A gift for @ali6ce because it was her birthday a while ago! This was also posted on AO3, so don't forget to look for me there.

WARNING: Mentioned car accident, coma, major character death and attempted suicide.

Car accidents are not uncommon. They happen all the time, day after day, across the world. Yet they always seem so distant. So unreal. Car accidents never happen to you because nothing like that happens to you. You're no one special, you're just yourself, living peacefully in a blissful world, ignorant of suffering. So that's why Emile was so scared when he got the call from the hospital. Because people like him don't get calls from the hospital.

"Excuse me," He told his clients, trying to fight back the worry in his voice and seeing the concern on their faces. They were one of his regulars, and their progress in their relationship was nearly complete.

Emile backed away from his desk, answering his phone with a false smile of ease. He could handle a simple call from the hospital. It was probably a wrong number scenario. Because things like this didn't happen to people like him.

"Hello, Dr Emile Picani speaking, how may I help you?" He greeted friendly, shutting the door behind him as he stepped out into the corridor.

"This is Dr Emile Picani speaking, correct?"

The voice was harsh and unfamiliar to his ears. He didn't like it. It sounded like the voice of someone who had learnt to give bad news without remorse. In his opinion, a voice he didn't want to hear.

"Yes, it is," He said. "Is something the matter?"

"A man with your number as his emergency contact has been taken into our care," The voice said bluntly. "He got into a car accident and has entered a coma."

Emile froze and numbly reached behind him for the door handle, hoping to steady himself as his mind jumped to conclusions. Was it a client? Maybe Virgil? Could it be his father or his brother? "What's their identification?" He asked shakily.

"His name is Remy Sanders, as the drivers' licence says-"

The therapist shrieked, clasping a hand over his mouth. His eyes brimmed with tears and he hiccuped as he breathed. No, no, that had to be worse than anyone else. That was the worst option, that couldn't be true. His back thumped against the door as his knees gave way weakly and he choked on the air. Not Remy. Not his beautiful, charming, suave Remy. Remy was untouchable, he always had been. Every fight only left him with some annoyingly hot bruises for Emile to kiss, every fall only prompted a classic pick-up line and every near-death experience was one he could laugh off. It wasn't possible. Remy Sanders didn't do danger. He never did.

"Doctor, I understand that this news may be distressing," The voice relentlessly continued. "But we need to have someone properly identify him. Currently, we are calling any other relatives to see if they can confirm his identity. It is still a possibility that this man is simply an identity thief and this 'Remy' is safe."

That gave Emile a shaky feeling of hope. Of course, that had to be what happened. Because comas and car accidents never happened to people like him. They were for other people, people who never stood a chance, people with interesting lives. Remy just ran a branch of Starbucks and Emile was a relationship therapist. These tragically interesting things never darkened their lives. So it was some terrible mix-up. It wasn't Remy.

"Doctor, is there a time you can make soon in your schedule to confirm this man's identity?"

Emile blinked dumbly, and tears started to fall finally. He had held them back in the shock of it all. "Yes. Yes, I should be there soon. I-I can be there in forty minutes. Wh-where's the hospital?"

"We are Cailum Hospital, near the main road. Do you know it?"

"Scratch forty minutes," Emile said, clenching his free hand in determination. "I can be there in fourteen."

Emile walked into the cleanest lobby he had ever seen in his life. Usually, hospital lobbies didn't glow white but it looked like Cailum Hospital decided to impress. It seemed like he was in a movie, a tragic movie; one people watch after a break-up. Emile walked carefully over to the desk, arms folded fearfully across his chest. He had stopped crying, thankfully, but his eyes were still puffy and red.

"Excuse me?" He called and got the womans' attention. "I am here to confirm the identity of a coma patient here. He was received about half an hour ago?"

"May I know the patients' name?" Asked the woman, turning to click the keys of her computer vigorously. Her voice was stoic and professional. She wouldn't by sympathetic or understanding. She was only going to do her job. It wasn't comforting.

"Remy Sanders," Emile said nervously. "I-I'm Dr Picani-"

"Doctor Emile Picani?" The receptionist cut him off. "Yes, we have been waiting for your arrival. Please, take a seat, and I will call a doctor to escort you there."

