Davy dropped. He appeared to be on the floor. Or, at least, that was the only place he could have dropped and felt something hard beneath him, if not the ceiling. He could be on the ceiling, at that. But he had dropped when he'd heard something. A much louder cry for help. It was definitely for help, but- He shook his head to clear the pain that had entered when the word pounded his ears. The word wasn't "help," it was "Davy." With that realization, the room accelerated. It felt like he was in the Tube and this room was a car and he was zooming away from whoever had said his name. In panic, he tried to organize his limbs so he could crawl to the door and get off of this fast train taking him away from whomever needed him. Whomever he needed.

The moment he found his hand in order to lift it and drag himself toward the door, it filled with searing pain. He recoiled and stopped his efforts, gasping. He opened his eyes and attempted to make sense of the room again. It had all blurred into nearly a single color, maybe because of how fast it was going. It felt suddenly vast, though. And cold. It made him want to curl up in a corner and never come out.

Wait. He was getting so far from his friends. He had to go back...

No. His heart tripped up to speed. Just thinking about it was... No, he couldn't go back. He couldn't risk what he knew he would find he-

Using the anger to firm his resolve, he concentrated hard on, not the dizziness or the color or the floating feel preventing him from feeling solid and capable or the dread at the thought of what he was about to do, but the action itself and how necessary it was, lest he be lost forever.

He leaped, all at once, to his feet. Pain like a bolt of lightning shot through his body, causing him to cry out and fall to the ground, grabbing at himself, pulling himself tighter to protect himself, still screaming in agony.

The worst pain of his life ebbed, Mike's blue terror passed him again, and Micky's voice saying his name faded from behind the door. He was leaving them far behind.

He didn't move, afraid to even twitch. He only breathed and looked about him. With the fear, the room around him was blessedly clear. He could see every, empty detail. He was far away now. He would never find what was so dreadful.

He was back in the soft bed, and he found he could, with this agreement, carefully stretch out and release.

He hated it, but he understood.

He got it.

~M~

Mike spared a look at the door. "Davy's figuring it out." He saw the moisture on the window and watched the sweat trail down skin again, the clicking of the woman's heels retreating. He paused in thought and imagined he could discern the look of attentiveness on Micky's face. "I suppose Peter's next," he drawled.

He got no response from Micky, but a feeling of hesitation in the air. He dropped his eyelids lower and turned Micky around. The drummer looked at him, and his face was finally devoid of obnoxious emotion. There was blank confusion now.

"Who's Peter?"

~M~

Peter, defined suddenly by feeling the shock of wind through the Lifeless air, took a breath.

~M~

Mike, despite himself, caught his breath. "Who... Who's Peter?" he repeated. Micky, again, frustratingly, said nothing. "You know P-" He cut himself off, angry. Of course he knew Peter. That's why he was acting this way. He turned Micky around and went to unlock his cuffs.

"No!" Micky jerked away, snapping back from what Mike had almost gotten him to understand.

Mike caught himself as the floor jerked underneath him. "I've got to help, Mike, I've got to- You've got to help! Come on!" As Micky's pleas grew, so did the trembling of the ground. The whole room was reacting. "Shot- it's- Help! Mike, this is terrible!"

"What's terrible?" Mike challenged calmly.

"Someone- shot!" A lamp fell.

"Who?"

Micky looked at him in panic. The room shook again and Mike grabbed Micky for support and to look straight in his eyes, to find something in there. "Why can't you remember?" he asked quietly, mostly confusion himself, now. "Why can't you understand what happened?"

In answer, Micky asked, "Why can't you feel?"

Mike felt the question like a splash of ice water, and then it was just frustration at Micky. "I've gotten beyond it! I've escaped it!" With the force of this, the room went still.

Micky's voice suddenly fell on silence. "No. No, you don't know what happened! You would- You'd be trying to help. You'd be-"

"Frantic like you." Mike glared at him. "Well, I'm not. And I know what happened. I know what you're upset about. Do you? Do you even have a reason? Can you understand? Do you get it?"

