Eternal

Eternal - Chapter 6

Larry 

The doctor doesn't actually use the word cancer once.

He goes through an entire speech about blood cells and immune systems and ‚Adenosine deaminase inhibitors' which is somehow a million times worse. And the whole time he's talking, Larry doesn't hear a fucking word over the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins, over the sight of black dots creeping into his vision, over the way he's suddenly sweated through his whole shirt quicker than he's ever done before during any dance battle or competition. His mind is racing, his entire body is shaking and he can't be hearing right because there's no way, no fucking way his brother is having leukemia.

Strangely enough, Laurent seems to take the news much better than Larry. His expression is calm as he stares at the lit up pictures of his own brain on the wall from his MRI results and it's certainly a good thing that they haven't found any metastases but it's still cancer they are talking about here. It's still fucking cancer and how come Laurent is so fucking calm when Larry's entire skin is crawling with the need to run out of this room, out of this goddamn hospital and yell until his lungs give up?

"What are the options?" Laurent asks and Larry's hand tightens around Laurent's to a point of damn-near breaking bones.

Turns out the options are rather limited. Radiation, chemotherapy. It's not the incurable kind of cancer, the doctor stresses but it's a very aggressive type and Larry's teeth are digging so hard into his bottom lip that he draws blood, his eyes swimming. 

He feels like his entire world has just been upended. Like nothing makes sense anymore and everything's just spinning and Dr. Mercer is still talking, still explaining, still with a serious but kind expression on his face and Larry wants nothing more than to jump across that table and punch it off because Laurent has cancer. He has fucking cancer and no matter how long the doctor's going to talk about it, the gist of their entire visit is that Laurent is so sick he might die.

"They were just headaches," Laurent whispers and somehow that one sentence, spoken in such a deflated, helpless tone is what pushes Larry over the edge. 

A choked-off sob makes it past his lips and suddenly he's up and out of his chair, stumbling back and toward the door.

"I need to... I need—" he hiccups and stumbles out of the room, into the hallway toward the bathrooms. 

He locks himself in a stall with shaking fingers and before he knows it he's bowed over the toilet, clutching the rim oft he porcelain bowl with heavily shaking arms. He's dry-heaving hard enough for his lungs to burn and his vision is blinded, tears splashing into the bowl. He gags and coughs and there's snot dripping from his nose, saliva clinging to his chin and it's gross and miserable but he can't seem to calm himself down. Fear is consuming him. It's like he's possessed with panic and it claws at his throat and shreds at his soul and he doesn't know what to do with himself so he presses his forehead against the cistern and squeezes his eyes shut.

He feels like he's dying. Like ten minutes ago he still had a life but now he doesn't. Like every sliver of happiness has been plucked right out of him and now there's nothing left but all-consuming, terrible, unshakable fear. It leaves him slumped against the flimsy walls of the toilet stall, limp and drained and shaky until a soft pounding on the door causes his head to snap up. 

He knows it's Laurent even without him having to say anything and the thought that he'd just run out on his twin during the worst moment of his life makes him want to puke again. 

He feels terrible as he gathers his bearings far enough to open the door, shaking all over, like a fucking leaf, like his legs no longer know how to function properly and maybe they don't because he's frozen in place.