He nodded and followed her instructions dumbly. He took his seat beside another woman, only a little older than him. She had dark skin and very pretty eyes nearly black. Her hair was loaded in a lot of braids, all ending with beautiful, colourful beads. On he finger was a simple, silver wedding ring and she had a interesting bracelet, made out of tiny little crab claws. She looked like she belonged on a beach somewhere in South Africa, not a lifeless hospital. She took notice of his terrified state and smiled.

"So, what are you in for?" She joked. Her voice was bright and bubbly, sounding light-hearted, despite waiting in such a cold, bland place. Emile glanced up at her and knew she was trying to help.

He smiled back fearfully. "Who says I'm telling?" He answered.

She grinned. "You're a funny one, aren't you? I'm waiting for my wife, she's gone into labour and all the burly looking doctors pushed me out."

Emile's eyes widened in surprise. "Are you a lesbian?" He asked.

"No, I'm bisexual," She answered. "My wife is a lesbian though."

"How's she having a baby?" Emile tilted his head curiously.

The woman shrugged. "Sperm bank."

"Ah."

"I told you my story, so you tell me yours. Seems fair, right?"

Emile laughed nervously. "Mine isn't nearly as positive."

"Well, that's okay. Talking about it can help."

The therapist took in a shaky breath. He knew that. He had to stop ignoring his own advice. "My boyfriend... They think he's gotten into a car accident. H-He might be in a coma. But it's also possible that it isn't him. Y-Y'know, an identity thief or something. He might be fine." It was obvious that he was trying to convince himself that Remy was okay rather than actually believing he would be. Emile clenched his fists. He had to be positive. Positive things would turn out okay. Because that's how these things worked.

The woman next to him obviously took pity on , because she patted his back sympathetically. "What's your boys' name?" She asked friendly.

"His name is Remy," Emile responded.

"That's a nice name," She hummed thoughtfully. "My wife and I are having a boy, y'know, and we haven't decided on the name. Maybe Remy would be nice one."

Emile stared at her, wide-eyed. "A-Are you sure?"

"I never lie," She smiled, "It would ruin my reputation."

"Dr Picani?" A man asked, and Emile looked up to see a Japanese man standing over him. He had copper coloured bands cut at a lopsided angle on both sides, a stethoscope around his neck, and a light grey clipboard. He didn't wear glasses, nor was he old, making him stand out from the previous 'movie' atmosphere. He didn't have a wedding ring, like the woman next to him, but he did have a very beautiful engagement ring, which had two Japanese symbols carved into it. His voice was not the one he had heard on the phone. Despite its' disinterested tone, it was at least humane and somewhat sympathetic. It didn't sound American either, or even English. He was definitely foreign, possibly an immigrant from Japan.

"Th-That's me."

"I was sent to collect you to identify a patient, correct?"

"That's why I'm here."

The man nodded. "I am the doctor sent to fetch you, Dr Shirabu, if you please. If you were to follow me, I can show the patient."

He turned, as if to go, and Emile hurriedly began to follow him. He turned over his shoulder and waved a quick goodbye to the woman waiting for her wife, and then followed the doctor. Dr Shirabu didn't spare him a second glance the entire walk through the corridor, or when they walked several different rooms. He didn't look at him when they crossed a courtyard that was filled with children missing limbs or missing hair, but he did tighten his grip on the clipboard as he walked past them. Emile guessed he hated seeing it as much as he did himself.

The only time Dr Shirabu looked at him was when hesitating outside a door. The look he gave him was one of concern and nerves. Emile had the feeling that the man in front of him either hadn't been a doctor for long or was more empathetic than he let on.

"The patient is through here," He said, gesturing to the door. Emile nodded and reached forwards to open it, only to hesitate. If he were to open the door, would it actually be Remy on the bed? Would it actually going to be his beautiful, gorgeous, lovely Remy lying there, unresponsive to everything? The thought of it terrified him.

The doctor noticed his unease. "Do you want me to open the door for you?" He asked.

Emile nodded, drawing his hand back and holding it to his chest nervously, where he could feel his heart pounding against his chest. Things like this don't happen to people like him. Things like this don't happen to people like him. Dr Shirabu place his hand on the door and pushed it open soundlessly.

Emile felt like he couldn't breath.

That was Remy Sanders. No, that was his Remy Sanders. His beautiful, gorgeous, lovely Remy was lying there, unresponsive to everything. Emile whimpered hopelessly, his hands flying to his mouth, and the doctor awkwardly looked away.

