ch11

Well guys, here we are. I had this planned out from before I started the first chapter, so please pleeeaaaase don't blame me. I hope you like it :

It was hard to tell what day it was sometimes when he woke up. Matthew had learned this from staying in the hospital all this time; it didn't really matter what day it was, unless it was a Monday or a Thursday. Mondays and Thursdays were the days he got chemotherapy, which usually upset his stomach enough to stop him from eating. The days right after those were generally the worst, he recalled, and today was ironically a Tuesday. His stomach turned and his head spun, even while lying down. He stirred in his hospital bed, waking from a strangely uncomfortable sleep.

He sat up, ignoring the lightheadedness that he felt. Guh, he felt like he was gonna puke. Maybe he was, it had happened before. It was normal, even, on Tuesdays and Fridays. Chemo took a lot out of him, and not just his hair.

When his thoughts drifted to his hair, he lifted a weak arm from the bed sheets to run a hand through his blonde locks. A few stray blonde hairs pulled out with just his fingers brushing through it. His hair was nice and long from a long time free of chemotherapy, and now he was going to lose it all again? It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

Stop whining, he told himself. It's just hair. It'll grow back next time you stop chemo. You'll see.

He still dreaded the thought of his head bald again, remembering how sick he was last time he looked like that. He was so thin and small you'd think you would break him just by touching him. He'd been so young, too, only sometimes so for Leukemia patients. Things like that don't happen to people like him. Things like that… shouldn't be possible. But alas, here he was. Too sick to even get out of the bed by himself. He'd recovered before, though, and he'd do it again. He'd even been able to go to school for almost all of middle school, and all of freshman year, before the sickness grabbed hold of him again.

It wasn't even as bad this time, or it seemed so. He'd only been coming to the hospital for about four months for treatment—he'd been an inpatient for three. Over the course of that time, however, he'd gotten thinner and lighter, and weaker, noticeably affected by his condition. Alfred hadn't stopped worrying about him since he'd shown the first signs of it early that summer, between freshman and sophomore years.

That's right, Alfred should be coming down again today. Matthew smiled. Alfred was always constantly worried about him, making sure the hospital was accommodating for him and making sure he always stayed in good spirits. Three months ago, when Matthew had become an inpatient, Alfred had heckled the nurses for his every whim, and now all of them were familiar with him. He was well known throughout the third floor, in fact. One of the nurses had called him attractive and that had sent a spiral of gossip flying through the staff; Matthew had told Al all of this, of course, and the two of them had a good laugh over it.

Matthew really realized now how much he loved his brother. When they were younger, they used to fight. Alfred had even thrown a baseball right into Matt's face, once, and given him an awful bloody nose. He'd gotten in trouble with their parents, of course, and Alfred had held a childish grudge against Matthew for a few days; it had even been funny to watch him sulk in his room. Only about a year and a half later, when he was six and Alfred was seven, he'd experienced the first signs of his sickness. He shook these thoughts off; it was a strange thing to remember, being so confused about why his parents were crying and why Alfred looked so suddenly guilty. What was wrong with him? What did they mean sick?

Of course, all of this had later on been explained to Matthew, and he'd spend a lot of time throughout elementary school in an out of the hospital. It was worst when he was in fourth grade; he'd been an inpatient with tri-weekly chemo for almost a year. (That was an awful year for him, too) It was starting to get bad again, and it scared Matthew a bit. It had gone away—he'd felt stronger than he had ever before when he was in middle school. But he supposed now it didn't matter anyways, whether he felt strong, if he was too weak to get out of his bed now.

A nurse entered the room, with a soft "Good morning, Matthew." He smiled at her in reply. "I'll bring in your breakfast soon, is that okay?"

"I… I feel nauseous today. I don't want anything." He declined.

She looked concerned. "It's alright if you can't eat anything right now, but I want you to try, okay? It's important that you get enough energy." One of the side effects of chemo was appetite loss, anyways, so this happened quite often. He was never a big eater in the first place, and now his small portions shrank even more.

She brought him a tray with some oatmeal, a carton of milk, some Jell-O, and a piece of toast. He thanked her. He poked at the oatmeal with a plastic spork, bringing a bit to his mouth, and reconsidered, setting it back down. His stomach felt positively awful, like the worst kind of stomachache. It was almost 9:30 in the morning now, and he decided to play Pokémon for a while whilst he waited for school to be out for Alfred. His older brother came to the hospital right after school on every day he didn't have work.

