The prognosis is always broad: ten to twenty years, fifteen to thirty years, we’re just fucking guessing here, honestly we don’t have a goddamn clue. It’s a dumb fucking thing to underestimate Liam Fitzgerald. Those crosswords they used to do together, Mike providing all the answers and Liam writing them in because the boxes were too small for Mike’s unsteady hand, lately Liam’s been doing them all by himself. He’s started to forget things, things that should be easy, words hovering on the tip of his tongue and staying there. What good is a husk going to be to him? What good will Mike be when he hits the point where he can’t get out of bed, or take a sip of water without spilling it all over himself, or remember Liam’s birthday? What will hurt Liam worse, Mike leaving him with a rope or a gun or whatever he chose, with a coward’s way out, or leaving him behind because he doesn’t remember what Liam means to him anymore?

It might be crueler to Liam in the end, holding on. He wants to, sometimes, and he knows he’s going to want to more and more as time goes on, that those moments when he thinks it’d be better just to give up before the bad becomes everything, those moments are going to come harder and faster until they’re all he’s going to feel.

A lot of guys choose that road, and Mike won’t deny he’s considered it when shit’s at its worst, when he’s got a migraine so bad he can’t fucking see, when he can’t get the energy to leave his bed, even for the walk he knows Bella needs, or he’s throwing his guts up, or he can’t touch Liam’s cheek or pet Bella’s fur, his hands are shaking so hard.

Thrown off the ice taylor fitzpatrick