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Marvin traces his fingers over the hard ridges of Whizzer’s chest, feeling the rungs of his ribs that are visible. He was always lean, but this is a new level of thin - it’s terrifying, he’s skeletal, skin so pale he’s practically translucent. But he still snores away on Marvin’ shoulder, still digs his nails into Marvin’s arm where his hand has come to rest. Marvin moves the hand previously touching his front to stroke down his back, touching each vertebrae. He kisses Whizzer’s cheek and the man stirs, exhaling a short breath. It warms Marvin’s neck and the hairs there stand on end.
“Marv…” He groans, voice strained and painful. There’s a cough on the end of his word, trailing away as his chest heaves and shakes with the effort.
“Shh…” Marvin does his best to calm him, practically petting his skin, stroking his back as though calming a spooked horse. “I’m here, Whizzer, I’m right here,” he kisses his shoulder and reaches to cup his cheek. Whizzer manages to blink his eyes open and looks up at Marvin.
There’s a sweet pause before Whizzer gives a weak chuckle and pokes Marvin in the arm. “You look like shit,” he murmurs. He knows he does too, but it brings a little light to their shared darkness. Marvin doesn’t leave him very often, usually going kicking and screaming. Not literally, of course, apart from the time a nurse had to keep a hand under his arm to stop him collapsing after Whizzer was made aware his ‘condition’ was fatal.
“That’s strange, I got all made up for you and everything,” Marvin gives a weak laugh back and kisses Whizzer’s forehead. In all honesty - he hasn’t been feeling… great. He’s dropping weight and the last time he went home, yesterday morning, for a shower, he had nearly collapsed. He’d been washing his hair and then his knees had given out and he had to grab the shower rail to stop himself from breaking a leg. He was pale, but he hadn’t been eating properly since Whizzer…
Whizzer relaxes into him. He presses his nose into the crevice between Marvin’s arm and his side, smelling him. “You smell like hospitals and sadness,” he mumbles quietly, chest heaving as he breaks into a small coughing fit again.
Marvin quietly calms him through it, stroking over his back and kissing his forehead and reassuring him it’s all going to be just fine. He lies. Neither of them care. He shudders, which is weird because he’s wearing a t-shirt with a sweater over the top, and then a hoodie over that too. He should be sweating, should be melting - but he’s shaking. He’s freezing .
“That’s probably because I’m in a hospital, Whiz” he muses, hoping Whizzer hasn’t noticed his shaking - little vibrations that Whizzer is most certainly noticing. But they haven’t finished the conversation they’re currently having, and Whizzer knows Marvin hates having the topic changed if he doesn’t feel finished. He usually just waits for a long pause, or for Marvin himself to finish the conversation.
“Doesn’t explain the sadness,” he points out rather dumbly, too tired to think, and too sick to care. He knows why Marvin’ sad, and doesn't want to hear him say it out loud, but he asks anyway.
Marvin sighs. “Let’s just drop it, WhizWe both know why I’m sad.” He averts his eyes from his broken lover, stares up at the ceiling, then lets them trail down the wall behind Whizzer’s head, squeezing his eyes shut when they begin to fall back to Whizzer, who’s growing more concerned by the second.
The worry only grows when the shaking returns, when he begins shuddering uncontrollably. Marvin’s eyes squeeze tighter, as if he’s trying to suppress them, trying to hold back. “Are you cold?” Whizzer asks again, voice soft and ragged and sore. It’s like that most of the time now, pained and strained and hard to get out.
“A little,” Marvin confesses, eyes heavy. He’s been awake for so long, finding it hard to sleep when all he can think about is Whizzer. Whizzer’s condition, Whizzer’s way too boney hands pressing into him, Whizzer coughing, Whizzer croaking when he tries to talk. He can’t rest, not when Whizzer needs him.
