He rushed into the hospital doors, dodging snotty children and blood soaked bandaged victims. The ER held nothing for him, the pounding in his ears and blood led him totally out of it's reach. Mikhael's voice had sounded so fuckin' desperate, like nothing he had ever heard before.

And he can't remember why. Just has this raw desperate need to get to room 506. Fifth floor, fifth floor, fifth floor, damn slow elevator, fifth floor, fifth floor, come on you stupid fuckin' thing, move! And ding. And sixth door on the right, sixth door on the right and why can't he just remember.

He almost wants to start guessing to jog his memory, but all he can see are flashes of his room as he left it minutes ago, a phone hanging off the hook, music blasting, clothes asunder and some thing else... it nags. Left the front door open, shit, he'd catch hell for that later.

Outside, Skids is standing and talking to a nurse for all the world like a kicked puppy. Thank god, he's all right, Cya sighs to himself. Why did I think he wouldn't be? Didn't Mik say.....but again, there is no memory. Nothing to supply for the words, but only the raw aching tone.

The room calls to him again, dragging him inside, the numbers weaving in front of his eyes and draws him in. His way is blocked. Harley coming out, face drawn and gray. Skids throws an arm around him, taking him out of the way of the door. Harley burrows into Skids' arms like he belongs there, seeks refuge in the strength and begins to sob. They cry together. Cya wants to join, but feels that same deep ache that always pulls him from them in moments like these. He cannot share these emotional waves, can't push his blocks aside even when shit like this hits the fan.

Instead, he turns from them and barrels, finally, into the room and whatever it holds. There curtain around the bed and he can hear the hum of machinery behind it like some hideous experiment. A doctor is retreating behind it and sitting an uncomfortable looking hospital chair is Mikhael. The big Russian is leaned over, elbows on his knees and his head buried in wide hands. He looks up when Cyanide comes close, but his eyes are too blurred with tears to see properly.

"You stupid fuck." He's muttering, head in hands again. "It was just a stupid little fight. Oh, God. Damnit, damnit. I love you. You're my bitchy princess. Tough as nails. Damnit. Damnit. You don't *do* things like this."

And it sounds like Latin for all the sense it makes. Harley is safe outside and as far as Cya knew Mik didn't even condescend to talk with women, let alone call one 'princess'. And why, if Harley and Skids were safe, was he standing here? Mik's voice had been devastated. Bruised and bloody. He wanted Cyanide there, needed him. For what? To listen to this crazed rambling about a person, Cya hadn't even known existed?

Confusion and a dull thud pounded in his head, looked for a place to sit down because he was too confused to understand this standing up. Nothing. Gracelessly, he slid to the floor besides Mik's head and just tried to think. It was hard. Hard to concentrate because Mik was sobbing next to him and Dios! he hurt from running here, didn't realize how much. And there was just this god-awful smell....

Smelled like burnt beef and what the fuck ward was he in? Room 506, 506, 506, fifth floor....fifth floor and hadn't he done two hours of obligatory community service here....fifth floor fifth floor....what was he missing....

That stench! Didn't somebody have some deodorant? Smelled worse then beef charcoal style. And that strong olfactory memory calls up the time he'd hair sprayed his hand and lit the match on it, then let it burn a little to long.

Flesh.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

Burnt flesh.

Fifth floor.

ICU.

Trauma ward.

And Mik is still sobbing and speaking in tongues about his princess....his bitchy princess.

And in his mind, Cya remember the flash of light, the searing pain that made him drop the phone and rush to his car. Never made it to the damn thing. Never even got close.

"My bitchy princess."

Say it Mik.

"My love."

Say it.

"You're to good for this. If I didn't mean the things I said..."

Oh, Dios, don't say it. Don't make this true.

"I don't understand this."

Say it.

"You know all about those things. You knew you shouldn't pick up the phone."

Please, please don't say it. And his hands starting to sting like a thousand angry bees worming their way under his skin.

"My princess."

SAY IT!

"I didn't get to say I'm sorry, but I am. Just wake up for me, please, babe. Open your eyes."

Mik, baby, please. He rises from the floor and passes his weeping.....Mik. And pulls back the curtain. Stares dispassionately down at the body hooked to tubes and machinery. Feel Mik getting up behind him, scooting the chair closer. Trying to find a place not covered, so he can lay down a comforting hand.

Please, babe. Just say it. Make this real.

