Three days later, Lee found Austin in the bathroom of his apartment at six in the morning, holding a tissue stained with blood.
Lee had let himself in with the key Austin had given him for emergencies. He'd come to pick Austin up for their morning run, and when Austin didn't answer his phone, Lee had gotten worried.
The moment stretched between them—Lee in the doorway, Austin caught like a criminal, the blood impossible to deny.
"What's going on?" Lee asked, his voice careful.
"Nothing," Austin said automatically.
"Don't," Lee said. "Don't lie to me. Not about this. I've known you long enough to know when something's seriously wrong. And that blood? That's seriously wrong."
Austin looked at Lee—this man who'd become his friend, who'd always been there, who didn't deserve to be kept in the dark—and made a decision.
"Sit down," Austin said.
They sat on the edge of the bathtub, and Austin told him. Not everything, not the timeline or the severity, but enough. Enough that Lee understood that this wasn't a cold or flu or something that would go away.
"How long?" Lee asked.
"Long enough," Austin said. "And not as long as I'd like."
"Does your mother know?" Lee asked.
"No," Austin said. "And she can't. Nobody can. This is mine. This is private."
Lee was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "Okay. But you're not going through this alone. I'm going to be there, whether you like it or not."
"Lee—"
"No," Lee said firmly. "I'm going to be there. That's not negotiable."