Whizzer presses impossibly closer, and Marvin tries not to wince at the dig of his elbow. He doesn’t complain, he can’t really. He’s lucky the hospital staff are even letting them lay in bed together, lucky they’re letting Marvin stay at all. Maybe it’s because they have Charlotte fighting for them. When other doctors had tried to kick Marvin out, insisting visiting hours are only from three-five in the afternoon, she’d kicked up a fuss. “I’ve seen men die, alone and abandoned as the ones they love run out on them! Marvin stays or I leave!” They’d let him stay.
He shivers again, and apologises. “Don’t be sorry.” Whizzer traces his cheekbones with a fingertip, light across his face. They’re more prominent than before. He figures the subject change he’s about to make isn’t too drastic, he’s just shifting from concern over Marvin’s temperature, to a different area of concern. “Wear as many layers as you want, Marv. It won’t hide how much weight you’re losing.”
“Straight to the point, bruiser,” Marvin muses, fingers coursing through the part of Whizzer’s hair sticking out the woollen cap. He outright refuses to remove it, spouting nonsense about thinning hair, about ‘not wanting Marvin to see him like that.’ Marvin thinks what he’s seeing can’t get worse already, but he assures Whizzer he’s beautiful no matter what. Even when he’s dying. “I’m fine,” he adds, but Whizzer’s already shaking his head.
“Don’t lie to me, Marv, I’m not stupid,” he sighs. It takes him a second to drag his head up from where he’d been laying, having a hard time holding his own weight on shaking arms. “I’m worried about you.”
Marvin scoffs, flicks his eyes to the side and presses up until he’s sat. “Please, WhizI should be the one worrying about you. Don’t waste time worrying about me. I’m fine.” He swallows thickly, thinking back to almost collapsing. Whizzer doesn’t need the extra stress taking him down. He doesn’t need to worry about Marvin, he just needs Marvin to be here for him. And he is! Marvin doesn’t understand the complaints.
“Don’t do that, don’t downplay how you’re feeling. This is hard on you too. When’s the last time you got a full night's sleep or ate a meal? Actually, when’s the last time you slept more than three hours and ate more than a granola bar?” There's a twinge of irritation in Whizzer’s voice, like he’s sick and tired of Marvin not taking care of himself. But there’s barely enough time to look after Whizzer, let alone himself. And when the cards fall, Marvin would die a hundred times over if it granted Whizzer an extra hour on earth.
“I don’t want to talk about this, Whiz. Please, just… drop it?”
Whizzer goes quiet, and for a moment, Marvin thinks he might’ve died. He thinks that a lot, when his breathing evens out just a little too much at night, or when he randomly falls asleep - prone to fits of exhaustion. But his eyebrows are tight and his ragged breathing is audible, which should put him into panic, but it’s strangely comforting. He’s alive, and from the sound of the (relative) silence, he’s decided to concede to Marvin’s wishes - to stop trying to talk about Marvin’s own issues.
“You’re sick aren’t you?”
“Let’s not do this, Whiz.”
“Answer my question, Marvin,” Whizzer’s voice is insistent but stuffy, and when Marvin looks down at him there’s tears gathering in his sunken eyes. He wraps his arm around Whizzer’s shoulders and kisses him quickly, just as the floodgates open and silent streams trickle down his cheeks. They’re quiet for a moment, as Marvin rests his lips against Whizzers’ forehead and for just a second closes his eyes and lets himself pretend they’re back home, not in this dreadful fucking hospital, and everything is okay. He lets himself pretend they’re complaining about politics, lets himself pretend they’re having an argument - because anything, anything, is better than this. He’d rather fight with a healthy Whizzer, than hold a dying one.
His silent affection is enough of an answer. “I’m so sorry, Marv,” Whizzer chokes out between silent sobs, the force of them wracking his entire body. He’s shaking with each cry, the absence noise terrifying and weirdly sweet. “This is my fault,” he just keeps repeating that, voice growing weaker each time.
