While the winter chill was already beginning to set in back home, the air in Florida was hot, humid, and suffocating. Matthew could barely breathe. Then again, that likely had little to do with the temperatures, and everything to do with the unfamiliar building looming in front of him.
Matthew had never feared hospitals. In fact, they fascinated him, which played a large part in his decision to work in one. Today was no different. As he walked inside, it was not the hospital that shot fear piercing through his heart. The familiar environment was actually comforting. What nearly knocked him to his knees was walking through the lobby, up to the front desk, and opening his mouth to say the words he had been dreading since he left his own hospital the night before.
"Hello. I'm, um, here to see someone?" he stuttered. The woman behind the desk tilted her head, waiting, and Matthew forced himself to continue. "Is… is Alfred F. Jones here?"
"You're not with the media, are you?" The woman sounded exhausted, as if she had asked the same question twenty times today. "If you're looking for pictures or an interview, forget it. Only family members are permitted to see him at the time."
"Oh, no! I'm not with the media." Matthew felt a pang of anger at the thought of anyone exploiting the situation, but he didn't allow it to show on his face. He pulled out his wallet and flashed his medical license. At that very moment, he was the picture of professionalism. It had been awhile since he felt that way. "My name is Matthew Williams. I'm his brother."
"Oh, alright." The woman nodded. "You've been cleared. Okay, you'll need to go down that hallway over there…"
It took a herculean effort to follow the set of instructions he was given. Matthew's heart pounded over each word, his mind spinning, his hands pulling at the sleeves of the same flannel shirt he wore yesterday. A moment later, Matthew was walking… he pretended he was going to work. It kept him from running out the door.
This hospital was smaller than his. It took Matthew only a handful of minutes to find the room that was supposedly Alfred's, marked 704. He froze in front of the door, took a long, cleansing breath, and entered.
"Alfred?" Matthew entered the room with his eyes cast down, and his breath caught when he finally, finally looked up. "Oh, Alfred…"
"Mattie, bro." Alfred sounded as if he attempted an exclamation, but it came out as more of a slur. He was sitting up in bed with the help of pillows, his arm in a sling and resting on his chest. His eyes appeared to be half-lidded and glazed over, but Matthew could not really be sure. The bruises and swelling made it nearly impossible to tell. "You heard, I guess."
"I did. I got on the first flight out." Matthew dared to step further into the room. He sat slowly, carefully on the end of Alfred's bed, just like he did with his patients. "How are you feeling?" He cringed almost as he was saying it. Matthew said that with all his patients, too. He wasn't sure how else to act. In a situation like this, what could he really say?
"They've got me on, like, horse tranquilizers or somethin,'" Alfred said, or, more realistically, slurred. "I'm floating."
"Morphine," Matthew mumbled to himself.
Alfred narrowed his swollen eyes. "Wha?"
"Nothing," said Matthew quickly. He looked up from his twisting hands to glance at Alfred again, and his stomach turned so violently he had no choice but to look away. It was so hard seeing Alfred like this – his strong, brave, indestructible brother, reduced to bruised, broken, and drugged on a hospital bed. More familiar words came before he could stop them. "Al, do you remember what happened at all? Why were you driving when you were so tired?"
Alfred did not seem to look at Matthew, but through him. There was a long pause before he spoke. "Arthur," he said finally. A small smile came across his puffy lips. "We fought… a while ago. Didn't know if he wanted to see me. But, it's been a week. I promised every week. Do I ever break promises?"
"Oh." Matthew could have guessed it was something like that. Still, his heart sunk to his stomach. That drive would have taken at least eighteen hours. If he was remembering correctly, Alfred's last game had been in Miami. That was only about five hours away. Matthew bit his lip. "No, you never break promises, Al."
"How is he?"
Matthew blinked, lost in thought. "Huh?"
"Arthur. Is he okay?"
"Oh," said Matthew again, lighter this time. He could not help but smile. Alfred was here, nearly incoherent and bedridden with injuries, yet he still managed to worry about someone else. It was just like him. "Yes, Arthur is just fine. He's… responding well to treatment." That wasn't exactly the truth, but the truth wouldn't be appropriate.
"That's great. Amazing." Alfred sighed, and then lifted his free hand unconsciously to his chest. It looked to be out of pain rather than longing. "Hey, Mattie? I hate to kick you out, since you just got here and all, but they gave me a ton of meds, and…"
"You're tired," Matthew finished. "I understand, Al. Don't worry about it. I'll come back in a couple hours."