Remy had tubes in his arm and a large oxygen mask over his mouth. His eyes were closed so softly, it looked like he was just napping. Maybe just blinking. Maybe he was about to sit up and stretch his arms. Because Remy Sanders didn't do comas. That was wrong, in so many ways. The worst part was how healthy he looked. Apart from a few bruising and dressed cuts, his skin was unblemished and tanned, radiating health like it was contagious. He wasn't suddenly starved and bony, or pale and helpless. He still looked just like his Remy. Emile couldn't begin to describe how wrong it all was.

"That's him," He whispered and the doctor looked at him again. "That's Remy."

"Oh," Dr Shirabu said, and Emile knew that he had been hoping for the wrong guy too. "Well, at least now we contact his family and other relatives. We only contacted you because he had your number on some paper in his phone. A-Are you his GP?"

Emile shook his head. "I'm his boyfriend."

"...Oh."

Emile sat next to Remy, holding his hand tightly. Remy didn't deserve this. Dr Shirabu had advised speaking to him. He said that it might work.

'Might'.

The word 'might' had never given Emile hope. It was just one of the words tossed around instead of maybe. It never meant anything. But it had to work. Because things like this didn't happen to people like him.

Emile took a deep breath, rubbing his thumb along the back of Remy's' hand. He was the only person in the room. He didn't know if that made it better or worse.

"Hey, sweetheart," Emile said out loud, cringing at how stupid he sounded. "I'm here now. You probably heard me come in. At least, I hope you did." There was silence and Emile swallowed nervously, crossing his legs awkwardly.

"Did you know," He said slowly, "That they only had my number because you had kept it in your phone case? I didn't know you had even kept it." He smiled weakly. "I remember giving it to you, the first time we met. I added the 'doctor' part to impress you, even though it wasn't official yet. You laughed so hard when you found out on our first date. That date was fun, wasn't it? I still remember how you nearly punched a guy because they knocked their beer into my food. I think that was the moment I knew I wouldn't find going out with you. It was by our third date when I knew I needed you in my life."

Emile laughed nervously. "God, I feel stupid talking like this. I'm kinda just pretending you can hear me. Since I don't know and all. Oh, I met a woman while waiting to meet you. She was also bisexual, like you. She and her wife were having a baby, y'know. A little boy. She said that she might ask her wife if they could name him after you."

There was no response.

The therapist swallowed fearfully. "You know," He started again, a little shakier this time. "You always would interrupt my clients' sessions. Not that I minded. But today I got the call right in the middle of Alana's' and Christoper's' meeting. I had to call it off but I'm sure they understood."

There was no response. Just the steady beeping of Remys' monitor.

Emile sighed, and looked down at their hands. Their fingers weren't intertwined, since Remy didn't move, and it hurt. Emile folded his boyfriends' fingers over his hand, eyes watering with tears. But he wasn't going to cry. He was going to stay strong.

"The doctor who took me here looks foreign," He said, trying to think of conversations. "No, he didn't look foreign, he was foreign. Japanese, I think. His name sounded Japanese. it was Shirabu, I think. Yeah, he was quite nice. He seemed pretty empathetic, even if he didn't say much."

There was no response.

"Honestly, you need to wake up," Emile huffed, joking weakly and poking Remy's cheek. "How am I expected to have a meaningful conversation without you being all sarcastic, hmm? I'm terrible at being sarcastic, I can barely think up your responses. Besides, you gotta wake up, it's your turn to do the laundry tonight. Don't think you're getting off."

There was no real response, but, in his head, Emile could see Remy look horrorifed at the idea of basic manual labour, pulling like he had been stung, and staring at his boyfriend mortified. The offended sound he'd make rang in Emiles' head and he shut his eyes weakily.

"God, I miss you already," He murmured weakly. "But I know you'll pull through. You always do. Remy Sanders doesn't do death, that wouldn't be very hot."

There was no response. Just an imagined laugh.

"You told me that once," Emile murmured softly. "You told me that you wouldn't die unless it was saving the life of a beautiful not-doctor man. Then you winked at me. I still remember that, you made me blush so much. I'm pretty sure you had been flirting with me the whole night and that was the first one that made me squeak. I squeaked, remember that?"

Emile laughed at himself. "Of course you do, you make fun of me about it all the time."

Remy's folded fingers loosened and fell from his hand. Emile quickly tried to press them down once more. "No." He said sternly. "No, you're not letting go of me. Never again. Not until we're two-hundred and sixty. Only then can you let go of me. Do you understand?"

