Bafflingly Ambivalent (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} queenitsy) wrote in ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} eydw_universe,@ 2007-08-04 01:16:00 |
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| Current mood: |  pleased |
| Entry tags: | actual plot, blink, blink/mush, mush, race, spot, spot/guy |
I Will Hold On, part III
Dutchy called Isabella at almost four o’clock—the surgery had been in-progress for not quite three hours.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
“Yeah. I just…you guys aren’t watching TV?”
“You are?”
“No, but someone in the crowd has a radio. We’re listening.”
“What crowd?”
“Iz, there’s a whole…like, an encampment of supporters…prayer groups and stuff…everyone is waiting for news…Anyway, you’re not watching the news?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“The Supreme Court.”
Isabella sucked in a breath. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. They released a statement. They said that out of respect…out of respect they won’t release a verdict until Michael’s condition is known.”
“Oh.” Isabella let out a breath.
“You guys haven’t released a statement or anything,” Dutchy said cautiously. “I…I don’t know if you want to. But people are scared and…Shit, Iz. No one knows what’s going on. The police won’t release anything, so…Just, if someone would say something, it…” He trailed off.
“I don’t know if anyone’s up to it,” Isabella said tiredly.
“Okay. Any news?”
“No. He’s still in surgery.”
Dutchy took a deep breath. “Okay.”
*
It took another three hours before Ryan agreed to give a short statement to the public. He’d scrawled it quickly and Isabella had looked it over and nodded. They alerted the gathered crowd of reporters, and ten minutes later shuffled out into the twilight. Flashbulbs went off, and Ryan winced. He knew he looked awful.
Someone handed him a microphone and he looked at the paper clenched in his hand. He wanted to make the statement to make Michael proud; he wanted to really say something to convey how he felt.
He got about four sentences in before he was crying too hard to continue. He shoved the now-damp paper into Isabella’s hand and all but fled back into the hospital, where Sean stood waiting. He just heard Isabella say something about handing out photocopies of the statement as Sean led him back to the waiting room.
Someone pressed a cup of hot tea into his hand but he couldn’t drink it.
*
Dutchy had grabbed Spenser’s hoodie when he’d left; it was a little too small for him, but he didn’t care. He pulled it on and pulled the hood up. As he’d walked out of the hospital, flashbulbs going, a security guard had detached himself from the line to follow. Dutchy glanced at him, said, “Hey,” and kept walking.
When he broke free of the reporters, only a few followed him; after all, the much better story was still lying on surgeon’s table. He walked slowly, not knowing or caring where he was going, but came to a large gathering of people. Most of them were young, he was pretty sure a lot of them had been at the parade earlier…it seemed so long ago. Not that afternoon, another lifetime ago.
Everyone was milling around. Some of them were singing quietly, mostly spirituals. He came across a large prayer group and listened long enough—different kids were taking turns leading it, each with a different religion. All variants were praying for Michael, though.
He listened, glad no one looked over and recognized him, and mumbled to himself in prayer, too. He wasn’t religious, he never had been, but anything that could help…He added in Ryan and Tony. They would need as much help as they could get tonight.
He wandered on. Past more impromptu prayer groups, past gatherings of people who were crying and comforting each other. He started seeing people holding lit candles, more and more, and followed them. Finally he saw a kid who he didn’t think was any older than 20, exchanging candles for single dollars.
Dutchy approached him and the kid looked at him tiredly. No recognition came across his features. “You’re selling these?”
“Just for what I bought them for,” the kid said quietly. “I’d give them out free, but I need to pay my rent.” He sounded moments from tears.
“Here.” Dutchy pulled out his wallet and fished out two hundred dollar bills—more than the number of candles the kid had left. He didn’t care. “Just give them out, okay?”
He nodded. “Thanks. Here.” He handed Dutchy a candle and offered up a lighter for it.