Alfred smiled. "You're the best, bro," he said. Matthew smiled back.
"Of course I am." He shifted his weight, about to stand, when he felt something beneath him and reached a strange conclusion. Matthew stood and looked to Alfred in shock. "Oh, Alfred, I'm sorry! I've been sitting on your leg this whole time. Why didn't you say anything?"
"Huh?" Alfred looked confused. "No you haven't."
"Yes, I have. See, I was sitting right here." Matthew put his hand on Alfred's calve from atop the sheets. Alfred didn't even look down.
"Where?"
"Oh," Matthew breathed the word, lifting his hand away. The air turned to tar. Panic turned in his gut, in his mind, in his chest, everywhere, until it turned to cold, heavy devastation. Alfred couldn't feel his legs. He couldn't feel his legs, he was… Matthew shook his head and forced a smile. It was the morphine. It had to be. "Never mind, I was wrong. I'll see you later today. Get some rest."
Before Alfred could even respond, Matthew rushed out of the room and into the hall. He leaned against the white wall, hot from the sun pouring in from the window, covered his face with his hands, and tried to breathe. This was too much. It was all suddenly too much. He was at least a thousand miles from home, his patients were alone, and Alfred was hurt far worse than he thought he was. Could nothing ever be easy, or at least normal?
"Hey, are you doing alright?" came a man's deep voice. Matthew got the strange feeling he had heard it before. He opened his eyes to see a tanned, heavyset man standing before him. His black dreadlocks were tied back, his stomach poked out from his unbuttoned lab coat, and his warm smile carried to his deep brown eyes. Matthew liked him immediately. He looked trustworthy.
"Yes, yes," said Matthew. "I'm just… worried. My brother is in there."
The man nodded. "Of course." He glanced at the room number and raised an eyebrow. "That's Alfred Jones's room. Are you Matthew?"
"I am." Matthew suddenly realized where he had heard that voice before.
"I see." The man extended a large hand, which Matthew shook. "I've been looking for you. I'm Dr. Carlos Machado, but you can call me Carlos. I believe we spoke on the phone?"
"We did."
Carlos whistled. "Man, you look just like him! When I was coming around the corner, I nearly had a fit. I thought you were Alfred."
"Ah." Matthew could not say that was the first time someone had made the mistake. He didn't particularly mind, either. It definitely wasn't an insult. Then again, he really doubted anyone would mistake him for Alfred now. Matthew adverted his eyes and whispered. "Must have been quite the accident."
Carlos nodded solemnly. "Unfortunately. To my knowledge, he drifted into the other lane and had a head-on with semi-truck. To be real honest, I'm surprised he's not worse off."
Matthew refused to picture it. Really, he couldn't. Instead he thought back to Alfred in his current state, back to the last few moments, and the words came automatically. "What are his injuries? He looks really hurt."
"As typical for a car wreck, Alfred has quite a few scrapes and bruises, of course. As for the more serious ones, he dislocated his shoulder, fractured his pelvis, and cracked a few ribs." Carlos took a long, deep breath. "What we're most concerned about is the damage to his spinal cord."
Matthew swallowed hard. He knew it. "Alfred can't feel his legs," he said before he thought about it.
A pause. "This is the part I hate." Carlos leaned against the wall on the opposite end of the hall, arms crossed and head bowed. "Look, Matthew. You seem like a competent, put together young man, so I'm not going to sugarcoat things with you. I severely doubt Alfred will ever walk again, and he definitely won't be playing any sports."
This wasn't real. This was a nightmare; it had to be. Matthew closed his eyes and waited to wake up. But when he pried his eyes open, he was still in this hospital, still hearing these horrible words, still being looked at with pained sympathy. This was real. This horrifically unfair reality was, in fact, reality.
"Oh. Oh my god." Tears rose to Matthew's eyes just as his vision tunneled. He tried to wipe them away, but they just kept coming, and he gave up. "Are you sure? I mean, he's…" He's supposed to be indestructible. Matthew tried to breathe, even though it was in vain. "This will kill him," he finished in a whisper.
"I know how hard this is to hear." Carlos sounded sympathetic, but Matthew felt a pang of misdirected anger. What the hell did he know? Carlos was walking.
Matthew managed to hide the surge of emotion. "Does he know?"
Carlos shook his head. "No. He's too heavily medicated to comprehend that kind of information right now. We plan to give him a rundown about a week from now."
