A/N: not going to lie, this is VERY personal thing to me, and I just thought, given how cancer was portrayed on the show (which, I found, be to honest, insulting) we needed a little injection of reality - though this fic, in fairness, is more me beating your over the head with a large wooden stick than an injection but, sure, who gives a mighty duck? Just warning you now, life doesn't happen like on Grey's Anatomy. Sorry

Dedicated to anyone and everyone who has suffered from cancer, either personally, or with a loved one. I know.

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends
It gives a lovely light
Edna St. Vincent Millay

...

Just in case.

...

Nate finds him, sitting on the bed, on top of the blankets, drawstring pants and a white t-shirt – so far removed from the days of silk and Egyptian cotton. Indian style, wrists resting on his knees, blue veins open to the white ceiling, tight like violin strings.

Mediating?

No, holding stress balls, squeezing, on and off, on and off, keeping the vessels open as the new blood flows in.

Nate stays in the anteroom, just watching. Out here, he can't hear the monitors. Having to hear a machine prove you're still alive is hard, but it's what happens when those steady beeps fail that Nate doesn't want to hear. So he hangs on, dawdling, chatting with the nurses, the plants, the furniture.

"Boy? Don't yo' have a home to go to? It's past two AM."

That's Donna, bustles out with a hydraulic hiss of glass door and a heavy squeak of tennis shoe, carrying a tray loaded with little vials of too-red blood. Mama Bear, a walking cliché, big old black nurse in awful floral scrubs, she envelopes Nate in her thick arms. Donna has had a lot of practice.

One look at his face is enough. She pats his arm. "I'll get a pillow."

Comes back with a pillow. Blankets, two cans of a Coke and a banana.

"Just in case yo' get hungry."

"Thanks, Donna."

"Be careful with ma' baby, now, hear me?"

Nate nods. "Of course."

Donna raises a sceptical eyebrow. Nate looks guilty.

"Don't yo' think for one minute that I have forgotten what happened last time." Nate looks more guilty. "Go on, get in there. And don't be sharing that Coke!"

"Donna?"

"Yes?"

Nate points at the blood bag hanging over the bed. "Is that blood irradiated?"

Donna folds her arms. "Yes, Dr. Nate. That blood is irradiated. And ain't yo' supposed to be some kind o' lawyer?"

He's supposed to be a lot of things. He's supposed to be planning his wedding, supposed to be celebrating the birth of his niece, supposed to be sleeping. Not supposed to be here. Not supposed to be doing this. But he does it anyway.

Chuck's face bears a look of such serenity even to watch seems an intrusion. They've clean him up and the transfusion paints his gaunt cheeks a phony red.

"Hey."

Nate sits down, grasps his hands in his lap. Doesn't ask, are you okay? It feels so fake. So contrite. So pointless. If you're fucked up enough to need to poison bits of you to make you better, if you have blood coming out your eyes, clearly you're pretty fucking far from okay. Like, okay's the Sun and you're Pluto. Or whatever planet Jar Jar Binks came from, point is, a galaxy far far a-motherfucking-way.

No, Nate doesn't ask if he's okay. He knows that answer and he doesn't want to hear it.

Instead, asks, "How you feeling?"

Chuck holds up the central line between two long, thin fingers. Saline mixes go through the peripheral line, the IV inserted in the crook of his elbow, not the tri-pronged catheter that blossoms from his sternum. One tube is red, the other clear – the third is empty. Nate follows the clear line back to the bag.

Morphine, a 16-hour bag.

"That's good," he says, repeating the simple sentiment. "That's really good. Really good."

Transfusions are hard, red blood cells especially so, but Dr. Power says his haemoglobin is too low, and such his blood too acidic, all that lactic acid building up in the muscles from anaerobic respiration.

Nate actually understands her now, she's explained it that often. Less haemoglobin means less oxgyen absorbed by the blood in the lungs, meaning less oxygen is released in the cells, meaning the cells can't break down glucose fully as that requires oxygen, so instead they break it down to lactic acid – the stuff that makes you stiff after you exercise like crazy, when you can't breathe fast enough to keep up with your body.

They sit in silence for a while, Nate tosses the Coke from hand to hand. He's got the graveyard shift, pulled the short straw.

Instantly, feels guilty. Sitting with your best friend isn't the shortest straw. Only, this person, sitting, head bowed like a Buddhist monk, squeezing in time with his own heartbeat, this isn't Chuck Bass. This isn't the boy he watched Batman with on Saturday mornings in dinosaur pyjamas, this isn't the boy he once ran away with – all the way to West 145th Street, when they got hungry and decided to go back because Consuela, Nate's cook, was making brownies. This isn't the boy he shared his first drink with, hiding under the Captain's desk, this isn't the boy he did his first body shot off (a dare), this isn't the boy he lost sixty-eight grand with in Vegas and then tried to make it back by pimping out a very drunk Tripp. This isn't his best friend. This is someone else, this douche stole his best friend and Nate doesn't fucking like him.

