Towards the end of the chapter it gets really heavy emotionally. Mentions of suicide sort of heavy. So, if this bothers you or triggers something because of past experiences don't read! 

There's also swearing, but that's not anything new xD

Dedicated to @suganthii again for the amazing cover! Every time I look at it, I fall in love all over again. Go and check out her new book! It's sooooo good and she makes the best covers!

Unedited.

____________________________

"You ready?"

               I glance up at James, before remembering that it's not him. Jordon stands before me, eating a sausage roll. "Huh?"

               "You ready?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

               James isn't in the room, telling me that he had to do something, before he left. I hadn't asked what. Now it's just Jordon and I, him standing as I sit against the corner of the lounge. He doesn't seem too offended by anything dad said to him, which I'm grateful for.

               "Sure. I mean, aside from that," I say gesturing to the machine at my side. Dad brought it in before he and mum left, giving me stern instruction to take care of myself. The plugs have been in since they left. Walking around a city with one working lung is going to be exhausting, I know, but it'll be worth it.

               "What's it like?"

               I frown at him. "What's what like?"

               He pops a peanut into his mouth, chewing before answering, "Uh . . . that." His arms waves in the general direction of my machine.

               Reaching over, I grab a grape. "What? Cancer?"

               The wince isn't very well hidden. "Uh . . . yeah."

               Hearing him stumble over the words is odd. Obviously, in his school he's the one everyone either wants to date or be. Being self-assured comes with the job description. Then again, cancer always makes for an awkward conversation. It's the fear of saying something that'll set the person off and send them in a mess of tears. "Cancer is cancer. It's not all that exciting."

               Frowning, he says—cautiously, I notice—, "Exciting?"

               Clearly it isn't enough of an answer. Cancer's hard to describe. There's so many things you can say, yet putting it into words is almost impossible. "Uh. Sometimes there's times you want to curl up in a ball and cry. Other times you want to go into fit of rages. You get angry. A lot. Sad too. There's normally depression but it depends on the person. Chemotherapy sucks. Half the time it does more harm than good. I think that's it."

               "How long have you . . .?"

               "How long do I have left?"

               He swallows. "Uh . . . have left?"

               "A year," I tell him, voice factual. Now, it's more like three quarters of a year though.

               His mouth opens before he closes it again. "A year?" he manages, finally, voice thin.

               I nod. "Less now."

               "Holy fu— Shit, sorry. Trying not to swear here. And I just did." Raking a hand through his hair, he stares at me, pity in his eyes. "I'm sorry. That's awful."

               All I can do I shrug. "Sorry doesn't cure cancer. It's okay; don't be sorry. You didn't diagnose me."

               "But, you're . . . dying," he breathes out.

               I just nod. It's the truth you have to accept. Nothing can change your fate, no matter how many times you wish upon a shooting star, or pray to god. The shock factor of it wears off the longer your diagnosis lasts. Hearing about it, even the word, triggers something in people. You change before their eyes even if you're still the same person you were before.

               As he continues to stare, I break the silence, uncomfortable. "Is sign language easy to learn?"

               I don't get a response for a few minutes. In that time, he stares at me, like he's trying to figure me out. Like I'm something otherworldly all because I have cancer; it's the cancer look, as I like to call it. Finally, he blinks, shaking his head. "Sorry. I didn't realise I was staring. What was your question?"

               "I sign language hard to learn?" I repeat, crossing my legs on the lounge. Arranging my skirt so it covers most of mu upper thighs, I check my phone again. Between the car ride and now, I've been on the machine for nearly an hour and a half. Its wishful thinking if I assume it'll mean that I won't struggle at all in the city. Within the first ten steps the pressure on my lungs will increase, and I'll start to feel my breathing go uneven. It's unavoidable.

               "Oh. Sign. Yeah, it's pretty easy. James has always been deaf so I learnt it as a baby. From there it's easy; it's one of those things you never forget. Like playing football."

               The comparison throws me for a minute before I make sense of it. Then it makes perfect sense. He looks like a footballer. And he acts like one too, though he's not as arrogant as he looks. Then again, I'm the cancer girl—or CG. You can't be mean to the dying girl. "I wish I was the same. Sport and I? Not a good match."

               "Because of the . . .?"

               "Cancer?" I ask. He nods, moving around the coffee table. Sitting on the opposite side of the lounge, he grabs more food. To his question, I shake my head. "No. The cancer isn't why. I was terrible at sport long before I got the news of my diagnosis. I can't even catch a ball, my hand eye coordination is that bad."

               He frowns, blue eyes darker now that he's not standing in the light. "Huh. I can't imagine a life without football."

