Maybe Memories
Title: Maybe Memories
Author: howXiXdisappear
Pairing: Bert McCracken/Quinn Allman
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Life-Threatening Illness [hc_bingo]; Last Wish [100 prompts]
Summary: "You look like Tyra Banks when you blink like that." Quinn whispered, slowly reaching out and grabbing Bert's hand under the thick white blanket, linking their fingers together.
Disclaimer: I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say this never happened.
Author Notes: I think it's safe to say that this is the longest fic I've ever written. Done for the hc_bingo challenge, but I think I kind of failed. Comments/con-crit = loves and all that.
Warnings: Illness; Language; Homosexuality; Character Death
The shorter man lights a cigarette and leans back against the side of the building. As usual, the 'No Loitering' sign goes unnoticed. He runs his fingers through his greasy black hair and stares out, pretending there's something to look at besides the herd of cars speeding by. Canopied by the building's thick gutters, the rain doesn't affect him at all, though he wouldn't mind very much if it did. It's just that it's more comfortable not getting soaked, and if he can keep himself mostly dry, he'll come home warm and huggable. Quinn likes when he comes home warm and huggable, and... and it's the least he can do, after leaving Quinn alone for so long.
"You're really quiet," His friend says, sick of the silence. It's then that Bert realizes that he completely forgot that he isn't alone. He smiles sheepishly and shrugs.
"Yeah...sorry." He doesn't offer an explanation. There isn't much of a need for one anyway; everyone knows. They can pretend they don't, that everything is peachy keen and lookin' great, but really, they know.
But Jepha still asks the same damn question everybody always asks, concerned and not knowing how to show it appropriately. Caring but not knowing what to say. "How is he?"
Bert just shrugs again and takes a long drag from his cigarette. There are lists of reasons why he doesn't like to deal with people. For one thing, most of them suck. They sucked when he was a kid, and they suck now. No amount of aging or responsibility will make them nicer. You get crueler with age. And people, they pry. They don't know how to mind their own business, and they snoop into everybody else's lives because their own are too pathetic and boring. Meaningless. Bert used to have a meaningless life, he knows how it feels. He understands. But that doesn't mean he's okay with it.
Neither he, nor his boyfriend have ever really been that fantastic with people. But Quinn's always been better; at least he has friends. People, no matter how sucky, always seem to like Quinn, even when he doesn't like them. They like that he's funny, that he's creative, that he always has a witty remark. They even like that he's kind of awkward and that he won't really talk to you completely sober until he's been stuck in the same room with you three times.
But they like his being sick most of all. There's something about having a sick friend that makes people feel better about themselves. At least they're healthy, right? And, hey, now they can start up conversations like, "My good friend, he's not doing very well," to make themselves look good. Good friends stick by their sick friends, right? A support system and all that.
Bert hates that about people too. They'll use you for whatever they can. They'll use Quinn for whatever they can. Having the sick friend story does wonders. He hates that Quinn doesn't seem to mind, that he'll just shrug and say, "Fake friends are better than no friends," and be completely chill with it. It's not something to be chill about, that's stupid. At least, that's what Bert thinks.
Jeph's not like that though. Bert knows this, and to be honest, he's okay with the guy. Jeph grew up with Quinn. Being a few years older, he was always someone for Quinn to look up to, and he always watched out for the younger man. He helped keep the fake friends away.
But he always asks that same damn question, too afraid to drop by the apartment to see for himself. Too afraid of catching Quinn on a bad day and having to see the poor kid hack up his lungs until he passes out. People are cowards, and Bert hates that more than anything else.
"How is he?" Bert just shrugs.
"Worse." He breathes out smoke and stares at the ground. "He misses you, y'know."
"Yeah...I know. Maybe I'll come by after work tomorrow," They both know he won't. He says it every time and never does. Bert can understand it, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. And he doesn't like it.
"I, uh," He scratches the side of his head and glances over at Jeph. "I need to get back there. He's alone."
***
"Hey, Bert?"
"Mmmf... what?"
"What did the fish say when he ran into the wall?"
"Quinn, I'm trying to fucking slee-"
"What did the motherfucking fish say when he ran into the motherfucking wall?"
"Fish don't run. They swim."
"Goddammit, Ber-"
"I don't know, Quinn. What did the motherfucking fish say when he ran into the motherfucking wall?"
"Dam." Bert rolled over to face the other man, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the darkness surrounding them. He didn't smile. Neither of them did. He was woken up for this? "You look like Tyra Banks when you blink like that." Quinn whispered, slowly reaching out and grabbing Bert's hand under the thick white blanket, linking their fingers together.
Now, Bert smiled. His heart pounded and his stomach flipped in a strange way he wasn't quite used to. Scooting closer to his boyfriend's half-naked body to wrap his arms around him, it occurred to him that he thought he was maybe madly in love.
As he shifted to get comfortable, he pressed his lips to Quinn's neck. The skin was salty, too salty for a person who had been laying in bed for the last hour or so. Bert frowned. "You taste salty."
