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Whoever said dying was peaceful was a fucking liar.
Way is strangely aware of what is happening, to a degree he wasn’t expecting. He’s seen movies and read books about people dying; the characters wax poetically about light at the end of a tunnel, vision blurred and noises softening. It’s made him believe death to be gentle. Merciful. And a sacrifice more so. No pain and suffering in exchange for his life. A blanket of darkness welcoming him to everlasting peace. That’s the deal. It’s what’s supposed to happen.
Nothing about this is peaceful.
No one prepared him for the naked, glaring pain, that makes his awareness shrink down to this one point of unimaginable agony.
The taste of his own blood is not just in his mouth but down in his lungs. It bubbles up in bright red foam, making him gag. His muscles contract in a desperate attempt to filter air, but there is too much liquid. His very own blood suffocating him where he lies. Every cell starts screaming for oxygen, but no matter how deeply he tries to breathe, how hard he tries to cough, nothing helps. Nothing works. It only hurts. It feels like a fight against an invisible force. It feels like nails through his brain. Like hot coals down his throat. Acid pooling in his chest. Like crashing through the surface of a frozen lake and sinking to the bottom. Nothing but dead weight.
He feels Babe holding on to him, his grip too strong, almost too harsh as he cradles him, tries to be gentle but fails in his panic. Way is burning, the touch of Babe’s skin - once all he ever wanted - now leaving trails of blistering bubbles on his face.
He hears his own desperate coughs, wet and gurgling, feels his heart stutter. Not a good sign. He still tries to breathe. There is so much more he needs to say.
“Way?!”
Oh, death is cruel after all. Babe’s face is so clear in front of him, so close, yet unreachable. More so than ever before. He feels himself drift away. The distance grows. He’ll live, he thinks and it makes him happy. He’ll live, but without me. And it makes him furious.
Babe’s eyes are wide enough he can see himself in them, red down his chin, wheezing and barely holding on. There is pure panic in Babe's voice, his cheeks red and blotchy with sprays of blood, his hair disheveled, plastered to his forehead. Way wants to reach up and comb it back. But he knows every attempt at moving would cost him greatly. Would amplify the pain. Would hasten his decline.
And he wants to make this last, for just one second longer. Have Babe’s arms around him. His hand against his cheek. His eyes full of tears, brimming with rage and, god, love for him. He’s being selfish again. He’s being vicious. To make him watch him die. To make him hold him while he dies. To have him wear his blood on his skin like warpaint. Babe, he knows, won’t ever forgive him for this. And he doesn’t want him to.
Now is not the time for lies. Not the time to deceive even himself in the stillness of his dying brain. He hopes Babe will not forget this. Have this burned into his memory for years and decades to come. That way, he’ll stay with Babe, for as long as he lives. He hates himself a little for it, but it is true.
Another sin he has to pay for. If only his life could be enough to level the debt. It won’t. His life is insignificant after all. He is nothing more than a dog. Leashed and trained like any good pet. Slaughtered and discarded at the end of his usefulness.
His eyes fall shut. He doesn’t notice but Babe does. He starts to shake him and he wishes he could still scream, let the pain out of his body, up into the air, instead of having it compressed into his chest, expanding like a balloon, taking up too much space, forcing his heart to still, his breaths to cease.
The last thing he hears is a frenzy of Babe’s and Alan’s screams, and it almost make him happy. Please, he thinks, don’t forget me.
He goes limb in Babe’s arms and surrenders to the wait. For a light. For the noises to die. For the pain to dwindle and leave him be.
Seconds expand, in between shouts, he gets tossed and turned and jostled around, and then, miraculously, the pain… doubles.
His eyes fly open through sheer shock, betrayal that death will not leave him numb, then there is light right above him. It burns his eyes like staring into the sun, and before he knows what it is, what is happening, he tastes metal, he tastes fresh blood, and he hears – he hears…
His ears explode with the crack of a machine, something coming to life all around him, inside him. Sudden coolness races through him like ice injected into his veins. His lungs are unfolded, but it’s not his doing. His heart is forced to beat by hands against his ribs, but it feels wrong, artificial. He tries to push. Tries to fight. Something, someone, reaches for him and forces his body down.
Then something against his jaw, his forehead, his wrists. A searing touch against the center of his chest and if he thought he knew pain before, he was wrong.
This can’t be death.
Death would not do this, even to someone like him. He’s never believed in hell before, or the devil. He knows death is not evil. But this is –
Can he hear me?
The voice cuts through the frenzy, the confusion and suddenly his pain does not matter anymore. The voice is all that matters. And it turns him into a being made of fear.
Way? Look at me.
