Adrian’s movements were sluggish as they stepped through the door, and he sank into the couch with a relieved sigh, his head tipping back against the cushions. Dean hovered nearby, watching his friend with a worried expression on his face. Logan crouched in front of him, brushing a strand of hair from Adrian’s face. “You okay?” he asked softly.
Adrian blinked at him, his eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. “Mmm, yeah,” he mumbled, a faint, loopy smile tugging at his lips. “Feel like I’m floating.”
Logan chuckled, though a pang of sadness lay beneath it. “That’s the meds,” he said gently, his hand lingering on Adrian’s knee. “You’ve been through a lot today.”
Adrian nodded lazily, his smile fading as his gaze turned serious for a moment. “Thanks for… for staying,” he murmured, his words slurring slightly. “I know it’s… a lot.”
“It’s not a lot,” Logan said firmly. “Never.”
The doctor’s words echoed in Logan’s mind long after they’d left the sterile walls of the hospital. Pallor, fatigue, shortness of breath, infections, bone pain. The list seemed endless, a catalog of suffering, and the way the doctor delivered it—clinical, matter-of-fact—felt like a quiet verdict. Adrian didn’t react much as the side effects were outlined, but Logan noticed the way his fingers tightened slightly on the armrest of his chair, a small, unconscious show of tension.
“It can be all of them, or just a few,” the doctor had said. “It depends.”
Logan hated the uncertainty. He hated that even this glimmer of hope came with the shadow of suffering. But he didn’t let it show. He couldn’t. Not in front of Adrian.
Two days ago, Adrian had told Dean about his decision to try, to fight, and Dean had practically glowed with relief and happiness. Logan suspected Dean’s enthusiasm wasn’t just about the treatment. He could tell that Dean had realized what Logan already knew: that Adrian’s change of heart had everything to do with him. That Adrian was fighting because Logan had come back, because Logan was there.
“How was it?” Dean asked, his tone wary but hopeful as his eyes flicked to Adrian’s pale face.
“Fine,” Logan answered quickly. “Exhausting, actually.”
Dean nodded, then turned his attention to Adrian. “You hungry?”
Adrian shook his head, his voice soft and distant. “No, thanks.”
Logan’s heart melted at the exchange. Both Dean and Adrian were speaking English, even though it wasn’t their native language, even though it would have been easier to switch to Hebrew. It was a small, unspoken gesture of inclusion, one that didn’t go unnoticed by Logan.
“I’ll help you to bed,” Logan suggested gently, reaching for Adrian’s hand.
Adrian hesitated, then mumbled, “Shower first. Hate hospitals.”
Logan nodded without hesitation. “Of course.” He gave Dean a small smile before following Adrian to the bathroom, his hand steady on Adrian’s back as they walked. Adrian moved slowly, his steps unsteady, his body swaying slightly under the lingering effects of the hospital’s medications. Logan stayed close, ready to catch him if he faltered.
Once inside the bathroom, Logan closed the door behind them with a soft click and turned toward Adrian. Adrian leaned against the sink, his face hollowed by exhaustion, the corners of his mouth drawn in as if bracing for something harder than pain.
Logan turned the shower on, adjusting the water until it was warm enough, with steam beginning to rise like breath from the tiles. He turned back to Adrian, who stood motionless, fingers hesitating at the hem of his shirt. His eyes flicked around the room, avoiding Logan’s gaze. He stared at the faucet, the grout between the tiles, the soft sway of the shower glass doors, anywhere but at himself in the mirror.
There had been a time when peeling off a shirt meant pride; muscles shaped by years in the ocean, skin kissed by the sun. Now it was something else entirely. A slow unveiling of what had been taken.
Logan stepped closer and placed a gentle hand at the nape of Adrian’s neck, grounding him.
“I won’t stay if you don’t want me to,” Logan said quietly. “But I want to make sure you’re okay. That’s all. Just that.”
Adrian looked up, meeting Logan’s eyes, and in them, he saw no pity, only a kind of reverent concern. He nodded once, the movement small but filled with trust.
With trembling hands, he pulled the shirt over his head.
Logan’s breath hitched at the sight of the bruises beneath, the pale skin dotted with signs of the illness that was consuming him. At the hospital, Logan had caught glimpses of Adrian’s body, the faint bruises, the signs of wear, but now, standing in the soft glow of the bathroom light, Logan could see the full extent of it. The marks on Adrian’s skin were stark, red-purple bruises scattered like unwelcome reminders of how fragile his body had become. The muscles that once rippled with strength and vitality were all but gone, replaced by a thinness that made Logan’s chest ache.
“I still surf,” Adrian said quietly, his voice tinged with both pride and resignation. The words hung in the air, bittersweet, like a wave rising before it crashes. “Well… up until a few months ago, I did.” He hesitated, the weight of his next words pulling his gaze down to the warm water rippling around them. “I barely can now.”
Logan remained silent as Adrian continued, his voice steady but laced with vulnerability. “Even after just paddling, I have to stop to catch my breath.” Adrian’s fingers absently traced patterns on Logan’s arm, but Logan could feel the tension in his grip. “With the cancer, every hit from the board, every fall… it turns into a bruise. And then there are the dots that come…”
Adrian trailed off, his free hand moving to his forearm, his thumb brushing over the faint, reddish-purple spots—petechiae, Loganremembered from his late-night research about leukemia. Those tiny dots, so small and insignificant to anyone else, were a glaring reminder of the war Adrian’s body was waging against itself.
“I know,” Logan interrupted gently, pulling Adrian into a hug. He pressed his lips to Adrian’s neck, his arms wrapping around him with the kind of careful strength that spoke of both love and fear—fear of hurting him, of breaking something already so fragile. “I know. Come on, let’s get you in the shower.”
Logan helped Adrian with the rest of his clothes. Each button and fold of fabric was a moment of connection, a quiet ritual of care. When Adrian finally stepped into the shower, Logan perched on the closed toilet seat, his posture relaxed but his gaze attentive. He wanted to give Adrian space, but he also knew how easily exhaustion could turn into unsteadiness, how the smallest slip could lead to something worse.
