Chapter Text
“I need to tell you something.”
Shawn is serious.
Shawn is almost never serious. Growing up, he was always making a joke out of something, always pulling a prank for a good laugh. At times, it would be insensitive and Cory would slap him, give him a scolding look, asking, “What's wrong with you?” Shawn would answer with a sheepish grin and a shrug of his shoulders.
Sometimes Shawn used his humor as a front to mask the pain of a rocky upbringing and absent parents. Cory would try to talk to him about his father or mother and Shawn would fire off joke after joke, lips smiling but eyes pleading for Cory to just go with it because that was easier than admitting that he was hurting.
Most of the time however, Cory liked to think that Shawn’s humorous and carefree spirit was one of his best traits. He could almost always coax a laugh out of someone, brighten their day. The older (and wiser) he got, the better Shawn learned to use it. He learned when to joke and when to shut up and just listen. He learned when to laugh it off and when to sit down and open up. He's sensitive now.
Sensitive, but almost never serious. There's a difference. A difference Cory can't quite put his finger on right now, but that's because he's too nervous to think about it. It makes him uneasy to see Shawn like this; so quiet and still. His brown eyes are filled with different emotions like fear, anxiety, uncertainty, but mostly he looks concerned. Concerned for Cory. Like whatever he's about to say, he knows will affect Cory in a hugely negative way and he's trying to figure out how to lessen the damage.
Shawn is quiet and still, but Cory can't stop moving. His left knee bounces up and down and his fingers twist in his lap. He's literally wringing his hands, but the more he tries to stop, the more they twist. He can't talk around the enormous lump of fear in his throat, but his thoughts are so loud that he wonders is Shawn can hear them.
His mom. Is it his mom? How can it be? Shawn has no clue who she is. Is it Jack? Did something happen to his half-brother? Topanga?
No. No, Topanga is in the other room, helping the kids with their homework. Cory can hear her voice now, dimly, in the midst of the roaring in his ears.
He knows.
It's Shawn. Something's wrong with Shawn. That's the only thing that makes sense. Cory knows that Topanga is fine because she's right there. He knows that it has nothing to do with the mother Shawn never met because he moved on from that a long time ago and recognized that Cory's mother raised him as her own. Jack is fine too because Cory just talked to Eric and he and Jack were-
Cory’s thought stops right there because Shawn takes a deep breath like he's preparing to speak. He shifts closer to his friend because though they're already right next to each other, he suddenly feels so far away.
“I've been having. . . these headaches,” Shawn begins, voice low and impossible slow. “They started about six weeks ago. At first I thought it was because I was traveling a lot. . . not eating or sleeping as much as I should have been. You know. Like in college.”
The joke passes with hardly any acknowledgement. Eating and sleeping was what Shawn did most of in college. He's joking now because he wants to make Cory feel better. And Cory manages to lift one corner of his mouth in a sort of smirk because he wants to make Shawn feel better.
“But,” Shawn dips his head and pinches the bridge of his nose and Cory can't help but wonder if he has a headache right now. If he's had a headache this entire time. “They just keep getting worse. The pain. The frequency. They kept me up at night and I was. . . getting nauseous.”
So he really hasn't been eating or sleeping a lot. Cory studies him. Shawn has always been fairly slight, and maybe it's just his imagination (because it's off and running wild by this point) but maybe his cheekbones are more pronounced. He does look pale and has dark circles carved underneath his eyes, but like he said, he has been traveling a lot lately. He had just returned home from Barcelona last week and before that he was in Japan. All that jet lag. . .
“Then a couple of days ago,” Shawn clears his throat, eyes staring at Cory’s hands, still twisting. “I- I passed out at my apartment.”
Cory jerks at that. His breath catches in his throat and he has to remind himself to inhale and exhale. Inhale. . . and. . . exhale. “Why. . . um, why didn't you call me?” he asks, wishing Shawn would just look at him. “Did you. . . get hurt?”
Shawn shakes his head. “I was sleeping on the couch and when I woke up I was really thirsty. I stood up too quickly I guess, and I blacked out. Fell right back on the couch.”
“Oh.” Cory nods. “But?”
“But, I had spoken to a doctor the day before and-”
The headaches. The nausea. The passing out. The doctor. Six weeks. He can't believe he's just hearing about this today.
“And he had told me to come on in and he'd do a routine checkup. When I told him everything that had been going on plus the fainting, he ordered a neurological exam. He said there was no reason to be concerned, he just wanted to be safe.”
“Shawn.”
Finally Cory’s vocal chords kick back into gear and the only thing they can manage is his best friend's name.
(He still won't look up.)
“They took some blood. . .”
(Shawn hates needles.)