Father, he thinks. Obediently he blinks his eyes open and sees his father’s face, his bleeding body strapped to a metal bed just like he seems to be, tubes and needles piercing his skin, pain etched along his features, sweat dancing on his brow, broken and barley holding on - but alive. And looking right back at him.
Don’t die, he orders, and Way knows instantly that he won’t.
His father turns his head. There is a figure standing guard by his side. White coat and a mask obscuring their face. Glasses over their eyes, gloves over their fingers. Blood pooling by their feet.
He’s not to die., he tells them. And the figure gives a stern nod.
Way tries to shout, but there is a tube jammed past his lips and down his throat and the second he notices, he starts to choke, tastes bile and grime and rusty blood.
The figure moves.
No, he thinks, wants to scream, but he cannot move, cannot stop this from happening. All he can do is blink and stare and try to refuse the air pumped into his lungs.
I still need him., his father says and somewhere by his head a monitor starts to come to live. Way feels his own heartbeat echo down his body, pulse in his shoulder, his chest and right down to his toes. Each time is like a punch. Each time the machine makes a noise. Each time someone around him takes a note. And nods at his father.
Prepare for injection., the figure says and to his right someone pulls a cluster of lights and wires over his head. “Subject One, First try, start in three, two, one-“
It’s like the world explodes into blinding colour, a wave of nausea, terror and pure agonizing light that exists only in his mind. His brain frizzes out, too overwhelmed, too scared.
The wave swallows Way down.
Right there between the blues and reds and yellows, right when he starts to suffocate anew, he finds Babe.
He smiles one of his carefree smiles, the ones he’s only found after they've escaped. After it had sunken in that they were free. After Babe had decided they would be enough. He reaches for him with one outstretched hand but there's too much distance between them so he can't touch.
Way wants to go to him and intertwine their fingers, but he can't move and he's too far away.
Babe smiles and he says: I've never been angry with you.
He smiles and says: Come back with me.
Way wants to answer but he can't speak.
When the colours disappear, he wakes.
He doesn't know how much time has passed. No one talks to him. Faces hover above him hidden behind masks. They probe against his skin, check his restraints. Tighten the one around his forehead.
He tries to struggle against them. But he's too weak.
His whole body burns.
He hears: Let’s try it like this.
There's an IV bag that connects to his neck; pinkish liquid slowly dripping into his blood. It makes the colours come back, and he drowns in them.
Babe says: I'm begging you, hand against his cheek.
He says: You're my best friend.
Way wants to answer, but his tongue is made of lead.
No one cares about me like you do, Babe says. They sit on the grass, sun already down, five bottles between them, and Way knows Babe is drunk. His head has lolled against his shoulder minutes ago, their legs overcrossing in a complicated knot of limbs. Way does not dare to move. Does not want to disturb this. Babe is next to him like a furnace and even though he feels his legs fall asleep. Feels dew seep through his pants he does not move.
Way doesn't know when they let wake him again. He wishes they wouldn’t. There's no way for him to measure time here.
They check his pupils. Tighten his restrains.
One of them wipes at his face. Scoffs at what they find. Scribbles notes down on a pad. Adjusts the IV flow.
They don’t let him sleep. Let him rest. He feels wrung out, stiff and sweaty. His heart beats in his throat. He is so tired. Too tired. Deep down he knows, he should be dead. Deep down he wishes they would just let him die.
Prepare another round. They order. Way is incapable of stopping them.
Colour explodes.
Babe has an arm around his shoulders. He’s pulling him along the racetrack, the asphalt’s hot under their feet, the air dancing around them. He smells gasoline and exhaust. Excitements brims under his skin. He can’t wait to see Babe race. He can’t wait to see his face at the finish line. He’ll win and his joy will be the brightest thing in the universe. Babe laughs and the sound tingles like something physical. A touch. It’s almost painful. Way wants to push him to the ground and connect their lips.
He turns to look at him, eyes bright, no sign of worry or distress on his features. He looks younger. He looks free. When he opens his mouth there is nothing but anguish there.
Way, I love you. I love you I lo-
The colours drain, like rain distorting his view, all life drains from Babe’s face and Way wants to cry out, stop this from happening – then he wakes with a start.
He wonders if he’s going to get used to the pain. To this vile cycle they have him trapped in. He doesn’t know what they want. Why won’t they just let him be? Let him sleep. Forever.
He tries to call out. Tries to reach for the persons arm that stands closest to his bed and watches the numbers appear on the monitor. He still can’t move. Metal holds him in place. He is paralyzed.
Please, he thinks. Let this be over.
Light catches against something above his head. Held by the faceless person. It looks sharp. Unpleasant.
They feel his skull, like they’re trying to map his bones. Then they push it against his skin, and it feels like they’re splitting his head.
Now, they say.
