Aslan had always known life was cruel. He grew up in the shadows of other people's lives - parents who never stayed sober long enough to remember his birthday, teachers who looked right through him, and friends who were never really friends at all. He built walls around his heart and learned to keep his head down, blending into the background like he was nothing more than a speck of dust.

But then he came into Aslan's life. The man who saw him, really saw him, in a way no one ever had. They met in a run-down art studio on the outskirts of town, a forgotten place where the man spent afternoons sketching scenes of a world far better than the one they lived in. With golden hair and eyes that sparkled with mischief, his smile could melt the frostiest of hearts. Aslan would watch, mesmerized, until he finally caught him staring.

"Like what you see?" he teased, a playful grin spreading across that beautiful face. Aslan blushed, embarrassed, but the man just laughed, pulling him in like they'd known each other forever.

From that day on, they were inseparable. The man painted Aslan in colors he didn't know he could wear - joy, hope, and the delicate, terrifying warmth of love. They spent late nights wrapped in blankets, tracing each other's scars and whispering promises that felt too beautiful to keep. Aslan had never been so happy, so alive, and for once, he dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was worth loving.

But life had other plans.

The first cough was barely a sound, just a faint hitch in the breath that Aslan brushed off as nothing. But it didn't stop. Weeks turned into months, and the cough grew deeper, raspier, until he couldn't laugh without wincing. Aslan begged for a doctor's visit, but he, stubborn as ever, waved it off. By the time he finally agreed, the diagnosis was worse than Aslan could have ever imagined: stage four lung cancer. Aggressive. Inoperable. A death sentence.

Aslan tried to be strong. He stayed by his side through every grueling round of chemo, holding his hand as the drugs ravaged that beautiful body, draining all the light and laughter Aslan loved. Every day, Aslan watched the love of his life slip further away, and there was nothing he could do but whisper broken promises of a future they would never have.

On the last night, he was so frail he could barely keep his eyes open. Aslan lay beside him, cradling his head and whispering into his ear, trying to fill the silence with memories of better times. He smiled weakly, reaching out to touch Aslan's cheek with trembling fingers.

"I wish we had more time," he rasped, tears glistening in those once-bright eyes, smiling weakly, trying to sound strong. Aslan choked back a sob, pressing his forehead to his.

"Me too," Aslan whispered, his voice breaking. "I'd give anything."

He passed away in Aslan's arms just before dawn, the last breath a soft, shuddering exhale that left Aslan feeling like his heart had been ripped from his chest. The apartment was empty without him, a cold, lifeless shell filled with memories that Aslan couldn't bear to look at. He stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped living. Every corner of their home was a cruel reminder of what he'd lost, and Aslan couldn't escape the suffocating weight of his grief.

One night, drunk and desperate, Aslan stumbled through the streets, his vision blurred by tears and the sting of cheap whiskey. He didn't know where he was going, but he didn't care. All he knew was that he couldn't keep living in a world without him. That's when he heard the rumors - whispers about a sorcerer who lived on the outskirts of town, a man who could do the impossible for those willing to pay the price.

Aslan found the sorcerer's cottage in a secluded grove, shrouded in mist and darkness. The door creaked open, revealing a figure draped in tattered robes, eyes gleaming with a malevolent light.

"You seek the dead," the sorcerer said, his voice dripping with a cold, detached amusement. "You're not the first."

"I don't care," Aslan spat, his voice raw and desperate. "I want him back. I'll do anything."

The sorcerer studied Aslan, his gaze piercing and unkind. "Bringing back the dead is no small feat. The balance must be maintained. For him to live, you must give me something in return."

"Take whatever you want," Aslan pleaded. "My soul, my life, anything. Just bring him back."

The sorcerer smiled - a thin, cruel smile that sent shivers down Aslan's spine. "Very well. In exchange for his life, I will take your soul. You can live your life, but when you die, your soul will be mine."

Aslan felt his heart break all over again, but he nodded. He would have given anything to see him smile one more time, to feel the warmth of his touch, to say the words he never got the chance to say.

"Do it," Aslan whispered, his voice trembling. "Please."

The sorcerer raised his hands, and a searing pain shot through Aslan's body, tearing him apart from the inside out. He collapsed to the ground, gasping as his vision blurred, and the world around him faded into darkness. When he opened his eyes, he was standing in their apartment, but it was different - filled with life, music, the smell of delicious food he always made, and warmth. He was there, alive, and beautiful as ever, humming their favorite song softly as he poured coffee into his favorite mug.

"Honey..." Aslan called out, reached for him, and pulled him into a tight embrace, tears rolling down his cheeks like a waterfall. "Gosh I missed you so fucking much... you have no idea how much I missed you, my love..." he whispered, sobbing loudly as he clung to him even tighter, ignoring his shocked, confused face.