A/N: Hi guys, thanks for reading my story! It's a bit angsty, maybe have some tissues ready, I don't know. Enjoy and please review. x

Life was cruel.

It had some twisted sense of humour where it gave you months of bliss. Months of utter happiness and hope that maybe, just maybe, this would be forever. There would be no more bad days. And then in a matter of minutes, it laughed in your face and sent you years worth of pain and fear.

I was very happy with Will. He had stayed with me, cancelling his appointment at Dignitas. I had moved back into the annexe and, perhaps against Mrs Traynor's will, had taken up the other half of Will's bed permanently. I offered to pay rent or help with the shopping but Mrs Traynor, the tired old sod she was, had smiled at me for the first time since I'd started working for her.

"No," she'd said as she let her hand rest on my shoulder. "You've done enough."

Mrs Traynor still paid me to look after Will which made me feel a little strange. I would happily look after Will for free - most of the 'looking after' was just us bickering as I made a mess of things anyway. I had told her so.

"Yes," she had cocked her head to the side, her silvered brown braid falling over her shoulder. She had visibly physically improved since the stress of her son's death looming had been lifted off of her shoulders. Her complexion was clear, her eyes wide and sparkly again. She looked at least ten years younger than her fifty-five years. Perhaps another reason for her improvement was the lack of wedding band around her finger - she had separated from Mr Traynor. It was a civil breakup - they lived in the same house, too grateful to see their son happy to move out. They kept their accounts joined. Really, the only thing that changed was that they no longer kissed each other's cheeks when they saw each other. Mr Traynor had begun bringing the red-headed woman home and I'd seen an extremely attractive man leaving the Granta House more than once. Mrs Traynor was a happy woman. "But nobody seems to be able to make him as happy as you do."

So life went on.

I got paid to spend time with Will. He had less and less bad days and those that were bad, he allowed himself to be comforted. A particularly bad day had been around two months since the trip. He'd been bed bound, blinded by pain through his body. I still wince when I think of his face that day, so pale and gaunt. His blue eyes were clouded with silent pain. He couldn't sleep through the pain, could barely eat without feeling nauseous.

"Clark," he had mumbled from his upright position in his bed. "Lie with me, won't you?"

It was one of the first 'bad days' that Will hadn't sent me out of the room to suffer in silence. It was progress in it's simplest form.

I'd smiled and climbed into the bed beside him, pulling the blanket to both of our chins. He turned his head to face me.

"I'm sorry," I had told him, guilt filling me. I was the reason he was alive today, let alone in pain.

"You're worth it," he had smiled slightly, his face tight with pain. I pulled his hand to my chest and kissed his knuckles, snuggling up closer to him so that our bodies touched. He exhaled and tilted his head so that it rested on mine, shutting his eyes. I like to think I saw his face relax a little.

The good days were brilliant. We went on adventures - Will's face when I told him I was taking him sky diving was a face I'll never forget. I got a photograph of him on the way down - his eyes were full of wonder and excitement, his smile bright. I printed the photo and put it in one of the photo frames I'd salvaged so long ago and replaced the photos that once held a different Will. He lit up when he saw.

"I want more," he told me. "I want more with you and Nathan."

Will laughed more and he smiled more and in general, our little lifestyle improved day to day. We invested in spicing up the annexe so that it wasn't so dreary. I picked flowers from the garden every day and Will bought brighter coloured furniture to replace blacks, browns and neutrals of the annexe. In a matter of weeks, no part of our home was lacking in colour. I think Mrs Traynor was happy with that - she stepped into the annexe and saw her freshly shaven son amongst colour and flowers and I think she was happier.

"You've done a wonderful job," she told me with a sense of wonder. Will progressed quickly in his physio - with the encouragement of Nathan and myself, he began to grip items better and as the months went on, was able to lift his hand to grab objects on his own. It made a world of difference for Will who could now, almost without shaking at all, grab his food or beaker. There was no improvement in his legs or spine but that was to be expected - Will told me he was just happy to be able to use his hands again. Slowly, he learnt to write again. He practised for hours a day, his scrawl an incomprehensible mess for days until after a couple of weeks, he handed me a letter.

"Dear Clark,

I love you.

Yours, Will."

I beamed at him, kissing him. With regained strength in his hands, Will and I attempted to cook dinner together one night. I didn't trust Will with a knife to cut potatoes up but he peeled them while I prepped a roast chicken. We laughed and we chatted, bickering about where we would go for our next holiday.

"Australia," he instructed confidently.

"Australia? Why not Italy? Or France?"

Will shook his head. "Australia. Five weeks from today. Deal?"