He has a sudden desire to punch something. Punch Chuck. Punch that shit inside of him that robbed him of his friend. He's getting married soon. Chuck's supposed to be his best man, they had it all planned out, since forever.

Is it so wrong to want your friend back?

Nate cracks open his coke. The hydraulic hiss startles Chuck, breaks his rhythm, and one of the balls slips from his fingers – fingers that Nate doesn't remember, not the ones he played thumb war with – and tumbles to the floor. Dead after one bounce. Nate slaps the ball back into his hands. Holds on.

"Don't do that again, okay? Please. You scared us."

"You think." Chuck's eyes open. "I'm not scaring myself."

Nate throws the Coke at the wall. It explodes. Sprays brown everywhere. They watch the bubbles, fizzle out. Nate apologises to the floor.

"Don't," Chuck says.

Nate drags on his hair. "How did everything get so ..."

"Fucked up?"

"Yeah. Fucked up. What happened to us? We were invincible."

"We? Nathaniel?"

Chuck's voice is pure ice.

Nate stamps to his feet, picks up the can, stamps into the antechamber, dumps it, calls for a nurses to come clean up the mess – he do it himself, only he'd do it wrong, and that'd be worse. There are worse things to clean up than some soda – and just stands there, arms folded, trying to stop himself from shaking.

"Don't you think I'm not going through this too, you selfish asshole. Don't you think that for one minute. And I don't have a fucking morphine drip."

.

...

.

Lily puts on the kettle. They all have tea. Tea is such a wonderful, wonderful thing. One should never underestimate tea. Dan produces a bottle of Maker's Mark and Serena declines the infusion, breast-feeding. So does Jenny.

"I'm going to clean the bathroom," Serena mutters. "I can't wait."

Dans says, "Gotta go, uh, check on the baby."

"I'm really tired, guys, I'm going to head." Jenny.

"Me too."

"And I will go call a cab. Yes, that is what I will do."

Rufus leaves them, Lily and Blair, with the tea. It takes Blair two shots to find her voice. She's wearing an old skirt and blouse of Serena's. Her hands stink of soap.

Lily is a merciful.

"I suppose you want to know why nobody told you?"

Nods meekly.

"I would have been there."

Lily lays a comforting hand over Blair's.

"I think that was the point, Blair."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you're living your own life now, in Paris, and he didn't want to drag you back into his. Especially after parting the way you two did. He would have seen it as unfair, to ask that of you."

Blair snorts, she can't help it. Chuck Bass with cancer is still Chuck Bass.

Or is it?

She bits her lip.

"Doesn't matter," she says thickly. "I still – I would have come."

I missed him. I didn't want to, I tried so hard not to, but I did.

"I know. And so does Charles."

"What's it like?"

Lily is very careful with her words. "It's hard, Blair. I'm not going to lie. He's not an easy patient."

A weak smile. "Somehow I don't find that hard to believe."

"Can I ask your plans?"

"I don't know. Lily, this, it's just hit me."

"Blair?"

"Yes?"

"If you're thinking of staying – and." Loudly, talking over Blair. "I can already see that you are – don't think it will be easy. Don't, for one minute, fool yourself that it's some grand succession of hospital waits and chicken soup and holding his hair back while he vomits. I speak metaphorically, of course. It's not a fever. It's cancer. And it's Charles. He won't allow anyone accompany him to chemotherapy sessions, God only knows we've tried, and I know I'm correct in thinking he only allows me to help because I've been through a similar experience ... Because I won't see him as weak."

Lily finishes and blows her nose.

"Weak?" Blair repeats. "He has cancer. He's allowed be weak."

Lily looks at her like she's a little girl. Holds a hand to her cheek. Smoothens her curls like she did, years and years and years ago.

"Oh Blair. Don't you know him at all?"

.

...

.

Blair relieves Nate at seven. She's brought clean clothes, coffee.

"You've got a Christening to go to."

"Aren't you supposed to be the godmother?"

"Jenny's doing it. There'll be other kids in need of God. Go, you'll be late."

"Blair– "

She taps her Jimmy Choo.

"I'm the only one who's not a blood relative. It makes sense I stay here. Now go."

And she points, orders, and Nate obeys. He's too tired to fight.

.

...

.

"What are you doing here?"

"Good morning to you too sunshine."

"What are you doing here?"

"I preferred you asleep."