"Wake up, you stubborn Latino punk! Torres....Cyanide...please. Twitch a finger or something. Let these bastards know you're still kicking around. Please, at least wake up to tell me to fuck off."

The pull back is a rush, but then he's trapped and his eyes fly open, there's a goddamn tube down his throat and its' choaking him nearly to death. Gags and wheezes and Dios, why can't he see?!

"Please, Mr. Torres, lay down." A voice is booming to his right. "If you'll hold on just a minute...." The cool feel of injection and the world slides away again, but not like before. Because he remembers the way of things now and before he entirely lets go, he remembers to feel like a complete shit.

**Three weeks earlier**

"All I'm saying is that we should just go out once and a while! I can't live like this!"

"We go out all the time! It's one damn night to stay in and be with each other..."

"We're with each other all the time! I'm bored, damn it!"

The fight was one that they'd begun many times. Like most relationships, they had their snags. Things that always brought them to a boiling point. After nearly two years of it, they had learned to avoid the sore spots, but they both had a bit of masochist in them that would bring them around to poke and prod at the aches until they came to screams. Sometimes they would back down. When they didn't, it turned into a full knockdown drag out fight that usually ended in one of them leaving or both of them falling onto the bed for some very satisfactory makeup sex.

But this was not destined to be one of those fights. It had at last come to that first awful place. That first wound that dug the deepest and brought out the rawest part of them. Perhaps, if either of them had been in a better mood it wouldn't have happened or even, if one of them had been slightly more sober. Like the Titanic there were a million if only's in this fight.

But the truth of the matter was, Cyanide was winding down the days of graduate work and he was waiting to here from several prestigious universities about acceptance of his application for doctoral programs. Mikhael had sprained his wrist the week before falling down a flight of stairs. He couldn't paint until it improved and had been chugging painkillers to boot. Between the two of them, they were completely anxious. They shared a bottle of vodka between them in order to lighten spirits, but wound up over indulging until Cya actually felt good again and suggested going out. Neither of them yet drunk enough to be incoherent, but tipsy enough to anger easily. One old tired fight between them that was rekindled.

It degenerated quickly.

"You're so boring!"

"I am not boring! You're to shallow to care about the things, I like. You're always thinking about yourself."

"Me?! All you do is sit here all day and contemplate your navel while you churn out that shit you call 'art'. At least I'm doing something with my life!"

"So why are you living with me?! Mooching until something better comes around? Maybe you really are just a kept boy." And there's malice in that bite.

"Fuck you, Mikhael! I work hard everyday and come home and listen to your bullshit about how tough it is to create! You're a self involved prick who uses his money for an excuse not to live!"

"Ah! The truth comes out! Is that what you really think of me?!"

"Yes!" No. Of course it isn't, but they're really going at it now and saying things that have only been thought before, in darkest moments better left unexamined.

"Well, I think you're an arrogant little flaming shit whose afraid of his own goddamn HOMOSEXUAL shadow! You hate me so much then why the hell do you come back here every night?! Why the fuck did you move in in the first place?!" We've crossed the line this time. Cut to deep to heal any type of quick.

"Good point." And that's worse then the screaming because it's flat and cold.

No more words are spoken as the younger man turns on his heels and gathers a change of clothes into a bag. It's only as he reaches the door that Mik manages to find his voice,

"Don't....don't leave. I'm"

"Save it." Comes the quick acerbic answer. "It's not true, yet."

The door slams hard behind him, before Mik realizes that for once, Cyanide was smarter then him in an emotional situation. He isn't sorry. Yet.

But he knows, even as he stews in his temporarily righteous anger that he will be. Maybe sorrier then he's been in a very long time.

They spend nearly two weeks without talking though Mik knows exactly where Cyanide has gone because he has to foward the letters that start to pour in to the Torres' household. Letters from universities all over the country and nearly makes him cry when he notices the far away return adresses on some of them. Didn't realize that Cya had been ready to leave anyway. Should have known. Wonders if the fight was picked on purpose, so that the Latino could leave with no strings attached.

On the other end, Cyanide opened each white envelope with trembling hands and felt detachedly melancholy as acceptances rained down like snowflakes. Everywhere he wanted to go and scholarship money to take him there. Far away from memories and the place that has always been his home. The words that they threw at each other stick fresh in his mind, constricting him. Every time he moves to fast they blur at him and bite at his flesh afresh.