Dutchy wandered, watching, listening. All the people Michael had touched, without ever knowing them. He’d already done so much good, and was supposed to have the rest of his life…
Shit, it just wasn’t fair.
*
Michael felt a heavy weight on his chest and an angel appeared. The light came back. If he squinted just right, concentrated, he could almost imagine that it was Ryan…
Even when the angel faded he tried. He tried to imagine Ryan in front of him. Tried to remember his voice. The little things: the way Ryan sounded in the morning when he hadn’t had his coffee yet. The way he pouted when Michael tried to prevent him from eating junkfood. The way he strutted on to the stage, like he was positive he was the sexiest man on the planet. The open mouthed, closed-eyed look of bliss when he came…
And suddenly, somehow, the words, the memory was in front of him, glowing golden, almost solid.
Blink glanced over his shoulder at him, grinning, as he rubbed his shoulders. They were younger—kids.
"Mushee?" Blink asked quietly.
"Hmmm?" He felt so content, happy. He hadn’t felt that way in a very long time, not since before he’d come out. But as much hell as he’d gone through, moments like this, just him and Blink, made everything worth it.
"I really love you." He sounded nervous.
"I love you too." Nothing had ever been as easy as saying it. And Blink’s who face lit up. He looked radiant…
Like an angel…
YES!
An angel screamed in triumph.
KEEP FIGHTING!
Michael didn’t know what to do. He felt the memory fading, but tried to pull it back. And when he couldn’t see it anymore, he reached for another—the first night he had met Blink, stuttering hello, barely believing that David had known someone so amazing for years and had never introduced them…
And the first time he saw Blink on stage…
The band’s first release party, celebrating their first album…
He didn’t see the angels after that, but he felt them around him. Even when he was too numb to move, even when he felt frozen to the core, even when the light all seemed to vanish and he worried the darkness would come back and consume him, he felt them there. And he tried to reach out to them, even though they didn’t answer.
*
Evening gave way to night. Dr. Denough checked on the group regularly, offering them updates on Michael’s surgery. By ten, she said she felt secure in saying it was going well. Michael had, after all, been a health nut his whole adult life. His body was strong. And so was his will. He hadn’t crashed again.
But it wasn’t over until midnight.
Dr. Denough looked nervous and exhausted—but she was smiling. “His surgery is done,” she told the gathered group. “Now it’s just…waiting.”
“Done?” Ryan echoed. “He…made it?” Ryan asked. He sounded choked.
She nodded. “He did. He’s still in critical condition; he may reject the new valve or…” She trailed off. “Nothing is certain yet. But he made it through the most dangerous part.”
“Can I see him?” Ryan asked.
She hesitated, but finally nodded. Ryan stood quickly and they walked together down the hall. Michael was lying in bed in an airy, windowed room. He was hooked up to machines and IVs, and he looked…frail. Broken. But his chest was rising and falling, if slowly.
“Can I go in?” Ryan asked.
She hesitated again.
“Please?”
“It’s…It isn’t our policy…”
“Please,” he begged. “I need to see him. I need to.”
“Okay,” she said finally. “But don’t touch anything.”
He nodded and let himself in to the room. He walked to Michael’s bedside and heard the slow echo of the machine that kept track of his heartbeat. It was slow, painfully slow.
“Oh, Mikey,” he said, kneeling at the bedside. “In case you were trying to tell me not to take you for granted, I get it.
“Oh, Mikey. I love you. I love you, you stupid lawyer. Do you hear me? I love you with all my heart and soul. I love you.
“I love your curls and your skin—I love your laugh. I love when you’re angry and you get so intense. I love when you smile. I love the way you smell. I love how you can’t function without coffee in the morning. I love your body. I love you.
“Do you hear me, Michael? I love you so much. So goddamn much.”
Shit. He was crying again.
Fuck it.
“Come back to me, Mikey. I swear—I’ll give up my Ben & Jerry’s habit and only eat health food. I’ll remember to make the bed. I’ll stop touring so I’m always with you. I’ll do anything, just don’t, don’t leave me. I couldn’t take that, Mikey. I couldn’t.