Matthew nodded, feeling sick. This was the kind of thing that made him grateful he worked in psychiatrics. It wasn't easy telling Alfred that Arthur might beyond help, or Yao that Ivan had a possibility of being a sociopath, of course. He didn't love that he diagnosed things like borderline personality disorder and manic depression on a daily basis either. But telling someone they would never walk again? Matthew couldn't fathom it.
"Where are you from, Matthew?"
Matthew blinked away his thoughts at the sound of Carlos's voice. "I live in New York, in the outskirts of the city."
"That's a ways away," said Carlos. "And I understand you're a doctor yourself?"
"Yes, a psychiatrist. I work in inpatient."
Carlos's eyes widened as he nodded. "Wow. That's a tough department. Wonderful, but tough. I commend you." He paused. "You had to leave pretty abruptly, I bet."
Matthew nodded, at least part of him wondering where this was going. "I left the morning after I got the call. I didn't even have time to tell my patients." Except one, he neglected to say.
Carlos exhaled, eyes narrowed, almost as if he was in awe. "Wow. You must be in a tremendous amount of stress, my brother." He clapped Matthew on the shoulder. "Us doctors wear ourselves pretty thin, don't we? Anything for the patient, we always say. Anything for the patient."
Matthew had never resonated with a statement more. "Of course," he said. "I have to wonder how mine are doing."
"I bet." Carlos sighed, shook his head. "Honestly, Matthew, I don't think you should even be here."
"What?" Matthew felt another surge of anger. It took a good amount of will power not to scream at the man, or at least rip away from his grip. "Alfred is my brother!"
"I know, I know. I'm not saying you did the wrong thing by coming," said Carlos evenly. "Alfred is going to need a lot of support, of course. But he's not the only one."
Matthew sniffed. "What do you mean?"
"This is not meant to be offensive to you, Matthew, but if you're worried about Alfred, about your patients, about being away from your practice, all at the same time… I don't believe you'll be the best means of support right now. That's through no fault of your own."
Despite that last sentence, Matthew felt a hummingbird of guilt zing through his chest, nearly powerful enough to knock him from his feet. He steadied himself against the wall. "Doesn't Alfred need me?"
"Well, of course. My point still stands." Carlos gave a small, sad smile. "Now, I don't know Alfred personally just yet, but I've heard plenty about him. Do you really think he'd want his brother missing work to take care of him?"
Matthew opened his mouth to protest, but bowed his head instead. "No, not really," he said towards the ground.
"Brothers can be stubborn that way." Carlos nearly laughed. "Look, Matthew. What I'd advise you to do is this. Stay a couple days, then go home and take the rest of the week for yourself. I can assure you Alfred is in fine hands. Do you have anyone you can confide in about this? Family, friends, maybe a significant other?"
Matthew had to stop and think for a moment. Alfred, his brother and usual confidant, was here. His parents were not a big part of his life. The majority of his friends were more business acquaintances than anything, and he wasn't dating anyone. Matthew was actually… shockingly alone, now that he really thought about it. "Well…"
He stopped speaking when a name slammed into him like a train: Gilbert. He wasn't family, and the word 'friend' just… felt wrong, at this point. Gilbert was in a category of his own.
"Yes, I have… someone," said Matthew finally. He was able to smile then. He wondered how Gilbert would react to Matthew calling him his 'someone.'
"That's wonderful. And please, don't worry. Alfred is well taken care of." Carlos smiled again. "Besides, by what he keeps mumbling about, I'm fairly certain he has a special someone of his own on the way."
Arthur, Matthew thought immediately. He didn't have to heart to say Alfred's 'special someone' wasn't going to be 'on his way' anywhere any time soon. While Arthur had made considerable progress, he wouldn't even be ready to leave the hospital for at least another month or so, much less travel any long distance.
Carlos glanced down at his watch, and then gave Matthew a heavy pat on the arm that was likely meant to be softer than it was. Matthew winced. "I have to get going. We'll be in touch."
After the two men exchanged business cards, Carlos was rushing down the hall, and Matthew was, again, alone. He opened Alfred's door a crack, peaked in, and saw that he was sleeping. Matthew exhaled in relief before shutting the door again. The longer Alfred slept, the longer he would be allowed to exist in blissful ignorance. As selfish – and, if Matthew was going to be completely honest with himself, downright awful – as it was, he was at least somewhat thankful he wouldn't be around when Alfred got the news.
