Hey everyone, this is my new series. I had wanted to do something like this for a while, but haven't found the right pairing. I wanted to with Skwisgaar/Toki from Metalocalypse, but it didn't fit them well. Then I tried Howard/Raj from BBT, but I soon lost interest in the fandom altogether. (Yes, Weltschmerz was going to have a different, non-crappy ending, if I had been more motivated.)

So now, I'm going to try again with Rochu, because it doesn't suck, nor does APH. :)

I hope you enjoy!


It was one of those rare cool, breezy summer afternoons in San Francisco, California. Everyone was out walking their dogs in the park, enjoying a late lunch at their favourite place downtown, or just lounging under the sun. There was always something to do in this colourful town, especially when you're young, vivacious, and live in the United States of America.

Watching the lives of others while lying upon his own hospital bed evoked a sort of warm, yet empty feeling in the heart of Ivan Braginsky. He knew he had not long to live, and seeing young people enjoying themselves in perfect health could only put a sad smile on his pale, wrinkled face.

With great effort, Ivan turned his head to the other side of the room, while careful not to crack his head too painfully like the last time. Along the wall stood an array of machines, maybe five or six, flashing their strange lights at his weary eyes. All were hooked to different parts of his body via plastic tubes pinched under his skin. Amidst all the mechanical buzzing of those machines, his own heartbeat, as displayed on the monitor, reminded him every few seconds that he was still alive.

Ivan had been in the long-term care unit for a while, ever since the doctors had told him that he would have to be put on life support if he wanted to live at all. He was ready to just give up until his son, Vasili, insisted in a fit of rage, and offered to pay out of his own wallet. Ivan had tried to convince him that this was a waste of money, trying to keep what was an empty shell breathing, but his son wouldn't have any of it.

Since his relocation, Vasili, and his daughter, Anna, had made two brief visits apiece. They were busy with their own lives and families, and Ivan didn't blame them.

They had said their mother couldn't make it because she was busy. Though, Ivan knew better. Natalia probably didn't even want to see him in the first place.

On the bright side, his friends, Alfred, Arthur, and Francis, made it their top priority to drop by for a few hours every day, which was nice. They'd laugh, talk, and eat something other than microwaved hospital food. Well, Alfred would do most of the talking, Arthur most of the whining, and Francis was be the only one who bothered to tend to Ivan while other two bickered.

Around Ivan, they tried to sound optimistic by telling him of the places they'd go and things they'd do, when he got better. Ivan, of course, would play along and allow himself to believe, only for a second, that the situation at hand wasn't as hopeless as per his medical records.

Other than that, Ivan spent most of his time nowadays alone in his room, staring up at the blanched ceiling without saying anything to anyone, not even himself. He could ask the nurses to take him outside for a stroll, or make small talk, but Ivan would rather waste his days lying in bed, and while in his mind, pining away at the sweet days of yore.

Ivan lived the latter half of his life reminiscing about his younger years, playing those precious moments over and over again in his head, until he swore he could taste them on his tongue. They were what kept him alive, the only constants amidst swirling uncertainty, the haven from chaos and strife. Even after he had lost everything in the material world, been stripped down to the bone, the memories lingered, for him to live, to breathe.

"We should be happy, Ivan. Some people live their whole lives without ever being with the person they love. At least we're luckier than they are, right?"

Even now, Ivan could still remember the gentle, soothing, almost motherly sound of his voice. All the words he had ever said to him, all the the tender moments they shared, he could still see in his head as vividly as if they had happened yesterday.

The memories were the only things that made him happy anymore.

Though, Ivan didn't know if they could save him now.

One only existed as his will to live, and, Ivan no longer willed to live. Even though machines could now work in place of his vital organs, and pump blood throughout his physical body, his mind was still deteriorating, and there was nothing anyone could do...


"How long?" Francis asked one day, when they were alone in the room.

"I don't want to find out." Ivan admitted, and gave a grim gulp.

"...Well Ivan, is there anything I could do for you, before you go?"

Francis waited patiently for a minute or two, and still Ivan said nothing. Instead, the man turned his head to the bedstand and reached out a shaking, shrivelled hand, in a vain attempt to grab something. Francis quickly slid the pill bottles towards the wall so they wouldn't be knocked askew.

Ivan hitched his breath in effort, but his wrist fell limp upon the bed. He realized just how impossible doing simple tasks had become.