I couldn't resist the confident smile and offered him my hand which he shook, grinning from ear to ear. "Deal."

I had never seen so much confidence and happiness radiate from Will. Just being able to use his hands again was something he was beyond grateful for. When we went to bed one night, we faced each other and he reached his hand slightly, slow and unsteady, still limited in his use of his arm. But soon, his hand was on my cheek and he was tracing my jaw line, my hair line, my lips. I pulled myself closer and we kissed until we didn't, and we stared at each other for a minute, an unanswered question. Will nodded slowly and I removed our clothes and that night, Will and I made love. It wasn't like it had been with Patrick - Patrick wanted to impress and used his athleticism in doing so. Will could do no such thing - his hands were wandering and gentle but his lips were passionate and strong against mine. Things... were not as confusing or awkward as they should have been. In fact, things were wonderful.

As I sunk into my pillow, I sighed. This must be what true love feels like. I had never felt this way before - these complete satisfaction with life. We were happy - we were okay.

Together, Will and I organised our holiday. He laughed when I questioned the integrity of the big mango.

"The Melbourne Symphony Orchestra," I repeated Will's words, looking at the programs. "They're playing Tchaikovsky 6 and Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto 2."

"Oh, what a program!" Will had exclaimed surprisingly. I raised an eyebrow in his direction, amused by his display of adoration for the Russian composers. Our holiday came together perfectly - two weeks spent by the beach side (although Will refused high-populated beaches like Bondi, opting for more private beaches once the large-wheeled wheelchair had been confirmed.) The weeks seemed to drag by as we grew more excited.

And just as he had last time, Will grew sick.

They told me that it was pneumonia again. Will looked terrible, a contrast to the Will I'd seen yesterday. There had been no signs. No coughing, no pain, no fatigue. He had just been Will.

And now he was unconscious on the bed. Nathan sat beside me outside the hospital room, a hand on my knee as I finished my fourth cup of coffee. Nathan had been more and more absent from our lives as I took on Will's routines. Nathan came every now and then to check in but he had happily handed over the reigns once he was sure I wouldn't kill Will.

It was 3 am and it was raining - nothing unusual for this time of year but somehow felt fitting to the situation. My chest felt heavy, my nose snotty from the abundance of crying I'd done in the last few hours. We had been here since around 5pm where Will had told me "don't freak out but I think you need to take me to the hospital." I had practically dropped the glass of water I'd been holding.

"Are you alright? Where does it hurt? Will, what's wrong?" But Will remained silent, his face pulled into tense lines, a slight green complexion.

"Please, Clark." I didn't get too worked up until well into the night. Will had seemed fine, a little tired, but fine. I waited outside the room to give Will some privacy with the doctor, looking in every now and then. I waited for an answer from the doctor who left the room, only to return with a bucket. It was then I saw Will vomit painfully. I rushed in to take the place of the doctor holding the bucket, completely overwhelmed by the sudden spike in Will's health. I swallowed the sudden need to vomit too when I saw that the vomit was mixed with blood. It took around an hour to settle Will. He looked miserable and tired and completely fed up. I helped him to lie down, puffing up the pillows behind him. He didn't meet my eyes.

I left the room as the doctor spoke to Nathan, only catching the end of the conversation.

"It's not looking good."

I had known it was pneumonia the minute I had seen him. That look that had haunted my all of those months ago in Will's last round of pneumonia - the look of utter distance, of giving up, it was ever so vivid in his eyes today. Somewhere around 8pm, Will fell asleep and somewhere around 1am, the doctors told us that he had hours left.

To this day, I feel like I'm responsible. Like I should have noticed that he didn't kiss me goodnight the night before or that he didn't ask for sugar in his coffee today. Maybe if I hadn't pushed that aside, I could have saved him.

Isn't it ironic that now that Will no longer wanted to end his life, he didn't have a choice? I shared the irony with Nathan through sobs - he didn't find it as funny of a joke as I thought it'd be. I entered Will's room, watching my true love sleep. His breathing was shallow and fast and his skin had goosebumps despite the several blankets that laid on him. His face was whiter than I'd ever seen it, his lips tinted blue. He didn't stir when I entered - they told me he wouldn't wake up.

I didn't get to say a last goodbye to Will or tell him that I loved him. But I got to hold his hand until his last final, painful breath.

I got an extra five months with Will. Five months which were spent with the love of my life. It seemed sad to me now, that I didn't get a full year with Will. Mum says that the reason we fell in love so quickly - so passionately, is because we knew, somewhere deep in our stomachs, that we had a deadline.

Life is so cruel.