The taller man turned his face into his pillow and coughed. He was the only person Bert had ever met who coughed more than him. "Like the ocean?"
"I've never been to the ocean...but I've been to McDonalds. You taste like salty like McDonalds."
Quinn coughed again and peered up from his pillow. "I've never been to the ocean either... we should go sometime."
"You wanna?" Bert yawned, eyes feeling heavier by the second. "We can do that."
"Promise?"
"Hmm? Promise what?"
"Promise we'll go?"
"Yeah, babe." He ran a hand through Quinn's hair, gently wrapping his fingers around strands until he felt the man relax. "I promise."
***
Quinn is used to routine. He needs routine. Pills with every meal, pills when he wakes up in the morning, pills before he goes to bed, nebulizers and breathing exercises four times a day, weekly trips to see the same doctor who has taken care of him since the day he was born. Routine is what's keeping him alive. Routine is what bought him twenty-four years when everyone was sure he wouldn't make it past ten.
But it gets so boring so quickly. Miserable. And when he's feeling weaker every day, he wonders more and more why he should even bother. Routine won't keep him alive forever. Hell, it won't even get him to thirty. Even with the increased prescriptions, it's getting harder to clear his lungs. He can cough until his throat bleeds, but breathing doesn't get any easier.
He'd have given up already if it wasn't for Bert. If it wasn't for those nights where he lays awake, listening to his boyfriend sob into his pillow. If it wasn't for waking up every other morning to hearing him on the phone with the doctor-- "What do you mean, the fucking meds aren't working? Fucking... no. They have to work. They have to."
Routine may have given him twenty-four years, but Bert is the only thing he lives for.
Quinn wakes up to a resounding boom from outside his window. Heart pounding, he sits up and looks around the room. Bert's side of the bed is empty and cold. Quinn's alone. He's alone, and there's something outside, and... it only takes a few seconds before he can hear the patter of heavy raindrops plummeting to the streets, and it's then that he realizes that the booming was only thunder. The panic is gone as quickly as it came but it still makes him feel pretty pathetic. He hates being alone. It's so easy to let go when you're alone.
And as easy as it would be to let go, as much as he might want to, he's still afraid to die. He's afraid of how it feels, of what will happen to him after, of what will happen to Bert after. He's afraid to die alone.
Bert promised he wouldn't let him die alone.
With a painful cough, he drags himself out of bed to begin the daily routine. Vitamins and enzyme supplements with a breakfast that goes unfinished. Unable to stop hacking, he gives up on trying to relax in front of the TV. Every time he gets comfortable, a big glob of nasty crawls up his throat and he has to spit it out in the sink. Sometimes, it gets stuck on its way up. Tears stream down his face as he coughs harder, throat searing and muscles weak. He leans against the counter for support, hands gripping the sides so tight that his knuckles turn white.
The coughing turns to gagging, and the gagging quickly leads to vomiting. Exhausted, he goes limp over the counter, head hung and gasping for air. The stench doesn't bother him anymore; it's becoming part of the routine.
Only when he hears the front door open does Quinn force himself back up. He doesn't want his boyfriend to see him like this, half-conscious in a pile of his own puke.
"Quinn?" He moves quickly to lock the door, just in time for the other man to be on the other side. Closing his eyes, he can picture Bert standing there, forehead pressed against the door and hand on the knob as if his touch could make it magically open. "Quinn... are you okay?"
"Yeah, give me a minute," Quinn cringes at the sound of his voice. It's hoarse and weak and so not what he needs to convince his boyfriend that he's really okay. Running his hand through his hair-- god, he needs to shower-- he turns his gaze back to the sink and sighs. The only thing more humiliating than puking in a sink is having to clean said sink afterwards.
Outside, Bert frowns as he listens to the other man clattering around the bathroom, muttering an occasional "Fuck." Biting his lip, he presses his hand against the door.
"Are you sure you're okay?" He feels like a nagging mother, asking the same question over and over again though he knows he'll receive the same answer every time, and he's sure it gets annoying after a while. But he worries. And how can he not be worried?
His boyfriend, the love of his life for christ's sake, is... his throat tightens as the word runs through his mind, over and over and over and it won't stop and it starts flashing like a neon sign and goddammit, it won't stop! Swallowing back tears, he listens to the strain in Quinn's voice when he repeats, "Yeah, I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute," and he knows that Quinn's lying, that he's not fine, because Quinn...
Quinn's dying.
And nothing Bert, or the doctors, or anybody else can do is going to stop that. And everyday, Bert has to sit back and watch him get weaker, sicker, so close to the fucking end. He's so close to the end. Everyone knows it, even if no one will say it. Everyone knows, and everyone has always known. Everyone but Bert, because Quinn-- the fucking liar-- hid it as long as he could, too embarrassed, too ashamed, too afraid that Bert wouldn't want to stay with him if he knew that their time together was limited.
