This fic has been very difficult for me to write. It's taken me several weeks, and more than a few tears, because it comes from an incredibly personal place. It's something I've been wanting to write for a long time, but I just haven't had the courage until now. It's a labour of loss, but I have tried to keep away from the sadness of it, and instead focus on some of the better moments.

This is a story about cancer. I haven't gone into the gory details, and I believe I've left it on a good note, but if you believe that this fic may trigger you in any way then I urge you not to read. It's a difficult subject to write about, for me because there's no avoiding the pain that comes with it. But I think that it's progress.

Chapter title from Sorrow by Sleeping At Last.

There's no way of knowing that your last good day is your Last Good Day.

At the time, it is just another good day.

- John Green, The Fault In Our Stars

Years later, when you look back on it all, you'll be glad it was so quick. It doesn't feel quick, not now, not while it's happening - it feels like a goddamn eternity, in fact - but, relatively speaking, it will be. There's some people who deal with this shit for years before it ends; you only had just over one. Relatively speaking, you're one of the lucky ones.

Then again, you're not sure there's such a thing as luck when it comes to this. When it comes to Sam. He's never had much luck with, well, anything; you used to joke about it when you were kids.

You're not joking now.

Days aren't days anymore. They used to be, back when this all started, but you're too close to the end now for things to be so simple. There are Good Days, and there are Bad Days - most days are Bad now, but you'll take what you can get.

Then there are Last Days.

You're able to track most of them, much as you don't want to. The Last Christmas - that was hard, because none of you wanted yet to admit that there wouldn't be another year. You made it the best Christmas you could, the place decked out in decorations to the nines. It was a good day. A really good day. You could almost pretend things were normal, in fact, and you tried to, for Sam's sake. He needed that, you think - a little bit of normality.

On the day of the Last Treatment, you and Sam had had a huge fight. If that means Sam just sitting there while you yelled until you were hoarse. When you'd calmed down, you listened as he told you why he was doing it, and you were ashamed at yourself for how you reacted. You're not quite sure how he managed to stay so calm, but you suppose that that's just how Sam is. It's how he's had to be.

Sam's Last Birthday was harder than you'd ever thought possible. Sam had even said the words out loud once - 'my last birthday' - and you wish he hadn't because every word felt like a punch to the gut. You wanted, so badly, to have hope, but you were well beyond that even then, when Sam was still talking and walking and being Sam. And when he said it, those three words which reminded you of everything you stood to lose by the end of the year, you felt your heart seize in your chest and you just wanted to run.

(Is it selfish, you wonder, to feel this way when you will be the one to survive this?)

(Sam would want you to live, but you think survival is all you have left; is this selfish, too?)

There was a time when you thought that Sam's birthday would be his Last Good Day, too, because things went downhill pretty fast after that. You don't really know why, but one minute he was (at the very least) upright, and the next he could barely lift his head from the pillows. Or, that's what it felt like, anyway. The doctors wanted to move him to a hospital, but Sam had been insistent that he'd... That it would all happen at home. It's the end, and you all know it; they least you can do is let it come on Sam's terms.

So you resigned yourself to the Bad Days, and all that they entail. But then, inexplicably, you get another chance.

At first, it's just one of the Slightly Less-Bad Days. Sam's asleep, mostly, but even then there are tight lines of pain around his eyes, the meds not doing quite enough to block it out. Rowena visits, dressed to perfection, as always, and you do your best to smile when you let her in. You've never liked her as much as Sam does, but she's been around a lot lately, and you're grateful for that.

She has some book in her hand (you don't see the title) and she starts reading it to Sam, even though he's sleeping. It's something he's always found comfort in since he became too tired to focus on the words himself, and Rowena never seems to mind doing it. You tune her out after a while and focus on Sam's face, noticing with a start that his eyes are cracked open, trained on Rowena. And he's smiling.

Sam drifts off to sleep again about ten minutes later, and Rowena leaves not long after, promising to return in a couple of days time. She puts her hand on your arm and squeezes, and you don't brush her off. Sam would have been proud of you for that, you think.

It wasn't a great day, none of them are anymore. Those days were over before you even started tracking which were good and which were not.

But Sam smiled.

And it was a good day.