Chapter Text
Colt was… not okay.
I mean, who would be?
Sixteen years old and trying to keep your mother alive in a tiny apartment that constantly smelled faintly like antiseptic and burnt soup because he kept forgetting pots on the stove. Sixteen and learning how to read medication labels at three in the morning because there wasn’t anyone else to do it. Sixteen and listening to doctors talk slower the longer treatment went on, like speaking gently somehow made words like “terminal” hurt less.
It was hard.
Harder because he loved her.
Harder because she kept apologizing.
“Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have to do this” she whispered one night from the couch, voice thin from chemo and exhaustion.
Colt stood in the doorway holding a basket of laundry he’d forgotten to fold three days ago. He forced a grin anyway because that was what he did. Smiled. Deflected. Pretended things weren’t caving in around him.
“Good thing I’m extremely talented then.”
She laughed softly at that. Real laughter too, weak but genuine, and it made something ache in his chest because she used to laugh loud enough to shake walls.
Now even breathing tired her out.
Colt carried the laundry to the armchair next to where she laid and started folding shirts while checking the clock every thirty seconds. Her meds were due soon. He couldn’t miss it. Then he had homework he definitely wasn’t finishing. Then he needed to call the electric company because the bill was late again. Then he had-
“You should go out with your friends sometime.”
The sentence caught him so off guard he nearly dropped one of her sweaters.
“What?”
“You’re sixteen, Colt.”
“Yeah, and?”
“And sixteen year olds shouldn’t spend Friday nights arguing with insurance companies.”
He snorted despite himself. “Pretty sure everybody’s doing that these days. Besides you hated me going out with my friends cause we always got into trouble doing stupid shit like jumping out of trees and skateboarding off of roofs.”
Her smile faded around the edges.
“You know what I mean.”
Yeah. He did.
He also knew there wasn’t anyone else to care for her.
Their dad was gone. Had been for years. Off living his life without care on if his ex-wife was dying or whether his other son had eaten anything besides vending machine junk all week.
And Ryland…
Colt shoved the thought away immediately.
He barely remembered his twin anymore, which felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain.
They were 6 years old when the divorce split everything down the middle. Their father took Ryland. Their mother kept Colt and she changed their last names back to her maiden name. Lawyers and custody agreements and adults insisting it was “simpler this way” like separating twins was the same as dividing furniture.
His dad wanted nothing to do with mom, so they never called.
Which was fine because Colt kind of hated there dad for leaving.
But he missed Ryland.
Now Ryland was more ghost than person in his mind. A blurry collection of memories Colt couldn’t hold onto properly. But he remembered the shyness. The Constant questions and curiosity to want to learn the world around him. Following Colt everywhere when they were little.
But then he was Gone.
Just… gone.
“You’re thinking too loud again” his mother murmured.
Colt blinked. “What?”
“That face.” She pointed weakly at him. “You get that wrinkle right here when you’re upset.”
He rubbed at his forehead automatically.
She smiled a little. “Exactly.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The apartment hummed quietly around them. the refrigerator rattling, light sprinkling rain tapping against the windows, the oxygen concentrator breathing softly beside the couch.
Then her expression changed.
Not dramatic. Just tired. Painfully tired.
And Colt felt fear slam into him so hard it nearly stole his breath. Because he knew that look now.
Knew the difference between bad day tired and something worse. He crossed the room immediately. “Mom?”
“I’m okay.”
Lie.
He could always tell now. The realization made him sick every single time.
Her hand trembled when she reached for the blanket, and Colt was already there helping adjust it before she could ask. He tucked it carefully around her legs the way the nurses had shown him.
His movements had become automatic months ago.
Water cups. Pill schedules. Temperature checks. Helping her stand when her legs stopped cooperating. Sixteen years old and terrifyingly competent at hospice care. He always remembers her meds but constantly forgets his own.
He hated it.
Not because of her. Never because of her.
But Because every new thing he learned felt like admitting this was really happening.
His mother watched him quietly for a long moment.
“You look exhausted.”
“Yeah well.” He shrugged. “Sleep is for the weak.”
“That’s not funny.”
“No, it kinda is.”
“Colt.”
Something in her voice made him finally look at her fully. She looked scared.
Not for herself.
For him.
That was the worst part. Even now, even dying, she was still trying to take care of him.
“I need you to promise me something.”
He Immediately felt panic grip his heart with sharp talons that poked at the organ.
“Nope.”
A tiny blink. “What?”
“Nope. Absolutely not. You do not get to pull the ‘promise me’ thing right now.”
“Colt-“
“No. Because people only say that in movies when they’re about to-“ His voice cracked violently. “No.”
Silence filled the room.
Colt looked away hard enough his neck hurt. He heard her breathing. Shallow. Uneven.
His mother was quiet for a long moment.
Then, softly “I’m sorry.”
That nearly broke him more than anything else could have.
