Write It Down

Jack and Alex’s bedroom smelled of nothing but illness. Plastic tubes followed up to Jack’s arms as a needle connected them to his body, as the contents of said tubes dripped from a bag labeled “chemotherapy.” The hospital bed provided by Jack’s insurance company looked hard and uncomfortable as Alex watched him sleep. Alex had spent so much time up until now resenting himself for falling in love with a boy whose body was broken beyond repair. But now, as Alex stood in the doorway with a shattered heart and red eyes with tear-stained cheeks, all he could think about was the days that would come where he wouldn’t have Jack anymore. What was he supposed to do then? How was he supposed to live life without the only man who had supported him even when he couldn’t support himself? How was Alex supposed to sleep in their bed knowing the person who belonged next to him was buried six feet underground? What the hell was he supposed to do? He wouldn’t be able to go on.

Alex felt himself sliding down towards the ground, propping his seated body against the doorframe as he continued to watch his dying boy rest. Jack really was dying. 6 months is all the time the doctor allotted for his precious baby, and they might not even get that if the chemo stops working. And, that is a fear Alex couldn’t stop himself from dreading. When the chemo stopped he would have a matter of weeks.
Now, there was always the possibility that it would work. They could have all 6 months together, plus a little more time if God and the doctors worked in sync. But Alex wasn’t foolish enough to believe such things. He knew Jack had a higher chance of leaving him sooner rather than later. But he tried to keep those thoughts at a minimum.

Trying to keep those thoughts away as long as possible, Alex decided it was time to get up and start making Jack’s dinner. Not only because he knew his sleeping medicine would be wearing off soon, but as a distraction.
Alex turned the stove on as he pulled out a can of tomato soup, pouring it into a pot on one of the burners. He watched silently as he waited for it to begin to boil. Alex tried desperately to keep as many positive thoughts in his head as possible. His work was going magnificently, the paper let him work from home so he never had to leave Jack’s side. Which was great, but whenever he did get the chance to start his articles he knew they were never his best work. Journalism used to be such a powerful, burning fire of ambition inside of him. But, now it was nothing more than a quiet ember.

As Jack’s soup was heated to just the right temperature for the sick boy’s lips, he poured as much as he thought jack would eat into a small bowl. It wasn’t a lot, but Jack wasn’t eating a lot recently. Hardly anything, really. The tomato soup was just about all he could convince the younger boy to eat at all.

He started carrying it into the bedroom, knowing his boyfriend would be awake by now, as always.
Without fail, as Alex approached their bedroom door, he saw a drowsy Jack. Alex smiled to himself, because even though the chemo was taking away his boyfriend’s gorgeous hair, his eyes were dark and sunken in, and his once bright skin was pale and washed out, Alex had never seen a more beautiful human being.

Sitting the bowl down on the roll-in bedside table, Alex looked into his boyfriend’s cancer-killed eyes. “How are you feeling, beautiful?” Alex half-whispered.
Jack looked at him with sad eyes. “I feel like I have cancer.”

Alex took a deep breath and closed his eyes at that answer. “Well, try eating something. I’m going to go and try to finish this week’s article. I love you.” He kissed his boyfriend’s forehead as he tried to calmly walk away.
His heart ached for his beautiful boy. But, there was nothing he could do for him. So he had to try to go on.
As he approached his desk in the at-home office, he noticed something familiar sticking out of a box on the floor.
His old journal.
It hadn’t been that long since he had written in it. But, it felt like a thousand decades. He picked it up gently as he read the pages. So many great things about Jack were written down, and the cute little facts he recorded for the article he thought he was going to write. The one that was supposed to make his career.
He had so much more to worry about now besides his ratty journalism career. If he never wrote another article, and he got to keep Jack, he would be the happiest man alive.
Journalism was almost nothing to him now. If he didn’t have Jack, he didn’t have anything.
All of the work he put into being successful journalist, it was all for nothing. There was not a thing he wanted more than for Jack to beat this unbeatable disease.

He’d never pick up another pen, or type another word again if he could have Jack. If he could have Jack…