Hope you are all well :) Or at least not dead yet. That's an accomplishment.
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One week later
Oliver cringed as Baby leaned forward yet again, retching into the toilet. The noises he made were miserable. All Oliver could do was coo gently to his boyfriend and hold his hair back. He trailed soft fingers down Baby's spine, trying to do anything he could to comfort him.
"It's almost done sweetheart," he murmured. "You're almost there."
Baby moaned, the sound bouncing off the inside of the dirty ceramic bowl.
"I want it to be done now," he mumbled, lips thick with puke.
Oliver swallowed. He wished he could just take all this pain away, wished he could shoulder it instead. He felt the beginning of tears prick at his eyes, but worked hard to push them back.
"I know Baby," Oliver said. "I know."
Baby lurched forward to puke again, his entire body contracting with it. The arms which clutched the toilet were getting thin, Oliver realized. With each drag of his fingers up and down Baby's back, he could feel every bone in his spine.
As soon as the puking was done, Oliver resolved, he was making bacon.
After several more bouts of vomit, then a couple waiting minutes to make sure another one wasn't coming, Baby tried to spin around towards Oliver. Oliver had to help him, but they eventually got it so that they were facing each other.
"'M gross," Baby said.
Oliver didn't want to agree with him, but he was kind of right. Dark circles looped their way under Baby's eyes, giving his face a pale, gaunt appearance. Vomit mixed with blood ran down his chin and dripped down into his lap. Oliver leaned over to press a soft kiss to Baby's sweaty forehead, trying to ignore the acrid smell of puke.
"Then let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"
"Don't want to move."
"Then I'll come to you."
Oliver stood gingerly, pins and needles zapping through his feet. They'd been sitting on the bathroom floor nearly all afternoon. Baby had gone in to do his last round of chemo for the week just this morning.
Oliver grabbed a washcloth and a ponytail holder from the bathroom drawer. After running the washcloth under warm water, he dropped back to the floor next to Baby, who was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.
Oliver carefully wiped Baby's chin and neck, then his whole face. Baby sighed.
"Good?"
"Yeah."
Oliver threw the dirty washcloth in the sink then gently tied Baby's stringy hair away from his face. Baby blinked tiredly up at him.
"Do you think you can stand and get to the sink?" Oliver asked. "Or do you want me to bring you some water down here?"
"Down here, please."
So Oliver got him a glass of water, and carefully helped him drink the whole of it.
"How are you feeling?"
Baby made a face. "Better. Ish. Everything hurts and my mouth still tastes like puke but at least I'm not hurling."
Oliver chuckled, taking the glass away. "Sounds like an improvement to me. Do you want to stand up now? I can go make some bacon."
If it was possible, Baby got even paler. "No. No food."
"Baby, you haven't eaten today."
"Because I'd just puke it up if I tried."
"You have to eat something love. Even just a piece of plain toast."
"No."
"Baby."
"Fine, fine," Baby groaned. "I'll have a piece of toast, bossy idiot."
"Thank you," Oliver said. "Was that really that hard?"
"No," Baby grumbled. "But you're still annoying."
"Since day one, love."
Baby smiled at him, a true, genuine smile.
"Keep it that way," Baby said. "Now help me up, the couch sounds infinitely better than the bathroom floor right now."
So Oliver lifted Baby by his armpits and, despite numerous protests, princess carried him to the living room couch. He made sure Baby was tucked under blankets before making his way to the kitchen to pop a couple slices of bread in the toaster.
"Do you want butter or jam?"
"Just the toast Oliver."
"Just the toast? You mongrel."
"Everything tastes like ashes, babe. I wouldn't notice if there was jam on the bread or not," Baby said.
"So you're saying I could put jam on the toast."
"You are fucking unbelievable."
Oliver laughed, and put jam on the toast anyway.
They ate together on the couch, cuddled close. Baby had been rested his head on Oliver's shoulder until Oliver tucked him all the way into his side. Much better, in Oliver's opinion.
"We're late on the rent for this month," Baby whispered. "Dolores phoned yesterday."
"Shit," Oliver hissed. "I forgot. I put my whole paycheck towards Monday's copay."
"I'm sorry," Baby mumbled into Oliver's chest. "This was supposed to by my month. We had this huge gig planned out at the Keisher. It would have covered everything."
"Hey, don't you dare apologize," Oliver told him. "This isn't your fault."
"Grace and Red are so mad at me," Baby confessed. "I wish I could just play."
"Baby you can barely stand on your own. You can't host an outdoor concert."
Baby was silent for a beat too long, and that's when Oliver realized he'd started crying. The tears ran silently down his face, soaking Oliver's shirt. Shit, he'd fucked up. Shit, shit shit.
"Fuck Baby, I'm sorry," Oliver bit his lip.
"No you're right," Baby sniffed. "I can't play right now. I just... it hurts. I hate it."
"I can't even imagine how terrible this must be," Oliver said. "I'm so sorry Baby."
"It's okay Oliver," Baby said. "I'll be okay."
"You will be, but that doesn't make this suck any less."
Baby didn't respond, probably because he knew Oliver was right. He cuddled closer, and Oliver pulled him halfway onto his lap. They stayed silent like that for a while, words heavy and unspoken between them. Oliver clicked on the small TV and turned the volume nearly all the way down, just so that there was some noise rolling in the background. He was just starting to think that Baby had dozed off when he softly spoke.
"My mom died like this," Baby said.
Oliver froze, grip around Baby's shoulders tightening.
"What?"
"She had lung cancer," Baby elaborated. "She'd cough up blood and everything. When she finally went to the hospital they told her it was too late. She died when I was eleven."