Francis frowned curiously, and snatched the object on the table for himself. It was an issue of Times magazine that was dated to almost five years ago, despite its glossy, unwrinkled cover, as if it had never been opened. Though, Francis knew better Ivan had probably flipped through it countless times.

On the front cover was a black haired man wearing a suit and tie and standing with his arms crossed. His name was Yao, and was an old friend of theirs, and had moved to New York. In a matter of a few decades, he apparently had become one of the most powerful people in the country. Despite that, Yao still seemed to have a soft, almost innocent gaze about his eyes, as if he was still inexperienced of the world around him. He looked rather young, though numerically, he was a few years senior to Francis and Ivan.

It pained Ivan to flip through the pages of the magazine, but he still found the mental will, and physical stamina, to do it once every single day.

Francis sighed and shook his head. Of course he knew what Ivan wanted, he knew it all along.

"Ivan, Yao's not the same person as before, and probably wouldn't want to see you ever again. You know that, right?"

By the look on his face, Ivan probably would have punched Francis in the face, broke his arms, and ripped his throat out, if he had the strength. But, Ivan still said nothing in response.

Francis smiled apologetically for having pointed out the painfully obvious, and pulled the bed covers over the man's shaking body.

Secretly, Francis hoped he would never have to contact Yao and inform him of the news. He didn't want be the one to tell Yao over and over again that Ivan was dying, because he most likely wouldn't believe it the first time. Francis didn't want to hear what Yao's reaction would be. He didn't want to be the one to convince him to rescind his busy schedule, fly across the country, requench an old flame, then immediately attend his funeral.

It would take some kind of God to do this, and Francis didn't think he had what it took.

But, when he looked into Ivan's eyes, his heart ached. Underneath the pale, dimming pools of lavender was flooding with desperation. They were begging, pleading for him to reconsider, and though Ivan still kept silent, he really didn't need to say anything.

Francis figured it would probably hurt less to do what Ivan wanted, than have those eyes haunt him for the rest of his life.

Besides, he could probably trick Arthur into doing the phone call instead.


Wang Yao, chief executive officer of one of the biggest banking corps in America, was staring out of the window of his office. Perched upon the top floor of the tallest, most formidable skyscraper in all of New York City, he overlooked a radius stretching for many miles on end. On sunny days, and if he squinted hard enough, even the Statue of Liberty was visible.

Having finished his imperial duties for the day, the man resorted to admiring the city scenery with a warm, steaming mug of tea in hand. Though this couldn't tantamount to the majesty of the snow-capped mountains, evergreen timber, and clear-blue firmament of his homeland, it would have to do, for the time being.

Even though he was quarantined, by tinted, inch-thick glass, from all the noise and dirt outside, Yao still couldn't help but feel a bit... disgusted by his surroundings.

Yes, he actually stopped to realize just how inexplicably disgusting the world around him really was. Today was one of the few times when he actually had enough free time laying around to take a deep breath, step back, and assess his life thus far, whereas usually, he would be sent to tumble down a steep hill.

Yao was used to having a busy life, and even after his company had risen to the apex of the capitalist food chain, he still wouldn't give himself a break.

It wasn't that he had much to look forward to back home in his stingy, one-bedroom apartment. Yao had no friends either, beyond his circle of corporate acquaintances. Plus, he was still single and had no children, despite that he was fifty, almost sixty years old.

Friends were selfish, and used each other to fulfill their own needs. Women only wanted him for his money, and the looks he used to have. Plus, he found children more troublesome than adorable. All of the human relationships he'd ever made ended in sad, bitter farewells, and at this point in his life, Yao thought it was too late to give false hope another joyride.

Yao remembered when he used to wear his heart in his sleeve, and trusted whomever his dizzy little head wanted to trust. He remembered being weak, confused, and in love with the worst mistake of his life. Everyone was young and innocent once, even he.

Though Yao usually did a good job of keeping his mind preoccupied with work, he swore that his mind had a mind of its own, as it would squirm through the cracks to find the memories he had meant to hide beneath mounds and mounds of paperwork.

"I love you, Yao, more than anything in the whole world..."

When thoughts like these did resurface, Yao took the whole day off, and went home. He would be thrown in a spinning, swelling maelstrom of emotions, and not be able to get anything done. Instead, he'd stumble back to his apartment, lock the door, and pour himself a drink to help to quell the anger, envy, hatred, sadness that roared like famished beasts inside his gut.

