I hate hospitals. I always have. They smell like disinfectants, and pain, and all those bad things I prefer to pretend don’t exist. Every single thing I’ve denied is getting pushed in my face, impossible to ignore under the fluorescent lights. But I never expected it like this. After all the stupid, insane bumps Jason took in the ring, he wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

I wonder which of us sinned, what we did to get a punishment this harsh. It can’t be Jason. It must be me. So why is he the one with the bandages wrapped around his torn throat, an oxygen mask tight over his mouth to make his breathing keep pace with the steady beep of the heart monitor? Why can’t I be the one who’s going to…

No. I won’t say that. God knows the doctors have said that enough. So I ask instead, for the thousandth time, “There’s nothing else you can do?”

 “I’m sorry.” The doctor replies, soft and sympathetic and coldly impersonal. He’s not sorry. He doesn’t care enough to be sorry. “By the time he was brought here, he had lost too much blood. He stopped breathing in the ambulance. We managed to steady it out, but not quickly enough.”

My argument comes automatically. I’m not sure I even believe it anymore. “His heart’s still going, there’s a chance-“

“He’s brain-dead, Mr. Copeland.”

Dead. The word finally seems to sink in and ring through me a few times, a sharp clear note through the hollowness of a bell. Dead. Even though his hand is warm in mine, even though his chest rises and falls, he’s dead. He died in an ambulance, alone and bleeding and in pain. Dead.

Maybe I’m dead, too.

The thought comforts me, giving me enough strength to explain, “But I just saw him last night, I…” My voice breaks, destroying my credibility. I keep going anyway. “He can’t be dead. He can’t be, don’t you get it? It’s a mistake!”

The doctor is silent for a long moment. Somewhere down the hallway, a kid is shrieking in pain. I can sympathize. Then, shifting on his feet, the doctor murmurs in a voice that probably means he’s going to try to drug me up again later, “I’m sure this is quite a shock, sir-“

My laugh sounds nasty, like it belongs to someone else. “You’re fucking right it is.”

“You need to think about this with a clear head. You don’t have to make a decision right away.”

“You can wait as long as you want. My answer isn’t going to change. The machines stay on.”

“If that’s what you want, they’ll stay on. He gave you this authority for a reason. But have you thought about what Mr. Reso would want?”

 “Get the hell out.”

The door clicks shut, and I crumple. I fucking hate doctors. Fucking reasonable bastards, trying to force logic into places where it doesn’t belong. They’re trying to make him leave.

Jase doesn’t stir when I fall into the chair beside him and twine my fingers with his. Such a deep sleeper. I’ve had to carry him into the shower and hold him under cold water to wake him up more than once. I tried dipping his fingers in the pitcher of ice water already, got nothing for it except a tiny catch in his heartrate. I’m running out of ideas.

They keep asking if I’ve thought about what Jason would want, like they know better than I do what he’d do. I’m the one who’s been around him for about fifteen fucking years, not them. I’m the one who laid by his side on his roof and stared at the stars with him, while we shared a beer and talked about God. He wouldn’t want to go out like this, even if there’s a fraction of a chance. He gave me this decision for a reason, dammit, and I’m not giving up on him this easy. I can’t.

Taking his hand, I squeeze his fingers gently and murmur, “Hey. How’re you holding up in there, huh?”

He doesn’t stir, his eyelashes still. He’s got such ungodly lashes, long and pale, but they still stand out again his face. He’s about as white as the sheets they have him on. Blood loss’ll do that to you, I guess.

“The cops are still at the building, in case you’re wondering. Looking for the bastard who did this to you. They think it was just some fan who slipped through security. Once you snap out of this, they’re gonna want you to identify him. Think you can do that, Jase?”

His hand is so limp. I hold it carefully by the wrist, studying his fingers. They’re nearly tipped with blue, and so cold. Rubbing his hand carefully to get his circulation back, trying not to dislodge the IV, I look at his face. He looks like hell. I’m probably not ready for the cover of GQ myself, but I’m not the one hooked up to a thousand tubes and wires. He would hate this.

“You’re gonna have to wake up pretty damned soon, man. They won’t let me be the one to take care of you, and the nurses keep saying that they can’t take the time to wash your hair every day. They’re gonna cut it, Jason. If you don’t snap out of this by Wednesday, you’re gonna end up bald.” I’m not sure if that’s true, but if anything will get him moving, that will. I’ve never seen a guy so obsessed with having nice hair. It doesn’t get a reaction; he’s probably calling my bluff. Reaching out, I pet his hair, still soft under my fingertips. They washed the blood out before I got here, or so Waltman tells me. “Jackass. Just you wait. I’ll tell them to hold an electric razor near your head, see how fast that gets you up.”

Gallows humor, really, but it makes me feel better. Talking about Wednesday means that he’ll be here that long. As long as the respirators hold out, which, if I have anything to do with it, will be a very long time. Fucking stupid doctors. Just let them try to pull the plug. Just let them try.