Every ring of the phone makes him twitchy. He keeps expecting Mikhael to call. Doesn't know what to he will say if he does. Or what he'd be calling for... to apologize? to ask him to come and take his things home? Is that even possible? They have shared an apartment for a year and several months, there really isn't anything that isn't actually 'theirs', except for maybe his drums and Mik's artwork....

Art. And he does think a lot of Mik's work is pretentious bullshit. The worst part of it all was the things that were said were so damn close to the truth, they almost were the truth. Except for the anger that had propelled them forth.

He had to make some type of decision soon, that much was clear. It was a daily struggle to try and call Mik himself, but he didn't know what to say. I'm sorry sounded to pathetic and like he expected only to be forgiven and taken home again. What he wanted was for this to go away for the words to be unsaid. For it to be a month ago when they were lying in bed and laughing at Mik's valiant attempt to get it up for the sixth time in one evening.

He doesn't know what he wants for the present. What they need to do is sit down and talk, but neither of them is tremendously good at that. There needs to be some sort of compromise, the rebuilding of their foundation. Because...

Because Cyanide hates this awful feeling of loneliness that drags him right back to the time before he met Mik. To mere minutes before he entered the club where the big Russian would obligingly meet and subsequently, take Cyanide into his heart and home.

He can remember the cold chill of the night like it was yesterday and tries to shake the terrible loneliness that returns in waves as he thinks back on all the nights of endless driving just for something to do. He had felt so incomplete and Mik had made him almost whole. They worked at filling each other.

And now, there was only this huge gapping hole that seemed larger then before. It had a shape now and a name. It made Cyanide want to weep, but he could not. There was no one to wipe away his tears and mutter rude pet names into his hair. No one who would attempt to get in a grope while he stroked his back. No one to make it all better.

So it was no surprise that he ran to answer the phone that afternoon, despite the volatile chemicals he held in one hand. Juggled the phone between his ear and shoulder, the test tubes in thick rubber gloves.

"Cyanide. I miss you."

And damnit it threw him off guard. His eyes blurred over beneath goggles.

"Mik..."

Poured the wrong damn thing in. Drops the phone. And the room goes black.

**Present**

Mik walked out of room 506 looking a lot like he had just gotten worked over with a 2x4, starved himself for several days and forgotten to sleep for at least a month. He nearly collapsed into the waiting arms of Harley and Skids. The two young men had awaited his eventual breakdown and settled him into a comfortable chair. Skids pushed a cup of tea into one hand, Harley a reasonable facsimile of food from the cafeteria into the other. Then they made sure he ate and drank it all.

"He's going to be okay." Mik said finally. "Now that he's awake, the doctor's can fix him."

"He'll be good as new in no time!" Skids told him cheerily. "Now, lean back and take a nap. Cya needs you to be rested up."

"He must hate me." Mik muttered. "If I hadn't called right then....that stupid fight...the things I said..."

"Shhh. Sleep now. There's plenty of time to feel guilty later." Harley moved to one side and covered him with a stolen fuzzy blue blanket.

The Russian drifted off almost immediatly. As soon as he emitted a soft snore, Harley sighed with relief and climbed into Skids lap. Mik had been in the hospital for the last three days, living off of God only knew what and had finally called them this morning. Spilled the whole story into a payphone, barely restraining himself from tears.

They were trying their best to be helpful. It was hard to watch the other couple suffer. Mik and Cya had become important friends to Skids and Harley over the last year, it sometimes seemed that they could not remember a time when they hadn't known the two agressive males. And in that time, there had been a sort of awe on Skids' and Harley's part. Mik and Cya were a real couple. They had met, fell in love, fought, fucked and lived every day in detail. They stayed together through hard times and managed to work around each other.

To Skids and Harley, that was akin to a miracle. Their own realtionship was natural to them as water, knowing each other since they were still in grade school had formed them into a very diffrent sort of couple. Younger and more naive, they had never truly been without each other and the sudden thought that it was possible to loose one another wasn't easy to struggle with.

If Mik and Cya could break up, what would stop it from happening to them? If Cyanide could die, what stopped Death from coming to them?

The young men clung to each other in fear and tried to console each other with gentle caresses and whispered promises while Mik slumbered on next to them.

But they could not shake the image of Cyanide, only a corridor away, wrapped in bandages and breathing through a tube, monitors chattering away. It was a nightmare vision that was to real and frightening, made worse by the lumincent white of the hospital walls.