               I can't imagine a life without cancer, I think. As sad as it is to face, it's the truth. Despite how much I want it to happen, if I did wake up one day cured of cancer, I wouldn't feel the same. It's a part of me, something I've lived with so long, that living without it wouldn't be the same. Probably better, still, but odd all the same. "Uh huh. Same."

               The laugh I get in response is deep and loud. I figure that it's what James' would sound like if he laughed. "That was a hint that you could care less. That's boring, huh?"

               "A little bit," I admit, fighting a smile.

He looks at me strangely, before saying, "This is nice. An actual conversation that isn't just silence.

By the end of his sentence, I'm standing, glaring at him. The plugs aren't in my nose anymore but I could care less; I'm too blinded by anger. How dare he talk about his brother like that? "Who do you think you are?" I spit out. "You're his brother. He didn't ask to be born deaf. Just because you're popular and everyone likes you because you're oh-so-perfect, doesn't mean that you can talk about him like that."

He raises his hands in the air, eyes wide. "What?" he says, quiet and shocked. "I never said that! I love my brother!"

"Really?" I mutter cynically.

"Yes. If I didn't, I wouldn't have been suspended three times for bashing people up when they said something about him."

My anger falters. "What?"

"I'd do anything for him."

"But . . ." I break off, guilt sinking in. Sitting down, I put the plugs back in, avoid his eyes. The anger's drained out of me. "I'm sorry. I didn't realise. I just assumed that you were insulting him about something he couldn't help. It hit a nerve, I guess. I'm sorry."

"Hey, look at me." I do, expecting anger. What I see is so far from anger it's not funny. There's respect there and a smile on his face. "Bad choice of wording, I know. I didn't mean it and neither did you. Forget about it; it happens."

Frowning, I force myself to let it go, even though the guilt still weighs heavy on my mind. "If I asked your brother to teach me sing language, would it take long?"

               Jordon just shrugs. "It depends on how much effort you're willing to put in. It's not something you can guess. One wrong movement can be the difference between tell someone you love them and telling them to fuck off."

               "Experience it before?" I ask, raising my eyebrow.

               "Yeah. Too many times. You don't even realise until they're yelling back at you with their hands. You'd think that silence isn't as bad as someone screaming in your face but sometimes it can be worse." Grinning, he add, "There's been a few times I've messed up on before because I hated them. All you have to do is pretend that you're learning and it's a mistake."

               I can't help but laugh, jostling the plugs in my nose. Pushing them back into place, I find my voice, smiling too. "Nice. Somehow I'm not surprised."

               "What? Do I look like someone that'd do that?"

               Losing my smile, I say, "No. Not at all. I just meant . . . I don't know what I meant."

               He stares at me, before reaching out to pat my shoulder. It's gentle and awkward, as if he's scared I'll break. "It doesn't matter what you mean. I'm not offended."

               "That's good, I guess," I mutter. "So, the sign language? Is it like English where you just use every vowel the same? Is every A in sign the same as in words?"

               "No. Each words is different. If you're spelling it out then yes, you use the letters individual. Whole words are their own sign. Like cat . . ." He moves his hand in one movement, right by his mouth. Long fingers make a shape that reminds me of whisker. "But if you're spelling the words it's different." Then he moves his hands again too fast for me to track. "See?"

               I don't see; I can only stare at him in confusion. He rolls his eyes. "I didn't think you would. Like I said. It's hard. I never had the struggle but you'll find it more difficult considering you don't know any of it."

               "Thanks," I say, smiling in relief. In a way it reminds me of cancer. There's terms that you learn, ones so long and confusing that anyone without a diagnosis wouldn't know, even if they tried.

               James walks in then, footsteps echoing. The room falls silent, the two brothers starting a conversation between each other. I don't even attempt to follow it. When they're done, James turns to me, grinning broadly. I catch the words as he mouths them, You okay?

               In return, I nod, wishing I could sign. It'd be so much either.

               Jordon smiles, standing. As he stretches his arms over his head, his singlet rides up. I see the hint of abs underneath and I can't say it's surprising. Judging by his arms, he's a gym addict. "Can we go now? It's already eight in the morning. If we don't leave soon, we won't get there until lunch time." He pointedly stares at me. "I'd speed but your dad warned me not to."

               Mock-glaring at him, I roll my eyes. "So it's my fault?"

               "We all need someone to blame," Jordon says, winking at me.

               All I can do is laugh in response.

               James walks over, moving so he's in front of me. No longer wearing the same outfit, he's wearing dark jeans and a grey Batman shirt. When a hand is held out, I take it, standing with his help. You look beautiful, he mouths, smiling. Have I said that?

               I shrug. Maybe. We going?