He finds Babe. Tears down his face. Betrayal burning between them, sharp enough to taste. Babe shoves him back and Way feels it in the back of his head. How could you do this?, he screams. Anger and hurt turning the colours greyish. Black. Deep purple.
I love you, Babe, he wants to explain. Shouldn’t that be enough? It’s the only explanation he has. The only thing that matters. For as long as he can remember. He’s always loved him. So much. I love you. He still can’t talk.
When he turns to keep Babe from leaving, he feels himself slip, the memory disappears, like smoke up into the night.
He wakes. It gets easier each time. To blink his eyes open. Focus on the lights. On the obscured faces. Machines beep.
Subject One. Can you tell me your name?
The tube is gone from his throat. He takes a breath, his first, after god knows how long. And screams.
People around him flinch. They did not expect his defiance. He rears up as far as he can, but the pain pushes him right back down, punches a hole in his rebellion like a gun shot. He deflates instantly, panting and groaning. Why is he still in pain?
A familiar face appears. Hovers over him and it takes Way a moment to recognize him. Hunched over as he is, being held upright only by a walking stick. Fear stills his struggles.
Panic freezes him in place.
His father looks like a corpse. Cheeks sunken in. Eyes hooded. An unhealthy, green hue under his skin. Blackish veins twist across his neck, up his throat, reaching his ears, his jaw, the corners of his mouth. His lips are dry and bloody. His hair hangs open, greasy and dishevelled. But there is a spark left in his eyes as he clings to life.
Way wants to look away. Finds that he can’t.
Tony’s finger brush across his cheeks.
Good boy, he says and he smiles. Cold. Lifeless. I think he’s ready. Then he’s gone.
Babe reaches for him. Holding a necklace and securing it around Way’s neck. He comes close enough that his hair tickles the side of his face. Comes close enough for Way to smell his scent. Rubber, gasoline and smoke. Soap and hair gel and open skies. He comes close enough for Way’s heart to skip a beat, two, three. If he could just turn his head, he could brush his lips across his jawline. But he can’t move.
Subject One. Can you tell me your name?
He’s holding a trophy but that’s not important. What’s important is Babe right beside him, on the podium, the unchallenged champion, the king of the hallows and Way is watching, rapt, mesmerized by his happiness. He wants more of this. Wants to soak it up and bask in it like the first rays of sunshine after a harsh winter.
Which place did he make? Doesn’t matter. He can’t even remember. It’s not important.
Babe turns to him and opens his mouth. His voice is strange, mechanical. Subject One., he asks, Can you tell me your name?
Babe’s face disappears and the memory slips like sand through his fingers.
He's not responding well enough, they say.
Up the dosage.
That won’t work. His cells are deteriorating too fast. A higher dosage would probably kill him.
Up the dosage.
But, Sir-
You heard what I said. I’m not paying you to disobey me. Do it. Now.
Babe looks at him, confused, a little sad. Red light reflects off his face. He looks perfect like this. Like a painting. It twists and turns at Way’s insides. He is so beautiful. How have I changed?, he asks, demands almost. Already defensive. He knows it’s true even before Way explains. He knows he pulled away. He knows his focus has shifted. Knows but won’t accept it. Unless Ways spells it out.
I don’t want to fight you at all! Babe’s voice cracks. It hurts Way right at the back of his skull. Forces shudders down his spine. He hates it when he sounds like that. I like Charlie. Way hates Charlie.
I love him so much.
Way wants to reach for him. Just one simple touch and he could end this. He knows how easy it would be. A simple brush of his hand, skin on skin and one simple command.
Waking gets harder each time he has to. He has no idea how much time has passed. The pain stays the same. The noises remain.
He watches the gaunt face of his father slowly fill in each time he blinks his eyes open. He’s there next to him. As if he’s waiting at a sick child’s bedside. Concerned. Anxious. His skin goes back to normal. Strength and power return to his eyes, the hospital gown replaced by a suit and his hands free of the walking stick after a while. Free to touch his face, comb through his hair, shake his shoulder.
He says Good boy when he pleads. Up the dosage.
He says Be brave when he cries. Try again.
He says Don't be afraid when he struggles.
They say: This will kill him.
Tony smiles. Kisses his forehead. It won’t, he says. Sure as day. And Way sobs.
Please. It’s the first word he speaks. It fights its way out his throat. Sore from all the screaming. Dry from all the crying. Please, he whispers. And his father smiles. Caresses the side of his face.
You’re doing so well, he praises. Just a little bit more.
I’ll have Charlie stay with me, Babe says and doesn’t look at him. The pink light makes him glow. The ice cubes clink against the glass as he knocks another shot down. Way just stares at him. Watches him swallow and feels manic. Why can’t it be me?, he wants to ask, they’re close enough he could wrap a hand around his throat. How can you not know? It would be so easy and Babe doesn’t even know.
