It Couldn't Get Much Worse

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"Geoff, are you awake? We need to talk to you," Otto says quietly one afternoon. They've driven him home from the hospital for the last time, and now they're sitting in the car in the apartment's parking lot. It's taking everything Awsten has not to shatter into a million pieces.

"Yeah," Geoff replies softly, but he can't seem to pull his eyes open.

"Did you hear what the doctor said?"

"Um..."

Otto closes his eyes. "Dude, we're, um. We're kind of at the end of the line here."

"I could've told you that," Geoff murmurs.

"No. Like, officially. There's." Otto swallows thickly, and Awsten has never been so glad to have sunglasses on. "There's nothing else they can do to help you."

There's a long silence. Otto and Awsten trade a worried glance in the rear view mirror.

"Okay," is all Geoff finally says.

"We have some options," Otto tells him, and he reaches into the backseat where Awsten and Geoff are sitting so he can grip Geoff's hand. "You can stay home with me and Awsten. We'll take care of you just like we have been. Or we can, um." He bows his head. "We can take you to Houston Hospice. They won't treat you, but they can make everything stop hurting."

"Yes," Geoff replies immediately. His voice is hoarse and a little too loud, and it breaks Awsten's heart.

"You wanna-?"

"The second one."

"Okay, sounds good," Otto nods, forcing a smile. "You and Awsten go inside. I'll call them right now."

Awsten's too scared to look at Otto. He knows that Otto's eyes have got to be swimming with tears, and if Awsten sees that, he's going to lose it. He wraps an arm behind Geoff's back and half-lifts him out of the car. "I'll start packing your stuff," Awsten tells him as they head into the apartment.

It gets better and worse when they move him to hospice.

Better because they can actually do something to help his pain ease, but worse because Geoff's pain is bad enough to want desperately to receive hospice care in the first place. Worse because there are people in and out all the time - visitors and nurses and therapists - but better because Geoff is no longer hurting so much. Better because Geoff is more alert when he's awake and better rested when he sleeps, but worse because Awsten is reminded a thousand times over why he loves Geoff, what made Geoff so wonderful and sweet, why Geoff had always been the anchor that held everything together.

Geoff is pain-free enough to laugh. He's tired, yes, and dying, too. But he's coherent and even a little smiley now, and he hasn't been either of those things for a long time. Awsten has to excuse himself more than once, because this is a new kind of ache. He's overwhelmingly glad to see Geoff's suffering easing up, but it hurts a million times more than he would have imagined to get little snippets of Geoff back just before he's taken away forever. Despite the illusion, his body is still killing itself.

Jawn comes, and Grace, and Travis, and Awsten's family, all with lots of tears but gifts and hugs and love, too. But Travis has to go back to work, and Awsten's parents can sense that Awsten wants them to leave, so they take Gracie and go. Jawn plugs a camera in at the corner of the room, and Awsten is outraged, but Jawn takes him aside and explains, "You never have to look at the files. I'll hold onto them. But you might want them someday."

"It's different when it's over," Grace murmurs. Awsten hadn't even known she'd been listening, but when Jawn nods, Awsten realizes that she's probably right.