Making the Most of It

oneshot

Lincoln knows the exact moment he will die, right down to the second. 

He knows how, too. They say it's painless. 

He doesn't know, yet, where he will breathe his last breath, but he will get to choose. It's the only semblance of control he has in the entire affair.

He is seventeen years old.

The green numbers on his arm, faint and glowing just beneath the surface of his skin, announce how long he has: 908032317.

Nine years, eight days, three hours, twenty-three minutes, seventeen seconds.

It's the timer that's killing his younger brother. "Time Sickness," they call it, this disease that results when a timer malfunctions, leaking poison into the bloodstream years before it's supposed to.

Detox is expensive, and Sage will need treatment for the rest of his life. The only unit of payment the clinic will accept is time.

Which is what Lincoln expected. He pays for everything in their lives with time, the only currency his family possesses. Hence why he has so little of it left.

"The price went up," the nurse behind the bulletproof glass says, the apology in her voice genuine. "It's 178, now."

Lincoln doubts she's really a nurse- no one in this city goes to college- but she always dresses like one. She's pretty. Young. Optimistic. In another life, Lincoln thinks he would ask her out. He's certainly had enough opportunities, these past few years.

Lincoln scowls but shoves his wrist beneath the glass all the same. The nurse raises the scanner. Pauses.

"You could split the payment with him," she says.

"No."

"Your brother has fifty-six years left."

"I ain't gonna let him waste his life before he's gotta."

"What about your life, Lincoln?"

With a beep, the scanner announces that the life in question has dwindled by 178 days.

Later, after he's put his brother to bed, Lincoln lies back on the couch and considers the nurse's words.

His life is simple, and hard, and most importantly- it will be short. He has always known this. So does the nurse, whose name he has intentionally never learned.

She knows his name, though.

This fact fills him with an ache like hunger. 

The following week, he picks a yellow flower from the rooftop garden. It's a serious crime, stealing from the community. But daffodils aren't food, and besides, it had been Sage's idea to plant them. He thinks his brother would approve of Lincoln's plan for it, and Sage does.

"She's nice," Sage says with a rare smile, cradling the plant in a cocoon of air inside his coat. "She always tells jokes." 

They enter the clinic and Sage elbows Lincoln, hard, pressing the flower into his big brother's hand.

Lincoln catches the nurse's eye, grinning sheepishly. She raises her hand to cover a smile and Lincoln's heart soars. 

He shouldn't want this. 

He knows it is, ultimately, futile. They all know he doesn't have much time left.

Yet--

That doesn't mean he can't make the most of it.