TITLE: Choking
AUTHOR: Anansay
RATING: PG
PAIRING: Greg/Nick
SUMMARY: Greg is choking. Again.
WARNING: Character Death
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. Just borrowing them.

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CHOKING
by Anansay
March 28, 2005
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He chocked once, when he was nine years old. A hitherto unknown allergy to something in the cotton candy that caused his throat to swell up and block his breathing. He didn’t know what was happening until it was almost too late. He thought it might have been the excitement of finally getting to go on a roller coaster but the feeling wouldn’t go away. It wouldn’t abate. It just kept getting stronger, tighter. He squeezed his mother’s hand and she looked down and grinned at him. And it kept getting tighter.

Flashes of small lights began to float in his vision and then the sounds began to stretch and distort. His mother’s hand disappeared and then his hand too. And then it hit him.

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t draw in air. His lungs began to hitch and burn. His entire chest wanted to collapse for the lack of air. Something grabbed his neck and he was only dimly aware that it was his own hands. Everything stopped and suddenly it was all he could to stay on his feet. He sought out his mother’s eyes and when he found them he barely recognized them. Wide and huge and bulging, her mouth distorted, pulled down at the sides as her hands, like claws, reached out to him, grabbing him roughly on the arms and shaking. Sight rolled away and it was all he could do to bring it back, to bring his Mom back. His mother’s beautiful face, now pinched and red and shaking, hair flying wildly about as her head swung from side to side, her tongue and lips moving in slow motion. She was screaming but he couldn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything.

He was disappearing. Couldn’t feel his arms or his legs but something was keeping him upright. And then he wasn’t. On his knees and a part of him felt the pebbles digging into his knees. His mouth opened and closed like the fish he and his dad caught, just before his dad clubbed it with the handle of the knife. He wanted to yell, to cal out, can’t breathe can’t breathe!!

And then it stopped.

For one brief moment everything stopped and everything was still. Like a photograph with no sound and then nothing.

He could never tell anybody what he’d seen between that photograph-moment and when he opened his eyes to a much different sight. He was on his side and there were faces hovering over his, dark and featureless in the shadow. He was nothing but sight with no sound and then the sound rushed in. But he was still without a body, and then ever so slowly it came back, like particles in the air rushing to recreate the body he’d been using for over a decade.

The sudden realization that he’d passed out and was now surrounding by virtual strangers hit him like a blunt edge of a two by four and he felt the tears burn his eyes before his mouth twisted in a sob that was both sheer embarrassment and washing relief at being able to breathe again.

Anaphylactic shock he heard the doctor mention in the tent. He was sitting up on a stool and the doctor and his mother were talking. He was rubbing his arm where a pain was growing. A bruise where the needle had been jabbed in with the medication to counter the allergic reaction. He didn’t quite understand the intricacies of it, all he knew was that his body hadn’t liked something and had rebelled against it every getting into his body again by simply closing up his throat. He guessed his body must have forgotten that his throat was also what he breathed with. Either way, he was taking as many deep breaths as he could, maybe store up some air if it ever happened again.

His mother came back to him, took his hand and let him out, to their car. He never did get to finally go on that roller coaster and he craned his head around when the familiar screaming started and the cars plunged down into mock-crash, only to come hurtling upwards again.

It never did happen again. His mother made sure of that, drilling into his head that he should never, ever, eat cotton candy again. He never did. He never wanted to feel that way again, like he was slowly disappearing in front of everyone with his mother hanging on for dear life.

But it was happening again. He hadn’t eaten anything in over eighteen hours so he knew it wasn’t an allergic reaction but it was here again and he was on the verge of full-fledged panic attack. His mother wasn’t here and neither was Nick.

Nick was over there. Bleeding.

Greg could see the widening pool of shimmering dark red grow around his body. He knew what it meant, he’d seen many movies, and heard stories about the lab. But he never thought he’d see it for himself. Not so soon and certainly not like this. This was Nick. Nick who’d had a gun pulled on him and lived to tell about it. Nick, who’d been pushed out a two story window backwards, landing on his back and lived to talk about it. Nick, whose twinkling brown eyes could entice a confession, comfort a lost child and give the most erotically sensual massages Greg had never known existed.

Now those hands clenched and opened at his side, fingers seeking some hand hold, like Greg had sought when he was ten years old. Nick’s mouth gaping, seeking air. Like Greg.

Greg knew the feeling all too well, because it was happening to him too, right now, along with Nick.

He stumbled to Nick, falling on his knees at the other man’s side and taking hold of his hand, clenching it tightly and vowing never to let go. Ever.

He didn’t know what he was saying only that his mouth was moving and there was wetness there, tears and saliva, physical manifestations of the fears and worries and anger and disbelief that were pooling in him and pouring out now.

Nick’s hand held his. Nick’s eyes held his, wide and loving and apologizing and in pain. His beautiful white shirt now burgundy with his blood, and growing. His lips were moving and now Greg realized that he wasn’t gasping. He was speaking, whispering, in between gasps. Greg choked back a sob and leaned over. He could smell Nick’s cologne mixed in with the coppery smell of blood. And minty breath—Nick had just popped a breath mint in his mouth before the bullet ripped him open. Greg could see there, a white dot against his cheek.

“I’m sorry.”

Greg stared at Nick, uncomprehending.

“I’m sorry,” Nick repeated and his eyes burned into Greg’s. Greg stared at him, his hand clenching around his lover’s and tried to understand.

Nick was dying and he’d promised to be there for Greg.

Don’t worry man, I’m here. I’ll always be here. I’ve always been here haven’t I? Now I’m here for good. I could never leave you, G.

It was all Greg could do not to completely break down on top of Nick when the other man’s eyes began to flutter and lose focus. When his hand began to lose it’s death grip on Greg’s. When his body began to spasm in its last ditch effort to stay alive. Greg wrapped his arms around him and held him, heard the finale gurgled gasps choked into his ear and then Nick’s body was still. No more gasps. No more shaking. No more warm, wet minty breath.

And someone screamed.

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