Stray Kids Drabbles

Gone away

Genre: Angst with no happy ending

After a rough battle with cancer, you're finally at the end of the fight.

Trigger warning: Death and grief.

A/N: Apologies in advance because this one is a rough one.

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

No amount of 'I'm sorry's' can take away the pain. When the radiation stops working, when the cancer keeps growing, when the harrowing realization that you will not recover settles in. Facing death head on is one thing, but laying around and waiting for it is another.

Cancer is a fickle thing. It can infect an organ or it can choose to home itself in your bones. It doesn't care if you're only a few months old and new to the world. It doesn't care if you're elderly and trying to make it to a hundred to impress your children and grandchildren.

It doesn't care if you're healthy either. You can live the healthiest life possible, but due to one reason or another, it might catch you anyway. Grasping your organs, burrowing in your bones, sucking the soul out of you without a care in the world.

You knew you were dying and so did Han. It started with random pains and low energy. After testing and a tumor being found, doctors assumed chemo would help weaken it. It did, at first, but then it started to fight back.

You loved your doctor and they were determined to get you to remission. You had high hopes after it was fought off. You assumed that'd be the end of it and then it came back. Higher doses of radiation, the repulsive smell of hospital antiseptic, the taste of stomach acid from throwing up, and white walls.

You bawled like a baby when a clump of your hair fell out in the shower. All you could remember was Han finding you and wrapping you in a towel. Promising, insisting, and swearing it would grow back. You found comfort in his words. You knew, you believed, and you loved him.

Han could do so much, but Han was not a god. With every strand of fallen hair, every vomiting session, every time it felt like the world was caving in, he was there. He was there for every paper cut and every broken bone. That's what love was for at the end of the day; to mend you and make you whole again.

You loved, you lived, and you had hope. Hope is the one thing humans are good at. They cling to it, they grip onto it, they grasp with the slivers of strength they have left. Hoping, praying, believing, and having faith you'd get better because in the stories, that's how it should go.

A fairytale love like this was not meant to have a depressing ending. It was not supposed to end with sharp cheekbones and sunken in dead eyes. It was not supposed to end with you kissing your lover good-bye. It was not supposed to end with you barely mustering up the strength to hold your boyfriend's hand.

The single movement felt like the equivalent to climbing Mount Everest. You couldn't remember the last time you had food. You were on high doses of morphine waiting for the end. Your oxygen had slowly started to dwindle a few hours ago.

Drowsy from the morphine, all you could focus on was the warmth of Han's hand in yours. You always knew deep down this could be a possibility. It was something you shoved to the farthest and darkest corner of your mind. As the days went on, weeks drifted by and morphed into months.

His thumb rubbed along the side of yours. A person could only do so much to prepare themselves for the death of their lover. An unspoken silence sat between the two of you. Comfortable and mellow. You had been prepared for this for a while now.

On the other hand, a lump sat in Han's throat. He kept staring at you trying to remember everything about you. The slope of your nose, the draw of your chin, the way your mouth tugged into a smile.