about evan finding out he has cancer — he’s seventeen.
the kind of seventeen others live to the fullest:
getting their first tattoos, wincing at whiskey,
shoving curiosity into questionable holes;
fucking breathlessly, bold and to trembling knees;
falling in love, smearing their hormonal vows of forever across the asphalt.
rosier, by seventeen, had nearly mastered it all.
the snake burns on his wrist, blotted under the cuff —
matching tattoos with black, for a random sect with nazi undertones;
back when their teenage extremism was still peaking.
a couple of beer bottles, half-drunk with regulus,
lie empty by the nightstand. his legs don’t shake;
an unopened box of condoms gathers dust on the shelf.
love — that’s where he fucked up.
regulus’ comforting “you’ve still got time” twists in his gut;
if not twists, then gnaws.
crouch walks into the manor with pandora —
they’re both glowing, smiling politely as his father leaves in a rush.
summer break — the best one yet,
because they’re all seventeen, sacred seventeen —
and they’re celebrating it with a friendly get-together at the rosier estate.
evan isn’t supposed to ruin the night.
naturally, he ruins it — just for the two of them — a couple hours in.
when someone’s knee presses between his thighs,
his lips sting from kisses, and the clock above strikes midnight,
they both blurt out, at the same time:
— i have cancer.
— i love you.
the absurd synchronicity —
like a fucking april fools’ joke — goes uncommented.
they just laugh.
like, really laugh. until they’re breathless.
crouch’s stunned face — that’s what evan swears to take to the grave.
— you’re joking?
— diagnosed about a month ago, evan says, barely breathing.
the ground’s literally slipping from under him;
crouch catches him by the trembling shoulders.
— metastases everywhere. i’ve got maybe two left.
months gets stuck in his throat,
scrapes on the way up, until he spits it out.
delivering news was never his strong suit —
he could take notes from those sugarcoated oncologists,
the ones who serve you a thousand and one hopes
on a silver fucking platter.
but hope’s not in his prognosis —
no matter how deep you cut,
the tumor’s buried too well in his lungs.
rosier thinks dying isn’t all that scary
when crouch is holding him.
rosier dies by euthanasia a month later —
eighteen, not quite to the end of summer.
“you’ve still got time,” regulus said —
and somehow, he did.
my english is incredibly bad, and the original can be seen in my profile, but I hope I managed to convey the essence!
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