Bad asthma. That's what Quinn said. That was his lie. Really bad asthma, and because Bert doesn't fucking know what having even not-so-bad asthma is like, he didn't know. He didn't guess. How could he? How could he even begin to suspect that this amazing, funny, talented, fucking loveable kid he fell head-over-heels for was suffering from something so awful? How could he begin to suspect that the person he wanted to share the rest of his life with was hanging on by his last thread?
It's not fair. It's not fair that Quinn is sick. It's not fair that after a lifetime of loneliness, Bert fell so hard only to spend their short amount of time together preparing to be left alone again. It's not fair that they can't go out and be a normal couple, that they can barely even enjoy themselves at home, that they never know if saying "goodnight" might end up meaning "goodbye."
But the moment the bathroom door opens, Bert pushes all of this into the back of his head. He smiles and pulls his boyfriend into a hug, holding him and never wanting to let go.
"Hey," Quinn says softly, putting his forehead against Bert's.
"Hey," The shorter man pecks his lips, immediately noting the fresh minty taste in his mouth. He frowns. "You threw up again."
"I know," There's no point in lying. Not when Bert already knows the truth, it would only make him worry more. He always thinks the worse. Always. "It was fucking gross."
Bert smiles again, a sad smile, a scared smile, a smile that isn't really a smile. But he gets an A for effort. He puts his hand against Quinn's cheek and kisses him. "You should lay down."
"I'm fine."
"Quinn..."
"I've been in bed all day. Let's do something for once, Bert, please, I'm going fucking crazy in here!"
"You're too..." Bert pulls back and runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. "You're too sick."
"I'm not going to get any better."
The words hit Bert like a punch to the gut. A hard fucking punch after a long fight, after already being beaten down and exhausted. The last blow that knocks you out, and while you're curled up in a ball on the ground, shaking in pain and humiliation, you realize you lost. It's over.
It's over.
Bert's known it, prepared for it, for a while. It's over. He knows it. He's known it. They didn't really talk about it at home. At home, they talked about other things, things that were going on around them, that didn't include dying. They tried to have a good time. But Quinn's said it. He said what Bert already knows, what Bert dreads. Hearing it is different than knowing it's coming. Hearing Quinn say those words makes it feel... too real.
Too close to the end.
It's over.
***
The sun shone in his face, half-blinding him but he never looked away. It didn't seem to faze him, and Bert knew that meant there was something on his mind. There was something that needed to be said. Anxious, Bert put his hand on his boyfriend's arm, squeezing lightly. He hated secrets. He's always hated secrets. They're never any good. This was no exception. Bert could tell already.
"What are you thinking about?"
Lately, Quinn had been acting strangely. He kept his distance, he kept to himself. He wasn't cracking jokes very much and was coughing more. He disappeared for hours on end and came home only to sleep. Little things made him sweat, littlier things sent him wheezing and hacking in fits. Sometimes, very late at night, Bert would wake up and listen to him cry. He always stopped when he realized he had been caught. He'd pretend later that it never happened.
Secrets are never any good. This was no exception.
"I..." Quinn turned away from the sun, pulled back from Bert's grasp. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the ground, shuffling his feet against the concrete. "I'm sick."
"No shit, sherlock. Take some cough medicine." Bert tried to joke, but the expression on his boyfriend's face shut him up fast. He's never looked so serious before. Never so scared. Something was really, really wrong. "H-how sick?" When the brunette bit down on his lip, Bert felt a painful surge of panic run through him. "How sick?" He asked again, raising his shaking voice.
Quinn didn't answer immediately. He continued to shuffle his feet, opening his mouth to speak only to close it quickly. A long silence, a horrible silence, sat between them, Bert's eyes wide and fearful, Quinn's focused intently on the ground.
And finally, he looked up, forcing himself to look at the other man as he spoke, words thick and slow. He tried not to break down but couldn't keep his voice from cracking as he uttered those words.
"I'm gonna die."
Looking back, Bert can't remember if he started crying right then, or twenty-five seconds later, when Quinn choked out, "Bert... I'm so scared."
***
It doesn't take long for Quinn's condition to worsen. It never does. Just when they think it's as bad as it could possibly get, something else happens. The doctor says that he has an infection in his lungs. If he makes it to the end of the week, he'll be lucky. If he makes it to the end of the month, it'll be a goddamn miracle.
Bert decides it's best to keep Quinn in the hospital for the long-term, where at least he'll be receiving the proper treatment and will hopefully live a little longer. It doesn't seem right that Quinn's the strong one through all of this, that he's the one hugging Bert and promising that everything will be okay. He should be terrified. He should be the one who needs the hugs and the promises and someone there to wipe his tears.
But he's always been the calm one.
The walls give Bert the creeps. They're too white, too plain, too... hospital-y. No personality, because the residents are always changing. Maybe last week, it was a little old woman who's only family died years ago. She went alone. Maybe three days ago, it was a little boy who was hit by a car. He went in his sobbing mother's arms while his stony-faced father stood off to the side, grief-stricken. But no one will ever know. There's always someone new here. Nobody leaves their story behind. Nobody thinks about being forgotten.
