Flat Line

People stared at him, pity in their eyes as he walked with one of his close friends as well as fellow band mate through the park, ice cream in hand and a red bandanna wrapped around his head. They didn't stare because he was a rock star, for he was, but they were staring because of an entirely different reason.

He had no hair on his head, or body. His body was frail, but he moved normally as if it was any other day. He was a terminally ill man, doomed to die within the next year, and there was nothing he could do to stop this death sentence.

They reached a bridge over a small stream, ignoring the onlookers, and the man asked to stop and look at the water. The other consented and they both watched the water flow towards them and under the bridge. They watched the fish follow the stream under the bridge, the ill man feeling as if he wanted to tip into the stream and follow them and never come back. Maybe then he could still stay alive and not have to live this torture.

"So," the man beside him asked in a hushed tone, tucking a piece of his braided hair behind his ear, "how long did they say?"

The ill man looked out into the water, not wanting to answer the loaded question. He was done with the cone, and didn't feel like eating the waxy ice cream holder. He handed it to his friend, who walked and tossed it in the trash can and walked back, waiting patiently for the answer.

He knew it must be hard to harbor an answer like that, even harder to admit it. Admitting it meant you had to face it, and he knew facing it would be hard for him, hard for everyone around him to see their family member and friend wither away.

He mumbled something the braided man didn't catch. "You were mumbling," he pointed out, insinuating that he didn't catch what he said.

The bandanna clad man sighed, grabbing at his bandanna in frustration. He did not want to utter the information again, but he knew he had to. Might as well get it out while he could. Someone besides his parents needed to know. "They said it's taken a turn for the worse. A month ago they estimated it would be a year. Now, they say it's closer than they originally thought."

"How close?" his friend uttered, a dab of fright in his voice. How short of a time will I be able to spend with him now?

"They were way off," he said lowly, elbows propped on the wooden railing. "When they said a year, they were kidding with me, teasing and taunting me. They now just told me that I've only got a month. A fucking month." Pain was evident in his voice, as he put his head in his hands.

His friend's brow furrowed in sorrow at the news, his heart hammering in his chest. A Month? He's only going to be alive a month? A sinking feeling started coming up in his chest, as he stared at his ill friend. The ill man looked up to see if he was going to reply any to what he just said, and saw the look on his face and knew that was enough of an answer.

The ill man tried to comfort him as best as he could. "I'm alive now though. Nothing's going to change me being alive at this moment, okay Kai?"

The braided man bit his tongue, preventing what he wanted to reply to spill out and ruin it. They were both thinking it though. It's not going to be that way a month from now. He knew he had to spend as much time with him as he could. Kai knew that he also had to tell the others too. They had a right to know their friend wasn't going to be with them much longer.

_________________________________________~~~~

Blood count's a bitch. They stick you, and get whatever they need and leave. Radiation treatment's not too great either. Hospitals are a nuisance in itself. "I don't understand why they don't just let me stay at home," he said, annoyance in his tone. He rolled over and faced the wall. "I'm going to die in 16 days anyway, according to them."

The woman sitting in the chair next to his gurney had a stern, but yet frightened look on her face. "They could be wrong. They could find a cure and then you'll be-"

"What, mom? I'll be set free and magically cured?" he shook his head, spitting out the words like they were bad milk needing to be thrown out. He scoffed. "I doubt that'll happen."

The woman's stern demeanor crumbled, and tears were pooling in her eyes. "I was just trying to..." she couldn't finish her sentence and excused herself from the room, a sob breaking out before she reached the door.

His eyes softened when she left the room. He didn't mean to be so harsh with her. It was the truth after all. He sighed, and rolled back over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. She was only trying to help, trying to get his hopes up. Well his hopes were crushed once the doctor uttered those words. Those vile, despicable words that said that there was no hope and that there was only a month left before he kicked the bucket.

Why did this have to happen to him? Him of all people, why did he have to get this disease? This un-curable, horrible disease that left red patches all over him and pinpricks every few weeks? Days, he corrected mentally. It was a royal countdown to his demise, and he hated it. Hate, hate, hated it.

The pricks were coming faster, the blood count and transfusions not lasting as long as they usually did. He wanted to get up and be able to walk around like he did just two weeks earlier with Kai. Be able to see the world before he died. Now all he could see was as far out the window as his eyesight could take him.

A man shuffled into the room at a quick pace, stopping at the edge of the gurney. "What did you do to her? What did you say to make her cry like that? You know she's only trying to help you!" he scolded, giving a light tap to his hand. A harder one would've given a bruise, and the man knew that.