“I love you. And I need you. And I’m here, Mikey. When you wake up, I’ll be here.”
*
The angels were gone, but he didn’t care. He could hear…
Ryan’s voice rang clear around him. He couldn’t understand a word of it, it sounded like nonsense syllables, but it was there. It guided him up, gave him something to cling to.
And so he relaxed. He stopped struggling so much and listened. The darkness was gone, the red that had tried to swallow him was gone. It was just him and Ryan.
He knew he’d be okay.
*
“He’s okay?” Dutchy repeated, echoing Spenser’s statement.
“Yes—yes!” Spenser yelled into the phone jubilantly. “He’s stable! He came through, Dutch!”
Dutchy let out a jubilant shriek, and his hood slipped down; people turned to see him yelling, and realized who he was. He listened to a few more details from Spenser over the phone, then turned to the gathering crowd and announced, “He’s out of surgery! He’s alive!”
A round of cheers went up and the news spread.
“Listen,” Spenser said, “we’re mostly heading off for the night, everyone is exhausted. Izzy wants to make sure you’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay…meet you at the hotel?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there soon. Spense? I love you.”
“I love you too, Dutch.”
*
“I need a ride to pick up my car,” Sean mumbled, as everyone finally started out of the hospital.
Tony glanced at him. “I’ll drive you.”
Sean hesitated, then said, “Okay.”
They didn’t speak as they walked out. Sean actually regretted his decision as picture were taken, but didn’t stop to look around. An aide had driven Tony’s car—a flashy Corvette—to the hospital and led them out to where it was parked.
“Where’s your car?” Tony asked, after he pulled out.
“On the side of the highway, if it hasn’t been towed.” He shrugged. “I could walk faster than the traffic was going.”
“Okay. Just tell me where.”
“Yeah, okay.”
They drove in silence for awhile, and Sean watched Tony’s hand on the wheel and the bandage covered his knuckles. “I…I was surprised you had me in your phone,” Sean finally mumbled.
“I didn’t think you’d call.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I figured you wanted Ryan.”
“I did.”
“Okay, then.” Tony said it like he assumed that ended the conversation. Sean didn’t argue.
The quiet was…awkward. Sean remembered that he’d vowed to cut Tony out of his life completely, and why; he had no reason to let him back in. He had no idea how Tony felt about him, or about what had happened that night. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.
Ryan. Michael. They were what was important now. His drama with Tony could take a backseat, for a change.
“My car…There it is,” Sean said, pointing across a separated highway. “You’ll have to get on another entrance.”
“Okay.”
Sean found, to his surprise and ultimately to his irritation, that he wanted to say something to Tony. He didn’t know if he wanted to tell him off or just ask what was going on, but he didn’t say either.
“How’s Guy?” Tony finally asked.
Sean had never told Tony about Guy’s disease, or about moving down south, or even about his cellphone. Tony was, apparently, keeping track of him.
“Dying. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
Tony had found the highway exit and was now looking for an entrance going the other direction. Sean saw it and pointed, Tony pulled on. It was only a minute from there to Sean’s car, a nice-but-used hybrid with great gas mileage. (Ryan had paid for it, after all, and Ryan was very influenced by Michael, and basically Sean felt he had to be environmentally responsible when spending their money, to avoid the two of them getting into some huge, stupid fight.)
“Okay. Well.” Sean unfastened his seatbelt and reached for the handle of the door. “I’ll be around the next few days, if Ryan needs me.”
“I’ll let him know.”
“Okay, then.” He opened the door and stepped out.
“Sean?” Tony called.
“What?”
“I—thanks. Is all.”
Sean nodded. “Yeah. Whatever. Bye.”
“Bye.”
