The last thing he remembers is screaming 'Shut up! Shut up! God, can't I please just get one fucking moment of silence?' and then - nothing.
When he becomes aware again the first thing he notices is the lack of sound. He can see people drifting around him, and he knows that they're talking to and about him because their mouths are moving, but he can't hear them.
He drifts in and out like this for days, the silence of his life broken only by the voice still alive in his mind. It tells him that everything will be okay as long as he continues to sleep, that if he allows himself to drift he won't have to relive the screeching tear of metal or the stillness of Joel as he lay dying beside him in the twisted pile that used to be his car, the car that held them captive until it was too late.
The voice is soft and pretty, taking him back to childhood and reminding him of the times when his mother would sing to him. It urges him to float just below the surface of consciousness, and he listens because the thought of opening his eyes and seeing but not hearing terrifies him.
They lean over him, the doctors and nurses with their cool impersonal hands, lifting his eyelids so that the light from the room blinds him, but the voice urges him not to flinch, and he listens
It's harder when the touches are familiar. The larger work-roughened hands of his father stroke over his hair and hold onto his hand as if it were a lifeline; and then there's the soft caress of his mother's lips over his face that is harder to ignore. Her tears wet his skin and he wants to reach out but the voice pulls him back and urges him to return to his dreams.
The touches are of days past, when life seemed endless and full, and the world lay at his feet, waiting for him to leave his mark upon it. The images shift through his brain in bright technicolor, haunting him, and he moans in protest when they shift from beautiful to grim.
He'd tried to reach out, to offer something - solace, comfort, an apology - to his lover but he'd lain helpless, watching the man he no longer loved die beside him, unsure how to make the right words come.
Sometimes he wonders if this is his personal hell, and if so, he thinks that he may deserve to linger here.
He has no concept of minutes or hours. The shadows behind his eyelids remain constant, and it's only in the ebb and flow of the touches on his skin that he begins to realize that there is a passing of time. There are fewer touches at what he's come to know as night, and they're different then, quieter, softer, almost as if they really believe him to be asleep and are afraid of disturbing him.
During the day, the pace is brisker, the touches stronger. He's moved, shifted from one side to the next, sometimes even propped into a reclining chair, and a part of him wants to swat at the hands arranging him like he was a child, because he doesn't need or want their help.
All he wants is to be left alone, to listen to the stories of brighter, happier times that the voice tells him. It whispers of heaven and how he'll be able to sing there. There will be audiences again, cheering for him, and unlike now, there he'll be able to stand on the stage, look out into their faces, and hear.
There's nothing in the world beyond his mind but pain and fear. He doesn't want to learn how to speak with his hands, or to catch those who love him looking at him in pity when they think he's unaware.
He fights the dawning realization that this isn't really a dream, because to recognize that would mean to face what he's done and what he's become. He begins to wish, but then tells himself no, because wishing is what brought him to this. He'd been so tired of the arguing and the recriminations, all he'd wanted was a moment of peace, a brief time of silence when he didn't have to hear Joel's voice pleading to know what the other had that he lacked.
It had gone on too long - the relationship, the lies - and this was the price to be paid because he had let it.
Silence.
Even the voice is quieter now, no longer needing to remind him to be careful of how far he drifts from the dream.
He's alone. Alive, but no longer living. Nothing.
The touches are the only thing holding him now, and he surfaces to wonder if he would cease to exist if they stopped.
They don't want that, these people with identities that are beginning to slip away from him. They cling to him, and to something that he no longer understands - hope. He can feel them urging him back in the warmth of their breath as they whisper words across his skin, but he's past the point where whispered words will reach him.
It's almost time for him to go, but he's waiting, because there's one touch that hasn't come yet, and he wants to feel it once more before the end. When it comes it jolts him because it's not the caress he was expecting, but a word written across his skin.
Hello
He waits, but nothing else comes, and he knows that it won't until there's a response from him. All he has to do is move the tiniest bit and he'll be touched again, but the voice is back and it's screaming at him that the touch isn't real and there's nothing on the other side but silence.
Hello
This time he can't stop it and his arm jumps on the bed, making the voice become so loud that he moans, because it hurts. There's movement then, he can feel the air shift with it, and then there's a presence on the bed with him, and the touch slowly drawing again on his skin.
come back
It's a game they've played for years, first with the other guys in hopes of dispelling the utter boredom of long bus trips; and then something that was just between the two of them in quiet moments that they'd stolen here and there. He's good at it, has no problem focusing solely on the feel of the fingers moving over his skin and rarely does he ever have to ask someone to repeat what they've written. Tonight, despite his withdrawn state, is no exception.
I
Need
You
The words hurt because they're forcing him to the surface and he's afraid. Afraid to feel, afraid to see, afraid to have confirmed for him what he already knows - if he comes back he'll be able to look upon the one that he loves, but he'll never hear the deep timbre of his voice again.
Please tickles across his skin and he's losing the battle. The voice is quiet and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks it may be crying. It's only when he feels a pool of wet settle in his ear that he realizes the voice is him.
"No." He doesn't know whether he spoke the word or only thinks he has because there is no sound, but there is movement against him again, and he waits.
Yes
He shakes his head. "Wish - dead."
NO
The denial is strong, he can feel it in the pressure of the fingers on his chest, and he knows that he's been misunderstood.
"Joel." He has no idea what his voice sounds like now, but he pictures it as being loud and brash. "My fault."
NO
Look at me
"No."
Look at me
Please
He knows that this is the last step, that if he opens his eyes and looks into the face of the man lying beside him he'll succumb. He thinks of the peace he found with only himself for company, and the emptiness. There's very little fight left in him and it would be so easy to let the voice come back, to give up, but there's movement again and he knows before he feels the words that there is more than peace to be found here.
Stay - love me
There is no blinding light, no spectacular epiphany when his eyes drift open, only the soft green gaze of the man lying beside him resting on him, waiting for his answer.
With hands that are shaky from disuse JC reaches out and writes one word across Lance's collarbone - hello.
Many thanks to Missy for holding my hand through all phases of this story, and to Karey for the encouragement.