Chapter 75 New Damage
The second infusion hurt more than the first. By the third, Peter stopped pretending it didn't.
The nausea arrived before breakfast. His hands shook when he tried to lift a spoon. The hospital oatmeal sat untouched on the tray, steam fading into nothing.
Clara stood by the window, arms folded tightly across her chest. "You need to eat something," she said.
"I know."
He didn't move.
She picked up the spoon and held it out to him. The gesture was small. Familiar. Dangerous.
Peter looked at it like it was an accusation. "I can do it myself."
"Then do it."
He tried. His grip failed halfway. The spoon clattered back into the bowl, oatmeal splashing lightly onto the sheet.
They both stared at it.
Clara inhaled slowly, the faint hiss of her portable oxygen punctuating the silence. "It's fine," she said quickly, reaching for tissues.
"It's not fine," he snapped.
The words came sharper than intended.
Her hand paused midair.
"I didn't mean..." he started.
"You did," she replied quietly.
The nurse knocked once and stepped in, saving neither of them. "How are we feeling today?"
Peter forced a tight smile. "Like a science experiment."
The nurse's smile wavered but stayed professional. "Side effects are expected. We'll adjust your anti-nausea meds."
Clara nodded too eagerly. "He hasn't eaten."
Peter shot her a look.
"I have a mouth," he muttered.
The nurse pretended not to notice the tension. "We'll get you something lighter."
When she left, the room felt smaller.
Clara wiped the sheet carefully. "You don't have to fight me."
"I'm not fighting you."
"You are."
He exhaled sharply. "I just don't want to be handled."
Her jaw tightened. "I'm not handling you. I'm helping."
"It feels the same."
The words landed hard.
She stepped back like he'd physically pushed her.
By afternoon, the headache started. A deep, drilling ache behind his eyes. Light felt aggressive. Sound felt personal.
Clara sat beside him, reading lab results on her phone, lips pressed into a thin line.
He watched her from beneath half-closed lids. She was already back in caretaker mode. Organized, alert, and efficient. It was almost impressive. It was almost suffocating.
"Stop looking like that," he said suddenly.
She blinked. "Like what?"
"Like you're preparing for impact."
Her voice thinned. "Because I am."
Silence.
He turned his face toward the wall. "I didn't do this so you could brace yourself for my collapse."
She swallowed. "Then why did you do it?"
He hesitated.
Because I wanted to stay. Because I didn't want to disappear in front of you. Because I wanted a chance at ordinary.
But the pain made him crueler than honest. "I did it for me."
She nodded slowly. "That's allowed," she said.
It didn't sound like she believed it.
He threw up that evening. Very sudden. Clara barely made it in time with the basin.
His body shook with it. When it was over, he leaned back, exhausted, eyes glossy with something that wasn't just nausea.
"Don't look at me like that," he whispered.
She crouched in front of him. "I'm not."
"You are."
Her voice broke slightly. "You look like you're breaking."
He laughed weakly. "That's the point, isn't it? Break the bad cells."
She didn't smile.
She reached up and wiped his mouth gently with a cloth. The intimacy felt different now. He didn't feel romantic. He felt small.
"I hate this version of me," he admitted.
Her hand paused. "I don't," she said.
He looked at her, disbelieving.
"I hate that it hurts you," she clarified. "But I don't hate you."
He wanted to kiss her. Instead, he closed his eyes.
Two days later, he stopped joking entirely. The humor that used to soften everything evaporated.
When Isaac visited, Peter barely spoke.
"You look terrible," Isaac said lightly.
Peter didn't bite back.
Clara noticed.
After Isaac left, she sat on the edge of the bed. "Talk to me."
"I am."
"No. You're surviving in silence."
He rubbed his temples. "I'm tired."
"I know."
"No," he said, more sharply. "I'm tired of being monitored. Tired of being measured. Tired of you watching my face every time I blink."
Her expression shifted, hurt flickering across it. "I'm not your nurse."
"Then stop acting like it."
The words echoed.
She stood slowly. "I don't know how to love you right now without trying to keep you alive," she said.
That was the truest thing she'd said all week.
He softened, just slightly. "I don't know how to be loved without falling apart."
They stared at each other.
New damage. Not from the medication. From the pressure of loving someone through it.
That night, she tried something different. She climbed carefully into the hospital bed beside him, awkward with the IV lines and monitors.
He stiffened at first. Then relaxed.
Her oxygen tubing tangled with his IV cord. It would've been funny once. Now it was just complicated.
She rested her head against his shoulder. "Don't talk," she murmured. "Just stay."
He nodded.
For a moment, it felt like before. Not crisis. Not accusation. Just two bodies trying to fit in limited space.
"I miss when loving you was light," she whispered into his gown.
He swallowed. "Me too."
She lifted her head slightly. "But I'm still here."
He turned toward her. "I know."
That had to count for something.
On the fourth morning, the doctor came earlier than usual. Clara was half-asleep in the chair. Peter was staring at the ceiling.
"Hello, Peter," the doctor began carefully, "we're scheduling imaging sooner than planned."
Clara straightened immediately. "Why?"
The doctor hesitated just enough to alarm them. "We're seeing inflammatory markers spike faster than expected. It could be the treatment working aggressively. Or..."
"Or?" Peter asked flatly.
"Or we need to rule out complications."
The room went very quiet.
"When?" Clara demanded.
"Tomorrow."
Tomorrow. That was too soon.
Peter felt something cold settle in his chest.
Clara reached for his hand automatically. He let her. For once, he didn't pull away.
"Is this bad?" she asked.
"It's uncertain," the doctor replied. "Which is why we're looking."
After he left, Clara didn't release Peter's hand. Her grip tightened instead.
He studied her face. Fear. Familiar. Sharp. Almost comforting in its predictability.
"You wanted consequences," he said quietly.
She shot him a look. "Don't."
"I'm just saying."
She leaned closer, eyes fierce. "You don't get to minimize this."
He didn't argue. He was too tired.
Love felt heavier now. Not poetic. Not cinematic. Heavy like responsibility. Heavy like choice.
He squeezed her hand gently. "If this works," he murmured, "we'll have to learn how to live without all this."
Her eyes shimmered. "And if it doesn't?"
He didn't answer. Because for the first time since signing, he didn't know which possibility scared him more.
The monitor beeped steadily beside them. Tomorrow would bring answers. Or worse... questions they weren't ready for.