A/N:We watched GATTACA in English class, and I could not stand the ending. So I changed it. A Vincent/Eugene AU.

Incinerated Heartbeats

Eugene, for that was who he was now, waited until he knew Vincent was gone before heading towards the incinerator. Vincent. To conquer. Well, he certainly conquered my heart, he mused, with a sad smile. He makes a better Jerome than I did or ever will.

He opened the incinerator and hauled himself inside it, having difficulty getting the dead weight of his legs up and through the opening. Pulling out the silver medal, he thought, I even made a second-rate Jerome. Fingering it, he partially closed the grate, and reached for the switch—only to find a note, in his own handwriting, taped to the inside of the incinerator. No, not his handwriting, Jerome's. It did not belong solely to him anymore. I'm proud of you, Vincent.

Sighing, he read the note.

Eugene—

Don't you dare. Don't do this to me, Eugene. I need you. Not your body, you. I need your snarky attitude and passion, your vanity and pride. That gentle caring that you hate to show, the way you subtly point out and help me fix my mistakes. I need it all, and I want it all. I guess it took being you to realize I love you. I love your looks of exasperation, of fondness and concern, of passionate anger or sorrow. I love you, Jerome Eugene Morrow. So wait for me. Wait for me, because I don't think my weak heart, thousands of beats overdue, could handle it if I came back to find you lost to me forever. It is sheer determination and passion that has kept me living this long, Eugene, but if you left me, if you did this to yourself, what would I have left to live for? What reason would I have to keep pushing my heart along? So live for me, please. Wait for me, I promise I'll be back. I'll be back, and we can be together, you and me. I'll be back, and we can move away from GATTACA, we can go somewhere else, anywhere you want. While you have given me the universe, Eugene, I would be happy living in a hut as long as you were alive and there with me. I love you, Eugene, so live for me. You don't have to love me back, just keep living, and don't leave me alone in this world.

I love you,

Vincent

Eugene tried to stifle his tears. He was a man, and he would not cry. Damn you, Vincent. I'm supposed to be the one who's good at guilt-trips. He sighed again, and turned his gaze skyward, saying, "Alright, you prat, I'll live for you. And I love you too, you moron."

Tucking the note into his inner jacket pocket, Eugene opened the grate again and scowled at his wheelchair, a mere four feet away, but a distance that seemed insurmountable from his perch in the incinerator. Well this is going to be as difficult as hell.

Days passed. Every morning, and every time he felt like crawling back into the incinerator, Eugene would pull out the note and read it, to remind himself of why he had to keep living. He had to, if not for himself, then for Vincent. Every day he put a mark on the old-fashioned wall calendar he'd bought, counting down until Vincent's return. He found himself drawn towards the cigarettes and alcohol he had given up (for Vincent, a part of his mind reminded him), but refused to give into temptation. He read more, and took up the violin through online courses.

Days turned into weeks, and Eugene became restless. At times he longed to go back to the incinerator, but he did not. For Vincent, he reminded himself, to keep Vincent's heart beating. He will not die, not because of me.

At times he dreamed about Vincent's return. Will he be the same, will he still love me? How could he? I'm useless, stuck in this damned wheelchair. For the first time in his life, Eugene had ambition: he would become useful. He would prove his worth, to himself, and to Vincent.

First, he went back to his hidden medical records and found out more about his condition. He had not before, because, to him, he was paralyzed, his life as a star swimmer was over, and that was it. Why would the specifics have mattered, if he was damned anyway? But now it mattered. Was this as permanent as he had been told? Could he do more than sit around and pine for someone not even on the planet? It turned out he could. While there was a 99% chance his state would never improve, that meant there was still that one percent, and he clung to that. There was a 99% chance that Vincent would die two years ago, but his heart still beats. Eugene's own heart clenched. At least, I hope it does.

Two months, one week, and three days after Vincent left the earth (not for forever, he reminded himself) Eugene finally got back in the water. It took a while to get used to swimming without the use of his legs, but he did it. Sometimes, while he was swimming in their endless pool, he thought he could feel his legs. It was only every now and then, as a brief flash of sensation, but it gave him hope.

Weeks turned into months, and soon Vincent's journey was half-way over. Only six more months to go, he thought bitterly. He still needed to read the note every day, and he still occasionally craved for everything to end, but he resisted. He would make Vincent as proud of him as he was of Vincent.

Soon the date of Vincent's return was fast approaching, and Eugene felt disappointed in his own progress. While he regained feeling in his legs more frequently and for longer stretches of time, he wanted to walk, no, run, and greet Vincent when he entered their door.

It was the day at last. Eugene crawled up the stairs (if I can do it once for him, I can do it again) in a desperate attempt to see Vincent that much sooner. He wished he could have gone to the base and met him on the landing pad, but he knew that it would be far too suspicious. He hauled himself onto a chair; to where he could see anyone entering before they turned and saw him.

And then the door opened, and his beautiful, weary astronaut was home at last. Eugene examined him critically. He looked tired, exhausted, really, as if every breath might be his last. Eugene remembered with a pang that it very well could be. Vincent's shoulders were hunched as if he was already preparing himself for disappointment, for finding that his note had not been enough. Unable to stand his friend and love's defeated stance, Eugene drawled out, "Welcome home, honey. I've made supper."

Vincent's head shot up, and the grin that Eugene adored so much appeared on his face. He stepped forward, saying, "Eugene! You're—"

"Alive, sober, healthy (from the waist up), and stuck in this chair. Help me up, would you? I want to sit on the couch. With you. And then we can talk about why I'm still here, and what we are now. Got it?"

Vincent's grin got wider, if such a thing was possible, and he laughed, a beautiful sound, saying, "got it."

They had a bit of an awkward time trying to move Eugene to the couch, since his wheelchair was downstairs and Vincent not at his strongest, but they managed to collapse onto the couch, and Eugene snaked an arm around his astronaut before he tried to move away.

"I've missed you," said Eugene as he pretended to absent-mindedly hold Vincent's wrist while actually taking his pulse. Still high, but steady. Good.

"I've missed you too," responded Vincent, seemingly not noticing the taking of his pulse.

"Do you love me, still?" questioned Eugene. "As I love you?"

"Yes," breathed Vincent, "I love you as much and more. Every day I woke up wondering if you still lived, and every time my heart beat I wondered if yours still did. I had never wanted to be on the earth more than when I had to leave it, leave you. I no longer longed for the universe; I just wanted to be home, here, with you."

"I feel the same. I stayed for you, didn't I? I climbed out of the incinerator. I love you, and I will continue to love you, unless you do something stupid and die on me. Then I'll hate you. Got it?"

"Got it. As long as you promise not to die on me either." said Vincent, grinning.

"Deal," said Eugene, and they sealed it with a kiss.