Playing the game often took some time out of his day; he liked to use it to pass the time. Matthew always had more time than he needed, sitting alone in the hospital with only nurses to talk to. I mean, the nurses were nice and all, but sometimes he wished he could go outside, and go to school, and have friends, and do stupid things like teenagers do, and meet a pretty girl and maybe fall in love. But no, he was stuck in this dumb hospital bed on legs like the Jell-O in the cup in front of him.

It was nearly around 11:00 when Matthew stopped playing the game, finally getting bored with it. He picked up a book from the bedside table. Alfred had brought it for him; it was some dumb action novel. He opened it anyways, desperate for something else to do. As his fingers brushed against the textured paper of the pages he found himself hopelessly hooked on the plot. It ended up being pretty good.

The nurse came and took his breakfast, noticing he didn't eat anything from it. She offered him lunch, and he declined politely.

He just needed to wait a few more hours before Alfred got there, then he'd have someone to talk to, something to do. He immersed himself in the book again, watching the clock every few minutes.

Alfred Jones had raced out of the school as fast as he could; his history class had been right next to the main exit, and he'd brought his backpack to that hour anyway so he didn't have to go to his locker. His tennis shoes pounded against the pavement as he ran into the parking lot. A lot of the time it was extremely difficult to get out of the school parking lot since there were so many cars, so if you wanted to get out in a timely fashion, you needed to run. And luckily, Alfred had been prepared to do just that after months of battling his way out of the traffic.

He jumped into his red car and turned the ignition immediately, the car revving to life as he tossed his backpack into the passenger's seat. He slammed the door after him, and backed out of his parking place. He seemed to be one of the first out of the school, and he drove quickly out onto the road from the school parking lot.

It took quite a while for him to get to the hospital, actually. The building was about 15 or 20 minutes away from the school. His parents had sent Matthew to that hospital since it was known for its good cancer treatment center. There was one hospital closer to the school, but it was actually harder to get to that hospital than this one.

He pulled into the parking lot there, parking his car and looking up into the windows of the building. He could see that one of the window curtains was pulled closed on the fourth floor, and he knew it was probably Matthew trying to nap or something.

He walked casually into the building, simply waving to the receptionist and she signed him in. In his regular visits it had proven tiresome to sign in every time, and he'd met the woman who worked there many times as well, so she already knew his name and the room number he was visiting.

Taking the elevator upstairs, he arrived at Matthew's room quickly. He knocked loudly on the door, making sure the probably drowsy boy could hear him, before he entered the room. Matthew was sitting on the bed in his usual spot, reading a book with a small lamp next to him. The book was the novel Alfred had forgotten over here—It was his English assignment, but that was alright if his brother wanted to read it. He could always just get another copy.

"Heeeey, Mattie! How're you doin'?" Alfred chimed, excited to see him. He nearly jumped onto the bed, encircling him in a big hug, and then relaxing into the pillows next to his younger brother.

"Mmmm." Matthew's voice wavered. "Not so g-good, today. I'm kind of nauseous."

Alfred frowned. "Aww, dude. I forgot it was Tuesday again. I should've brought you something, huh?" He wrapped a warm arm around the smaller boy.

"N-no, it's fine Alfred. I just… ugh—" he stood up suddenly, pushing the white sheets off of him and dropping the book onto the mattress. He nearly fell over, and Alfred rushed to support him. It was clear to the older twin now that the nausea he was experiencing had escalated into puking. Matthew quickly took a few steps into the bathroom, falling to his knees over the toilet with two rapid thuds. Alfred pulled his hair back as he wretched, rubbing calming circles into his shoulder blades.

"Aww, Mattie. Dude…" Alfred took on a sympathetic tone as Matthew heaved again, clearly feeling awful in general. After he was sure Matthew had stopped puking, Alfred grabbed a glass of water and a few tissues for his brother to wash the disgusting taste out of his mouth.

Matthew sat on the ground and took deep breaths. His stomach was tied in a knot and he felt lightheaded. He wished he didn't have to have chemotherapy, then took the thought back. If he didn't have chemo, he probably wouldn't be where he was today. He probably wouldn't have been alive that day without it. He should be grateful.

