AhahahaHAHA ITS TIME TO PLAY "GUESS WHAT PIGEON'S OTP IS" aka "WHY RAREPAIRS HURT". RusCan forever, motherfuckers. try not 2 cry, k

idk Miguel is Cuba because that's the name I've seen used most

I don't even fuckin know how hospitals work so don't even talk to me about why there are IVs and stuff I do what I want

Staring out the hospital window had become boring. Watching the cars had become boring. Birds no longer flew past the window. It was cold. It rained.

Matthew thought everything was boring, now. Once you were told exactly when you were going to die, not a lot matters anymore. He forced himself to eat the breakfast brought to him every day. On Tuesdays and Fridays he didn't, and the nurses understood. They didn't talk to him much, anymore. They didn't call him cute or giggle when he tried to flirt with them. He didn't really do that much anymore, either. He understood. It must've been incredibly hard to work in a place like this. To watch people wither before your eyes over months, or years. You shouldn't get too attached to the people in the cancer ward, you see. You understand why.

One month had passed since they'd received the news.

His hair had thinned further, his steps had grown shorter and his legs weaker. Matthew tried to tell himself to keep strong. He really couldn't, but he tried at least to do so around his brother. He forced himself to keep smiling around his brother.

Alfred had been tearing himself apart. He'd been coming to the hospital every day, with no exceptions. His enthusiasm was renewed in its intensity, but just behind it laid the denial of a very grave message. He'd refused to believe the message the doctor had delivered that day. He would never say it—but Matthew saw it in his eyes. He knew; he knew that the doctor had been telling the truth. He came to room 4-271 every day with sadness in his eyes, but a smile on his face. He'd bring Matthew gifts—a new game, his stuffed teddy bear. Things that would help get him… distracted. Matthew saw this, and suddenly appreciated his brother a bit more. He always was trying to do his best for Matthew, huh? But Matthew's happiness drained as he watched Alfred grow weary, with thinning hair from not eating enough, dark circles under his eyes from sleepless nights spent crying. Yet he still found the energy to spend each day with Matthew.

Matthew, however, felt trapped. He had always wanted to leave the hospital, but he needed it now more than ever. He begged Alfred to take him out of the hospital—to a park, a Café, to a crowded market. Too much of his life had been spent isolated in a tiny white room that smelled like Antiseptic.

And so, Alfred had.

Matthew had dressed in jeans and a huge sweater, and they'd set his weakening body in a wheelchair. They were worried about him collapsing somewhere. He'd tried to hide the fact that he was getting weaker—he'd felt it even before the doctor's news. But now it was more evident, especially to him. He felt heavy.

They'd gone out to a park in the area; it was just the next town over, but it was far enough away for Matthew. Alfred rolled him down a long path that wound through the grass, a blanket on his lap. "How do you feel out here?" Alfred had asked him.

Matthew had thought about it for a minute. The air felt nice in his lungs, and even though it was cold, he was still happy to be outside. "I'm tired." It wasn't false.

"Maybe we should head back then, Mattie?"

"No, I want to stay out here, just for a while longer."

Alfred rolled him down the path, passing trees and bushes and park-benches and Matthew wished it was summer so they could have a picnic or something. A female jogger eyed them as she ran by, and Matthew recognized pity in her eyes. He was doomed to die in January, of all months, and November couldn't drag by any slower.

It was a month and a half later that he decided to shave his head. His long golden hair had been falling out, strand by strand, until it was thin and wispy on his head. He decided it wasn't worth it to look like this anymore—it was time to get rid of it.

He had Alfred do it—he brought an electric shaver in to the hospital, and he sat on the toilet while his brother worked. Matthew could see himself in the mirror, watching Alfred nearly in tears while he shaved off the remaining golden hair. Matthew found himself blinking back tears of his own—but he wouldn't let himself cry yet. Clumps of soft, blonde hair fell to the ground gently. The shaver hummed as Alfred did the back of his head; He took a deep breath. The whole process only took five or six minutes, but the results of the change looked… very evident. Matthew looked very sick, now. His wide eyes that had been so filled with life before were now dull, with dark circles under them. His cheeks had hollowed out, his collarbones were apparent. The blue eyes that had once brimmed with happiness, now empty.

