Title: His Last Breath
Pairing: Centon
Rating: T: Character death
Disclaimer: I don't own them… no money being made… blah blah blah.
Warnings: Character death, slash
A/N: Figured I'd try a sad fic. Inspired by the song by Evanescence—My Last Breath
ONWARD!
His Last Breath
John surveyed the dining room for the last time, triple checking to make sure everything was perfect for tonight. Fancy deep purple tablecloth? Check. Fine china and silverware from his future mother-in-law? Check. Single red rose in the crystal vase, champagne on ice, and food covered to keep warm on the table? Check, check and check. John peeked in the oven, and saw that Randy's yellow birthday cake was still perfect, still totally concealed. He smiled, and leaned out of the oven, closing the door. The only thing left for him now was to change into a nice button-down shirt and a pair of jeans that he hadn't been wearing all day. John strode purposefully into their shared bedroom, and studied his side of the closet. He pulled out his two favorites: the black long-sleeved, and the light blue short-sleeved. After some debating, he put the blue one back, and tugged the black shirt over his shoulders. He picked his dark wash Levi's to wear, and discarded his holey-kneed pair into the hamper to have them washed for next time he was doing housework. Finally dressed, he took a minute and splashed on the aftershave Randy liked best, deciding that he could go without a shave. With a comfortable sigh, John looked in the mirror. Everything is perfect, he thought.
The phone rang.
"Hello?" John greeted, picking up the phone.
"Hello, is this…John Cena?" A nasally sounding woman asked.
"Yes, ma'am. May I ask who's calling?"
"Yes, this is Linda, I'm from St. John's Mercy hospital."
Uh-oh John thought. He hated getting calls from hospitals. "Is there a problem? Is everything alright?"
"Sir, are you familiar with Randy Orton?" asked Linda.
"Yes, ma'am, he's my fiancé. Is he okay?" John asked, slightly worried now.
"Sir, I'm sorry to inform you," said Linda, being all professional, "but Randy was in a car accident about 20 minutes ago. We have him here at the hospital, and he's in very serious condition, so we have him in the ICU and—"
"What room?" interrupted John, on his feet, grabbing the keys to his car.
"He's in Trauma 2, and his family is already here. He's stable right now, but… sir? Sir?"
John didn't hear what she'd said after the room number; he was too busy dropping the phone and speeding out of his driveway trying to reach the hospital.
In less than ten minutes, John rushed into the hospital room. Flashes of faces entered John's mind: Randy's dad, mom, his sister. They were all red-eyed and puffy faced. John barely registered they were there. All he saw was his Randy. His beautiful blue eyes were shut, and he had a thin line going down his tattooed arm. It was stitched up, and John absently wondered what had caused it. Glass? Metal? His chest moved up and down in time with the breathing machine next to him. At least twelve tubes were stuck out of him. A rough staccato of beeps and drips and that harsh breathing sound reached his ears, creating the most horrid melody he'd ever heard. A muffled clang echoed through the room, and John realized with a start that he'd been walking forward the whole time; the clang was his shoe hitting the cold metal guardrails. Randy's family seemed to be watching him, but John didn't care. Gently, he wove his fingers through Randy's cold ones, touching the metal band that Randy wore on his finger. Absently, John spun the matching one on his own hand, and remembered the mutual proposal type thing they did five months ago.
A doctor came in, and cleared his throat quietly. Everyone turned to look at him, John still holding Randy's hand. The doctor looked down.
"I'm very sorry," he began, "Randy stopped breathing on his own about three minutes ago, and there's no more brain activity. There's nothing more we can do for him. At this point, there's no real reason to continue life support, but that's your decision."
The whole family looked at John, and he looked into each of their faces: Randy's father, a look of steely determination slightly masking the pain of having to choose to lose his son; Mrs. Orton, her eyes brimming over with fresh tears as she gave a slight nod; Rebecca, Randy's sister, sniffling and looking down, an air of forced acceptance and slight peace around her. They all knew, but no one could say it. With a sigh weighed down by endless pain, John turned to the doctor, and said, "Go ahead," before leaning down and planting a small kiss on Randy's forehead.
John stepped back quietly from his Randy, slipping out into the hallway while the rest of the family said their goodbyes. How? he thought miserably. Why did he have to die on his birthday? Shock and disbelief numbed the pain, but he could still feel it, feel the loss of his Randy chewing at his heart like a little beast. The family members came out, one by one, until Randy's dad told him that there was no one else in the room. Numb and stiff, John got up, and went to say goodbye. He sat down once again on the stiff plastic chair, and held Randy's hand. He lightly kissed the back of it, and just sat there, thinking about their love. The doctor came in a few minutes later, and announced the time of death, accompanied by Randy's name. The long, low, final beep of the heart monitor was almost loud enough to drown out John's sob of anguish. Still in shock, John left quietly, reluctantly letting go of Randy's hand, and headed to the parking lot, numbly striding past the Ortons, leaving them to handle the arrangements. Suddenly, he froze.
This all had to be some sort of sick joke. That man, cold, ashen d…dead – no, that wasn't his Randy. John sprinted toward the parking lot. He hoped – no, he KNEW – Randy, his beautiful, blue eyed, caring, sweet, so-not-dead Randy would be waiting right outside his car, in his favorite jeans and green t-shirt. He'd have on that famous smirk, and would be twirling the keys around in his hand, and John would run up to him, and they'd kiss, like how it was supposed to end. The pair would start their favorite game of Shotgun vs. Driver, when they playfully fought over who drove, and this once, John would let him win just to see him smile; see him happy, because his. Randy. Was. Not. Dead.
John burst through the glass hospital doors, and ran toward his car; he skidded to a stop, seeing the cold metal glint mockingly in the moonlight.
There was no Randy.
No key twirling.
No kiss.
No playful games.
No smiles.
No Randy.
Randy…
His Randy was dead.
John collapsed to the ground, sobs that numbness had kept at bay before now tearing apart his already broken body. There was nothing anymore; nothing but the cold ground and the pain wrecking him and the harsh, cruel thought playing over and over in his mind like a horrible broken record.
Dead…dead…My Randy…dead.
John had heard his lover breathe his last breath that night.
(A/N: I'm thinking about doing a second chapter with John getting on without Randy, like 6 months later, a year later, how the coworkers handled it, etc. What do you think? Oh, it might be written by/with Blazing Glory [a coauthor type thing]. )
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