Page 120 of Everything That Kills Me
Ah.He should have expected that. “Are you going to be pissed off if I say yes?”
“Why?” Zeph whispered. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I had the money and I wanted to spend it on something worthwhile.”There is nothing more worthwhile in my life than you.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“I don’t want the money back. It’s a gift. Let me do this for you.”
“How can I ever thank you?”
Jack squeezed Zeph’s hip. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Zeph frowned. “My mind’s gone blank.”
Jack burrowed under the duvet and put his mouth around Zeph’s cock.
“Completely blank,” Zeph said.
Over the next few days, the others who shared the house gradually packed up and went home and by Saturday it was just the two of them left. They ate in front of the TV in the shared lounge with a pathetic little Christmas tree in the corner. Thomas would have thrown it out. It amused Jack that Thomas liked Christmas so much. It was the one time of the year when he appeared almost normal.
Jack took Zeph ice skating in the Christmas village set up in Parker’s Piece. They drank mulled wine, explored a Christmas tree maze and ate a meal in a heated dome. The city had been transformed into a winter wonderland with lights and decorations everywhere. Zeph bought presents for Martin and Paulo, Jack bought some for Thomas and Django. Those for Zeph, he purchased when Zeph wasn’t with him. Zeph seemed to tire easily but Jack guessed it had been a long term.
On Monday morning, he walked to the computer science building with Zeph. At twelve Zeph came out to have lunch with him and at three thirty, Jack was waiting outside to walk back with him.
The moment he saw Zeph, Jack felt himself smile.
When they were behind closed doors, Jack kissed him. The kiss went on and on. Something about the way Zeph fell into it, as if Jack was all he wanted, all he longed for… It made Jack happy in a way he couldn’t explain. He wasn’t going to think about it ending, because it wouldn’t. He’d have to leave at some point, but he would come back.
Twenty-Eight
On Tuesday morning, while he was in the computer lab, Zeph called the hospital. He’d had a text not long after he’d found Jack in his room, asking him to contact them and he’d put it off long enough. He’d wanted to stay happy for a little longer. But not calling wouldn’t change the outcome of whatever they wanted to tell him. When he’d been to the GP a few weeks ago and told him about the pain in his leg, his tiredness, bruises and lack of appetite, the doctor had arranged for Zeph to go to Addenbrookes Hospital for an x-ray and bone biopsy.
Zeph had known what the doctor suspected because he suspected it himself. He read everything he could find, looked for anything else it might be, but he knew. When he called the hospital number, he expected to be told his Ewings sarcoma had returned. If it had, he wasn’t going to tell anyone unless he absolutely had to.
His heart was racing as he waited for someone to answer. He had to take a deep breath before he was able to give his name and date of birth. Then he listened. They wanted him to come in. He wasn’t going to be told anything over the phone. Zeph slumped. He should have realised they wouldn’t give bad news in that way. They wanted him in an environment they could control with nurses present along with cancer support staff.
When an appointment time was set that afternoon at three, it confirmed his worry that the news was bad. Once he was sure he had his emotions under control, he phoned Jack.
“Hi, genius,” Jack said.
“Hi. I’ve got something complicated to do this afternoon so I won’t be ready at three thirty. I’ll see you at the house, okay?”
“Okay. Want me to cook?”
“Yessssssss.”
Jack laughed. Zeph was glad he couldn’t see the anguish in his face, the struggle to sound normal.
“See you later.” Zeph ended the call before he burst into tears.
Surprisingly enough, hewasable to bury himself in work. Programming required concentration and if he ended up having to go to the hospital for intensive bursts of chemotherapy, the more he did now the better.
Zeph arrived ten minutes early for his appointment. He sat and listened to them tell him what he already knew. Everything except when treatment would start.Oh.The twenty-seventh of December.Right.He was given steroidsto take. No more alcohol. Chemo, surgery and radiotherapy would consume a year of his life but it might not make him well. Of course he’d do it.
He suspected they thought he was in denial because he showed no emotion and asked no questions. The only question he had was not one anyone could answer, so he didn’t ask it.Will I survive?
“How are you feeling?” the cancer nurse asked when she’d led him to another room, one that was supposed to be less clinical, with easy chairs and a box of tissues on a coffee table.