Alfred brought him a hat—his favorite beanie, with the Canadian flag on it. Matthew guessed it was because it was too painful to see him like this—and he couldn't blame Alfred. It was kind of him, even.

At the end of the second month, Matthew decided he was ready to let other people know about his worsening condition. He told Alfred a few people that he could tell; and Alfred looked saddened all over again. He probably didn't want to do it, but he would never deny Matthew something.

The first person to come was Francis. He was like a second older brother to Matthew—the kind that gave advice and help and was there for you. Francis was a precious person to Matthew; so he was chosen to be told first.

Francis' was a meeting of few words. He'd burst in the door like a madman, slamming it open without warning. His eyes were wild and panicked, and sad all at the same time. Matthew looked up immediately from the book he was reading— something action-filled, as he'd requested from Alfred— and it slipped from his hands, dropping onto the floor. Francis was already crying, frozen in the doorway as his eyes scanned over the frail figure under the bed sheets. The shadows cast on Matthew's hollow cheeks made him look emaciated and so incredibly ill. "Francis," Matthew had gasped, and that was all it took.

Francis was over to the bed in a matter of seconds, sitting quickly on the edge and wrapping his arms tightly around the boy. He was shaking, Matthew noted, as he clung to him. Francis still hadn't said anything, but he moved closer and ran shaking hands over Matthew's scalp, where soft blonde locks had previously occupied. Matthew found himself getting emotional, too, and he buried his face into Francis' chest. The elder just pulled him in, smooth, dry hands running over his head and neck and shoulders. Matthew burst into tears, and Francis' resolve broke. They just held each other for a long time, rocking back and forth. Matthew curled into a ball, and Francis pulled him into his lap. Francis was warm, and safe, and smelled nostalgic. It wasn't like the harsh antiseptic smell of the hospital that stung his nose.

They found that few words were needed.

The second person to visit had been Katyusha. It was only a few days after Francis' first visit (he would come a few more times, later), and Matthew was still raw with emotion.

She'd knocked softly on the door to 4-271, and Matthew hadn't known who it was. The nurses usually just came in without knocking, as did Alfred. But when he called for them to come in, he found himself faced with the sorrowful face of his childhood crush.

He remembered spending hours pining over her from his hospital room—god, it hurt to remember—and when he was healthy enough to attend school, from the window between their classrooms. She was a full two years older than him, though, and she'd moved up schools just before he'd gotten really sick in fourth grade. She had always been beautiful, and now she was drop dead gorgeous. Her curves could not be rivaled, and she had a sweet face with emotive eyes. She was very tall, filling out perfectly and beautifully. Her hair was a little damp, like she'd rushed to get there.

She'd spotted Matthew and immediately frozen up. She looked horrified—he was so frail and small and looked so very sick. Like Matthew had become used to, she cried. She had always been so sensitive, though, so Matthew didn't blame her. She rushed to his bedside, falling to her knees by him. She was so very tall that their eyes nearly met as she kneeled by the low hospital bed. Her manicured hands with small, rounded nails had snatched his, and she'd nearly howled in despair.

"M-Matthew! I had not known!" She cried, her accent still thick as ever. She cried, and cried, and held his hand and he reassured her. He felt empty, mechanical, as he did so. He knew he was going to die, and felt like he was more equipped to deal with it than everyone else.

After a while, she'd promised to stay in touch. She promised to text him every day, to ask how he was feeling or if he'd like to go out somewhere together. Matthew genuinely appreciated it, as he still felt trapped in the hospital most of the time. She kissed him on both cheeks, and color sprang into his paled face. She laughed, then, a mirthful sound, through all her tears and the emotion that still hung in the room like a thick curtain.

As he watched her leave, she hesitated slightly in the doorway. There was someone… standing outside. The door was only open a crack, so he couldn't see who it was for a moment. Katyusha said something in a foreign language, and Matthew now understood who she was talking to.

