So... here I am, yet again. Once again it is a guy/guy fic (who knew, right?). At any rate, this one isn't a oneshot. I'm not really sure how long it's gonna be... I'll try to be consistent with updates, but I'm not going to promise you anything. Any reviews will be answered at the end of the following chapter. You want a private response, private message me rather than the regular review. :) Well, that's everything I suppose. For now.

Kiyoshi'sGirl64 and Kiyoshi


Fuck. It didn't work. I'm not dead. I'm such a failure I can't even manage to kill myself. I drag myself out of the hospital bed… and I leave my body behind. Maybe I'm not as much of a failure as I thought. The beep beep beep of the machine switches to one high, monotonous sound. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

"Nurse!" my mother shrieks. "Nurse!"

"Flat line!" a nurse shouts. "Get the crash cart!"

I watch as they shock me once… twice… three times… four… each time, I feel a slight electrical shock and I feel a stupid urge to go back into my body. But I don't want to. I want to be dead. The doctor is there too by the time they give up. He sighs and admits defeat. "Time of death, 8:12 p.m., August 2, 2011."

"No!" my mother cries. "Not my boy!" Like she cares. She was never home anyway. And when she was, the only thing she did was shout at me for this and that and the other thing. Screw her. Now where the hell am I? I mean, I'm in the hospital, but what fricking plane of existence am I in? I'm dead, but I'm still in the same place.

"You're undead."

"What?" I spin around. This kid is leaning against the doorframe. He's several inches taller than me and several years older than me, probably nineteen.

"You're undead," he repeats as a nurse walks through him. He doesn't even notice. "As in, you're dead, but you haven't passed into the realm of the dead yet."

"How do you know this isn't the realm of the dead?"

He shrugs. "I've been here a while. Enough people die in a hospital for me to be fairly certain that whatever's happened to us isn't the norm. Actually, you're the first who hasn't disappeared off into dreamland, or wherever it is they go."

"And I care why?"

He shrugs again. "Maybe you don't, I don't know. I just come to wherever someone's monitor is going off, thinking maybe someone'll join me."

"That's sick," I snap.

He grins, looking sadistic. "Maybe. But it's not like I can change it one way or another. I'm dead. I have no control over anything."

"And how did you die?" I demand. Because I care. Bastard just seems like he wants to talk about it. Maybe he'll quit irritating me.

He grins. "Same way you did. Sort of. You went the glitzy, showy route, jumping in front of that car. I went the easy way, took about a million sleeping pills." He grins. He doesn't look too disappointed that he's dead either. "Bastards pumped my stomach, but it was too late. I got out." He thinks a moment then tacks on at the end, "Sort of. Still stuck in this hellhole, though."

"Can't you leave?" I ask.

He looks at me like I'm stupid. "Duh. By hellhole I didn't mean the hospital. I meant the here. Earth. Where real people live. The fucking hellhole that made me kill myself in the first place." He grins. He doesn't seem too disappointed.

"When'd you die?" Do I care? No.

He makes a face that clearly says he doesn't care. "Six, seven years ago."

"How old are you?"

His eyes glint mischievously. "Then or now?"

"Does it even fricking matter?" I demand.

He laughs. "I was nineteen. I fucked my life up, with a grand amount of help from my father, and decided it was all just a pain in the ass. So I killed myself." He laughs again, and it almost seems happy. Almost. Bastard. "Suicide's a mortal sin, right? So maybe that's why I'm stuck here. I killed myself so God sent me to my own fucking hell."

"You saying only suicides are walking around as undeads?"

He rolls his eyes. "I was kidding, Seth Walker." How the fuck does he know my name? "You're not the first suicide they haven't been able to save since I got here. But you're still the first one who's stayed."

"How the hell do you know my name?" I demand.

He stifles a laugh at my anger. If I am stuck here with this guy, I am going to kill myself. Again. Aw, screw that. He said I could leave the hospital, just not the planet. "It's on your chart, kid. The doctors were saying it all over the place the last couple days. I hear suicide in the ICU—that's where I hang out, more likely for people to die—and I chill near that person's room for the most part. I've been waiting for you to die for nearly forty eight hours. Took you long enough to kick the bucket."