When the dust eventually settled, and the demons hushed, what always prevailed was a dull, yet sweet pulse at base of his breastbone. They were akin to, or perhaps were just a mere mockery of, those nights long past.

Nevertheless, Yao lavished in them, and made no attempts deny himself for the rest of the night. Sometimes, Yao swore that if he thought hard enough, he could somehow feel Ivan's arms wrapped around his shoulders, their fingers entwined in a nest, those chilling lips at the edge of his collarbone. He could be truly happy, for a small while, even though he would be gravely disappointed when his eyes eventually cracked open.

As pathetic as it was, Yao still found himself thinking about Ivan after these years, after how much he had hurt him, after how much pain Ivan had made him go through.

Logic would dictate that Yao must hate Ivan, but he just couldn't bring himself to. He never confessed his thoughts to anyone, maybe except to his own silhouette on his apartment wall.

This was a filthy secret of his, and Yao figured that it was perfectly ordinary for anyone to have at least one of those.

Yes, a filthy secret, and it must stay that way.

Despite how much he wanted them to, Yao took all necessary precautions to prevent these emotional trips from happening, for they simply weren't... economical. Yao kept telling himself that he sat on top of a multi-million dollar conglomerate, thousands of investors, and millions of employees worldwide, which meant, he couldn't afford to stop for anyone's sake. Not even his own.

He snuffed embers out before they could turn into a roaring fire in the blink of an eye. But, when accidents did happen, he indulged in them.

With that thought, Yao gulped down the last bit of tea, hating how it was always the most cold and bitter. Placing the mug down on his desk, he plopped down upon his executive chair ungracefully, and slammed his pounding, aching head upon the table.

Oh great, now he was in a bad mood.

Yao prayed that no one today was going to bring him anymore bad news. Or else, he might just hop on a plane and leave his life in New York City for good.


Fate, as cruel as it was, did eventually accommodate to Yao's request of a surprise phone call, and eventual plane ride across the country.

"Hey Yao?" Arthur's achingly familiar voice spoke from the other end, his British accent as precise and cutting as ever, "I'm calling about Ivan. He's dying, and wants to see you. Look, I know I shouldn't even be speaking with you right now, but I promised him that he would get to see you, no matter what. Please Yao, you must still have feelings for him somewhere, it can't be too hard to dig them up... I'm not going anywhere until you agree, Yao, I can't..."

Yao, who couldn't handle listening to him anymore, hung up. After looking around to double check that no one was in his office, he buried his face in his hand, and for the first time in many many years, he wept.

Yao did eventually call Arthur back, and agreed to fly to California, despite that he had sworn to never come back again.

But, he told himself it would be the right thing to do, to fulfill a dying man's last request. It was a mere moral transaction, and nothing more.


"Is this what you really want, Ivan?"

Ivan wearily closed his eyes, and nodded once. The air above them, which had been dangling so tensely for the past hour, finally cleared up. There was no more strife, no struggle. Only regret, guilt, and most of all, understanding. Ivan had already expressed his wish to leave this world, and for everyone at his bedside, trying to convince the man otherwise would only be of his bane.

Ivan's children were working, and he didn't want to trouble them to come. The day that his son had sent him upon life-support was their de facto goodbye, so Ivan's actual expiry date really wasn't that important.

Besides, Ivan was too weary to care about whether they respected their father's wishes or not. By the time they found out, he would already be dead, thus unable to feel guilt.

"Why the hell would you want to kill yourself, Ivan?" Alfred asked bluntly, looking back and forth between his other two friends for an answer.

Arthur and Francis dismissed the question, and kept their heads down. Alfred eventually did as well. For what felt like a few minutes, all that was audible was the faint buzz of the machines, not even their own breathing.

"I don't want him to see me like this," was Ivan's answer. His glassy, lifeless eyes rolled downwards, scanning every inch of his body, which was connected by a feeding tube or electrical cord of some kind.

Ivan's pasty lips folded into a sliver of a frown at the sight of himself having been turned into half an android. He never thought he was beautiful in the first place, but he would rather remind Yao of the person he truly was.

Francis nodded, like he understood. "We're gonna miss you, friend," he whispered, trying to swallow back the tears.