“It’s not your fault,” Marvin insists, weary. “It’s never your fault, Whiz. Don’t blame yourself. I’m fine. I’m going to be just fine. We’re going to be okay.” Eventually, Whizzer drifts off to Marvin stroking the hair he can touch, listening to him mumble sweet nothings that they both forget as soon as they leave his lips. Whizzer sleeps, Marvin does not.
Another two days pass before Whizzer forces Marvin home. “Please, Marv. Go home, take a shower, have ‘Delia cook you something, take care of yourself for me?” He pleads, staring up at him from his bed. He looks so impossibly small, frail, a fraction of the man Marvin fell in love with. A whole man Marvin would die for. “Drink a little something… think of me.” He adds in an attempt to be flirtatious. It manages to drag a weak sounding chuckle from Marvin’s chest, and he turns away to cough four times into his fist.
“I’ll shower and be back tonight,” he promises, only to be met with a raised eyebrow and a disapproving look. “What? Don’t want me here?” Marvin teases, he shakes where he stands, chalking it up to anxious shivers. If he ignores the illness long enough it’ll go away or it’ll at least lay low.
“Come back tomorrow afternoon at three, get some food in you. Just… take some time for yourself. I’ll be okay for twenty four hours without you,” Whizzer, despite his situation, smiles at Marvin. A real, genuine, honest smile. It’s incredible, he’s staring death in the face and smiling, wide and toothy and attractive.
Marvin tells him as much and Whizzer shakes his head. “Go home, Marvin.”
“But what if you-“
“I’m not going to die just yet. Now go! You smell.” Whizzer waves his hand towards the door, and in spite of his best interests, Marvin laughs.
“What do I smell like?” He asks, bending over to pick up his jacket and pretending the world doesn’t start spinning and going blurry when he straightens up.
“Hospitals, sweat and cheese. Now go take a shower. I miss when you smelled like flowery soap.” Whizzer flops back into his hospital bed - a motion that could be perceived as him cutting off the conversation, halting any remaining room for debate, but Marvin sees it for what it is, Whizzer’s arms and back getting too sore to hold himself up.
“I’m going, I’m going!” He slips his coat on. “I love you, too.”
“I love you.” His voice is already muddied with sleep, and Marvin can barely make out soft, jagged snores as he closes the door - leaving the room.
Charlotte catches his arm as the door clicks shut, and he jumps in her grasp. “Jesus! Char, give me a warning first,” he chuckles, heart leaping out of his chest and thundering around the hallway - or he imagines it sounds like it, beating rapidly and loudly.
“Sorry, Marvin,” she glances around the hall. She’s not really supposed to be cornering visitors, but it’s fine, because he’s not really supposed to be here at all. “Are you on your way home? If you are, drop by ours first, Cordelia made lasagna, it’s good - so I’m sure she’ll give you some.” Charlotte smiles, although her teeth grit like a grimace as her fingers close around his wrist. It’s like a silent telling, “eat something, Marv. For gods sake, I’m worried about you.”
Marvin’s sick of people worrying about him. He’s sick of worrying. He’s sick and he’s worried. “Will do,” he nods and retracts his arms from her grasp. “I need to shower and shave, Whizzer’s complaining I look like some sad divorced dad. I tried to tell him that I am , but he said that’s not the point,” he forces a smile back.
“Take care of yourself, Marvin,” Charlotte begins rushing back down the hall, slipping into another room, presumably holding a man in the same state as Whizzer.
He feels a little sick at that. This hallway, it holds the entrance to so much despair. And he realises. Realises Whizzer is one of the luckiest men here, because they’re all dying, but most of them are dying alone. Alone and cold and scared. Marvin swallows harshly.