AN: So...that's that, then. There is obviously a lot of aftermath to this, which I will get around to posting in awhile. I'm out of town--to visit TSB, acutally!--for the next weekish, so it'll be awhile.
“Yeah. They released a statement. They said that out of respect…out of respect they won’t release a verdict until Michael’s condition is known.”
“Oh.” Isabella let out a breath.
“You guys haven’t released a statement or anything,” Dutchy said cautiously. “I…I don’t know if you want to. But people are scared and…Shit, Iz. No one knows what’s going on. The police won’t release anything, so…Just, if someone would say something, it…” He trailed off.
“I don’t know if anyone’s up to it,” Isabella said tiredly.
“Okay. Any news?”
“No. He’s still in surgery.”
Dutchy took a deep breath. “Okay.”
*
It took another three hours before Ryan agreed to give a short statement to the public. He’d scrawled it quickly and Isabella had looked it over and nodded. They alerted the gathered crowd of reporters, and ten minutes later shuffled out into the twilight. Flashbulbs went off, and Ryan winced. He knew he looked awful.
Someone handed him a microphone and he looked at the paper clenched in his hand. He wanted to make the statement to make Michael proud; he wanted to really say something to convey how he felt.
He got about four sentences in before he was crying too hard to continue. He shoved the now-damp paper into Isabella’s hand and all but fled back into the hospital, where Sean stood waiting. He just heard Isabella say something about handing out photocopies of the statement as Sean led him back to the waiting room.
Someone pressed a cup of hot tea into his hand but he couldn’t drink it.
*
Dutchy had grabbed Spenser’s hoodie when he’d left; it was a little too small for him, but he didn’t care. He pulled it on and pulled the hood up. As he’d walked out of the hospital, flashbulbs going, a security guard had detached himself from the line to follow. Dutchy glanced at him, said, “Hey,” and kept walking.
When he broke free of the reporters, only a few followed him; after all, the much better story was still lying on surgeon’s table. He walked slowly, not knowing or caring where he was going, but came to a large gathering of people. Most of them were young, he was pretty sure a lot of them had been at the parade earlier…it seemed so long ago. Not that afternoon, another lifetime ago.
Everyone was milling around. Some of them were singing quietly, mostly spirituals. He came across a large prayer group and listened long enough—different kids were taking turns leading it, each with a different religion. All variants were praying for Michael, though.
He listened, glad no one looked over and recognized him, and mumbled to himself in prayer, too. He wasn’t religious, he never had been, but anything that could help…He added in Ryan and Tony. They would need as much help as they could get tonight.
He wandered on. Past more impromptu prayer groups, past gatherings of people who were crying and comforting each other. He started seeing people holding lit candles, more and more, and followed them. Finally he saw a kid who he didn’t think was any older than 20, exchanging candles for single dollars.
Dutchy approached him and the kid looked at him tiredly. No recognition came across his features. “You’re selling these?”
“Just for what I bought them for,” the kid said quietly. “I’d give them out free, but I need to pay my rent.” He sounded moments from tears.
“Here.” Dutchy pulled out his wallet and fished out two hundred dollar bills—more than the number of candles the kid had left. He didn’t care. “Just give them out, okay?”
He nodded. “Thanks. Here.” He handed Dutchy a candle and offered up a lighter for it.
Dutchy wandered, watching, listening. All the people Michael had touched, without ever knowing them. He’d already done so much good, and was supposed to have the rest of his life…
Shit, it just wasn’t fair.
*
Michael felt a heavy weight on his chest and an angel appeared. The light came back. If he squinted just right, concentrated, he could almost imagine that it was Ryan…
Even when the angel faded he tried. He tried to imagine Ryan in front of him. Tried to remember his voice. The little things: the way Ryan sounded in the morning when he hadn’t had his coffee yet. The way he pouted when Michael tried to prevent him from eating junkfood. The way he strutted on to the stage, like he was positive he was the sexiest man on the planet. The open mouthed, closed-eyed look of bliss when he came…
And suddenly, somehow, the words, the memory was in front of him, glowing golden, almost solid.
