*TW: implication of suicidal intent*

Having felt any quality of life was ripped from him, Garte Ro'Meave craved nothing more than the peace that came with the lack of existence.

He submerged himself in the tub, praying that the water would consume him. His chest burned as the two lungs he had screamed for air to expand upon. He shut his eyes and allowed his ears to fill with water, muffling any of the outside world that could come to him. His blond hair floated in every direction.

As though some otherworldly, paranormal being had a hold on his soaked hair, his searing lungs became enough and he broke the surface of the water. He immediately drew in a reviving breath that granted his body life. His eyes shot open as he slid his wet hands over his hair to push it out of his face.

The moment he emerged from the water the weight of the world was back on his shoulders. Garte stared blankly at his legs that were still submerged in water. He was angry, though he hardly had the energy to show it.

His mind was betraying his every bodily instinct to stay alive.

Or maybe it was his body betraying his mind.

He wasn't aware of how much time had passed. To him, it could've been thirty minutes, or even five, but those minutes stopped passing as silent when his phone began vibrating on the counter. He ripped his hand out of the warm water and picked up his phone, not giving a second thought to the drops of water landing on his phone screen. The screen was illuminated with the notification of a call from Derek.

Sighing, Garte answered the call and tried to pull off the most living sounding voice he could. "Hello?"

"Hey," Derek began, but hesitated. "Are you alright? You sound exasperated."

Garte sighed and ran his free hand through his hair again. He cursed himself out in his mind and cleared his throat.

"Yeah, yeah I'm good. What's up?" He asked.

"Are you sure? G, it's only been three days since you found out. Can I do anything?" Derek begged.

Garte froze. Three days? There was no way it had only been three days. It felt like an eternity. He acquired no sleep, ate very little, and the only medication he was able to think of was the ones he was administering to Garroth.

The conversation spun in circles for several minutes. Derek insisted that something was wrong, and that he's happy to help. Garte insisted that it was under control and that he could do it, knowing that this was anything but true.

Eventually, Garte gave in, and admitted he could at least use the company. It had just been him and Garroth at home that day. Zianna took Zane and Vylad to their grandparents' house, while she was spending the day with Sylvanna, Zack's wife and her best friend. Garte had insisted that his wife take a break and spend the day out, and to let the boys get out of the house, too. They offered for Garroth to go as well, but the little one was much too exhausted and in pain to go on an outing.

Their conversation came to an abrupt halt when there was a soft knock on the bathroom door. Derek let Garte know that he would be at their home in a matter of twenty minutes, and the call ended. Garte quickly pressed himself out of the bath and stepped out. He managed to dry off and dress quickly, leaving only his hair wet. Another knock came through at the door, and Garte questioned what could be so important.

The door opened, and the father knew he had to put on a strong face for his suffering son. He first noticed Garroth's blonde, messy hair from being in bed all day. As his eyes trailed down, he saw a crimson red draining from his son's nose and down onto his pajama shirt.

In an attempt not to freak his son out, Garte drew in a shaky breath. He could see that his son's little hand was covered in blood, and that the hallway leading to the bathroom traced Garroth's steps with red droplets.

"Come here, little man," Garte said, stepping aside and allowing Garroth into the bathroom. As Garroth entered, his dad picked him up and placed him on the counter. The flow of blood was now landing on his pants.

"This must've just started, huh?" Garte asked as he grabbed several tissues and handed them to Garroth. The young boy nodded, careful to be gentle.

Garte unbuttoned his son's shirt and slid it off his shoulders. He then took the tissues from Garroth's blood stained hands and placed them around his fingers, pinching ever so slightly around the child's little nose. He pushed Garroth's head down to face the floor, and kissed the top of his head while they waited for the blood to clot.

After several minutes, to which both the father and the son were blind to, the gushing stopped. Garte removed the tissues from Garroth's nose and tilted his head back up. He kissed his oldest son on the top of his head and dropped the blood soaked tissues into the garbage. Upon washing his hands, Garroth began sniffling in an attempt to hold back tears.

"Hey, hey, hey, buddy," Garte said gently and quietly, immediately placing a hand on the back of Garroth's head. "What's wrong? Did that scare you?"

Garroth shook his head, not caring anymore whether or not he was gentle. His father's eyes grew increasingly sympathetic and concerned.

"Does something hurt?" Garte inquired, to which Garroth nodded.

"What's hurting you?"

"Everything," Garroth choked out, still trying to hold back sobs.

Garte, feeling every cell in his body ache for his little boy, picked Garroth up from the counter and allowed him to lay his head on his shoulder. Garroth's hands clasped around Garte's neck. The man tried to hush his child, just as he had done four years prior when those newborn cries filled the room.

The two made their way down the stairs, the physically strong man carrying his declining son in his arms. Upon reaching the kitchen, Garte managed to prepare Garroth's liquid painkillers with one hand. He avoided filling the cup, knowing the four year old was much too weak to drink it on his own, and instead pulled the medication into a syringe. Garroth took it without a fight, allowing Garte to press the syringe to deliver the medication he so desperately needed into his mouth.

Garte couldn't even think in that moment about what would've happened had he allowed the water to overtake his lungs. His son would've stood there on the opposite side of the door, bleeding, in pain, and frightened. Garroth would've been alone in his excruciating reality while Garte was free of his.

As he normally did, Garte began kicking himself for having been so selfish. For not having the thought of his pain ravaged son before having the thought of that freeing final breath.

A good father wouldn't have even given it a second thought, let alone tried to follow through with it.