He manages to shower without his legs giving out, but he keeps an iron fist grip on the shower railing just in case. He washes and dries his hair, pulling the curl cream Whizzer had bought him for his birthday right before he went into hospital through it, and then he has to wash his face again to get rid of the tears. He changes - sweatpants and a hoodie, because if he’s spending the next several days at the hospital he may as well be comfortable right? He shaves, because Whizzer had been complaining insistently about how kissing him felt like getting carpet burn, and it was a little itchy anyway. He uses the nice aftershave he knows Whizzer loves, and when he looks in the mirror he challenges a smile - but it comes out strained and sickly. Marvin chooses not to focus on his reflection, ignores the sunken cheeks and eye bags that are more prominent than ever.
“Marvin!” Cordelia throws her door open, arms already full of tupperware containers.
“Delia, hey,” he squeezes past her as she wobbles dangerously. He takes a few of the containers off of her, examining the contents. Chicken soup (which he’ll bring in for Whizzer), spaghetti and meatballs (amazing, they can share), lasagna (which he’ll keep for himself) and p'tcha (which he’ll throw out. He loves Cordelia, but Jewish food is not her strong suit, and he hates p'tcha anyway.) “Wow, so many…” he manages to get out, hiding his disgust over the bottom dish - which is strangely warm?
“There’s more in the fridge, and I’ve got roast chicken in the oven! I almost made pork belly, but then I remembered you and Whizzer don’t eat pork!” She keeps rambling, running her hands through her curls and adjusting her updo. “It’ll be done really soon, and then I’ll box it up for you! I cooked up some garlic bread, you can have it with the lasagna if you’d like.”
“Thank you so much, Delia,” Marvin beams, he’s just glad she’s not making gefilte fish or ’dietetic’ knishes again. (He doesn’t know what she did to make them that awful, but they were somehow both raw and over cooked, over and under seasoned all at once.) “I’ll heat the lasagna when I get home,” he drops the tupperware gracefully on the coffee table in the centre of Charlotte and Cordelia’s living room.
“Do you wanna stay and talk?” She asks, her hand falling on top of his own, hot pink painted nails a stark contrast to his own pale complexion. Her eyes are warm and comforting, not filled with pity like everyone else’s. They deny that they pity him, but he sees it from Trina when he holds Whizzer’s hand, from Mendel when he rubs Whizzer’s back through coughing fits, from Charlotte when she comes to check his vitals and Marvin’s almost asleep next to him. Hell, he even gets it from Jason, when he comes over to his apartment - the few times he’s actually home, when Jason lets him win in chess. He can’t deal with it anymore, close to the breaking point - but Cordelia offers only support and comfort and laughter.
“Oh, I’m not sure-“ Marvin denies her at first, but he knows she’ll push it.
“Come on! I’m bored and lonely, I could use the company,” she beams and flops down onto her couch, patting the spot next to her. Marvin sinks down beside her, head on her shoulder, enjoying her perfume. “I see you shaved,” she scrapes her hand over his smooth cheek, one of two people he’ll allow to touch his face.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, pretending not to notice the way her face twists into concern when she graces his cheekbones, sticking out. “Do you like the new aftershave?”
“Mm, yeah,” Cordelia kisses him on the cheek, nudging her foot against his calf. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You just did,” he looks up at her with a stricken expression, not even finding himself funny. He doesn’t want to know what she has to ask. It’s going to depress him, he knows it. For so long people have been asking him left and right, ‘how’s Whizzer?’ ‘Have you discussed funeral plans?’ ‘Has he written out his will?’
“Marvin, I’m serious.” Oh god he doesn’t want to hear this.
“Fire away, Delia.”
“Is my cooking bad?”
Marvin chuckles, the action taking the air out of his chest. “No, no, not most of it. There’s certainly a learning curve to be made, but I’m sure if you asked Trina she’d help with some Jewish dishes. She’s great at that, might ask her to make matzo ball soup again, or would that be too pushy?” He drifts away, boat swaying on the waves of thought, bobbing in the water, blissfully ignoring the storm swirling around him.
“Maybe,” Cordelia answers after a second of hesitation. There’s more silence. “Are you feeling okay?”