Oliver swallowed. "Shit."
Baby huffed out a little laugh. "Yeah, that about sums it up. It's why I was so scared to do anything. I was terrified of going into the doctor and hearing that I was going to die. Just like her."
Suddenly all the denial and the hiding made sense. Oliver felt awful for ever getting angry at Baby, even internally, for not doing anything sooner.
"I'm sorry Baby," Oliver said, not knowing what other words could possibly be appropriate.
"It's just..." Baby choked on his next words, and Oliver pulled him in tighter. "It's just so scary."
Oliver made an indiscernible noise in the back of his throat, pressing his lips to Baby's head. He stroked the boy's hair, wishing he could do more. Baby started crying again, and Oliver wished he could just make it all go away. Why was this happening? What had Baby done to deserve this? Nothing, that's what. It was an unspeakable horror that no human being deserved, lease of all Baby. Oliver felt like it was ripping him apart.
"I d-don't want to die Oliver," Baby cried.
"You're not going to die Baby," Oliver said fiercely. "We're going to do everything we possibly can do you hear me? You're not going to die."
"It's just not fair," Baby hiccuped.
"It's not fair," Oliver agreed softly. "It's the least fair thing in the whole fucking world."
"I can't go back and do more chemo, I can't," Baby said. "It hurts so much Oliver."
"Baby you have to. It's the only thing keeping the cancer from spreading."
"But I have to go in there alone. And it's so expensive, even with insurance, and we're missing the apartment payments and my credit score is in the fucking dumpster and my fucking dad is still my next of kin and what if he has to--"
"Baby," Oliver said, successfully quieting his lover. "Just breathe for a minute okay?"
Baby tried for a deep breath. They sat face to face now, Baby having twisted out of Oliver's grip sometime during his Stressing The Fuck Out moment.
"First off, you're not going to stop chemo no matter what the negatives are," Oliver said. "If it saves your life, it doesn't matter what it costs, yeah? You're worth it. Everything else we can fix."
"How?"
Baby looked at Oliver with desperate eyes, sunken into his pale face. Straggles of blue hair escaped from his ponytail and hung in lazy curls about his ears. Oliver was struck then that Baby was still just a kid. A teenager. Nineteen was so young, and Baby was going through so much. It wasn't fair, not fair at all. But Baby was looking at Oliver helplessly, like he expected Oliver to fix everything, like Oliver had hung the very stars in the sky and not just tattooed them on his back.
So Oliver said the one thing that had been on his mind for weeks, ever since that first night spent in the ER waiting room.
"Baby Parker, will you marry me?"
A beat of silence, two. Then,
"What?"
"Think about it," Oliver immediately started. "A spouse assumes debt, insurance gets nicer, I'll be able to make payments on the apartment. And a spouse overrides all familial next of kin. I'll be able to come in with you, sit with you through everything. It will all get so much easier."
The more he spoke, the more he could tell Baby was actually considering it.
"It... would be advantageous," Baby said slowly. "For me. But what about for you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you'd assume a shit ton of medical debt. You'd be partially responsible for owning a whole ass apartment. You're twenty one Oliver, and we've been dating for three months."
"People get married after a single night in Vegas," Oliver pointed out.
"This is New Jersey, and I have cancer," Baby said dryly. "This isn't just a decision you make on the whim."
"No, this is a decision you make when you want to help the person you're in love with," Oliver said firmly.
Baby's eyes began to swim again, but this time Oliver could tell they were a different kind of tears.
"Wait here," he said.
Baby got up from the couch, waving Oliver off when he tried to help.
"I said stay, idiot."
"Okay okay, I'm staying."
Baby winced as he took his first step, but then managed to hobble out of the room. He went into the bedroom, and Oliver tried to crane his neck to see what he was doing. All he could make out was Baby's back as he knelt in front of the bed, doing something.
He waited a full minute before calling out.
"What are you doing?"
"Can you keep your panties on for thirty seconds?"
"It's been at least sixty."
"Good to know we have a fucking statistician in the house, ladies and gentlemen."
So Oliver sat back and waited a couple more minutes, anxiously bouncing his foot. Baby wasn't acting weird, right? This was normal. The question had been purely analytical. Baby understood the benefits of marriage, he's the one that had voiced all the problems with not having a next of kin. It was practical. Practical, yeah.
So why did the thought of Baby saying 'no' hurt so much?
Finally, Baby came back into the room. He had both his hands behind his back, and a grin on his face.
"Alright, close your eyes and hold out your hand," he told Oliver.
Oliver obeyed, closing his eyes and sticking his right hand straight out. Baby snorted, and Oliver wished he could see his expression.
"Your other hand, idiot."
Oliver swallowed, and slowly switched hands. He felt Baby come closer, until his hand gently brushed Oliver's outstretched one. Then, he slipped something onto Oliver's ring finger. Oliver couldn't take it anymore. He let his eyes fly open, to where Baby was already looking at him, nervously biting his lip.
Twisted on Oliver's finger was a single violin string, wrapped around itself enough times to make a metal ring. Oliver choked at the sight of it, his eyes tearing up. His whole body felt hot, and he couldn't stop looking at the ring.
"Is this a yes?" he managed in a watery voice.
"Of course it's a yes," Baby breathed.
Oliver surged forward to press their lips together, chaste and sweet. Then he hauled Baby back up onto the couch to hug him fiercely, burying his face into Baby's neck.
"I love you," he told Baby.
"I love you too," Baby said back, voice wavering with the very same happiness Oliver felt overflowing in himself.