Bert thinks about being forgotten. He thinks about Quinn being forgotten. And, as he watches his lover sleep, the only noise coming from the low beep--beep--beeping of the machines, Bert is afraid of Quinn being forgotten.
He climbs into the bed, carefully pressing up against Quinn's body (God, he's so fucking thin) and sliding his arm around him. Like he has every night for the last three years, he kisses the man's forehead and whispers "I love you," smiling as Quinn shifts. He's always been restless in his sleep, as if all of his anxieties wait until he's slipped into his subconscious before they dare to show themselves. Lately, it's been worse than usual, the only sign shown at all that Quinn's a little afraid too. Bert sometimes will stay up for hours, watching him, kissing him, whispering to him. He doesn't have the forever he thought he'd have. He has less than a month. Less than a week, maybe.
Someday, nobody is going to remember this. Nobody is going to remember the boy who loved a boy who didn't have very long to live. Nobody is going to remember the boy who didn't have very long to live. Someday, they won't be anything but a pile of ashes. There will be no pictures, no journals, no proof that they ever existed. As far as anyone else is concerned, they never did at all.
Someday, nobody is going to remember the awkward, goofy, yet so unbelievably perfect kid Bert fell in love with. Nobody is going to know how happy he made everyone who cared about him, how he could make friends-- fake or not-- with nothing but a smile, how he kept calm in every situation. Nobody is going to remember how much love he had to give or how fucking nice he was to everybody, whether they deserved it or not.
Nobody is going to remember that Quinn Allman was alive once, and that he had a story, just like everyone else who was once a patient in this same hospital bed.
Burying his face in the crook of Quinn's neck, Bert whispers, "I won't let them forget."
He's almost sure he hears Quinn whisper back, "Don't you forget."
Bert will never forget.
***
The funeral was small. Quinn's sister said he would've liked it that way. Fake friends may be better than no friends at all, but the real friends are the ones who'll come to your funeral. There wasn't a casket. Quinn wanted to be cremated.
It just about killed Bert, knowing he would never see that beautiful face again. He couldn't bring himself to go in and pick up the ashes. Jeph did it for him.
The funeral wasn't exactly a funeral. Close friends and family gathered at the house and traded stories. Bert's favorite was the 'How-Quinn-Came-Out-To-His-Mother' story.
"Knock knock."
"Who's there?"
"I'm gay."
He didn't feel guilty for laughing. Not that day. Not when he's surrounded by the only people who had even an idea of what this feels like. Quinn would've wanted him to laugh anyway.
He kept his last memory to himself. It wasn't meant for anyone else to hear, it was his secret. Their secret. Their last secret. Bert held on to his boyfriend the entire day, never taking his eyes off of him because... somehow, he knew that this was the last time he'd see Quinn alive. And he didn't want to waste a second of that day looking at anything else. They talked about little things, bullshit things, as if it was just another day. And Quinn, he was so fucking weak, but he was so fucking happy. Bert's favorite thing in the world was watching Quinn smile.
He knew when it was down to the last few minutes. After a long coughing fit, Quinn was exhausted. He could hardly breathe, could hardly keep his eyes open. But he tried. It looked like it hurt, and all Bert could do was tell him that it was okay, that he didn't have to keep struggling, and he cried because he didn't want to have to say those words.
Quinn held on long enough to say that he wasn't afraid anymore. Everything was going to be okay.
Bert kept his promise. He stayed until the beep-beep-beeping of that awful machine went flat, eyes glued to that perfect face. After that day, he'd never see it again. Silently, he ran his fingers through Quinn's hair and let them trail down to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin one last time. He didn't cry anymore that night, even after Mrs. Allman took him home. Quinn was okay now, he wasn't hurting anymore. He wasn't afraid anymore.
Bert couldn't help but smile.
But now, he's alone. For the first time in over a week, he's alone. No family, no friends... no Quinn. And God, it hurts.
It's too quiet. It's too empty. It's too big. Everything feels like Quinn. Everything smells like Quinn. And every time Bert hears a noise, he catches himself looking up and sometimes calling out, "Baby, are you okay?" only to remember that no one else is there.
Going to bed alone is the worst part. Unable to make himself open the bedroom door, no matter how hard he tries, he grabs an old blanket from the closet and curls up on the couch. He's never really liked that couch, much less sleeping on it. Quinn never seemed to have a problem with it though. His scent is strongest on the pillows. Coffee, medicine, and Quinn. When Bert closes his eyes, it's almost enough for him to feel his boyfriend's body pressed up against his.
He opens his eyes again. He's still alone.
His chest tightens, throat closing in, he shakes and his eyes burn. The tears nearly explode from his eyes; he's been holding them in all day. Burying his face in the pillow, he sobs, and he can smell Quinn and he can taste Quinn and...and it's salty.