Marvin sighs, he should’ve seen this coming. “I don’t want to talk about this Delia,” he says quickly, a snap to his voice he regrets immediately. Cordelia doesn’t deserve to be spoken to in such a way, she’s just trying to help. Marvin’s getting sick of people helping. He just wants everything to go back to normal. Maybe he’s like his son in that way, they both want the same thing in the end. They want Whizzer to get better, and for everything to go back to the way they were before. He knows they’re not going to, so does Jason, but that’s not good enough. Not for them. They’ll bend the world to their will, and if it refuses to bend they’ll snap it in two and throw a fit.
“If you’re not feeling alright, you should try my chicken soup,” Cordelia snakes her arm around his shoulder and lets him snuggle into the crook of her neck more. She thumbs over his arm, humming. “Here, stay for dinner. Lay down and I’ll heat up lasagna. Charlotte’s not going to be back till late, so if we’re both eating alone - we may as well eat alone, together.”
“Mkay,” Marvin hums, missing her warmth almost as soon as she leaves. “I’m gonna just… rest my eyes…”
She chuckles and watches him fall asleep speedily. While it’s nice to see him finally getting some shut-eye, it’s concerning nonetheless. As much as she knows he hates being told what to do, he needs to take care of himself. Needs to ask other people to help him take care of himself. He deserves a little help in these… hard times. But she knows Marvin won’t take that from anyone bar Jason and Whizzer, so she reheats dinner and pours them each a glass of wine because honestly they could use the chance to loosen up a little.
“Marvin? Dinner.”
He pushes himself up on shaking arms and yawns. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep. But now he’s cold and more tired than he was before and shuddering. “Coming, hold on,” it takes Marvin quite a while to manage to stand, legs like jelly, and he feels like he might collapse. He finally secures his balance, and then takes a step. Then he’s on the floor.
It takes a lot of arguing with Cordelia to convince her not to call a paramedic, and assuring her this has happened before and he was fine then, certainly doesn’t help. On top of that he’s sort of lying, he didn’t pass out last time. They eat in silence, Marvin leaves silently and slips into bed. He sleeps, waking a few times in the night thinking of Whizzer - sometimes good, sometimes bad. Whizzer laying next to him, legs tossed over his waist, arms around him, face in his shoulder. Whizzer and his heart monitor beeping away, alone. Whizzer bare, on his back, looking at Marvin with all the love in the world. Whizzer dying all by himself in the night. Marvin wakes for the last time at five o’clock in tears. He doesn’t bother going back to sleep.
He trails around the apartment, cleaning up, ignoring the scotch in his cupboard as long as possible. He thinks back to Whizzer’s request. While it’s true he’s been neglecting… certain needs since Whizzer’s admission to hospital, he just hasn’t felt in the mood. It wouldn’t be right to do anything without Whizzer. So Marvin tidies up, imagines Whizzer lounging on the couch, one arm hanging off the couch, the other crossed over his stomach, shirt raised just above his navel. His legs were so long they couldn’t fit on the couch, always hanging over the armrest, an epitome of simultaneously relaxed and confident, preening like a cat that got the cream. He’d chuckle at Marvin’s incessant tidying, mutter something about ‘taking some initiative? Cleaning up after yourself, who are you and what did you do with Marv?’ And before he would’ve picked up the nearest couch cushion and tossed it at his perfect face - now he’d give anything to hear Whizzer playfully chastise him in the comfort of their own home again. It’s not the same when it’s said in that dying voice, interrupted by coughing and weak smiles.
Marvin cleans, then reheats the tupperware container full of minestrone soup (one of the meals Cordelia hadn’t handed him at first, but had insisted he take home with him) and eats it with a slice of buttered bread. He finishes the whole thing, not noticing his hunger until he smells the soup from the microwave and he’s ravenous . By then it’s 1pm and even though Whizzer has instructed he not come back until visiting hours, he’s got nothing to do - Charlotte’s on shift and she’s got his back - he may as well go now.