My fingers tighten on Jason’s hand a little, and it’s not until I feel his bones shift slightly that I realize how hard I’ve been squeezing. I let go fast, staring at the white places where the circulation is slowly coming back. I was squeezing hard enough to hurt, hard enough to maybe fracture something, and he didn’t even twitch.

No. That doesn’t mean a thing. He’ll be fine, damn it. He’ll be fine.

He has to be.

Something touches my shoulder, and I jump. The grip tightens slightly instead of jerking away like my pain will infect them, the way everyone else has acted tonight. I raise my head and meet dark, oddly sympathetic eyes looking down at me. For the first time tonight, the sympathy doesn’t burn me.

“Sean,” I murmur, and run out of things to say.

He seems to understand, patting me once before hooking his foot around a chair and drawing it close. With an odd sort of grace, he flops into it, then holds out a cup of something steaming. “Coffee?”

I start to refuse, then can’t resist the smell. He chuckles when I nearly snatch it, the sound almost managing to warm the room. “Figured that was gonna be your answer.”

Taking a deep precious sips, I sigh and sink back into the chair, managing a damned good imitation of a smile. “Thanks.”

Sean shrugs. “You look like hell. I thought you might need some.”

“How’d you get past the Gestapo out there?”

“Even for midcarders, autographs do hold a certain amount of power.” His smirk fades as he looks up at Jase. “Any improvement?”

I shake my head, staring into the coffee. “They…” My voice trembles a little too much. I clear my throat, and manage almost steadily, “They say he’s brain dead.”

“Oh, God.” Reaching out, he grips my shoulder. “God, kid, I’m sorry.”

With a shrug, I give a shaky smile. “You did the best you could.”

Silence, and then, gently, “When are you planning to turn off the machines?”

“I’m not.”

His hand freezes on my shoulder, then eases up a little. With a sigh, he begins, “Adam-“

“Don’t.”

Whatever he hears in my voice makes him hesitate. I brace myself for another argument, shooting him a cold look from under my eyelashes. Instead of a patronizing smile, I see an odd look of resigned acceptance on his face. “Okay,” he says simply, and leaves it at that.

I can only stare at him for a second, startled beyond words. He wasn’t supposed to agree. I need something to fight about. Even now, I can feel the effects of the last few hours sinking in, making my eyes burn and my insides ache. I take in a deep, shaky breath, fighting it off. I refuse to have my nervous breakdown in the intensive care unit of a hospital. Not gonna happen. Not gonna…

Sean’s hands curl over mine, and I realize with a jolt that my hands are shaking and I can barely see through my tears. I start to protest weakly, I’m not sure over what, and he cuts me off. “Where are you staying?”

“Marriot.” Any more than that and I’ll start bawling. Jason doesn’t need to hear that.

“Okay. Then that’s where we’re going.”

Strong hands grip my arms gently, pulling me up. I stagger like a drunk man, leaning into the bars on the side of Jason’s bed. I grab weakly at them for support. “No! Sean, I can’t leave him-“

“He’ll still be here when you get back.” And both of us hear the awful, simple truth in his words. Jason isn’t going anywhere. Maybe never again. “You need sleep,” he adds, more gently. “It’s this or having somebody sedate you. I heard them out in the hall. They don’t want a crazed wrestler running around the halls.”

“He might die while I’m gone.”

“I can’t promise you that he won’t,” Sean agrees, so bluntly that it makes me listen. “But there’s nothing you can do here. You won’t do him any good if they have to throw you in the psych ward, understand?”

And, unfortunately, I do. Wiping at my eyes with the palm of my hand, I nod finally. “Can I say goodbye?”

His expression softens slightly. “Yeah. Go ahead.” Bending to look at Jase, he touches his fingertips to my lover’s forehead. In anyone else, at any other time, I would call it a promise. “See you soon, kid.”

With that, he walks out the door, leaving me to my privacy. The door clicks shut behind him, and I think I can bet on him standing guard outside it to keep any more rationalizing doctors away.

With a sigh, I sit on the edge of Jase’s bed and hold his hand again. It’s the closest I can get to him right now, with all the wires. I can settle for it. “I’ve got to go, baby,” I murmur to him, my voice sounding small in the clicking and the beeping and the awful silences of the machines. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, though, all right? You just sleep, and… well, I hope you can still dream in there. It’ll give you something to tell me about when…”

When. If. Ever.

“You wake up.”

I let go, reluctantly. After a second’s thought, I shrug out of my jacket and tuck it around his shoulders; it can’t seem to get warm enough in here for him. Stroking his cheek, I tell him as sternly as I can manage, “You damned well better wait for me, baby. You’re not going anywhere without me.”

My only answer is silence. I’m getting used to that. Bending close, I try to ignore the fact that his face is getting wet with my tears. His skin is cold under my lips as I whisper to him my favorite secret. “I love you.”

Twenty minutes later, while I slept in the passenger seat of Sean’s car, Jason died.