Like the ocean.
***
Author: howXiXdisappear
Pairing: Bert McCracken/Quinn Allman
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Life-Threatening Illness [hc_bingo]; Last Wish [100 prompts]
Summary: "You look like Tyra Banks when you blink like that." Quinn whispered, slowly reaching out and grabbing Bert's hand under the thick white blanket, linking their fingers together.
Disclaimer: I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say this never happened.
Author Notes: I think it's safe to say that this is the longest fic I've ever written. Done for the hc_bingo challenge, but I think I kind of failed. Comments/con-crit = loves and all that.
Warnings: Illness; Language; Homosexuality; Character Death
The shorter man lights a cigarette and leans back against the side of the building. As usual, the 'No Loitering' sign goes unnoticed. He runs his fingers through his greasy black hair and stares out, pretending there's something to look at besides the herd of cars speeding by. Canopied by the building's thick gutters, the rain doesn't affect him at all, though he wouldn't mind very much if it did. It's just that it's more comfortable not getting soaked, and if he can keep himself mostly dry, he'll come home warm and huggable. Quinn likes when he comes home warm and huggable, and... and it's the least he can do, after leaving Quinn alone for so long.
"You're really quiet," His friend says, sick of the silence. It's then that Bert realizes that he completely forgot that he isn't alone. He smiles sheepishly and shrugs.
"Yeah...sorry." He doesn't offer an explanation. There isn't much of a need for one anyway; everyone knows. They can pretend they don't, that everything is peachy keen and lookin' great, but really, they know.
But Jepha still asks the same damn question everybody always asks, concerned and not knowing how to show it appropriately. Caring but not knowing what to say. "How is he?"
Bert just shrugs again and takes a long drag from his cigarette. There are lists of reasons why he doesn't like to deal with people. For one thing, most of them suck. They sucked when he was a kid, and they suck now. No amount of aging or responsibility will make them nicer. You get crueler with age. And people, they pry. They don't know how to mind their own business, and they snoop into everybody else's lives because their own are too pathetic and boring. Meaningless. Bert used to have a meaningless life, he knows how it feels. He understands. But that doesn't mean he's okay with it.
Neither he, nor his boyfriend have ever really been that fantastic with people. But Quinn's always been better; at least he has friends. People, no matter how sucky, always seem to like Quinn, even when he doesn't like them. They like that he's funny, that he's creative, that he always has a witty remark. They even like that he's kind of awkward and that he won't really talk to you completely sober until he's been stuck in the same room with you three times.
But they like his being sick most of all. There's something about having a sick friend that makes people feel better about themselves. At least they're healthy, right? And, hey, now they can start up conversations like, "My good friend, he's not doing very well," to make themselves look good. Good friends stick by their sick friends, right? A support system and all that.
Bert hates that about people too. They'll use you for whatever they can. They'll use Quinn for whatever they can. Having the sick friend story does wonders. He hates that Quinn doesn't seem to mind, that he'll just shrug and say, "Fake friends are better than no friends," and be completely chill with it. It's not something to be chill about, that's stupid. At least, that's what Bert thinks.
Jeph's not like that though. Bert knows this, and to be honest, he's okay with the guy. Jeph grew up with Quinn. Being a few years older, he was always someone for Quinn to look up to, and he always watched out for the younger man. He helped keep the fake friends away.
But he always asks that same damn question, too afraid to drop by the apartment to see for himself. Too afraid of catching Quinn on a bad day and having to see the poor kid hack up his lungs until he passes out. People are cowards, and Bert hates that more than anything else.
"How is he?" Bert just shrugs.
"Worse." He breathes out smoke and stares at the ground. "He misses you, y'know."
"Yeah...I know. Maybe I'll come by after work tomorrow," They both know he won't. He says it every time and never does. Bert can understand it, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. And he doesn't like it.
"I, uh," He scratches the side of his head and glances over at Jeph. "I need to get back there. He's alone."
***
"Hey, Bert?"
"Mmmf... what?"
"What did the fish say when he ran into the wall?"
"Quinn, I'm trying to fucking slee-"
"What did the motherfucking fish say when he ran into the motherfucking wall?"
"Fish don't run. They swim."
"Goddammit, Ber-"
"I don't know, Quinn. What did the motherfucking fish say when he ran into the motherfucking wall?"
"Dam." Bert rolled over to face the other man, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the darkness surrounding them. He didn't smile. Neither of them did. He was woken up for this? "You look like Tyra Banks when you blink like that." Quinn whispered, slowly reaching out and grabbing Bert's hand under the thick white blanket, linking their fingers together.
Now, Bert smiled. His heart pounded and his stomach flipped in a strange way he wasn't quite used to. Scooting closer to his boyfriend's half-naked body to wrap his arms around him, it occurred to him that he thought he was maybe madly in love.
As he shifted to get comfortable, he pressed his lips to Quinn's neck. The skin was salty, too salty for a person who had been laying in bed for the last hour or so. Bert frowned. "You taste salty."