Then there was nothing left to do. Unwilling to worry, grieve, or bat away misplaced guilt a second longer, Matthew did the only thing he could muster the energy for – he found a place to sit down and checked his work email.
Everything was falling apart, but he would be damned if he couldn't hold at least one thing together.
.
Gilbert stared at the white walls of his room, which had become so silent he could nearly hear his heart beating. It had been an excruciatingly quiet couple of days. It was not just him, either. Ivan never left his room, now that his garden was torn apart for… some reason. Arthur spent the majority of his time staring out the window at the wreckage. Mathias, to Gilbert's knowledge, had checked out. All that was left was silence.
Matthew's replacement wasn't exactly helping, either. Dr. Hassan was a tiny, frail Middle Eastern man, who wore eyeliner and a flat expression consistently. After asking around, Gilbert learned he usually worked in outpatient, specifically grief counseling, in an office right down the hall.
Half the time Gilbert forgot Dr. Hassan – or Gupta, according to his name pin – was even there. Five days and he probably heard him speak twice, one of those times being an absurdly short therapy session in which Gilbert was only asked if his medication was giving him any side effects. The whole thing was extremely impersonal, and it only made Gilbert realize how thankful he truly was for Matthew. Three days without him felt like a decade.
Either way, life went on. Gilbert had to find a way to pass the time somehow. The flute he now considered his was under lock and key, so while the hours ticked by as slowly as tar, Gilbert wrote. He wrote so much he made a mental note to ask Matthew for a new journal when he got back.
Gilbert wasn't even sure what he filled the blank pages with. Half the time it was little more than word vomit, a dump of everything and anything that happened to cross his mind. Other times he wrote down his dreams from the night before, his memories from a decade before, what he was wishing for at the moment. He wrote about the other patients, his friends, his grandfather, his brother. Of course he wrote about Matthew. While he was away, this was Gilbert's therapy.
This time, Gilbert had no intention to show these words to anyone. This torn up, beat up, scribbly train wreck of a journal was one of the few things he could really call his own. He even stuffed it under his mattress when he wasn't using it, just in case. The King would never look there.
The silence ended exactly how it started – with a knock at Gilbert's door, although this time it came in the afternoon rather than the dead of night.
Gilbert went to the door after he shoved his journal in its hiding spot, blinking away his trance, and opened it to find Matthew standing there. The sight was identical to what it was three days ago, except Matthew was not tearing up this time. Instead he looked exhausted, dark circles smudged under his eyes, and his hair askew. His familiar flannel seemed looser on him.
"Mattie," said Gilbert. He wanted to reach out and embrace him, but he didn't want to push his luck. "You're back already?"
Through some miracle, Matthew smiled. "Yes. Well, sort of. This is technically still one of my personal days."
Gilbert scoffed. "You have the day off, and you come into work anyway. That's my Matthew, all right."
Matthew arched an eyebrow. "Oh, so I'm your Matthew now?"
"Oh, uh, what I meant is…"
"Calm down, Gil. I knew what you meant." Matthew let out a tiny laugh, and Gilbert was shocked how deeply the simple sound struck him. After five days in this silent, lonely hellhole, that laugh was the rainbow after the rain.
"Alright." Gilbert leaned against the doorframe, his grin falling when he remembered why he was gone in the first place. "Hey, how's your brother doing?"
Matthew's face abruptly fell, and Gilbert almost regretted asking. It was as if he had forgotten. "He's…" Matthew sighed, a heavy, weighted, trembling sound that churned Gilbert's stomach. "Can I come in?"
"Yeah, of course." Gilbert ushered Matthew in and shut the door behind him. Matthew sat next to Gilbert on his bed, just as he always did, but this felt different, somehow. Gilbert's heart was beating too fast. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Alfred…" Matthew scoffed loudly, threw up his hands, and blurted, "Alfred is paralyzed, Gilbert."
"What?" Faint anxiety turned to all-consuming shock. "Holy shit! Are you sure?"
"Yes. I mean, I think. The doctor was talking about his spinal cord, and I just… I don't know. They haven't even told him yet. He's on too many painkillers, or something. God… I just don't know, I don't know…"
"Okay, okay. It's okay." Gilbert stumbled through the words, because they obviously were not true. This wasn't okay; it was catastrophic. If it were Ludwig… Gilbert forced himself to speak. "How are you, uh, feeling?" A wave of déjà-vu hit, but he ignored it.
