He could feel it.
He could feel it.
It was there, twisting and thriving under his skin while he lived, while he breathed in the intoxicating sea-salt air, while he hid it from everyone else because this was notthe time or the place for anyone to be worried about him while Minho was still out there. While they all had a job to do and a part to play-
But it was there. Constantly, now, it seemed. And there was no running from it, not from this. It wouldn't be hidden forever. There was nothing to be done but push forward and hope they found a cure, and soon.
Because he didn't want to leave before this was finished. He didn't want to die.
He was slowly making peace with that though.
And it broke his heart into a thousand pieces to know that when – if – he's gone, he won't know what it's like to be truly free.