Blink glanced over his shoulder at him, grinning, as he rubbed his shoulders. They were younger—kids.
"Mushee?" Blink asked quietly.
"Hmmm?" He felt so content, happy. He hadn’t felt that way in a very long time, not since before he’d come out. But as much hell as he’d gone through, moments like this, just him and Blink, made everything worth it.
"I really love you." He sounded nervous.
"I love you too." Nothing had ever been as easy as saying it. And Blink’s who face lit up. He looked radiant…
Like an angel…
YES!
An angel screamed in triumph.
KEEP FIGHTING!
Michael didn’t know what to do. He felt the memory fading, but tried to pull it back. And when he couldn’t see it anymore, he reached for another—the first night he had met Blink, stuttering hello, barely believing that David had known someone so amazing for years and had never introduced them…
And the first time he saw Blink on stage…
The band’s first release party, celebrating their first album…
He didn’t see the angels after that, but he felt them around him. Even when he was too numb to move, even when he felt frozen to the core, even when the light all seemed to vanish and he worried the darkness would come back and consume him, he felt them there. And he tried to reach out to them, even though they didn’t answer.
*
Evening gave way to night. Dr. Denough checked on the group regularly, offering them updates on Michael’s surgery. By ten, she said she felt secure in saying it was going well. Michael had, after all, been a health nut his whole adult life. His body was strong. And so was his will. He hadn’t crashed again.
But it wasn’t over until midnight.
Dr. Denough looked nervous and exhausted—but she was smiling. “His surgery is done,” she told the gathered group. “Now it’s just…waiting.”
“Done?” Ryan echoed. “He…made it?” Ryan asked. He sounded choked.
She nodded. “He did. He’s still in critical condition; he may reject the new valve or…” She trailed off. “Nothing is certain yet. But he made it through the most dangerous part.”
“Can I see him?” Ryan asked.
She hesitated, but finally nodded. Ryan stood quickly and they walked together down the hall. Michael was lying in bed in an airy, windowed room. He was hooked up to machines and IVs, and he looked…frail. Broken. But his chest was rising and falling, if slowly.
“Can I go in?” Ryan asked.
She hesitated again.
“Please?”
“It’s…It isn’t our policy…”
“Please,” he begged. “I need to see him. I need to.”
“Okay,” she said finally. “But don’t touch anything.”
He nodded and let himself in to the room. He walked to Michael’s bedside and heard the slow echo of the machine that kept track of his heartbeat. It was slow, painfully slow.
“Oh, Mikey,” he said, kneeling at the bedside. “In case you were trying to tell me not to take you for granted, I get it.
“Oh, Mikey. I love you. I love you, you stupid lawyer. Do you hear me? I love you with all my heart and soul. I love you.
“I love your curls and your skin—I love your laugh. I love when you’re angry and you get so intense. I love when you smile. I love the way you smell. I love how you can’t function without coffee in the morning. I love your body. I love you.
“Do you hear me, Michael? I love you so much. So goddamn much.”
Shit. He was crying again.
Fuck it.
“Come back to me, Mikey. I swear—I’ll give up my Ben & Jerry’s habit and only eat health food. I’ll remember to make the bed. I’ll stop touring so I’m always with you. I’ll do anything, just don’t, don’t leave me. I couldn’t take that, Mikey. I couldn’t.
“I love you. And I need you. And I’m here, Mikey. When you wake up, I’ll be here.”
*
The angels were gone, but he didn’t care. He could hear…
Ryan’s voice rang clear around him. He couldn’t understand a word of it, it sounded like nonsense syllables, but it was there. It guided him up, gave him something to cling to.
And so he relaxed. He stopped struggling so much and listened. The darkness was gone, the red that had tried to swallow him was gone. It was just him and Ryan.
He knew he’d be okay.