Micky looked stricken and confused. "I- I..." It made him even more panicked not to remember. The room, which had gone completely still and silent and stable, began again to vibrate, as if there was something underneath that stillness. Then, the room toppled them both to the ground. Everything else stayed where it was. Nothing crashed. Everything was rather quiet. That was when it struck Mike. Micky could hardly use words to describe it if he didn't know why. That's why the room was describing it.

He only went back to his tired-out, but no less emphatic, assertion. "I've got to help!"

"You can't help!" Mike yelled, shaking him.

A noise came from the room. A second later, Mike couldn't remember what it had been. A shout, a groan, a sob, a scream. Mike doubted Micky remembered it either, but he heard it. "Davy!" he yelled. "Davy, are you okay? We've got to help!"

~M~

Peter was finally able to stand, pressed on by the strong wind crying for help. Another door had appeared.

~M~

Micky collapsed long before he reached the door. Mike had been unable to stop him, but the pain he was dissolving into did. It made him more scared, and the more scared he got, the more painful it felt. No, not just scared. It was desperation. Desperation verging on hopelessness. No. Not hopeless. Never hopeless. If he could only help-

~M~

Just as Micky collapsed, Mike pulled his hands away, as if burned. As soon as he let go, a coldness washed over him from head to foot. All of this shaking and yelling and trying to immobilize Micky had brought back a memory. He remembered why Micky was yelling. He remembered doing so himself. He remembered the hopelessness he had arrived at after all of that pain. Yes, he had the memory of he himself curling up on the floor just like that, without the handcuffs. He remembered how very much it hurt and was astonished. He couldn't believe now that he'd been so crippled.

So crippled. So... disgusting. It filled him with disgust now, especially at the writhing form on the ground in front of him. Because he was devoid of the pain now. It was so thoroughly gone, he could not recognize any of himself in that anymore. In that-

"Mike!" Micky whispered, strained. "Help m- get over-" His whole body jerked. "There."

Mike watched him try to fight the crushing agony, still trying, through it all, ignoring it all, to drag himself to the door. "You won't find him," Mike informed. Davy was far away now. "He's not helping. None of us are. It's too late."

"No!" Micky keened. "You're wr- wrong!"

Mike sneered to himself, and, several moments later, stepped over Micky. "I'll show you."

Micky's eyes snapped open, in some semblance of hope. "Open-" he managed.

"Yes. You'll understand yet."

He took one last look at the tears smudging the floor beneath Micky's pale cheek and turned to the door. It was hard to open. He knew it would be. Davy was far away. Micky was gasping in pain and anticipation behind him. Too far, though he thought he could hear a distant scream of "no!" at the realization that they were trying to open the door and might come near. But he was too far, so when Mike opened the door, there was only white. Contempt. Disgust.

And Peter.

~M~

Peter first saw Micky's white face, drained of blood in shock and pain. He knew Micky was what got the door open. But Mike was there, at the door. He saw him look around. He saw his eyes rest on him.

He could see Micky on the floor, who was looking right through him as if he wasn't there. And that scared him.

He could see Davy if he looked behind him, in a room falling apart around him, far away. And that made him feel alone.

He could see Mike looking straight at him, even saying his name, just once, in the most hollow voice that Peter had ever heard. And that made him feel dead.

Then, instead of the door, a spot of color placed in the blank white vastness, it switched. The vacuum that was Mike was so powerful, all of this whiteness was sucked into him. All of the wind came along. All of Peter too.

~M~

When Mike absorbed the emptiness, Peter had nowhere to exist anymore, not even in the nothing. He was deposited back into the black and white.

Newspaper.

Peter looked back down at the obituary he had just read.

A/N: The title and the quote in the teaser come from Todd May's philosophy book "Death."