Colt scrubbed both hands over his face hard enough to hurt. “Stop apologizing.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Well try.” The words came out sharper than he intended. Immediately guilt crashed into him.
she looked so small under the blanket. Fragile in a way his mother had never been before all of this. She used to carry groceries in one arm and drag him out of fights with the other. Used to dance around the kitchen singing loudly and off-key while Colt laughed himself breathless with her.
Now lifting a glass of water exhausted her.
Colt hated cancer. He hated hospitals. He hated insurance companies. He hated pitying looks from adults who saw a sixteen year old picking up morphine prescriptions all on his own. He hated the way teachers lowered their voices around him while they talked about his home situation. He hated every single casserole currently rotting in their freezer because neighbors apparently thought nobody had invented any other sympathy food.
Mostly… Mostly he hated how helpless this all felt. How final people were making it while she was still there.
“You shouldn’t have to watch this” his mother whispered.
Colt let out a short, shaking false laugh. “Little late for that.”
Her eyes glistened immediately.
Great. Now she was going to cry and then he was going to cry and Colt absolutely refused to become one of those emotional movie scenes people won Oscars for.
So instead he stood abruptly.
“Okay! Med time.”
Deflection: successful.
Mostly.
He grabbed the pill organizer from the kitchen counter and crouched beside the couch. His knees cracked from sleeping in weird positions lately. His mother noticed. Because of course she did.
“You’re limping again.” He’d tripped running up the steps yesterday because he wasn’t looking where he was going and he was to full of energy to slow down.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“It’s dramatic flair.”
“Colt.”
He focused aggressively on opening bottles with slightly shaky hands. “You know, statistically speaking, if you say my name like that enough times I actually disappear into smoke.”
“You’ve been forgetting your own medication again.”
His paused. Damn it. Was it that noticeable?
His ADHD meds sat untouched near the microwave. Right beside three sticky notes reminding him to take them.
Which honestly felt rude at this point.
“I took them yesterday.”
“Colt.”
“…Probably.” He actually couldn’t remember the last time he did. It just felt so… strange needing meds for his head to be operational while his mom needed like 20 medications because her body was genuinely failing her. His issues felt far more insignificant and he felt useless. So he stopped taking them. Besides he never had time and he forgot them anyway.
She gave him a look.
He avoided eye contact with the skill of a teenager who had been doing it professionally for years.
But he did actually forget about them. Not intentionally. Well, maybe slightly intentional.
But There was just too much in his head now and maybe if his brain moved to fast then he would be able to handle everything without braking down.
Appointments and bills and oxygen tank deliveries and making sure she ate enough and checking temperatures and doing laundry and trying not to fail algebra and figuring out how to stretch forty dollars for groceries for a week.
His own needs kept… sliding off the table.
Sleep.
Food.
Medication.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything just because he wanted to.
“You can’t take care of me if you’re falling apart” she said quietly.
Colt handed her the pills and water carefully. Helped her sit up so she wouldn’t choke on it. “Good thing I’m indestructible then.”
“Sweetheart.”
He looked away immediately at the tone. Because there it was again. That fear.
Not the fear of dying. But the Fear of leaving him behind.
And suddenly Colt couldn’t breathe right. The apartment felt too small. Too warm. The humming oxygen concentrator suddenly unbearably loud.
“Your doctor mentioned that there’s another treatment we can try” he blurted out quickly.
His mother stilled.
“The Crisper thing” Colt continued too fast. “Or The immunotherapy thing. We could—we could look into trials maybe. Or another hospital. Cleveland has good hospitals, right? Or Chicago or something. Mexico even. We could figure it out. I can get a job and help with the travel costs”
Silence.
That awful kind of silence that already knew the answer.
“No” Colt said immediately, backing away before she could even speak. “Nope. Don’t.”
“Colt-“
“We haven’t tried everything.”
Her expression crumpled. And fuck, that terrified him more than if she’d started screaming.
“Baby…”
“No.” His voice cracked violently. “No because if you say it out loud then it’s real.”
The words hung there. Heavy. Rotting. Real.
His mother’s eyes filled completely now, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
Colt felt instant horror.
“Oh shit, no no no— mom I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“
He dropped to his knees beside the couch so fast he nearly slammed into the coffee table. The pill bottles rattled everywhere.
“I’m sorry” he said desperately. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just-”
His mother grabbed his wrist weakly.
“Colton.”
He stopped talking immediately. Just looked at her with wide wet eyes barely holding himself together.
“You do not have to be brave every second.”
And that… That did it. Something inside him cracked clean down the middle.
Because he had to be brave. Didn’t he? There wasn’t anybody else.
So Colt buried his face against the couch cushions beside her arm and finally, finally broke.
Not pretty crying. Not quite crying.
Sixteen-year-old boy sobbing so hard he couldn’t breathe properly. Months of terror and exhaustion and anger pouring out all at once while he tried desperately to muffle the sound because some part of him was still embarrassed by it.
His mother stroked shakily through his hair.
The motion weak.
Slow.
Still comforting anyway.
“I know” she whispered brokenly. “I know, sweetheart.”
And Colt cried harder because she sounded like she was comforting him for her own death.