The others exchanged glances, and nodded in agreement. With all words said, and all deeds done, they waited patiently for the nurses to perform their service.


The flight had been very nerve-wrecking for Yao, to say the least. The person sitting beside him seemed to had noticed his manica, but chose to read the newspaper anyways.

When Yao got off, he remembered not even being able to recognize Arthur, a friend he had known since he came to America many decades ago, and shook his hand like he would to a business client.

Arthur seemed as sarcastic and cynical as ever, and his balding head and wrinkled face only added to the effect.

Driving through the sunny streets of San Francisco in a old, beat-up stickshift only brought him back more memories. He and Ivan's first flat, an old apartment building, had been demolished, and the land was currently on lease.

Yao asked Arthur whatever happened to that diner where everyone used to hang out. Arthur glowered at him, and mumbled grumpily that it had closed down years ago, and was now a funeral home.

The car came to a stop in front of the hospital, and Arthur gave Yao specific instructions on how to get up to Ivan's room. Yao hadn't been really listening, but managed to find it on pure instinct. He dragged his feet across the sterilized marble floors, and before his mind could register, he had already strode past the doors to Ivan's bedside.

"Y-Yao, you're finally here."

It took a few seconds for realization to hit him, not more, not less. Yao's knees gave in, letting his bottom hit the barely cushioned mattress of the hospital bed. Amidst the ruck of wrinkled flesh and unkempt hair that had become Ivan's face, his pale lavender eyes were as lucid and pure as the first time he looked into them.

Mindlessly, Yao reached out a hand to caress the cheek beside his watery smile, but sanity took over, and he stopped in mid-air. Yao bit his lip and quickly retracted his fist to his chest.

"What did you want from me?" Yao asked instead. The coldness of his voice even made himself shiver.

Ivan chuckled in response, which sounded more like a cough.

Yao stared at him for a while, as he struggled to gain his breath, and poured him some water from the canteen. Ivan gulped down the water quickly and tossed the paper cup aside, so that his hands would be free to grab Yao's before they were taken away. He held onto them, like they were his last lifeline.

"I want you to stay," Ivan replied, his voice reduced to but a bare, ghostly whisper, "Please Yao, I won't be long, just... don't leave me again..."

Yao closed his eyes, and opened them again after a few, painfully long seconds. He walked over to the other side of the bed, slipped off his shoes, and climbed onto the bed.

He smiled awkwardly, and took the frail man in his own thin arms. Ivan had lost a lot of weight, and was but a pale echo of the handsome man he once was. Silver hair had become wizened and patchy, the healthy glow of his skin had faded to a livid yellow. But despite that, he was still wearing a crisp, newly ironed tux, and his tie, his favourite tie.

Yao smiled and shook his head. Silly Ivan.

Listening to his ragged, strained breathing, Yao couldn't help but wonder what it felt like to die. Did it hurt a lot? It must. Even though his body was as cold as a block of ice, Yao still held him tight.

"So, what have you been up to for the thirty years?" He murmured. Hopefully, this would distract him.

Ivan coughed, expelling droplets of blood onto Yao's shirt. He swallowed the rest with great effort, and replied, trying as hard as he could to sound casual, "Natalia filed for divorce after the kids left for college, and m-moved away... Excuse me-"

He grit his teeth, and furled his eyebrows, at yet another throe of pain. After a few seconds, he relaxed, and continued his speech between panting breaths. There wasn't enough blood left in his body for his face to go red anymore.

"I g-got a job at the the f-funeral home, and my hours weren't too bad. So, I drank the rest of my days away. Such a smart thing to do, I know, having landed me a room here..."

"Well, that sounds better than mine," Yao admitted, laughing a little, "All I did was breathe, work, eat, and sleep."

"Don't you wish sometimes"

"That we never fell apart? Yes, I do, Ivan."

Yao gently put Ivan's head against the crook of his neck, and closed his eyes, feeling the breath of his past lover fanning against his bare skin. Yao was happy to have found Ivan, and serenity once more, but he knew that it was beginning to fade. Ivan's life was going to slip from his grasp, and he had to let go no matter what.

"Yao, do you remember when we first met?"

How could he forget?

TBC


:D I hope you liked it so far, please give me some feedback as to how you think, and whether I should continue. Thanks! I'll update it... soon... Haha.