It's a bright, sunny day; there are no clouds in the sky, and everyone seems to be in a good mood. It's the kind of day meant for walks in the park and lunch dates followed by ice cream. It's not the kind of day to be sitting in the doctor's office, clutching Roxas' hand with all your might while doctor says the word you've been dreading – cancer.
'How long?' Roxas asks impassively. He's seen this coming, accepted it long ago. He's just waiting for you to catch up.
The doctor shrugs. 'It's hard to tell at this point. A few months, at most.'
Roxas squirms uncomfortably as your grip tightens, but you ignore him. If you can hold onto him hard enough, maybe you'll somehow draw him away from the disease. Draw him away from everything that is trying to take him away from you. If you cling hard enough, maybe he'll stay. It's a stupid, futile thought – but it's all you have left, now.
You leave the doctor's office half an hour later, head brimming with information on how to care for Roxas, as well as tips and precautions, should his condition worsen. It's almost too much, and the two of you lapse into silence on the walk home. You still haven't let go of Roxas' hand. You're somewhere else entirely, watching the world pass by in a sort of haze. The doctor's words are still ringing in your head – a few months, at most. You're furious and in shock and so fervently in denial that you've gone numb. In your head, you plead silently – why Roxas? He's only twenty-one! – although if there's a god out there, he doesn't hear you. Or he simply doesn't care. Roxas must have some idea of what you're thinking, because he squeezes your hand gently, reassuringly, and you feel your heart shatter.
There's a small ring box in your pocket that weighs you down like lead on the walk home.
That night, you don't sleep. You hold Roxas in your arms, idly stroking his hair and listening to his slow, even breathing. You can't help but wonder how many more nights you'll be blessed with the sound, before it's replaced by the beeping of machines in the hospitals, and finally an empty, crushing silence.
You take the week off work to stay home with Roxas. You hover around him almost constantly, making sure he's comfortable. Offering him food, drinks, medication. He hasn't shown any visible signs of illness yet, and he's beginning to get annoyed with your constant fussing. The knowledge that his clock is ticking hangs over both of your heads, and Roxas must feel it too – because he never asks you to stop, or tone it down. You think he needs the attention just as much as you need to give it.
The first day that Roxas refuses breakfast, you start to worry. He rolls his eyes and tells you he had a snack in the middle of the night, and that he'll eat later. While you can't shake the feeling that he's lying to you, you let it slide. There's no sense in forcing him to eat. You console yourself with the knowledge that the illness hasn't begun to manifest itself physically yet, so there's no reason to overreact to one skipped meal.
The days pass, and by the end of the week Roxas is down to a meal and a half a day. He spends almost all his time sleeping, and there are dark circles around his eyes that you know weren't there before.
He doesn't react well when you take another week off work.
'Dammit, Axel!' Roxas turns on you, eyes blazing with a fury and indignation that is admirable. 'I've had enough. You shouldn't be throwing your life away!'
'Don't tell me what to do.' You tell him flatly. He's intruding on dangerous territory, but you're not sure if he knows it.
'I'm not gonna die tomorrow –' Roxas starts, but you'll cut him off. You'll be damned before you have him lecture you on his death.
'No, Roxas,' you raise your voice, and he seems taken aback. The week has had its toll on you and god, it feels good to let it out. 'You're not gonna die tomorrow. But the fact is that you are gonna die! –' Roxas opens his mouth to argue, but you don't give him the chance, '- and don't you fucking dare give me everyone dies at some point, Axel bullshit, because it's not the same. 'Cause until last week I thought I'd have you for a few years. I thought I'd get the chance to wait another month or so, and then get down on one knee and keep you with me for the rest of my life. But I don't fucking have that anymore! The doctors say you have a few months left. I don't want to waste time where I could be with you.' You're crying now. 'So don't you dare tell me to not take care of you like it's your last day. Don't you dare.'
Roxas lowers his head and says nothing. That night, he holds you tighter than normal, and you stare unseeingly up at the ceiling while you trace circles into his back.
A few days later, Roxas stops eating. He's paler than before and his eyes have taken on a sunken quality. He's thin and frail-looking and he looks so sick that you feel your heart clench when you look at him. You're losing him, and the fact that there's nothing you can do about it kills you inside.
You wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of Roxas vomiting in the bathroom, and you decide it's time to visit the doctor again.
'His condition's progressed more than we anticipated,' the doctor says to you, as if Roxas isn't in the room. You can see the blonde scowl, and you bite back a smirk. It's comforting to see that he's still himself.
'So how long do I have?' Roxas asks, and the doctor sighs.
'A month.'
It's a hard month.
Roxas refuses to eat, and everything he forces down comes up later. He sleeps fitfully, moaning and complaining about pain. Sleep is a long lost memory to you; you take thirty-minute naps wherever you can, and wake up feeling more tired than before. You look almost as sick as Roxas does, and it goes unspoken between the two of you that his time is almost up.
You lose your job on the day that Roxas is taken to hospital. You fight tooth and nail to stay in the hospital with him, but you can't prove that you're family, and so they send you home, promising to call if anything happens.
You get a call three days later. They tell you that your name was the last thing on his lips, and you'll never forgive yourself for not being there when he died.
The funeral is inconceivably small; just you, Demyx and Roxas' half-sister Xion. It's beyond you, how someone as important as Roxas had such a small gathering to say goodbye to him. You know he wouldn't mind; he's always hated crowds. A quiet sob escapes your throat when you remember that you'll never get to hear him complain about large, noisy crowds again.
The ring is in your pocket throughout the ceremony. You slip the ring in with the pile of dirt that you throw over Roxas' casket, and both Xion and Demyx pretend not to hear the clatter.
Demyx wants to take you out for a while after the funeral. He's worried, you think, of what you'll do now that you're alone in the house. He tries to tempt you with sea salt ice cream, but the thought of sharing it with someone who isn't Roxas makes you sick.
You decline and head for home.
It's a bright, sunny day, and everyone seems to be in a good mood. People are walking around with ties loosened, shirts unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. It's the kind of day for ice cream and sunburn and spontaneous trips to the beach. It is not the kind of day to watch Roxas being lowered into the ground. You pass a few women complaining about the heat. But, try as you might, you feel nothing.
You think of the last time you walked this street with Roxas, holding his hand with all your might, as if it would delay the inevitable. You smile ruefully, and wonder if you should have held his hand a little tighter, fought to be with him in the hospital a little harder. Maybe then he would've stayed.
You shake your head, as if it'll stop the thoughts. As if it'll delay the guilt. Because, after all, people die all the time, don't they? People die. Life goes on.
You repeat those three words to yourself over and over again.
Life
goes
on.
Even without Roxas.