Title: Plainsong
Author: Lizzie

Rating: PG-13

Content: angst, much depression - this is an EXTREMELY sad fic
Disclaimer: Don't own them, and unless I suddenly become Vince McMahon, I never will. Not saying this happened in any way, shape or form. Also don't own the song 'Plainsong' by The Cure.
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"Could you shut the window?"

"Are you cold?"

"A little, I guess. Would you mind?"

"No, it's okay".

"You don't have to if you don't want to".

"It's okay, really".

I'm cold a lot. I'm cold all the time. He keeps forgetting and he'll stand at the window staring out and before I know it the whole room's cold and I can see my breath. I don't know why he does it. I don't think even he knows why he does it. He just does. He'll open the window and stand there by it for minutes or hours or however long it takes for me to need him to come away. He doesn't seem to feel the cold. He never does.

"Maybe it's going to rain", I say, like maybe I want it to. I don't know anymore. I think maybe it would make a change if it rained. I think maybe it would suit his mood. I think maybe I'd like to hear the raindrops against the windowpanes, or to leave the bed and go outside, feel them against my skin. Maybe I could drag him out with
me, let the rain soak us to our skin, soak through our hair, run down our faces and maybe then he'd feel the same cold I do. He doesn't even turn to me as I say it, though - he just closes the window and rests his forehead against it, still staring out.

There's nothing to see out there. It's dark outside. All he can see is a street lined with trees, the wind blowing through them like it's never going to end. But it's dark in here, too. I have the lights turned off, maybe so he can see something outside, maybe so I don't have to look at him or at myself.

"Would you come sit down for a second?" I ask. He sighs, his breath clouding the glass, then he turns. He walks over, slowly, not quite dragging his feet, almost like his whole body's stiff. He sits down on the edge of the bed, his weight shifting the mattress slightly beneath me, pulling the sheets toward him, pulling me with them. I'm wrapped up in them, shivering, clutching at them like I'm afraid to let them go.

His back's turned to me, broad shoulders slumped, hands lying clasping in his lap. His hair's hanging forward around his face, probably in his eyes but I can't see. I reach out hesitantly and brush it back over his shoulder. He flinches.

'How did we get like this?' I want to ask him, but I can't make the words come. I mime them, I breathe them, the air in front of my lips misting, my breath escaping into the freezing room, not quite reaching him. But I don't need to ask the question. I already know the answer. And it's all my fault.

There was a time when we were happy. We could sit together and smile and laugh and talk, we could spend hours entwined in each other's arms, kissing, making love, just touching. We've lost that now. Because of me. All because of me.

"Adam, look at me".

He turns, shifting so he's turned toward me now, one leg on the bed, his hands resting on it, his eyes glued to his hands. He can't even look at me now.

"It's so cold", I say. "It's like the cold if you were dead". I swallow the lump in my throat and reach to tilt his chin. He moves before I can reach him, looks up.

His eyes meet mine. For a second, I smile. And he cries.

"What's wrong?" I ask, my hands shaking as I reach out, wanting to touch him but scared to, scared of how he'll feel if I do. I don't know what to do. His shoulders shake lightly as his head drops into his hands.

"Why do you say that?" he asks, and I have no answer. I can't make myself say it. I know what I want to say but the words won't come. I can't do it to him. I lay my hand tentatively on his shoulder and he shrugs it off, leaves the bed. I shudder.

I've been so distant. For maybe a month now I've been distant, haven't been able to talk to him, haven't been able to look him in the eye. I won't go out. I do my job but that's as far as it goes. I don't want to be around people anymore; it just makes me sad. And I'm so cold. I'm so cold all the time. I can't touch him. I can't talk to
him anymore because everything I could say would just lead to the one thing I don't want to say, the one thing he doesn't want to hear. So we've drifted apart. I'm hurting him so much, and I can't even go over there and put my arms around him. I can't tell him I'm sorry and that it'll all be okay, because I know it won't. And he knows that, too. He just doesn't know he knows it.

So why do I say it? What do I think it's going to accomplish? I know I'm just hurting him more and more.

It's so cold it's like the cold if you were dead. Maybe it's not the words that kill him, because I don't think he thinks I mean it literally. Except I do. And then I smile. Every time, I smile. I smile at inappropriate times. I never used to; it's only recently I do it. I laugh when I shouldn't, too. He'll just look at me strangely, like I'm losing my mind or maybe he's losing his, and it feels like I'm losing myself, not just my mind. I think I am. I know I am.

I want to tell him it's not his fault. I know he thinks it is, in a way, because he doesn't understand. I'm so far away from him. I don't know him anymore. I look at him and I see the man I love, the man I've spent so long with, the man who'd make love to me through the night and make me feel so warm and loved. He'd hold me and kiss me and I'd know everything would be okay because I was with him, because
we were together. Well, we're together now. But nothing's going to be okay.

My smile cuts him the way the cold cuts me. I'm still shivering, wrapping the sheets even closer around me, and I don't know why he can't feel it. He's back at the window, staring out. Maybe he's wishing he could be out there, away from me, because he can't be happy here. I'm making him miserable. And every second he's here with me he's wracking his brain, trying to figure out exactly what he did wrong. Except he did nothing wrong. I wish I could make him see that.

If only I could make him see that. But there's no way without telling him I'm dying.

I'm dying. Cancer. It's eating me up from the inside and there's nothing I or anyone else can do about it. I hate doctors - I put off going as long as I could, and by that time it was inoperable. I'm dying. I don't have long left now. I don't want to have to tell him he's going to lose me. I don't want to tell him I'm so scared that I'm going to lose him. I'm so cold. I'm so cold because I'm going to die and I'm going to be apart from him. I don't ever want to leave him. I love him too much to ever leave him. Except I'm going to. I'm being forced to. And I'm so scared that I've been pushing him away. I'm messing things up and I hate myself for it. He's resenting me for
it, and blaming himself, but it's not his fault and I want him to know but I don't think he will until it's too late. Oh God, I'm going to die and I'll die with him hating me.

This cold is how I imagine it would feel for me if he weren't here, if he died. This cold is how I'd feel every day if I couldn't see him, if I couldn't look across the room or across the bed and know he was there with me. This cold is what's left over from the pain, the pain of knowing I don't have long left, that I'm going to lose him. I
wish he could feel a little of it, just for a second, know what I'm going through, know how I feel. I wish I could show him how much he means to me, that I'm terrified of being without him. But he'll never know.

And he'll never know that smile, that inappropriate smile, is because I know I haven't lost him yet. It's because we're still together, however briefly.

I leave the bed and I shiver as I walk over to him. He must see me coming in the reflection in the glass but he doesn't move. He doesn't flinch this time as I touch him, wind my arms around his waist. I rest my head on his shoulder and I hold him tight against me. For this one moment he'll let me hold him.

"I love you, Jay", he whispers, his breath mist. "I'll miss you".

And that's when I realize. He's just as cold as me.