Everything or Nothing
CatacylsmicEvents
Chapter 37: no one is ever really gone
Notes:
tw// just a whole lot of existential dread, discussions of death, terminal illness, potentially terminal illness, and medical side effects
you can find me on twitter at @cataclysmiceve1 !
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
The weeks that follow are spent making pillow forts, watching movies with Atsushi, camping in the backyard, making poorly decorated sugar cookies together in the kitchen—simple things, things Chuuya always took for granted about his own childhood—
But to Dazai and Atsushi, it’s all new, and even Mori gets involved with the cookie decorating, handling the icing bag with surgical precision, and Dazai doesn’t think he’s seen his Dad that happy before, drawing perfect kanji on cookies while Atsushi exclaims with awe.
And part of him wishes that this summer could just stretch out forever—and that whatever change is happening in their family (because things really are changing) could be permanent, but—
But nothing ever is.
It’s slow, at first. The bad days are a little more common than the good days. Chuuya lingers in bed a little longer in the mornings. The dark circles get a little deeper.
Then, comes the cough.
It’s occasional at first, kind of dry—the kind the redhead can deal with just by keeping a water bottle nearby.
By the end of the week, it’s become constant.
He does what he can, hides it behind his hand, or sometimes he’ll just try to hold it in until he turns a little blue, but that always makes it worse.
Dazai watches. He worries. He wakes up in the night, just reaching over to check his pulse, to make sure he’s okay.
And for the last week, Chuuya is clawing for every last bit of strength that he has left, pushing himself when he can, silently terrified that if he acts too feeble, Mori will move the surgery up. And he knows he should be looking forward to getting it over with, but—
But the last symptom, and definitely the most debilitating one, is the inflammation.
It isn’t noticeable with the naked eye, because Chuuya didn’t exactly have big feet to begin with, but as his circulation declines, they start to get swollen and painful.
And not like the aching kind of swelling that some women get when they’re pregnant where they can just put their feet up and it feels a little better, no.
Chuuya can’t stand, can’t walk, without expressing obvious pain.
He tries to hide it by lingering in bed after Dazai gets up, or just not getting out of his chair until the room is empty. It seems like a solid plan, until Mori catches him fighting back tears, trying to make it out of the kitchen.
And that was the last straw.
The moment when Chuuya finally saw the date of his surgery written down in red pen: June 21st. Two days away.
Chuuya bites his lip, one arm wrapped tightly around himself as he stares down at the page. “It can’t wait a little longer...?”
Mori shakes his head, tapping his pen against the pages of his planner. “We’ve given your body as much time to recover as we can, and you’re...” he pauses, and Chuuya hopes he’s going to phrase it delicately, but— “deteriorating rapidly.”
Obviously, Mori doesn’t do that.
Chuuya knows it’s his best chance. He also knows that it’s not a great chance, and he just—