Fifty-nine percent, Sir, they say.
Please, Way says. Kill me.
Babe lies ramrod straight in his arms. Eyes opened so wide it must hurt, but Way’s echoing command keeps him like that. Unresponsive, stiff. He’s slightly trembling, and Way tries to ignore it. Tries to focus on anything but the thrum of his power, flowing past his skin and over into Babe’s. Lie still, it commands. Don’t be scared. He tries to focus on the feel of his skin under his fingertips. How he can lean down and press a kiss behind his ear. He feels how badly Babe wants to move but he can’t let him go.
Please, Way says again. Make it stop.
Tony sighs. He’s disappointed. We’re not done yet, he says.
Way says: Please, I-
And Tony slaps him.
This time the colours are different. He twists and turns in a hurricane of them, but he can’t find –For the first time. There is no Babe.
There are echoes of the last memory. It rises like bile up his throat.
I thought you were my only friend!
Way tries to twist away. Not that memory. Not this one.
Babe’s face materializes against his will. Crying and shouting. He won’t ever forgive him.
Not for this.
Babe’s face distorts and when he opens his eyes again it drifts away, like a cloud ripped apart by wind.
Eighty-six percent.
Now we’re getting somewhere. Tony sounds excited. Giddy.
He leans over Way’s bed and searches his face. Only a little while longer, he promises.
Babe punches him. It knocks him right back, and he falls to the ground. Even though he’s smaller than him, he is strong, stronger now, because Charlie's in danger. It makes Way furious. It makes Way petty. It makes Way reach up for his shoulder again, but Babe’s ready now, ducks away. Disgust evident in his features. You’re pathetic, he spits.
If you still have some common sense and humanity left in you. Please get out of my life and never come back!
It hurts. Way feels it reverberate inside his chest. The pain is mounting. Uncontrollable.
Get out of my life and never come back!
He’s caught in a cycle, a vicious loop. Babe shoves him back again and again, tears streaming down his lovely face. Get out of my life and never come back!
Ninety-nine percent, Sir.
Get out of my life and never come back! A crack like a gun shot, and suddenly Babe is gone. The colours disappear and leave only darkness.
Right beside him the machine gives one single, long stretched beep, and all hell breaks lose around him.
Subject is tachycardic!, they shout and hands start to move him.
It stops. The noises, the pain. Suddenly, graciously. It’s so abrupt it feels like floating. It feels empty. Way feels euphoric. Is this it then? Finally? The end? What he’s been waiting for? He almost feels sorry for them. Working days and nights, just to patch him back up. And in the end… all for nothing.
He would laugh if he still could but this time it doesn’t bother him that he can’t talk.
Then, he hears it. Clapping. And cheering. And it’s not what he expected from death at all. Yet again, he’s confused. Confused that he even still can be confused.
There is no pain at least. So he opens his eyes.
He’s somewhere else. He notices right away.
The ceiling is white and lower than before. LED lights too bright but not hurting him. He feels… weightless, strange. The absence of pain so foreign he almost misses it. He lies on a soft mattress; his pillow smells of detergent. He feels clean under the sheets.
His throat is dry, its uncomfortable, so he tries to push himself up – it’s easier than he thought. He looks down at his hands. There is no blood, no grime. No purple bruises where he remembers metal digging in.
He touches his chest, the memory of a bullet still fresh, but obscured, like it’s been too long and his memory fogged. He presses his fingertips into the muscles and feels nothing but normal resistance. No burning sensation.
He tries to wiggle his toes and at the end of the bed, the blanket moves.
He’s stunned for a good ten seconds, then he moves. He almost expects his legs to abandon him, already sees himself falling to the clean, linoleum floor, but his feet are sure and strong and after just a moment of awe, he starts running.
There is a door he reaches without problems, amazed that he can run, that he can reach, that his hands obey him, twisting the knob. The door swings open just a fraction before colours explode behind his eyes.
First, it’s the horror that takes him down, then the sharp, throbbing pain emerging from the base of his skull. He writhes on the ground like a fish caught on land, seizing with each new wave of pain.
Through the open door, he sees his father. He’s looking down at him with a crease between his eyebrows. Disappointment. But also excitement.
He kneels as he watches Way twist right at his feet. He holds up his hand between them, so Way can see what he holds. A tiny, silver rectangle, that has a single button. Tony’s thumb moves away from the button, and Ways muscles instantly relax.
He still heaves though, fighting for air and stares up at his father, who shakes his head with a grunt.
“Don’t even think about it.”, he tells him."We are not done yet."
Then he clicks the button back down.