The taller man turned his face into his pillow and coughed. He was the only person Bert had ever met who coughed more than him. "Like the ocean?"
"I've never been to the ocean...but I've been to McDonalds. You taste like salty like McDonalds."
Quinn coughed again and peered up from his pillow. "I've never been to the ocean either... we should go sometime."
"You wanna?" Bert yawned, eyes feeling heavier by the second. "We can do that."
"Promise?"
"Hmm? Promise what?"
"Promise we'll go?"
"Yeah, babe." He ran a hand through Quinn's hair, gently wrapping his fingers around strands until he felt the man relax. "I promise."
***
Quinn is used to routine. He needs routine. Pills with every meal, pills when he wakes up in the morning, pills before he goes to bed, nebulizers and breathing exercises four times a day, weekly trips to see the same doctor who has taken care of him since the day he was born. Routine is what's keeping him alive. Routine is what bought him twenty-four years when everyone was sure he wouldn't make it past ten.
But it gets so boring so quickly. Miserable. And when he's feeling weaker every day, he wonders more and more why he should even bother. Routine won't keep him alive forever. Hell, it won't even get him to thirty. Even with the increased prescriptions, it's getting harder to clear his lungs. He can cough until his throat bleeds, but breathing doesn't get any easier.
He'd have given up already if it wasn't for Bert. If it wasn't for those nights where he lays awake, listening to his boyfriend sob into his pillow. If it wasn't for waking up every other morning to hearing him on the phone with the doctor-- "What do you mean, the fucking meds aren't working? Fucking... no. They have to work. They have to."
Routine may have given him twenty-four years, but Bert is the only thing he lives for.
Quinn wakes up to a resounding boom from outside his window. Heart pounding, he sits up and looks around the room. Bert's side of the bed is empty and cold. Quinn's alone. He's alone, and there's something outside, and... it only takes a few seconds before he can hear the patter of heavy raindrops plummeting to the streets, and it's then that he realizes that the booming was only thunder. The panic is gone as quickly as it came but it still makes him feel pretty pathetic. He hates being alone. It's so easy to let go when you're alone.
And as easy as it would be to let go, as much as he might want to, he's still afraid to die. He's afraid of how it feels, of what will happen to him after, of what will happen to Bert after. He's afraid to die alone.
Bert promised he wouldn't let him die alone.
With a painful cough, he drags himself out of bed to begin the daily routine. Vitamins and enzyme supplements with a breakfast that goes unfinished. Unable to stop hacking, he gives up on trying to relax in front of the TV. Every time he gets comfortable, a big glob of nasty crawls up his throat and he has to spit it out in the sink. Sometimes, it gets stuck on its way up. Tears stream down his face as he coughs harder, throat searing and muscles weak. He leans against the counter for support, hands gripping the sides so tight that his knuckles turn white.
The coughing turns to gagging, and the gagging quickly leads to vomiting. Exhausted, he goes limp over the counter, head hung and gasping for air. The stench doesn't bother him anymore; it's becoming part of the routine.
Only when he hears the front door open does Quinn force himself back up. He doesn't want his boyfriend to see him like this, half-conscious in a pile of his own puke.
"Quinn?" He moves quickly to lock the door, just in time for the other man to be on the other side. Closing his eyes, he can picture Bert standing there, forehead pressed against the door and hand on the knob as if his touch could make it magically open. "Quinn... are you okay?"
"Yeah, give me a minute," Quinn cringes at the sound of his voice. It's hoarse and weak and so not what he needs to convince his boyfriend that he's really okay. Running his hand through his hair-- god, he needs to shower-- he turns his gaze back to the sink and sighs. The only thing more humiliating than puking in a sink is having to clean said sink afterwards.
Outside, Bert frowns as he listens to the other man clattering around the bathroom, muttering an occasional "Fuck." Biting his lip, he presses his hand against the door.
"Are you sure you're okay?" He feels like a nagging mother, asking the same question over and over again though he knows he'll receive the same answer every time, and he's sure it gets annoying after a while. But he worries. And how can he not be worried?
His boyfriend, the love of his life for christ's sake, is... his throat tightens as the word runs through his mind, over and over and over and it won't stop and it starts flashing like a neon sign and goddammit, it won't stop! Swallowing back tears, he listens to the strain in Quinn's voice when he repeats, "Yeah, I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute," and he knows that Quinn's lying, that he's not fine, because Quinn...
Quinn's dying.
And nothing Bert, or the doctors, or anybody else can do is going to stop that. And everyday, Bert has to sit back and watch him get weaker, sicker, so close to the fucking end. He's so close to the end. Everyone knows it, even if no one will say it. Everyone knows, and everyone has always known. Everyone but Bert, because Quinn-- the fucking liar-- hid it as long as he could, too embarrassed, too ashamed, too afraid that Bert wouldn't want to stay with him if he knew that their time together was limited.