“Tested my vision. . . my hearing. . . coordination. . . The past three days have just been a bunch of tests.” Shawn chuckles dryly. “I tried to tell them that tests aren't my strong point, but they didn't listen.”
(That's not funny.)
Cory flinches as Shawn’s hand comes to rest on his knee, attempting to still the bouncing.
“Cory.”
(Shawn’s voice is shaking.)
Cory shuts his eyes.
“I didn't do that well.”
He opens his eyes. Looks at Shawn. Really looks at him.
(What does that mean?)
He looks fine. Sure, a little tired. Maybe a little on the thin side. But all this about testing his hearing and vision and. . . coordination? Shawn can see. He can hear. He can walk. He got here, didn't he?
“It was nothing huge, just some small things. My vision was a little blurry. Coordination a little off. My reflexes were a little slow.”
(He didn't say anything about reflexes before.)
“My hearing is fine though.”
(See? He's fine.)
“Nothing huge,” Shawn repeats. “I never even noticed anything was wrong aside from the headaches. But enough small things that he wanted to do an MRI scan on my brain.”
(No.)
“Cory.”
(No.)
“They found something.”
(No.)
“It's about the size of a-”
(Fine. He's fine. Shawn is fine.)
“. . . not sure if the tumor is benign or-”
(There's no tumor. “Shawn” and “tumor” don't go together. Shawn is fine. Tumors are not fine.)
. . . surgery.”
(No.)
“Cory?”
Shawn is finally looking at him, but suddenly Cory finds it difficult to meet his friend’s gaze. His steady denial wavers and he fights back.
(No, no, no, no, no.)
“Breathe, Cor.”
(Screw breathing.)
(Cor.)
“I'm sorry.”
“You've got to be kidding me.”
He doesn't realize that he says that out loud until he sees Shawn react to the sound of his voice. He looks relieved and troubled at the same time. Relieved that he's finally speaking but troubled because he doesn't know how to proceed.
Neither does Cory.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
It comes out more broken than Cory wants it to. He doesn't want to make this about himself. This is about Shawn. This. . . whatever it is. Cory isn't entirely sure because he's still fighting to remain in denial. Plus, he was so lost in his thoughts he only heard about half of what Shawn said.
Some friend he is.
“I didn't want you to worry.”
For some reason that is beyond anything Cory can comprehend, tears spring to his eyes. He blinks them back, forces himself to look up at Shawn.
Shawn is biting his lip. Waiting for him to fall apart. Wondering how to hold him together.
(Too late for that.)
“I'm sorry.”
“Stop. Saying. That.”
(Inhale and exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. . . Exhale.)
“I know I should have told you sooner. Now I'm just kinda throwing it at you.”
(Kinda. More like chucking it full force. Via knife.)
“It's okay.”
“It's not.”
“It's going to be.” He can't let himself believe otherwise.
“It could be nothing,” Shawn says quietly. “Benign, I mean it's still. . . a tumor, but- It doesn't have to be. . .” He trails off when Cory starts to shake his head.
He can stop Shawn from saying it but he can't stop his own freaking brain from drumming it into reality.
(Cancer.)
Cory takes a deep breath but it still feels like he's drowning. “Tell me again,” he says, determined to listen no matter how much it hurts.
Shawn tells him that there's a tumor in the right of his brain. That it's about the size of a small ping-pong ball which is slightly smaller than a ping-pong ball. That the doctor wants to remove it and do a biopsy on it to see if it is. . . benign or not.
(It's funny how “benign” means “non-cancerous” yet with enough discipline and denial, it can almost mean “absolutely nothing to do with cancer whether it's benign or not. Benign means something far less serious and if it's not benign then it's. . . nothing at all.)
It's just too bad that Cory can't get past the whole part about a ping-pong ball sized tumor inside of Shawn's brain.
(A small ping-pong ball. Whatever that means. It sounds better.)
“Cory?” Shawn. Begging him to say something. Shawn.
(Shawn. Tumor. Brain. Shawn. Brain. Tumor. Shawn. Ca-)
Cory shakes his head. “When?”
“Next week. The seventh.”
The seventh is in five days. “Okay.”
“Cory-”
“Don't, Shawn.” Cory shakes his head again, wishing he could just shake it all away into non-existence. “Don't.” Tries to take another deep breath with his waterlogged lungs. “It'll be okay. You'll be okay.”
(It has to be okay. He. He has to be.)
Cory slips an arm around Shawn’s shoulders and pulls him in closer. Tighter. So tight that he hears Shawn let out the tiniest grunt of surprise. But he doesn't loosen the hold.
(Shawn, this is a hug. Okay? This is a hug! And this is when you hug somebody. When you care about them and you want them to know that!)
He's not about to let go.
(Now, you cannot leave here, do you hear me?)