Chris stared at his phone screen, thumb hovering over his mom's contact photo—an old one from before the sickness, her smile wide and healthy. The date glared back at him: the anniversary of the diagnosis. Ten years today. His chest tightened like someone had wrapped a band around it. He pocketed the phone quick when Ichigo toddled over, stuffed bear dragging on the floor.
"Chris! Play trains?" Ichigo's bright brown eyes were full of four-year-old demand.
Chris forced his cheerful mask on, crouching down. "Hell yeah, little dude. Choo-choo time."
They built tracks across the living room rug, Ichigo chattering about "fast engines" while Chris nodded along. But his mind drifted—back to that rainy afternoon when everything changed.
Flashback – Ten years ago
Chris was nine, lanky and awkward, slamming the front door after school. Rain pounded the windows of their small apartment. "Mom? Got any snacks? I'm starving."
No answer. Weird—she was usually home by now.
He found her in the kitchen, sitting at the table, staring at a piece of paper like it was written in another language. Her face was pale, eyes red-rimmed. The oncology letterhead jumped out at him even from across the room.
"Mom?" His voice cracked.
She looked up, tried to smile, but it wobbled and broke. "Hey...sweetie. Come sit."
Chris dropped his backpack, heart already thumping. "What's wrong?"
She pushed the paper toward him. "I got the biopsy results today. It's… cancer. Breast cancer."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Cancer. The big bad word people whispered about. "But… you're gonna be okay, right? They caught it early?"
She reached for his hand, hers trembling. "Stage three. It's spread to some lymph nodes. Treatment starts next week—surgery, then chemo, radiation. It's gonna be a fight."
Chris felt the floor tilt. His mom—strong, always-laughing Mom—was scared. He saw it in her eyes. "How much will it cost?"
She hesitated. "A lot. Insurance will cover some, but… we'll manage."
They didn't manage. Not even close.
The next months blurred into hospital smells, beeping machines, and Mom's hair falling out in clumps. Chris learned words he never wanted to know: mastectomy, port placement, neutropenia. He skipped hangouts to cook frozen dinners, clean vomit buckets, hold her while she cried from pain meds that didn't quite work.
Dad lasted three weeks after the diagnosis. Packed a bag one night, muttered about "needing space," and vanished. Left a note: Can't handle this. Sorry.
Chris found Mom sobbing over it at 2 AM. He held her until dawn, promising they'd be okay. Just the two of them.
Bills came like an avalanche. Thousands turned into tens of thousands. Mom couldn't work; Chris took every job a sophomore could—paper routes at 5 AM, weekend shifts at a diner, mowing lawns in summer heat. But it wasn't enough.
One night, Mom was hospitalized again—infection from low white cells. The bill estimate made Chris's stomach drop: another 15 grand they didn't have. He overheard nurses talking about discharging her early because insurance stalled.
That's when Rico found him.
Rico—older kid from the block, slick hair, always flashing cash. Cornered Chris outside the hospital vending machines. "Heard your mom's sick, little man. Need money?"
Chris glared, but desperation won. "Yeah."
Rico smiled like a shark. "I know people who help. No bank bullshit. Quick cash. You pay back slow, with a little extra. Deal?"
Chris's hands shook signing the paper in a dim parking lot. 20 grand wired the next day. Mom got the treatment. She pulled through.
But the "little extra" grew teeth. Interest compounded. Reminders turned from polite texts to late-night calls. Rico's crew knew where Chris went to school, where Mom lived.
He never told her the full truth. Just said a "charity fund" helped.
End flashback
"Chris?" Haru's voice pulled him back. Haru stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, dark brown eyes concerned. "You okay? You zoned out hard."
Chris blinked, forcing a grin. "Yeah, just… old memories. Anniversary of Mom's diagnosis today."
Haru crossed the room, sitting close. Ichigo was napping now, apartment quiet. "Wanna talk about it?"
Chris leaned into him, the warmth grounding. "It was rough. Like the world cracked open and swallowed us."
He told Haru everything—the fear, Dad leaving, the hospital nights, Rico's "help." His voice cracked on the parts he'd buried deepest. Haru listened, hand rubbing slow circles on Chris's back, protective and steady.
When Chris finished, eyes wet, Haru pulled him fully into his arms. "You were a kid carrying grown-up hell. I'm so damn proud of you for getting through it."
Chris buried his face in Haru's neck, breathing him in. "Some days it still feels heavy."
Haru tilted his chin up, kissing him soft—comfort turning to heat quick. Chris kissed back harder, needing the connection. Hands framed faces, then wandered—down necks, over shoulders, pulling closer.
They ended up on the couch, Chris in Haru's lap, bodies flush. Shirts pushed up slow, skin meeting warm and urgent. Haru's palms traced Chris's back, thumbs pressing just right along his spine. Chris shivered, rocking down instinctively, friction sparking through clothes.
Kisses deepened—tongues sliding, breaths mingling hot. Haru's mouth moved to Chris's throat, kissing slow trails, nipping gently at the collarbone. Chris arched, fingers tangling in Haru's black hair, tugging to bring him closer.
Clothes loosened—buttons undone, zippers down, fabric shifted aside. Skin on skin now, sweat starting to sheen. Hands explored freely: Haru's gripping Chris's thighs, guiding the rhythm; Chris's nails grazing down Haru's chest, feeling the slight athletic build tense under his touch.
They moved together—slow rolls turning urgent, hips grinding in a rhythm that built fire low and deep. Whispers filled the quiet: Chris's breathy moans, Haru's low growls of encouragement. Every press and slide drew them tighter, pleasure coiling sharp and sweet.
Climax hit like a wave—Chris first, body shuddering hard against Haru's, followed seconds later by Haru burying his face in Chris's shoulder, muffling the groan. They clung through the aftershocks, hearts hammering together.
After, they stayed tangled, breaths slowing. Haru kissed Chris's temple, fingers combing through damp light brown hair. "Whatever comes from that debt—we face it together. No more carrying alone."
Chris nodded, eyes shining. "Together."
Evening routine brought them back to normal—Ichigo waking hungry, dinner chaos, bath splashes, bedtime stories. But the air felt lighter, the past shared instead of buried.
As Chris left, Haru hugged him tight at the door. "Call your mom tomorrow. Tell her happy birthday from us."
Chris smiled, real and bright. "Will do. Love you."
"Love you moreee."
The door closed, but the warmth stayed.