Bad asthma. That's what Quinn said. That was his lie. Really bad asthma, and because Bert doesn't fucking know what having even not-so-bad asthma is like, he didn't know. He didn't guess. How could he? How could he even begin to suspect that this amazing, funny, talented, fucking loveable kid he fell head-over-heels for was suffering from something so awful? How could he begin to suspect that the person he wanted to share the rest of his life with was hanging on by his last thread?
It's not fair. It's not fair that Quinn is sick. It's not fair that after a lifetime of loneliness, Bert fell so hard only to spend their short amount of time together preparing to be left alone again. It's not fair that they can't go out and be a normal couple, that they can barely even enjoy themselves at home, that they never know if saying "goodnight" might end up meaning "goodbye."
But the moment the bathroom door opens, Bert pushes all of this into the back of his head. He smiles and pulls his boyfriend into a hug, holding him and never wanting to let go.
"Hey," Quinn says softly, putting his forehead against Bert's.
"Hey," The shorter man pecks his lips, immediately noting the fresh minty taste in his mouth. He frowns. "You threw up again."
"I know," There's no point in lying. Not when Bert already knows the truth, it would only make him worry more. He always thinks the worse. Always. "It was fucking gross."
Bert smiles again, a sad smile, a scared smile, a smile that isn't really a smile. But he gets an A for effort. He puts his hand against Quinn's cheek and kisses him. "You should lay down."
"I'm fine."
"Quinn..."
"I've been in bed all day. Let's do something for once, Bert, please, I'm going fucking crazy in here!"
"You're too..." Bert pulls back and runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. "You're too sick."
"I'm not going to get any better."
The words hit Bert like a punch to the gut. A hard fucking punch after a long fight, after already being beaten down and exhausted. The last blow that knocks you out, and while you're curled up in a ball on the ground, shaking in pain and humiliation, you realize you lost. It's over.
It's over.
Bert's known it, prepared for it, for a while. It's over. He knows it. He's known it. They didn't really talk about it at home. At home, they talked about other things, things that were going on around them, that didn't include dying. They tried to have a good time. But Quinn's said it. He said what Bert already knows, what Bert dreads. Hearing it is different than knowing it's coming. Hearing Quinn say those words makes it feel... too real.
Too close to the end.
It's over.
***
The sun shone in his face, half-blinding him but he never looked away. It didn't seem to faze him, and Bert knew that meant there was something on his mind. There was something that needed to be said. Anxious, Bert put his hand on his boyfriend's arm, squeezing lightly. He hated secrets. He's always hated secrets. They're never any good. This was no exception. Bert could tell already.
"What are you thinking about?"
Lately, Quinn had been acting strangely. He kept his distance, he kept to himself. He wasn't cracking jokes very much and was coughing more. He disappeared for hours on end and came home only to sleep. Little things made him sweat, littlier things sent him wheezing and hacking in fits. Sometimes, very late at night, Bert would wake up and listen to him cry. He always stopped when he realized he had been caught. He'd pretend later that it never happened.
Secrets are never any good. This was no exception.
"I..." Quinn turned away from the sun, pulled back from Bert's grasp. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the ground, shuffling his feet against the concrete. "I'm sick."
"No shit, sherlock. Take some cough medicine." Bert tried to joke, but the expression on his boyfriend's face shut him up fast. He's never looked so serious before. Never so scared. Something was really, really wrong. "H-how sick?" When the brunette bit down on his lip, Bert felt a painful surge of panic run through him. "How sick?" He asked again, raising his shaking voice.
Quinn didn't answer immediately. He continued to shuffle his feet, opening his mouth to speak only to close it quickly. A long silence, a horrible silence, sat between them, Bert's eyes wide and fearful, Quinn's focused intently on the ground.
And finally, he looked up, forcing himself to look at the other man as he spoke, words thick and slow. He tried not to break down but couldn't keep his voice from cracking as he uttered those words.
"I'm gonna die."
Looking back, Bert can't remember if he started crying right then, or twenty-five seconds later, when Quinn choked out, "Bert... I'm so scared."
***
It doesn't take long for Quinn's condition to worsen. It never does. Just when they think it's as bad as it could possibly get, something else happens. The doctor says that he has an infection in his lungs. If he makes it to the end of the week, he'll be lucky. If he makes it to the end of the month, it'll be a goddamn miracle.
Bert decides it's best to keep Quinn in the hospital for the long-term, where at least he'll be receiving the proper treatment and will hopefully live a little longer. It doesn't seem right that Quinn's the strong one through all of this, that he's the one hugging Bert and promising that everything will be okay. He should be terrified. He should be the one who needs the hugs and the promises and someone there to wipe his tears.
But he's always been the calm one.
The walls give Bert the creeps. They're too white, too plain, too... hospital-y. No personality, because the residents are always changing. Maybe last week, it was a little old woman who's only family died years ago. She went alone. Maybe three days ago, it was a little boy who was hit by a car. He went in his sobbing mother's arms while his stony-faced father stood off to the side, grief-stricken. But no one will ever know. There's always someone new here. Nobody leaves their story behind. Nobody thinks about being forgotten.
