Title: Untitled
By: justtopostmyfic
Pairing: Gil/Nick, established relationship
Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, short one-shot
Summary: Nick has stomach cancer.

Since they found out Nick has stomach cancer, Gil's state of happiness has depended inversely on Nick's level of pain.

It comes as no surprise then, that Gil's favorite time of the day is spending evenings on the couch with Nick, when Nick is relatively pain-free. After the chemotherapy-induced nausea and vomiting has stopped, but before the nightly agonising pain of the cancer comes to claim Nick. 

It wasn't that they didn't spend time together on the couch before the cancer. The difference now is that Nick no longer sits beside Gil on the couch. Nick had lost so much weight from the cancer and chemotherapy that he is now light enough to sit on Gil's lap, sideways, while resting one side of his head against Gil's chest.

The other difference, this one more significant to Gil, is that they didn't spend their time on the couch watching tv anymore. They of all people now realise that life's too short, and that their time together is too precious, to be wasted staring blankly at mindless reality shows or sitcom reruns.

Instead, they talk. Usually, Gil's the one talking, because Nick's throat is too raw from the last bout of emesis, or Nick is just too fatigued from chemotherapy. Gil has had to adapt to opening up and changing the habit of a lifetime, because time is not on their side. Gil shares with Nick things he's never told other people-- about his childhood, his past-- as they try to squeeze their lives out for each other in case Nick's time suddenly runs out. Most of all, Gil learns and finally dares to express his feelings.

Nick also shares with Gil, when he has the strength to. Gil is still reeling from the shock and horror of what a last-minute babysitter did to Nick when he was nine.

When they've run out of things to say tonight, a comfortable silence blankets the two of them. Gil cradles Nick a little closer to himself, and runs his right hand up to the left of Nick's chest, feeling Nick's heartbeat under his palm. He tries to memorise the tempo of it, maybe put one of Beethoven's symphonies to Nick's heart rate to remember it better, because he knows that in a year's time, Nick's heart may no longer be beating. The bleak statistics on the survival rate for stage three stomach cancer is plain for all, but mostly Gil, to see.

Gil presses a bearded cheek into Nick's full head of hair. He inhales deeply, not just because he wants to ingrain Nick's scent even deeper into his mind, but also because he wouldn't be able to detect Nick's scent beneath the lingering smell of vomit if he didn't breathe in fully. Chemotherapy was warped in a bizzare tango with Nick-- while Nick didn't lose a strand of hair to the treatments, the intense nausea and vomiting that followed each treatment were almost unbearable for Gil to watch. He couldn't even imagine how Nick felt, hunched over the toilet and vomiting his guts out for unrelenting hours until he can barely lift his head out of the toilet bowl. All Gil can do is rub Nick's back, offer some soothing words and sips of water. He thinks his actions don't even begin to take the edge off Nick's debilitating retching, and Gil finally understood the feeling of utter helplessness then.

At least right now, when he's cuddling Nick on the couch, he hears Nick sighing contentedly in his arms, and his heart nearly skips a beat in elation.

"Nick," Gil murmurs softly into Nick's ear, "not if, but when you recover, I'll still hold you every day, if you want me to."

Nick raises his head to meet Gil's eyes, and a weak but genuine smile forms on his pale face. 

"Wow, then I'm definitely gonna get better!" Nick breathes happily.

In spite of everything, Gil finds himself smiling back. In that moment, Gil realises: fuck the depressing survival statistics, let Nick be part of the small percentage who survive instead.