Well hello there lovely reader! It's me, Helen, your friendly author for this little corner of the internet.

This fic is about cancer. That being said, I've been extremely lucky to never have a personal brush with cancer – I've never had it, nor has anyone in my immediate family. I'm being cautious and doing lots of research, but some of the things in this fic may be factually incorrect. If that's the case, absolutely feel free to correct me and I'll see what I can do!

That being said, I may take some liberties for the purposes of the fic. This is my creative license but if anyone should ever feel upset or offended by something I write, please let me know!

Without further ado, I take great pleasure in introducing to you my brand new Jogan fanfic…

If I Should Die

Chapter 1

The sterile white walls were getting to be too much for Julian. They were dulling his shine, he could feel it with every second. When he looked at himself in the mirror, all he saw was a pale white boy, supposed to be in his prime at 24 years old, whose clothes hung off of him, who had dark circles under his faded brown eyes, who could barely look himself in the eye. He used to love seeing himself in the mirror, in pictures, all the time, everywhere he went, he would see himself. He loved it, even if he outwardly complained from time to time. He loved being recognized, seeing that jolt in people's eyes – wait, is that – can it be – are you – Yes, yes I am, he would respond, with a grin. Of course if he was in a bad mood he would lie and say, No but I always get mistaken for him, now get the hell out of here and leave me in peace. But even then, he'd feel a quirk at the edge of his mouth, a tiny little smirk wanting to grace his features. He was Julian Larson. No amount of bad moods could ever take that away from him.

And yet. And. Yet. This hospital was taking it away from him. The chemotherapy pumped medicine into him as it sucked who he was away. He was suddenly not Julian Larson, movie star, who walks the red carpet and signs pictures for fans. He was suddenly completely separate from that much more graceful person. Now he was Julian, another cancer patient in what seemed to be an endless cancer center through which people were constantly being processed. In and out, in and out, they came and went like they were doing a dance and it was being performed just for him. He hated talking to people and so he tried to stay in his room. The past few times he'd gone out and attempted to be sociable, those he'd spoken with had either been too starstruck or too sick to carry on a proper conversation. Multiple people he'd spoken with had died not long afterward. He'd gotten out of the habit of making friends.

The only people he talked to were the doctors, nurses, his parents, and those friends who were able to come visit. He'd been sent to a live-in cancer center in Ohio, the best in the nation, naturally. Because it was in Ohio, he had to board there, with all the other live-in patients. This gave him access to state of the art facilities that he had no interest in using, in addition to the best doctors in the country. This made it all the more depressing – when even the best cancer experts in the nation could not help him. In fact he only seemed to be sicker. He knew it was just the chemotherapy but he often wished he could just stop it.

The last time Clark Sawyer had flown in to visit, he'd taken Julian out to eat at a restaurant. Julian threw up in the bathroom, having been injected with chemo just two days before and in no shape to be anywhere far from his hospital bed. The whole episode had been embarrassing and not something he wished to ever relive. He'd made it clear that if anyone wanted to come visit again, they had to do it on his own terms and not stay too long.

He truly hated when friends came to visit. Sebastian had come, once, and he'd spoken about their time in Paris, but Julian hadn't been up to the conversation. He'd snapped at Sebastian to stop talking about it already, why was he always talking about Paris, couldn't he please stop for the love of God. Cameron had come, too, and Julian had been in a sad mood, and he'd cried right in front of his friend and co-star, telling him that he really didn't feel that he was going to make it, and asking what the fans would think and how they would cope. Cameron had looked like he regretted coming alone because he was at a loss for what to say; but he'd just wrapped his arms around Julian, careful not to hurt him in such a fragile state, and said that the fans would cope just fine and it didn't matter anyway because Julian would pull through.

Every time Dolce came she managed to throw in an admonition – as if she herself truly believed that this was Julian's fault. That hurt worse than the chemo, some days. Julian knew that it was his fault, that he'd done this to himself by not heeding the warnings. Everyone told him that cigarettes would give him cancer. But it had hardly been his decision to start smoking, and once he started, it was no more his decision to stop. It was addictive to the core and even now in his very weakened state, he craved the nicotine. He craved something that would make it better and offer him relief, even if it was for a short time, and even if it could genuinely kill him. His lungs couldn't handle it, not even close, and he was banned absolutely from smoking. Still. He thought sometimes it would be easier to die immediately, die happy on a high, than have to face the pain of watching Julian Larson fade from view.