*
“He’s okay?” Dutchy repeated, echoing Spenser’s statement.
“Yes—yes!” Spenser yelled into the phone jubilantly. “He’s stable! He came through, Dutch!”
Dutchy let out a jubilant shriek, and his hood slipped down; people turned to see him yelling, and realized who he was. He listened to a few more details from Spenser over the phone, then turned to the gathering crowd and announced, “He’s out of surgery! He’s alive!”
A round of cheers went up and the news spread.
“Listen,” Spenser said, “we’re mostly heading off for the night, everyone is exhausted. Izzy wants to make sure you’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay…meet you at the hotel?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there soon. Spense? I love you.”
“I love you too, Dutch.”
*
“I need a ride to pick up my car,” Sean mumbled, as everyone finally started out of the hospital.
Tony glanced at him. “I’ll drive you.”
Sean hesitated, then said, “Okay.”
They didn’t speak as they walked out. Sean actually regretted his decision as picture were taken, but didn’t stop to look around. An aide had driven Tony’s car—a flashy Corvette—to the hospital and led them out to where it was parked.
“Where’s your car?” Tony asked, after he pulled out.
“On the side of the highway, if it hasn’t been towed.” He shrugged. “I could walk faster than the traffic was going.”
“Okay. Just tell me where.”
“Yeah, okay.”
They drove in silence for awhile, and Sean watched Tony’s hand on the wheel and the bandage covered his knuckles. “I…I was surprised you had me in your phone,” Sean finally mumbled.
“I didn’t think you’d call.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I figured you wanted Ryan.”
“I did.”
“Okay, then.” Tony said it like he assumed that ended the conversation. Sean didn’t argue.
The quiet was…awkward. Sean remembered that he’d vowed to cut Tony out of his life completely, and why; he had no reason to let him back in. He had no idea how Tony felt about him, or about what had happened that night. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.
Ryan. Michael. They were what was important now. His drama with Tony could take a backseat, for a change.
“My car…There it is,” Sean said, pointing across a separated highway. “You’ll have to get on another entrance.”
“Okay.”
Sean found, to his surprise and ultimately to his irritation, that he wanted to say something to Tony. He didn’t know if he wanted to tell him off or just ask what was going on, but he didn’t say either.
“How’s Guy?” Tony finally asked.
Sean had never told Tony about Guy’s disease, or about moving down south, or even about his cellphone. Tony was, apparently, keeping track of him.
“Dying. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
Tony had found the highway exit and was now looking for an entrance going the other direction. Sean saw it and pointed, Tony pulled on. It was only a minute from there to Sean’s car, a nice-but-used hybrid with great gas mileage. (Ryan had paid for it, after all, and Ryan was very influenced by Michael, and basically Sean felt he had to be environmentally responsible when spending their money, to avoid the two of them getting into some huge, stupid fight.)
“Okay. Well.” Sean unfastened his seatbelt and reached for the handle of the door. “I’ll be around the next few days, if Ryan needs me.”
“I’ll let him know.”
“Okay, then.” He opened the door and stepped out.
“Sean?” Tony called.
“What?”
“I—thanks. Is all.”
Sean nodded. “Yeah. Whatever. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I'll hold the train till you get on
I'll hold the mirror so you can fix your hair
I'll hold the pain till it is gone
and I'll hold my ground when people stop and stare
You know that it's true
When I've held you
There are no secrets
You must believe it
I'll hold the beating of my heart
I'll hold my breath if you will tell me to
I'll hold the hope that we won't part
And I'll hold off death so I can live with you
You knew it was true
When I held you
There were no secrets
I believed it
So I will hold on
And if that's not what you're used to
Then I may refuse to
Hold off
Well, maybe that's not what you're used to
How can I refuse you?
AN: So...that's that, then. There is obviously a lot of aftermath to this, which I will get around to posting in awhile. I'm out of town--to visit TSB, acutally!--for the next weekish, so it'll be awhile.