"You're sick."

"Maybe." He flashes his teeth. "What's it to you?"

I turn as one of the nurses pulls my mother away from my side. Well sort of, since I'm really on the other side of the room. She puts her arm around my mother and leads her from the room. I go to follow them, telling Mr. Sick-o, "Nice meeting you. Hope I don't see you around."

And I can't leave the room. The door is open, but I can't walk through. "Okay." I turn around. "What the fuck did you do?"

He's sitting cross legged at the foot of the bed, grinning like a maniac. "I did nothing. It was days before I could leave the room I died in. It was more than three weeks before I could leave this floor. I had been dead an entire year before I could leave the hospital. I went out a few weeks ago, and I still can't go past city limits. It's like a seniority thing or something. He who has been dead longer shall have more freedom."

"So I'm fucking stuck here?"

"Yep. But look at the bright side." He jumps of the bed and pretty much floats over to me. "You have me to keep you company." If that's the bright side, I do not want to see the dark side of this situation. I glower. "Lighten up, kid," he says. "It's not as though you have anything to worry about. No more school, no one nagging you about anything, nothing. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want."

"Except for the fact that I can't leave this fucking room."

He shrugs and walks straight through the glass. "Sounds like a personal problem." He grins. "Hear that? Someone's dying three rooms over. I'd invite you to come but, you know…" Asshole. As he walks away, he calls, "My name's Brian by the way." Because I really give a fuck.

I sit down in the chair and watch as they remove my body and clean the room. I watch an old man take the room, get better and leave. I watch a woman doctor and a male nurse fuck each other on the bed before going back to work, even though she has a ring and he doesn't.

After several days—it might even be an entire friggin' week—Brian comes back. "Haven't left yet?" he teases.

"Haven't tried."

"Why not?"

"Why leave when the only thing I'd want to get away from is you?"

"That hurts, Seth, that really, really hurts." Out of the corner of my eyes I see him put a hand to his chest, as though I've mortally wounded him or something.

"Quit being such a freaking drama queen," I snap.

His eyes light up and he reaches up to pat my cheek. I pull away. "Queen," he says. "And having people call me that twenty four seven directly played into why I killed myself." Do I care? No. "Well, look me up when you figure out how to leave this room." No thank you.

It's another week, another body and another porno before the bastard comes back. "You really have no intention of leaving this room, do you?"


He frowns. "Guess I'll just have to hang out with you in here then."

I raise my eyebrows. "Spare me the pain. I'd rather be alive."


"Better harsh than irritating."

"Once again, you cut me to the bone." Why does he have to be so freaking dramatic all the time? But he gets up and leaves.

And he doesn't come back. It's nice, not having to worry about anyone. Just sitting in the chair, staring out the window or watching the people. So long as I don't need to interact with them. It's kind of weird when someone sits down on the chair before I have a chance to move… but whatever. It's better being dead and invisible that alive and invisible. At least now I have an excuse for why no one can see me. For why no one can hear me. For why I'm so alone…

It's nearly three months before I finally get bored with room 652. And the moment I leave, Brian ambushes me. "Good to see you out and about, kid," he says. "I was starting to worry about you. I thought I'd been locked up in here with a crazy."

"No," I respond. "That would be me."

"Sooooooo… what brings you out here on this fine day?" We pass a window. It's pouring down rain outside. "Or this not-so-fine day, as the case may be?"

"There is only so many times you can watch a doctor and a nurse fuck each other while people are dying in the next room before you decide it's time to leave."

"Oh yeah," he says as though something's just dawning on him. "You're in room 652. Haley and Edgar's love nest." His eyes are wide with a very wicked amusement. "Don't tell me you didn't like watching." I ignore him and head for the elevator. The bastard follows me. "Just admit it." The elevator takes us down to the lobby and I walk out the front doors. "Damn, that's not fair," he says. "How the hell'd you do that? It took me more than a year to leave the hospital."

I turn around and spit at him, "Then it would appear the movement factor has less to do with how long you've been dead and more on how much you want to get away."

"What the hell you trying to get away from all of a sudden."