               He nods, staring at my oxygen machine. Kneeling down, I remove the plugs, wrapping them around the handle. Then I wheel it out behind me, as we exit the house, leaving the pristine white house. Even as we leave, I can't help but look at the picture of the two of them. I decide that I much rather a smiling James, than one that looks like he's hiding something deep.

               *

               We're almost to the city when I finally have the nerve to ask him the question plaguing my mind. Tapping his shoulder, I wait for him to look before writing, Can I ask you a question?

               In the driver's seat of the car, Jordon frowns, looking between us. He says nothing though. True to his word, he hasn't sped once yet. Not even the moments when we were stuck in traffic for ages, awful drivers cutting people off. James had opted for the backseat next to me, when we'd walking into Jordon's Ford, my machine in the floor space between us. Again, I'm using it in a futile attempt to make the day easier.

                 I look down at the paper between us, reading the words. Sure.

               Even though he seems so unfazed by the prospect of me asking a question, I balk. It's personal, asking about that photo, I know. There are moments in your life kept hidden from everyone for a reason. He owes me nothing, least of all answer.

               James notices my hesitation, flipping the page over to a new one. Ask. If I don't want to answer I'll tell you.

               Bracing myself, I take it from him. That photo of you in the hall. It's all I write, not brave enough to say anymore.

               He reads the words with a frown, before looking at me. The look on his face is one I can't decipher. Oh. That. It's from three years ago, my first few months of high school. Long story short, they'd been torture. Friends don't magically appear when you're deaf. People who hate you do though. Insults were all I got. Most of the time they weren't even about me being deaf—just hate because I'm to one that can't hear them talk about me.

               I stare at him with wide eyes, hating the story. Hating the people who'd hurt him. I'm sorry, I mouth.

               He only shrugs. The sadness in his expression isn't lost on me. Don't be. It's old now. Anyway, high school is bad enough for normal people. I'm not normal to them—somehow it makes me disabled. Considering I get better grades then all of them, they all need to grow a brain. But, yeah, in the time where the photo was taken, depression had set in. I didn't eat. Didn't sleep. Self-harm was going on daily. Twice I tried suicide, hating myself that much. I didn't want to live anymore. Pills didn't work. Neither did blood loss. He stops writing, frowning at me. Okay. Sorry. Too heavy?

               I say nothing, staring at him. I can relate to everything he's said. In the years after my diagnosis I'd attempted suicide more than a few times. None of the attempts had worked, something I'm grateful of today. But, back then, I hadn't allowed myself to see anything good in life. Cancer had been the end of my whole world; everything shattering around me.

               Taking it from him, I start to write. The few tears that fall are out of my control. I tried it to. Bleach. Pills. At one point I tried to hang myself. I hate looking back on it, hate it when the memories come rushing back. When it was happening I'd been in a bad place, life nothing but bleak emptiness. So I can relate. Was anyone there for you?

               The only reason I'm alive today is because mum had saved me every time. When I'd swallowed a whole container of pills down, she'd forced them back up. Someone had been there to stop me each time I'd tried, until I'd stopped trying, finally realising that suicide isn't worth it.

               Jordon was. We hadn't been close then but he'd been the first one to notice the difference. I didn't smile anymore, didn't laugh. He'd brought me out of it though. By some miracle, he'd gotten off with one detention, despite the fact that he beat up a lot people to defend me. Then he'd introduced me to boxing. An outlet for my anger. It had helped. I'd stopped being so angry at myself, stopped blaming myself. Now, I'm fine, avoiding death at all cost. I still can't hear but in future I can always buy a hearing aid.

               I take the notepad from him, finding a new page as I wipe some tears away. James notices them; wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I lean against him, careful to keep the chord out of the way. Why don't you have one now?

               Money, is all he writes. I nod, understanding completely. Chemotherapy isn't cheap. Many diagnosed rarely have the money to pay for it. The only reason we can is because it comes out of the fund that mum and dad had set up when I was born, for university. Otherwise I would've missed so many rounds of chemo that I've had.

I read the words, as his hand moves over the page, his long, neat scrawl spreading across the page. Jordon amazing at football. He has a career in it. So, all the money is on him for college and scholarships. It doesn't bother me. I still don't know what I want and I doubt it'll be any exciting considering I can't hear. Mum tries to buy one but I tell her not to. Jordon deserves it more than I do.

               I just nod, wondering how someone can be so selfless. It's one of the reasons I continue to cry, even as Jordon finds a car park, booming, "Okay, kids. Get out. I have things to do. Text if anything comes up that's worrying."

               Only then do I force away the tears. I'm in the city. To have fun. Not to cry over reminiscing about the past. 

_____________________

Who else loves Jordon? (I didn't even realise they both started with J :D )

Dedication next chapter for anyone who can guess the major role he'll play in the story. And it's not the obvious answer.

~ Littlemissflawed