"Come on hot-shot. Let's get you back to bed. Feelin' any better? At all?" Alfred questioned, wondering if throwing up helped anything at all. Unfortunately, it didn't. He didn't feel any difference. Alfred slung his arm around his own shoulders and carried him all the way out of the bathroom and to the hospital bed.

"Nnm… Not really." Matthew mumbled. "Feelin' awful still."

Alfred felt ready to cry. God, why did it have to be Matthew with Leukemia? Why couldn't it be some other kid? Mattie was too good for this, too kind and good. Hell, Alfred would even give up his own position to be in Matthew's place. He just wanted to see his little brother healthy again.

Alfred set Matthew down on the bed and pulled the covers up to his waist, sitting down next to him on the bed. He set the book on the nightstand where it had been originally. Matthew sunk down into the pillows, breathing deep breaths and trying not to concentrate on his stomachache.

They stayed like that for a while, just Matthew breathing and Alfred petting his hair, telling him to relax a little and he'll feel better. Golden strands came loose in Alfred's fingers and he felt even worse. Soon he was just sitting there, sort of staring at Matthew.

Soon, however, a doctor came into the room; a male doctor, one in a white coat with an official-looking nametag that said Dr. Schoenburger. He carried a clipboard and was followed by two worried-looking nurses. Alfred felt that this couldn't be good.

"What is it?" He asked abruptly, perhaps rudely.

"We'd like to speak to Matthew for a moment, sir." Strangely formal. Alfred's throat seemed to close up.

Alfred nodded, shaking Matthew's shoulder slightly. "Mattie, wake up. Somebody's here."

The younger brother's eyes cracked open, and he scooted back in order to lean against the headboard of the bed. He looked over to the middle-aged doctor, Dr. Schoenburger. The nurses fidgeted behind him; one of them whispered something into the other's ear. "W-what is it, doctor?" Matthew asked, suddenly apprehensive.

"We have already contacted your parents. Your… test results are in." The distain in the doctor's voice stopped Alfred's heart.

"O-oh. Really. Wh-what do they say?" Alfred heard the same distain in his brother's voice.

No. No no no no no no NO NO NO NO.

This wasn't happening. This was a dream.

"We're afraid the results of the tests we took came back positive for the final stages of Leukemia."

This was a DREAM.

Matthew started crying. Alfred felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks and his eyes burned as he looked up at the somber doctor's face.

"We estimate you have about four months to live."

There was a lengthy pause in the room. No one made a sound, save Matthew, who was beyond consolation, shaking and sobbing, curling in on his knees as his whole body trembled. Alfred could feel the bed shake beneath him. However, Alfred didn't have an immediate reaction.

The information settled in a few seconds later, when his mind started screaming all at once; no, no no NO this couldn't be happening! It had been so long; He'd fought so hard already! He'd never wake up on his sixteenth birthday, he'd never travel the world, he'd never own a cat, or go skydiving, or go to an aquarium, or join a band, he'd never kiss someone in the rain, he'd never—

"N-no. No, no. That's not right!" Alfred snapped. "That can't be right!"

He could hear Matthew weeping behind him. It was a pitiful sound; squeaking, panicked sobs. He shook harder, and wailed in grief. Waves of anger washed through him. How could this happen?! Bad things like this don't happen to good people. Bad things like this don't happen to Mattie.

"You all just don't know what you're talking about! Mattie is fine!" Alfred grew louder. "He's fine! HE's FINE!" He felt more hot trails of tears dripping off his chin.

The doctor just looked at him. "Calm down now, son. We've done all we can. We're still trying our bes-"

"I DON'T GIVE A DAMN!" he roared, the doctor taking a step back. "LEAVE, YOU BASTARD!"

The middle-aged man seemed to resign to Alfred's demands, accommodating his request by ushering the nurses out before him. He stopped just as he was going to leave the room, his sad eyes meeting Alfred's hysterical ones for a moment as he said, "I'm so sorry."

The door clicked shut.

Alfred broke down, collapsing onto his knees by the side of the bed. He clutched at the sheets and buried his face in the mattress, salty tears leaving wet spots in the fabric.

"Mattie." He choked out.

He looked up to see eyes filled with fear and despair. Eyes that belonged to his brother, ones that he'd no longer see for the rest of his life in four short months.

"Al." Matthew's quiet voice was hoarse.

Alfred climbed onto the bed, gripping his brother's hospital gown tight as they both embraced, and as they both cried.

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