his all, his everything. He has to repay him so he will undergo the surgery, will make it up for all the moments missing, from all he took from Jinwoo: a life made of scattered moments, broken pieces and long night waiting in hospital rooms, with Minho laying still, connected to multiples machines when he relapsed, unable to go or to move, too weak and weary; Jinwoo has been by his side, bringing smiles back into place, feeding him with hand-made dinners and care.

Jinwoo deserves much more than that and it’s all the tumour fault, that leaves him prostrated, frail, and sick, trembling, unable, unfit (and despite his condition, Jinwoo has chosen him over and over again, his love stretching, borderless, never hesitanting).

He will do better if the surgery goes well, he knows, and Jinwoo will be near him, living fully with him. And he can do it, he has to (wants to, now that he can grasp the notion, the idea of another chance, of quality time, of sleeping with Jinwoo pressed beneath his chest, his hair all scattered, lips brushing, touching, searching, scorching, hands hungry under the covers, underlying clothes without fearing, without doubts).

Minho doesn’t want to expose Jinwoo to the transplant but Jinwoo doesn’t mind, has been preparing for it for the past week, undertaking check-ins and being monitored to avoid possible complications (and he has been so strong, has kept his hopes high, reaching for the sky, ignoring the risks and seizing the opportunities). He is giving Minho a second try, a future to behold. Jinwoo, who has come up to him like a mirage, his miracle of sparks and life that looks so pale right now, his head resting on the pillow, eyes closed, his hand barely on Minho’s. It should have been the other way around (and Minho can’t stop thinking of what could happen, in a bare existence without Jinwoo: meaningless, empty, darkness engulfing him all; he shakes his fears away and thinks positively, looking at the bright side, reminiscing).

But he has promised to fight, to make things right and, at least, he will give it a try (he owes it to Jinwoo, to attempt for another day, to see the light of the stars again, the light that Jinwoo is and the only one he needs at all).

Doctors take Jinwoo first to the surgery room. He has signed the papers under Minho’s worried glance, has laughed at all his preoccupations, has promised that everything would go well, as planned. And now he is leaving him behind, half lethargic, unable to say one last word to Minho, his mind spiralling with pills. 

“I’ll see you soon, Song Minho,” he has said hours ago, kissing him gently (and Minho wanted to keep him there, tugged under his arm, eagerly pouting at the missing of his lips on his parted mouth). Jinwoo giggled and chuckled and it was the most beautiful sound in the world (nearly as much as his own voice singing). He swallowed the tablets in one go and, after that, he has been snoozing, meds drowning his senses, strong enough to keep him safe.

Jinwoo has come to him in a mess of blood, contusions and bandages from the crash, fresh from the ER and a rushed surgery to mend the puncture on his lung. He was beatifically unconscious for three days, five broken ribs, a dislocated wrist, and third grade burns all over his legs. He needed a sterile room for his lung, the operation too recent to risk, just like Minho, whose immune system was weakened due to the chemo and couldn’t be compromised with germs.

He was such a sleeping beauty, Minho couldn’t tear his eyes away. And when Jinwoo regained strength they naturally bounded, befriended, united inside together. Jinwoo needed rehab and Minho company to support his treatment, all the chemo hitting him from inside. Jinwoo was there then, has been with him since the beginning. He stayed until Minho was sent into remission, rebuilding muscles and gaining stability to face the outside (his lung would always remain a concern, a simple cold could be lethal from now on). Jinwoo endured sessions of rehab and the relocation of his broken bones with a smile, never letting anguish to settle inside his head and it was his strength that motivated Minho, who gave him the pull to overcome his own illness. He was moved by Jinwoo, his enormous passion, the light of his eyes: he fell for him in no time, charmed by his softness and the tenderness hidden under his shyness. 

He waits for his turn, counting all the worries in one hand, all the blessing sinking inside his heart, all the memories he treasures from Jinwoo constantly playing inside his head. He breaths in once and twice and let the stretch be taken to the operation room next to Jinwoo’s, allows the sedative anaesthesia to sink in, momentary swinging in the air, all forgotten, only clouds, the wind and Jinwoo’s singing a lullaby to help him rest.

His heart is fluttering, feels like butterflies wings trickling his chest. He opens his eyes and is greeted by the bright lights of a hospital room. There is a warm, overwhelming sensation holding his hand and, when he tosses around, carefully not to cause mayhem, he finds Jinwoo staring at him, sitting in a bed next to him.

“Good morning, love,” and he lends in, kissing his forehead tenderly. “How are you feeling?” he wonders, dissolving the distance, dancing to his side. Minho stirs and turns around, his head falling on top of Jinwoo, who welcomes him in, hands brushing his strands of golden hair growing up again. “The surgery went well,” he explains later, with swollen lips and constellations shielding his eyes, Minho still pressed on his side. “Your tumour has been successfully removed, cancer hasn’t spread to other parts, you just have to take a little more chemo to ensure that it is all gone, for good,” he explains, a blinding smile all over his pretty face.

“What about you?” he wonders, a little dizzy, head fizzy with the aftermath of the anaesthesia lingering still.

“I’m good. All alcohol is forbidden, though,” and he pouts comically and Minho wants to give him the world. “But I can do it. I can do anything with you,” and he beams, shinning like thousand of stars. “I can do all with you.”