It was her brother. Ivan.

He looked nervous as he came in, biting his lower lip. He glanced around the room, anywhere but at Matthew's face. His boots squeaked on the floor, producing an unfitting sound for the tense atmosphere, and Ivan flinched at it. The tall boy took a few steps from the door, enough to walk around the bed, to the bedside where Katyusha had been crouching a minute earlier. He ran his fingers through his flaxen hair uneasily, obviously not knowing what to say. Matthew looked up at him, and their eyes met.

Ivan exhaled slowly, and sat down on the bed next to Matthew. The mattress springs squeaked softly in protest, but otherwise, the room was quiet. Silently, the two of them regarded each other for a moment. (If Alfred had been there, he would have been boiling with rage. He'd built up an animosity that could not be rivaled with Ivan.) Ivan's gloved hand slowly worked its way from his lap over to Matthew's pale one, grasping it with a gentleness he hadn't known Ivan was capable of. The touch was tentative, hesitant. Matthew smiled a little, twisting his hand around and grasping Ivan's tighter. A smile was twisting its way onto his face, and Ivan took notice.

Ivan's face mirrored his, obviously very happy of Matthew's reaction to his presence. His eyes adopted the misted look of sorrow, though, and he gently pulled Matthew into his chest in a placid embrace. Matthew was nearly shocked at the tenderness of it all—this boy who'd barely noted his presence before was now exchanging him the most basic of intimacies. (Briefly, in the back of his mind, he wondered if it was only pity, or if Ivan had wanted this before his death-sentence.) Only now did he allow tears to come down.

Ivan set a sunflower on the windowsill before he left. Alfred asked about it later, but Matthew told him it was a gift from Katyusha.

Miguel was the last one to come. They all visited multiple times, but Miguel was the final person to hear the news. Originally, Alfred was completely opposed to him knowing; Matthew had fought with him, and Alfred gave in, eventually. From what Matthew was told, the confrontation was short and sweet, but the bruise Alfred was nursing on the side of his face painted a different picture. Matthew reminded himself to thank Alfred later.

Miguel's meeting with him was significantly less emotional than the others. He showed up after school with a pack of cards and two tubs of ice cream—You can probably guess what happened from there. They laughed over their game of Go Fish (Mattie didn't know how to play anything else) and talked like normal friends, and he was thankful. He was so very thankful, because Miguel didn't treat him like he was dying, like he was a fragile little object that would break if you touched it. No, the two of them played cards for a few hours even, before Matthew felt his eyelids falling closed, and he was feeling the weakness again.

He thanked Miguel for the Ice Cream and the wonderful time, but he insisted that he had to sleep now. It was becoming an issue—interfering with things like this, that he would need to stop and take a nap (whether it be a short one or a nine-hour nap).

He could feel it in his bones—He only had one month left. One month, and he'd be gone from this earth. Gone from everything except a grave and some scattered memories. The very thought scared him. He'd always been forgettable, and when he was gone, would people forget him forever?

Yet, each day he grew weaker and weaker until he could barely sit up. He was now hooked up to an IV to keep him hydrated and his blood pressure regulated, and he looked very much like a dying child. And it was scary. Alfred still came to the hospital, though. Each day after school he would read to Matthew, or talk to him, or even just sit in the hospital room with him for company.

"How are you feeling?" He'd asked one day.

Matthew couldn't really say. "I'm going to die soon, Alfred."

"No you're not. That doctor was a liar... It was this bad in fourth grade, right?" No, it wasn't. "You can pull through!"

"Alfred…" Matthew wanted to protest. "Please don't miss me. Find a pretty girl to fall in love with and don't miss me. Find a house… a pet. A hobby," Matthew stifled a raspy laugh, "Just please. Don't miss me."

"Don't talk like tha—"

"But please remember me, Alfred." Matthew looked at his brother through dull blue eyes that didn't shine anymore. "Don't let them forget about me. Please." Alfred started to cry.

Matthew decided to take his nap for the day. One month to go… One month to go.

you can literally watch my mind deteriorate as you read im so ready for this story to be done