[ACTIVE, CLOSED]
Characters: James Sunderland and Harry Mason
Content: Harry notices a change in James. James works to distract him and tries to enjoy his last few weeks alive.
Location: The Cathedral/Lower Manhattan
Time of day: Twilight
Warnings: Some severe Ho-Yay/Outright gay and depressing shit.
It had actually been such a weight off his shoulders. No facade to put on anymore. Sure he had to lie to everyone- but it was something so simple compared to what he'd been doing. There had been something on his mind, though. It wasn't the fact that he was worried- he was sure that everyone would get along without him just fine. Here they had built a haven. Shaky at best but this place was warm and welcoming. It was really home.
It is home, now.
Still, he's never before felt so at ease. Like he could leave them and they'd be okay. It isn't like him to be very sentimental, but hell- maybe this whole place has seeped deeper than he'd first thought. The light outside is fading, and he's got a book tucked under one arm. Sauntering over, he sets to work lighting the candles near the altar. He always does it, no particular reason. He just likes them. Especially now.
He's made an effort to wear more layers though, to hide the slowly deteriorating wound in his shoulder. It's been easy enough to take his mind off of it for the most part, but moving certain ways and lifting things has been a pain. It's still getting infected in spite of cleaning it. It's not really a matter of trying to keep it from getting worse, but he'd rather at least be relatively clean when he dies.
There has been one thing on his mind.
How does he say goodbye?
Content: Harry notices a change in James. James works to distract him and tries to enjoy his last few weeks alive.
Location: The Cathedral/Lower Manhattan
Time of day: Twilight
Warnings: Some severe Ho-Yay/Outright gay and depressing shit.
It had actually been such a weight off his shoulders. No facade to put on anymore. Sure he had to lie to everyone- but it was something so simple compared to what he'd been doing. There had been something on his mind, though. It wasn't the fact that he was worried- he was sure that everyone would get along without him just fine. Here they had built a haven. Shaky at best but this place was warm and welcoming. It was really home.
It is home, now.
Still, he's never before felt so at ease. Like he could leave them and they'd be okay. It isn't like him to be very sentimental, but hell- maybe this whole place has seeped deeper than he'd first thought. The light outside is fading, and he's got a book tucked under one arm. Sauntering over, he sets to work lighting the candles near the altar. He always does it, no particular reason. He just likes them. Especially now.
He's made an effort to wear more layers though, to hide the slowly deteriorating wound in his shoulder. It's been easy enough to take his mind off of it for the most part, but moving certain ways and lifting things has been a pain. It's still getting infected in spite of cleaning it. It's not really a matter of trying to keep it from getting worse, but he'd rather at least be relatively clean when he dies.
There has been one thing on his mind.
How does he say goodbye?