“I thought I told you not to come back until three,” Whizzer says from his hospital bed, up to Marvin who hangs in the doorway, not sure if he should step in or not. He places down the cards he’d been playing solitaire with. “Marvin?”
“I had nothing else to do. Besides, when was the last time I actually listened to you?” He chuckles from the entrance, takes a step inside and clicking the door closed behind him. Whizzer snorts, doesn’t reply. “How’re you feeling?”
“How are you feeling?” Whizzer raises an eyebrow.
“I asked first.”
“Better.”
Whizzer doesn’t get better. Actually, Whizzer gets much worse. Whizzer can’t keep his eyes open for longer than fifteen minutes. Whizzer can barely sit up. Whizzer can barely hold a conversation without drifting off. Whizzer is laying in his deathbed.
Marvin gets worse too. He gets worse at everything - but he gets better at hiding it. He coughs at the same time as Whizzer, he cries when Whizzer’s asleep, he wears several, baggy layers, so no one notices how bad he’s getting. How he fails to take care of himself. How his body is slowly giving up.
“Marvin…” Whizzer groans, his hand weak and limp in Marvin’s own. Those hands, once so large and strong - overpowering, overwhelming, and god did Marvin like to be overwhelmed - withering and shaking. “It hurts.”
“I know,” Marvin strokes his thumb across the back of Whizzer’s knuckles. He blinks slowly. He’s so tired. He’s been falling asleep more and more often lately, but each time he wakes more exhausted than before. His boss called recently too, fired him for not turning up in so long. Marvin figures it doesn’t matter much, he’ll be dead soon anyway.
Whizzer presses his nose into Marvin’s chest. “I want it to stop. I want it all to be over, Marv…”
It’s all over a few days later.
Marvin doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, he doesn’t know how to eat, or drink, or really do anything other than sleep and cry. Weep and rest. Sob and dream. He awakens from those crying too, ghostly presses into his back fading, the wilting memories of a man now gone. He’ll never get to hold Whizzer again, never get to slide his hand into Whizzer’s own, never kiss him, never smile at him from across the room. He’d give anything to see him one last time.
He smooths his palm over the cool stone of Whizzer’s grave. He can feel the eyes of his family on his back, can smell the pity oozing from them like a leech. He squeezes his eyes shut, wills himself not to cry, not in front of them. He takes a deep inhale, thinking he’s going to manage, and turns on his heel. He’ll come back to visit soon enough, before he himself joins his lover in the empty plot beside him. He’s even started funeral preparations for himself, doesn’t want to lump that on whoever the responsibility gets tossed to. With no living relatives, and Jason too young to plan, he knows the hassle will get tossed to this little family he’s made for himself -and he wants it to be as easy as possible for them.
He goes to take a step, and his legs crumple beneath him. Before he has time to think there’s two sets of hands helping him up on either side, Mendel’s dusting him off and talking, Charlotte’s ranting about something along the lines of: ‘sick- why didn’t you say- you’re not- what's wrong,’ but Marvin’s not listening.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he knocks them away, shaking his head as he says it again, “I’m fine, I’m okay. Don’t panic, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m-“ he starts sobbing, still shaking his head frantically. This isn’t real, this can’t be real.
“Oh, Marvin,” Trina takes him into her arms and rubs his back. She doesn’t flinch at the feeling of his spine, jutting out, just coos and calms and lets him cry as hard as he can into her shoulder. He doesn’t know how she still puts up with him, she didn’t have to. If she wanted to, she could’ve cut him off completely after the divorce, could’ve moved off and never spoken to him again, taken Jason with her. But she hasn’t. She cared about him.
That’s how Marvin knows he can’t let these people watch him deteriorate.
He can’t force them to watch him die.
If he’s going out it’s on his own terms.
He’ll take the plunge, if that’s what it takes to see Whizzer again.