Bert thinks about being forgotten. He thinks about Quinn being forgotten. And, as he watches his lover sleep, the only noise coming from the low beep--beep--beeping of the machines, Bert is afraid of Quinn being forgotten.
He climbs into the bed, carefully pressing up against Quinn's body (God, he's so fucking thin) and sliding his arm around him. Like he has every night for the last three years, he kisses the man's forehead and whispers "I love you," smiling as Quinn shifts. He's always been restless in his sleep, as if all of his anxieties wait until he's slipped into his subconscious before they dare to show themselves. Lately, it's been worse than usual, the only sign shown at all that Quinn's a little afraid too. Bert sometimes will stay up for hours, watching him, kissing him, whispering to him. He doesn't have the forever he thought he'd have. He has less than a month. Less than a week, maybe.
Someday, nobody is going to remember this. Nobody is going to remember the boy who loved a boy who didn't have very long to live. Nobody is going to remember the boy who didn't have very long to live. Someday, they won't be anything but a pile of ashes. There will be no pictures, no journals, no proof that they ever existed. As far as anyone else is concerned, they never did at all.
Someday, nobody is going to remember the awkward, goofy, yet so unbelievably perfect kid Bert fell in love with. Nobody is going to know how happy he made everyone who cared about him, how he could make friends-- fake or not-- with nothing but a smile, how he kept calm in every situation. Nobody is going to remember how much love he had to give or how fucking nice he was to everybody, whether they deserved it or not.
Nobody is going to remember that Quinn Allman was alive once, and that he had a story, just like everyone else who was once a patient in this same hospital bed.
Burying his face in the crook of Quinn's neck, Bert whispers, "I won't let them forget."
He's almost sure he hears Quinn whisper back, "Don't you forget."
Bert will never forget.
***
The funeral was small. Quinn's sister said he would've liked it that way. Fake friends may be better than no friends at all, but the real friends are the ones who'll come to your funeral. There wasn't a casket. Quinn wanted to be cremated.
It just about killed Bert, knowing he would never see that beautiful face again. He couldn't bring himself to go in and pick up the ashes. Jeph did it for him.
The funeral wasn't exactly a funeral. Close friends and family gathered at the house and traded stories. Bert's favorite was the 'How-Quinn-Came-Out-To-His-Mother' story.
"Knock knock."
"Who's there?"
"I'm gay."
He didn't feel guilty for laughing. Not that day. Not when he's surrounded by the only people who had even an idea of what this feels like. Quinn would've wanted him to laugh anyway.
He kept his last memory to himself. It wasn't meant for anyone else to hear, it was his secret. Their secret. Their last secret. Bert held on to his boyfriend the entire day, never taking his eyes off of him because... somehow, he knew that this was the last time he'd see Quinn alive. And he didn't want to waste a second of that day looking at anything else. They talked about little things, bullshit things, as if it was just another day. And Quinn, he was so fucking weak, but he was so fucking happy. Bert's favorite thing in the world was watching Quinn smile.
He knew when it was down to the last few minutes. After a long coughing fit, Quinn was exhausted. He could hardly breathe, could hardly keep his eyes open. But he tried. It looked like it hurt, and all Bert could do was tell him that it was okay, that he didn't have to keep struggling, and he cried because he didn't want to have to say those words.
Quinn held on long enough to say that he wasn't afraid anymore. Everything was going to be okay.
Bert kept his promise. He stayed until the beep-beep-beeping of that awful machine went flat, eyes glued to that perfect face. After that day, he'd never see it again. Silently, he ran his fingers through Quinn's hair and let them trail down to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin one last time. He didn't cry anymore that night, even after Mrs. Allman took him home. Quinn was okay now, he wasn't hurting anymore. He wasn't afraid anymore.
Bert couldn't help but smile.
But now, he's alone. For the first time in over a week, he's alone. No family, no friends... no Quinn. And God, it hurts.
It's too quiet. It's too empty. It's too big. Everything feels like Quinn. Everything smells like Quinn. And every time Bert hears a noise, he catches himself looking up and sometimes calling out, "Baby, are you okay?" only to remember that no one else is there.
Going to bed alone is the worst part. Unable to make himself open the bedroom door, no matter how hard he tries, he grabs an old blanket from the closet and curls up on the couch. He's never really liked that couch, much less sleeping on it. Quinn never seemed to have a problem with it though. His scent is strongest on the pillows. Coffee, medicine, and Quinn. When Bert closes his eyes, it's almost enough for him to feel his boyfriend's body pressed up against his.
He opens his eyes again. He's still alone.
His chest tightens, throat closing in, he shakes and his eyes burn. The tears nearly explode from his eyes; he's been holding them in all day. Burying his face in the pillow, he sobs, and he can smell Quinn and he can taste Quinn and...and it's salty.
Like the ocean.
***