It should be perfect. A candle lit bath with the soft buzz of the old CD player in the corner, classical music, his favourite of course, after the jazz. The whole room smells gorgeous, filled with the misty vapour of that expensive bath stuff Howard used to chastise Vince for even buying, even if he did steal a bit of it for himself on the sly. Should be and used to. Unneeded reminders, really, given the fact that Vince cannot rid himself of the guilt.
The flat has been completely empty for the past month and a half. Naboo said he had shaman business to attend to with Bollo, but there has not been a single postcard, letter, phone call, email or text checking up. Not that he needs checking up on.
The day he quit his job, also the day after the accident, he gets a couple of phone calls from his party friends, asking if he's going to come out sometime, and he considers it – really really does – because he'd quite like to lose himself in vodka and some nameless tart, but he can never bring himself to take up the offer because it was the partying that caused it – the accident – and that what it was. But at the same time it was all Vince's fault, that his frie- no, lover will never wake up.
It'd been one in the morning, or something equally ridiculous, and once again, he'd found himself blind drunk, and giggling, as his friends and some girl with quite nice hair bid their farewells and climbed into taxis. He'd rummaged in his pockets for some money to catch a lift home – even the night bus – but found nothing more than lint and a safety pin.
Without even thinking, he'd rung Howard, and stuttered out a request to be picked up, in between laughing after falling over his own feet. The phone had clicked off, as the man on the other end of the line said nothing, torn between anger and the reality of the mundane repetitiveness of the situation.
The journey from the pavement to getting in the car is fuzzy. Why should he even remember it? There was an argument in the car though. Hot, fierce words and anguish. He couldn't even reply. Too nauseous.
The next bit will stay with Vince forever – strangely clear amongst the intoxication. Tyres screeching and a short yell of surprise before the slick sound of flesh hitting metal and splatter of something against the crumpled dashboard.
He'd called out twice, voice hoarse and lungs crushed against the back of the seat, and was met with utter silence, before everything faded to static.
That was 92 and a half days ago. Ninety two and a half days of guilt and heartbreak for putting his beloved in a coma. Only a 50 chance of ever waking, said the sympathetic doctor in her perfectly starched uniform. Risk of memory loss. Might not remember anything at all.
If Howard ever wakes up, he deserves a new start. Someone better. That's what leads Vince to this, being submerged in the picture-perfect bathroom, and sobbing silently, pressing the kitchen knife against his wrist with increasing pressure.
Its not as though he hasn't prepared everything. There's even a letter, addressed to Howard, but its tucked away in a place so secret, he'll only ever find it if he fully regains his memory.
Vince hopes he doesn't.
...
Inside the hospital, amongst the lullabies of quiet, pitching beeps, the alarm signalling increased heart rate and brain activity screeches, and the man in the bed nearest the window awakens.
Fraff, first fic EVAR.
What can I say? I'm a bit of an angst slut.
Please please review?
Ève
xx