Logan Wright was angry. Some days it was hard not to suffocate his nurses and doctors to death with a pillow; other days it was hard not to use the pillow on himself just to stop all this anger. His father had tried to convince the doctors to let him take his anger medication, but they had refused, saying that it wouldn't cooperate with his system and it would only make the monster attacking him from the inside angrier, even if it would calm Logan himself. Logan was glad he didn't have to take it; he didn't want to live out what he was sure was the end of his life without feeling. It was bad enough that he had to come to Ohio, to what his father said was the best cancer treatment center in the country. It wasn't jack shit, as far as Logan was concerned. It hadn't cured him yet and he felt, inside, that it would be unable to ever cure him. If the cancer didn't take him, surely his own feelings would.

It was like watching a war, only you're both of the opposing generals and all the soldiers too. You're on the front lines, every day and every night. Anger is the weaponry of choice for both sides and they use you as ammunition.

Logan was stuck. He couldn't leave the hospital but he couldn't stay either. He couldn't get better without the treatment, but he couldn't get better with it. Every time they came in to give him more chemo, every cursed day someone arrived in his room with a cheery smile and a huge needle, he wanted to fight. He wanted to throw the nurses to the ground, rip the needle from their hands, and smash it through the window and out into the grass below. He wanted so badly to leave and live his life outside of this jail cell, but he wouldn't have any life at all once he was out there. He'd turned everyone he'd known against him well before entering the hospital or even knowing that something was wrong. People had turned on him for whatever reason, whatever he'd done, and no one had bothered to make the journey from New York to Ohio to visit him. He was almost glad he had to live here, in Ohio, where no one could see his decline. Then again, no one would care even if he was in New York. His father had come a few times for the mandatory meetings that he had to attend to discuss Logan's treatment and progress – there never was any progress to report. All Senator Wright ever had to say to Logan during these visits were thinly veiled threats; threats that he had to get better, or else… Or ways of blaming Logan, as if this was his fault in any way. He had never done anything to cause this to happen to himself. Perhaps he'd abused his own cells one too many times by forcing them into hyperdrive whenever he got angry, but he wasn't even certain that this made medical sense. Leukemia was terrible, but it made it worse to think that it was his fault.

At night when he felt alone, especially when it was raining, he thought about what he'd done to make this happen to him.

The list was too long. He'd done so many things wrong and now, now, was the time his regret decided to come out. Now was when his conscience attacked him for everything he had done. It was hard enough growing up in the city with no one but your distant father to keep you company. He'd had to add anger problems to the mix, moods that went up and down like a seesaw, back and forth like a child on a swing set, just fast enough to be very nearly out of control.

Now, with the cancer, Logan was sure he was out of control. They'd brought in a counselor to speak with him about his anger but the counselor could do nothing to help him. He'd suggested that Logan move back to New York to be with his family and friends and receive treatment there, but his father disagreed. None of the centers in New York were as focused and innovative as this.

Logan was facing a fatal diagnosis but no one had the guts to tell him. He felt reckless and angry, like the chemo they pushed into his body was fueling his anger. It was sometimes like nothing he'd felt before, not red hot but instead a sickly green. It sizzled and spat, a green fire, unfamiliar and bitter. Logan had no idea what to do, no way to hold in his rage, and so he yelled and yelled until his throat was raw. He threw the furniture in his room until they'd been forced to remove the chairs (it wasn't like anyone was going to visit him anyway). He was easily their most disagreeable patient, and he'd seen some sore sights during his months at Dalton Cancer Center.

It was an ordinary day that proved to be completely extraordinary. It was decided that the center was filling up too quickly and they needed to start pairing some of the patients together into one room.

Dr. Jones sighed. She pushed back a strand of her deep brown hair and ran the tip of her pen down a list of names. "We need to put him somewhere," she said wearily. They'd been through all of the people on his floor and none of them seemed a good match for Logan Wright. "He can't just get a room of his own because he has a temper-"

"We don't want him to hurt another patient," Dr. Wesson interrupted. "He may be a danger to someone."

"Then why don't we put him with someone who won't allow him to step all over him, hm?" Dr. Jones suggested. "Come on, Bob, someone with backbone, someone who won't stand for any temper tantrums."

Bob Wesson tapped his chin with his pen. "Well…" he said slowly, gazing at the list of names thoughtfully. "We haven't yet chosen a roommate for Larson."

Dr. Jones' serious face immediately broke into a smile. "Yes. Oh, yes. That's perfect. Absolutely." She made a mark next to both Logan and Julian's names on her list. "Brilliant."

And so it was decided; Julian Larson and Logan Wright would be living together.

I hope that if you liked this first chapter you'll consider leaving a review to let me know what you think!