Noticing Garroth was becoming rather drowsy as he laid on his shoulder, Garte quietly carried him up the stairs. They reached the room at the end of the hallway, the room that belonged to both Garte and Zianna. Garroth looked incredibly tiny as he rested on his parents' large bed.

Garte got his son situated in the bed, moving pillows around and tucking the comforter around him. Garroth rubbed his eye and looked at his father.

"There you are," Garte spoke quietly. "Are you warm enough?"

Garroth nodded. Garte forced a smile on his face, one in which Garroth didn't return.

"Daddy," Garroth spoke up, not so much as a question but as a command for Garte to listen to him.

"Yeah, Buddy?"

"I'm sorry I'm sick."

Garte, stunned by the sudden apology, let his eyes grow wide. His eyebrows crinkled as he shook his head. The efforts from him and Zianna to keep Garroth out of the loop seemed to be in vain. The four year old was too intuitive to just let this fly under the radar.

"Garroth, look at me," Garte said, noticing his son's attention was trailing off. "Don't you ever be sorry. It's no one's fault that you're not feeling good. Not you, not me, not mommy, not anyone. Nobody's mad at you, we're just working to get you better."

Garte hated lying to anyone, especially his sons. And yet, he had no choice to lie to Garroth. The boy was too young to understand the concept of death. He was too little to grasp the fact that one day he would fall asleep, and never come back. Garte didn't think he had it in himself to explain it, either.

"Do you want me to let you sleep?" Garte asked, seeing as Garroth was already dozing off. His hand was brushing his son's unkempt hair.

"Alright," Garte got up as Garroth nodded. He left a gentle kiss on his forehead before completely standing up straight. "I love you."

"Love you too," Garroth mumbled, already halfway asleep.

Garte smiled, more genuinely this time, and stopped at the door frame, "I'll come check on you in a little while."

And with that, he quietly pressed the switch to turn off the lights and closed the door, leaving it just open enough that light could sleep through. Garte walked down the stairs in his quiet home, but only reached the middle before he heard a knock at the door.

Bringing himself to the very end of the steps, Garte opened the door to Derek, who was smiling. The man had obviously just come from work. His eyes were tired, and yet the expression on his face was seemingly satisfied from the amount of work he had completed throughout the day.

Garte invited his best friend inside, shutting the door as he stepped in. They made their way to the living room, sitting across from each other on couches. Derek noticed the unusual silence, to which Garte explained why he and Garroth were home alone.

"Did I interrupt you while you were showering?" Derek laughed, noticing that Garte's hair was still wet.

Garte, caught up in the lie that he was handling things better than he actually was, smiled back at Derek and shook his head. He forced a laugh, too scared to let anyone know where he had let his mind wander.

"Oh, good news about the forever potions-" Derek began, trying to talk about something other than Garroth's impending doom.

"I know, I heard," Garte said. He had always hated hearing the same things more than once.

Derek cocked his head. "What do you mean you heard? I mean, I just found out... noon maybe?"

"Michael stopped by the day after we got back from the hospital."

Derek surprised himself by becoming enraged by this news. He knew he had to keep every ounce of his anger under control, before the curse he bore shone through.

"It wasn't a long conversation," Garte said in a nervous rush, seeing that Derek was irritated. "He just told me about how it could save Garroth."

"He... stopped by to tell you that?" Derek hesitated.

Garte nodded, his eyes growing fearful from sensing the anger across from him. Derek was appalled at Michael, to stop by the day after the parents received tragic news to talk about nothing but business.

"And what came of that?"

Garte shrugged and lowered his eyes to the floor, "I mean, it certainly sounded hopeful. I'm not all that opposed to looking into it."

"Are you fucking insane?!"

Garte, startled by Derek's sudden change in his tone of voice, jerked his head back up to face him. He could see Derek was truly questioning him, as though he was insane for thinking that maybe it could save little Garroth. No words came out of Garte's mouth, nor were any running through his mind.

"You want to trust him? After all I've told you," Derek berated, standing up and pacing around the floor. "All the dangers that can come with Ultimas and witchcraft. Does that mean nothing to you?"

Garte sat still on the couch, confused and vulnerable. His eyes darted from one end of the room to the other. He was trying to not make eye contact with Derek, but was failing miserably.

"You know better than to trust that bastard," Derek continued. "We're only doing business with him for the sake of our companies."

"It was just an inquiry, I wanted to see if it could-" Garte began, quietly but with a steady voice.

"It's not about you, Garte!" Derek raised his voice even more. "This isn't about you, or your son, or the rest of your family for that matter!"

Derek, seething with anger, had no words left to spew out. Garte sat across from him, holding his arms across his chest. Though he looked alright on the outside, every word Derek said was slowly biting into him.

Derek looked at the man he called his brother sitting across from him. He saw how he had distressed the man even further. He drew in a deep, heavy breath and sat back down on the couch, letting his anger drift away from him.

"I'm sorry," Derek said, lacing his fingers and placing his hands on top of his head.

"Don't worry about it," Garte looked at Derek, shaking his head and signaling that everything was okay between the two of them.

"You weren't showering, were you?" Derek asked, knowing full well what Garte was trying to do.

A moment of silence was caught between the normally boisterous friends. Both of them were staring intently at the floor.

"No," Garte said flatly.

Derek sighed, feeling twice as guilty than before for yelling at him. He didn't know what came over him. Anger was always something that was harder for him to control, but he was getting better at getting a grip on it. That is, until now it seemed.

Even as guilty as he felt for yelling, Derek still felt confident in what he said. He knew that putting a terminally ill child through the excruciating process would be entirely unethical. He sat back and let out a breath.

He still had Garte listening to him.

He had done the right thing.