a/n [For Sanch in August. Thanks to Estoma for a bit of plot help.]
—-
The best mornings always turned into the worst of days. That was the sad truth of life. Of course, the quality of the morning—whether bright blue and happy or cloud grey and sad—had nothing to do with the outcome of the day. But truth be told, on the morning Hazel Grace's dad called Augustus from the hospital, it was a pretty grand morning.
It was her dad that called—not her mom that was too worried about being a mom to worry about contacting the almost-but-not-quite boyfriend—when Augustus was climbing the stairs from bedroom to kitchen, an unimaginable journey, for the prize of some blueberry pancakes. And it was Augustus who answered the tear-worthy call because, well, it was his cell phone, after all. The caller was unknown, but he answered it anyway because he just liked to live dangerously.
"Hello?" was his greeting, as are so many other greetings. He'd have to think of a more original one later.
"Augustus Waters?" was the response. "This is Hazel's dad."
He froze, right in the middle of the stairway, halfway up—or halfway down if you're a pessimistic type of person. "What's wrong?" he asked immediately, because parents of cancer patients don't make calls to aforementioned patients' friends for a nice, friendly chat.
"Hazel's in the ICU," he started to say, but Augustus wasn't listening anymore. He ran up the rest of the stairs, as well as he could anyway, slipped on shoes by the door, told his parents he'd be back later—who then asked if he was sure he wanted to skip breakfast—and was in the car before the Lancaster could say 'unconscious'.
"I'll be there soon," Augustus said, turning the key in the ignition and putting the car in gear.
"They won't let you in," he warned.
"Bye, sir." Then he and the car tore out of the driveway, lightning fast.
—-
To prove the theory, Augustus remembers that started out dreary, seeping at the seams. It was overcast and wet—dew on the grass, dew on the car, dew on the fur of the stray cat that slept in the hole in his neighbors' fence. So of course, Augustus thought to text Hazel Grace and invite her the small art museum in the next town over, because the worst of mornings always turned into the best of days.
He picked up his phone and messaged her.
Clear your schedule for the day.
Her reply came instantly.
Is that any way to talk to a lady?
He took a moment to smile to himself. His response:
I'll pick you up in twenty.
It didn't actually take quite that long to get to Hazel Grace's house, but he wanted to allow himself time for surprising variables that served as obstacles in the midst of this theory called life. Or, in simpler terms for simpler minds, he still had to get dressed. It took him a grand total of three minutes to decide that the striped shirt was more fit for a museum than the plaid, then he slid into the car and drove the fifteen minutes to her house, where he found her looking pleasant in a green blouse and jeans, a stopwatch in her hands.
"Early," she declared, when he walked up the path to retrieve her.
"Where on earth did you find that old thing?" he asked, grabbing her arm to pull her up.
"My mom."
"Well, it's lovely," he added, reaching for the handle of her oxygen tank, which she grabbed hold of before he could.
She tucked the stopwatch into her pocket, maybe saving it for a later event, maybe not bothering thinking up a more accessible place to put it.
"So where are you kidnapping me to?"
"A specific place that's conveniently located in Indiana."
"This is one of those places," she refuted, gesturing to the ground they were walking on.
"Nothing gets by you, does it?"
—-
The Children's hospital loomed above him. The brown bricks, large windows, and colorful windows screamed cheerful and pleasant, which was the exact opposite of what one would find on the inside. Augustus hated the irony. Hospitals were meant to be cold and dreary and not full of false hope. He wondered how many of the children inside would live to tomorrow. With that thought in mind, he stepped through the main entrance and followed the signs to the ICU.
The Lancaster parents were in the waiting room—it was large and roomy, and much too comfortable—when Augustus arrived. They were holding hands, distressed, and no matter how distressed Augustus was, he sat in one of the plush chairs away from them, out of view. It was their daughter after all. And he was just a close-but-apparently-not-that-close friend. He dropped his head into his hands and waited.
They—as in the mom who had fulfilled all her mom duties and was now forced to wait—noticed his presence around an hour later. She came up to him—her husband staying in the chairs, but somehow finding a small smile to offer from his seat by the other wall—and sat next to him. She put an arm around his shoulders and her mom job then included him as well.
"How is she?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Asleep. She'll be fine, Augustus."
He nodded, and nodded again. He liked this ending much better than the ones that had been circulating through his mind where different, worse scenarios played out. He wondered how long her 'fine' would last.
—-
They had coffee and food typically associated with coffee in the nearby laneway after roaming the museum and making unnecessary comments on the particularly questionable works of art.
Hazel Grace bit into a chocolate muffin, which was his, but he wasn't going to call her out, and did that actress-thing where she smiled with just her eyes. He wondered if saying she was beautiful would be overstepping the boundaries she had carefully set up. He decided it would be. So, of course, he said it anyway.
In turn, she blushed and threw her—well, his—muffin at him. In that order. He grinned in the way she knew she hated (loved), and gently placed his muffin back on its wrapper.
"Thank you," he said, in response to getting his muffin back. She just grabbed it right back again, taking another bite and spending some quality time looking into the distance breathing through cancerous lungs.
He wondered what that felt like. Having less than two legs felt seemed significantly better than having two lungs that only did half the work. He'd trade places in a heartbeat.
And he would, by all means, let her eat as much of his muffin as she wanted to.
—-
Augustus stayed two days in the waiting room, only leaving to use the bathroom and grab some should-taste-terrible-but-I've-had-worse hospital food. He called his overly worried parents a grand total of seven times, and gave a glare to anyone that suggested he go rest at home.
When she woke up, they wouldn't let him in to see her. He gritted his teeth and tried not to yell at everyone in the wing. He left before he could.
He visited back when he got another call; Hazel Grace was being released today. He thought of all the things he would tell her. Isaac got a new video game for people with eyes that suck at being eyes. Van Houten wrote another letter. And I love you.
—-