"I'm sorry Dad. I was telling her the truth. I didn't mean for it to make her cry though," he explained, getting quieter and more guilt-ridden on the last sentence. He looked away from his father, not wanting to make eye contact with him right then. He was worried that his father would run out crying too.

But he didn't.

His father's voice took on a softer, understanding tone when he said, "Son, you know how sensitive your mom is about this. She's about to lose a son, as am I. It's hard on both of us, but especially her because she's so close to you." His voice was faltering, though he tried to not show it. "We're about to lose our youngest," he continued, his voice sounding tired, "I'm trying to be strong for your mother, but as you can see, I'm crumbling under the weight of losing you." He held his son's hand, squeezing it kindly when he said that he was crumbling, trying to fight back the tears threatening to come.

The bald headed man smiled kindly, squeezing back. He decided that he should be a little more optimistic about this, otherwise everyone else will crumble around him. Then he'll never be able to apologize when everyone's crying and he's sitting there alone, heart still beating, waiting for the knock of death on his door. "You will be. You can be the rock for her, even when you're crumbling down. You can still hold her and comfort her when I'm gone."

He smiled a small smile, a sad smile, and replied, "I will."

_________________________________________~~~~

The blonde rushed through the corridors, trying to remember exactly which room they said he was in. 2025? 2125? Man, this was confusing. Why didn't he write down the number like a normal human being? Because he's an idiot, that's why. He scolds himself silently as he walked around, trying not to think that today might be the day.

They said a few days earlier that he was getting more tired, and ate less, his appetite gone. It flew away with the wind. His parents also said that he would only stay awake ten minutes at a time to talk, and then would drift to sleep. He wanted to sleep all the time. Sleep, sleep, sleep.

The blonde was so absorbed in his thoughts that he bumped into someone coming out of a room. "Whoa, I'm sorry," he apologized, and realized he just about nearly ran over his dying friend's mother. He apologized again, and noticed a lot of people filing out of the room, close relatives, and friends alike. It was like a funeral procession, with how saddened their faces were. "Is..is he okay?" he asked worriedly, his face paling as his mind reeled with possible answers, the worst answers. Please. Please don't tell me I wasn't able to say goodbye. Please don't tell me he's dead.

"They said he's stable, but that he's not going to last much longer," his friend's father said quietly, his arms wrapped around his wife's shoulder in consolation. "We're all about to go eat in the cafeteria downstairs and come back up here. Would you like to come with us?"

His friends, as well as the family of his dying friend smiled slightly at him, and waited for his answer. He shook his head no, declining the offer. "I'm wanting to see him. Plus I've already eaten."

He nodded. "That's fine. I guess we'll all see you in a few minutes then, Reita." The blonde nodded, and the group walked in the direction of the elevators, his friends smiling at him and patting him on the back before going to eat in the cafeteria a few flights down.

He looked into the practically empty room, hesitant to go in. His concern for his friend won him over, and his legs carried him into the room, seeing his friend's sleeping form in the bed. The man laying in the bed barely looked like his friend anymore. His eyes were sunken in, and his skin was blotchy, like he got allergic to something, though Reita knew it wasn't allergies that made it that way. His arms laid down by his side, his breathing slow and steady. Reita could hear him wheezing a tad, which worried him.

He looked like death.

Reita sat in the chair close to the gurney, angled toward his friend's upper area. Probably so anyone who was sitting there could talk to him. He grabbed his friend's hand, hoping this would wake him up long enough for him to talk to him before he went back to sleep again.

His eye's barely opened, though he could see who was sitting in the chair. "Hey, Reita. About time you showed up," his friend joked lightly, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes closing again.

Reita smiled. "I'm here," he replied. "Are you doing okay?"

"No, 'm not" he replied shortly, his voice scratchy.

"Is there anything I can do to ease the pain?" Reita asked, concern etched on his face.

His friend's face started to relax a little. So did his grip on Reita's hand.

Reita's eyes widened in alarm. He called out his friend's name, urging him to stay awake. "C'mon, stay awake. You've got to!" he said, tears starting to run down his cheeks. Like they were reaching for his friend, wanting him to stay awake as well. His friend's chest heaved it's last breath, and the heart monitor screamed, the screen showing a flat line.

"No," Reita gasped. "No, no, no!" his cheeks were wet, no dry spot anywhere. The nurses came into the room, unhooking him from the IVs. This can't be happening. It can't. He sobbed in the chair, wracking his brain for something to say. The lump in his throat wasn't helping either, but he managed.

"Goodbye, Takanori."