"Wow," said Matthew quietly, shaking his head. "It's like you're the therapist now, Gil. I should honestly be fired."
"No," said Gilbert immediately, almost panicked. At a loss of what else to do, he reached out and patted Matthew clumsily on the shoulder. "No… no, you don't. Really." He wasn't sure what else he could say.
In Gilbert's mind, firing Matthew for being a bad therapist would be like excommunicating Mother Theresa for being a harlot.
"Well, thanks." Matthew leant closer to Gilbert, perhaps unconsciously, and quickly changed the subject. "How have things been around here?"
Gilbert knew immediately that Matthew was trying to take the focus off himself, as he always did. It seemed premature, but Gilbert figured after all Matthew had been through, he owed him that much. If he didn't want to talk about it, they wouldn't.
"Real quiet," he said. "Arthur and Ivan are zombies now, don't you know?"
"Unfortunately." Matthew sighed, shrugged, a certain look of defeat on his face that Gilbert had never seen there. It made him uncomfortable. "I'm not surprised, really. Ivan and Yao are… fighting," he said rather matter-of-factly, as if it was least of this worries despite the situation's apparent magnitude.
"Oh." Gilbert decided not to push for details. "What about Arthur?"
"He and Alfred were fighting too, apparently." Again, very matter-of-fact.
"Oh." Gilbert wondered why everyone was suddenly fighting, but again, he decided against pushing it. If anything, he was grateful that he and Matthew were getting along. "Does he know…"
"No." Matthew laughed in the same short, humorless, almost sad way that was quickly becoming a habit of his. "I'll have to tell him eventually, of course. Just… not now. I can't do it right now."
For once, Gilbert noticed, Matthew was making a decision for his own benefit. He didn't even put himself down for it. Gilbert breathed in inaudible sigh of relief. "Yeah, I get you." Matthew didn't respond or even look up, so Gilbert scrambled for a way to fill the silence. "Why'd you come in today, anyway?"
Matthew smirked. "Do you want the professional answer, or the truthful one?"
"Hmm… how about both? Amuse me."
There was that laugh again. It was a little lighter this time. "Well, the professional answer is that I need to check in with Gupta and see how all of my patients are doing." Matthew shrugged. "The truth is that I wanted to see you, Gilbert. Just you."
"For real?" Gilbert tried not to sound as flustered as he felt. He failed spectacularly when he leant back on his hands and, without thinking, blurted, "I've been wanting to see you too. I wrote about it in my diary." He flushed and rushed into a rather pathetic cover-up. "I mean, uh, my journal, that you gave me. I think I might need another one soon. I wrote a lot. About you." Dammit. Gilbert figured he better just stop talking.
A pause. Then, after a horrifically tense second that could have lasted a year, Matthew broke out into a peel of laughter that contained neither sadness nor dejection. "I have extras in my office. I'll make sure to get you one," he forced out in the midst of it.
"Thanks," muttered Gilbert, his face burning.
"I should be thanking you," said Matthew. He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes, still visibly fighting off giggles. Gilbert's heart skipped a hard beat. "Really, Gil. I needed that." He smiled, and it looked effortless this time. "You always manage to cheer me up."
At that, Gilbert felt almost absurdly proud. He tried not to let it show on his face. "Well, I guess I'm just hilarious."
"Yes, but it's not just that. It's…" Matthew trailed off with a sigh, and then changed the subject. "I think I'm going to need a lot of cheering up for awhile. Things are going to get chaotic again."
He sounded almost apologetic, and Gilbert understood immediately – Matthew had entirely too much to deal with, and he would not have much time for him. It was understandable, of course, but the thought felt like a punch to the stomach.
Gilbert ignored it. Unsure what else to do, he reached across the space between them, grabbed Matthew's hand, and poured his heart out. "I'll always be here to cheer you up, Matthew," he said. Matthew stared at him intently, his mouth slightly agape. "No matter what happens, I'll be here. I don't care how crazy things gets." Gilbert squeezed his hand as tightly as he could. "I promise."
"Thank you." Tears welled up in Matthew's eyes, and then, like the clouds breaking, he smiled. It wasn't even a surprise when Matthew embraced him. It felt natural, just like it did to hold him for god knows how long. Gilbert felt as if he would never let him go.
But about a week later, after a loud commotion that woke Gilbert up in the middle of the night, Ivan's bedroom window was broken, and Arthur was gone.
Matthew was gone just as quickly.
To be continued...
