Adam could no longer hear his heart. He knew it still beat. Sometimes he could feel it under his hand. It was there inside his skin, just like his slow breaths, as alive as the clouds that pass over the sun. But he couldn't hear its music any longer.
Doc lay in his bunk above the room, huddled in his blankets as he slept peacefully through the cold night. Adam closed his eyes, listening.
The doctor didn't stir when Adam stood on uncertain legs, shuffled slowly across the room, and climbed the stairs to his bed. For a long moment, Adam stood there watching, listening, searching. Doc's breathing quickened when Adam climbed into the bunk, his eyelids fluttering silently. Adam settled down beside him, stretching his long legs across the bed, feeling the body come alive under the thick blankets as the doctor moved to sit up.
Adam rested his ear against Doc's chest, listening to the fibers of his shirt stretch as air filled the doctor's lungs. His cheek grew warm. Doc stilled, then carefully laid a hand on Adam's shoulder, squeezing the thick fabric comfortingly. As they both settled down, a noise filled Adam's head. It was weak but steady, familiar yet wrong, soothing and painful at the same time.
"Too far away."
"What?" Doc's voice was loud against his ear, thrumming over the echo of his heartbeat. Adam held his breath, trying to concentrate on the sound, to recall it's beauty. But only the memory of it remained.
The music was gone.