Blair returns to her iPad, scrolling down through the morning's papers. Glowing icon in the corner, a new message. Opens it. From Eleanor, asks why has she cancelled Friday's lunch. Won't you be back by then? How long is this Christening?

I'm staying in New York

Why?

Chuck has cance– Deletes it, lies, says something has come up. If she sends it, those little black letters, there will be indelible proof, forever in cyberspace. And she can't do that.

"What are you doing here?"

"For Christ's sake, Chuck, can't you see I'm trying here?"

The nurse comes in with breakfast. Orange juice and oatmeal. Chuck visibly greys.

Donna gives him a hard look. "Let me guess. You're not hungry. Huh?"

Shakes head.

"Well that's too bad, because I ain't leaving this room till you have eaten just about everything offa that plate. Yo' hear me? Now start."

Blair stares. "Excuse me, nurse, I don't th– "

"Excuse me?" Only it sounds more like shut up, stupidass white girl, don't be telling me my business. "But are you a nurse?"

"Well, no, but– "

"But what honey? Yo' either are a nurse, or yo' ain't. It's a simple enough question."

"I'm not."

"Well then I'd appreciated it if you don't be tellin' me how to do ma' job. What 'cho laughin' at? Less laughin', more eatin' oatmeal."

He manages two meagre spoons before vomiting. Blair excuses herself. It's too real. The smells, the sounds, the monitor's wail. Orange juice all over the floor.

Barricades herself in the ladies and sobs.

When she finds it inside herself to return, Donna has him eating plain crackers and jell-O. Now there are tubes up his nose.

"I've got other patients," she whispers, squeezing Blair's shoulder. "Make sure he eats everything. I be trustin' yo' now, honey."

Blair wants to call after the big woman, tells her she isn't trustworthy, but Donna is gone and they're alone in this cube. Chuck breaks a corner off a cracker and puts it in his mouth. Doesn't chew, sucks.

She can't think of anything to say so she tells the truth.

"When I saw you, last night, I thought you were someone else."

"I am."

He looks, almost, sorry for her.

"But you'll be okay, right? They can cure you, whatever you have? It's curable. Right?"

"Acute lymphoblastic leukaemia."

"What?"

"That's what I have."

"And they can cure that."

"Sure, Blair. All that time."

Chuck smiles but that only makes her cry harder. Can't tell if he's mocking her or not. Can't tell if he's lying or not. Can't tell if he means it or not. Can't tell if he wants it.

.

...

.

Plans change. They booked at Daniel, damn near booked out the entire restaurant, but it's takeaway in a hospital room instead. Daniel himself did it specially. Included a card, signed by Daniel Craig too, drinking a martini (stirred) at the bar with his lawyer.

"If James Bond tells you to get better, I think it'd be in your best interests to comply." Dan props the card on bedside locker. "He is, like, James Bond, license to kill and everything. And Daniel Craig is pretty scary. Those abs."

"He has a really big head," Eric says. "It's wildly out of proportion to the rest of his body"

"Can't say I, eh, noticed that. I was too busy looking at his pecs."

Serena nods. "Can we watch Casino Royale tonight? Please?"

She's holding his hand, fingers all interlinked, bound tight, eating clumsily with her left. She has red fingernails, glossy and strong. He has three gauze cocoons.

"S," he mutters, eyes closed.

"Yeah?"

"I can't feel my fingers."

Serena swallows more than grilled courgette.

"Oh. Sorry."

Gifts him back his hand. Vicious pins and needles, has to massage them out and everything cracks, all those little bones that make up the hand. He's listening to them all, chattering away. They're here for him, he knows that, but all he can think about it is they're not eating jell-O because they can't keep anything else down, they're not sitting on pillows because last week's routine lumbar puncture is starting to ache again, they're not using toothbrushes meant for barely teething toddlers because adult bristles rip their gums to shreds. They have normal platelet counts. Hair. Lives.

He knows they're here, for him, but he wishes they weren't. Looking at them makes it harder. Looking at them, whole people, lets him see what he's missing.

Whispers to Serena.

"You should have gone to Daniel."

Glares at him. Sets down her fork. Hands on hips.

"Jeez, Chuck. We weren't going to leave you here alone. When will you get it into your head that we want to be here. We want to be with you."

"When will you get it into your head that I don't want you to be here."

"All those in favour of leaving, say I. See? No one. Objection overruled. Now quit acting like a three-year-old and eat your jell-O."

Serena loads a spoon and makes aeroplane noises, zooming in closer and closer. Delilah wails from Jenny's lap.

"Aw, look," Jenny laughs. "She's jealous because you're getting all the attention."

Donna calls them at nine-thirty, because goodbyes take half an hour. When someone has cancer, you tell them you love them, every time you leave the room. Just in case.