There was no response.

"I-I'm gonna take your silence as a yes," Emile decided aloud, voice weak. He let the room fall as silent as his boyfriend. The only sound was the beeping of the monitors and the distant voices outside. He recognised one as Dr Shirabu, who had stepped outside to let Emile have a moment. He sounded like he was speaking in another language to someone. It was probably Japanese.

Then the quietness changed. The monitor was making less sound. It was slowing down.

"Wait," Emile began in a panic. "Why's that slowing down? No, no, no, Remy, my love, why's that slowing down?! Remy?!"

There was no response, not even a flinch.

Emile clung tightly to his hand, turning around to face the door. "Doctor Shirabu!" He cried out. There were so many words he could think of, there were so many things he could say, to explain the situation, but he couldn't bring himself to shout any more than, "Something's going on with the monitor!"

Instantly, the copper-haired doctor quickly burst into the room, leaving a tall, handsome Japanese man behind him and dashing over to the patient. He checked the pulse and swore softly and repetitively in what Emile assumed was Japanese.

"I need help!" He shouted down the corridor out the room. "Eita!" The instructions he said afterwards were all in Japanese, but the man he had been talking to understood and rushed off, shouting for assistance.

Emile was shaking in the noise of it all, only able to cling to Remy's hand tighter. "Don't leave me," He whimpered. "Not yet. I haven't even able to tell you how much I need you yet. You can't go. Please, stay a little longer."

The monitor kept slowing down, no matter what the doctor frantically did. By the time the man he had been talking with was back, the monitor had began to make the most terrifying noise. A long, constant, infinite beep. Remy was still warm but he wasn't there. Emile hadn't even gotten to say goodbye. And he was gone. Emile had held his hand until the end. Even when it was over, he didn't have the strength to let go. Not anymore...

"I need a defibrillator, quick!" Shirabu ordered. "There may still be time!"

Following his orders, plenty of nurses burst into the halls, searching, and Dr Shirabu began to try and administerate CPR while a spare nurse began to carefully detach the oxeygyn mask in case mouth-to-mouth. The man the doctor had been talking with, who was ashen blonde and surprisingly tall, pulled Emile from the corpse. "You don't want to be near the bod- them when they get the defibrillator out," he said, with the same thick, Japanese accent like Dr Shirabu. "It'll hurt." In his numb state of mind, Shirabu saw a small badge on the strangers' chest. It said 'Visitor'. That meant he was just as helpless as Emile.

Emile was helpless. Remy was gone.

The CPR didn't work. Neither did the defibrillator. Nothing worked. Remys' parents arrived only a few minutes after their son was declared dead. The funeral was in a few weeks but Emile wasn't going to be there for it.

He was going to join Remy in another life. He was going to find him and, this time, they wouldn't let anything happen again.

Emile stood in the middle of their houses' bathroom. No. It was his house now. Without Remy, it was all his. In his shaking palm, there were bright pills. He knew he shouldn't. But it was somewhat funny in a twisted way; how ironic it would be for a therapist to off themself. Emile gripped the sink with his spare hand and then carefully picked up the glass of water.

"Time to go," He whispered to himself. Slowly, he took a sip and let the cold water flood his mouth. It was strange, how he tried to savour every last feeling of anything. He savoured the chilling splash of water in the inside of his mouth, he savoured the rocking of the pills in his shaking hands, he savoured the light that blinded him from above and he savoured the last few beats of his heart.

Gradually, taking his time, he lifted the pills to his mouth and tipped his hand back. They all fell in. Every last one. Shutting his mouth and clenching his fists, Emile mentally prepared to swallow. He looked down, at the mirror, to savour the last glimpse of himself.

Unlike Remy, he wasn't going to die looking healthy. He had dark bags under his eyes and his chesnut curls were oily. He was wearing the same clothes he had slept in and the same clothes he had worn for weeks. He hadn't had the energy to do much. His eyes were sunken in and he was even a bit skinnier. Remy had left him mortified. Now he could be free again.

That was when he saw his reflection change. It wasn't him anymore. It was Remy, with a beautiful, gorgeous, lovely pout on his face.

"Don't kill yourself, my love."

Emile's heart stopped. It was like Remy was right behind him, speaking into his ear.

"It would be a waste of such a beauty. The world doesn't need its' most perfect star to flicker out, now, does it?"

The sense came rushing back to him and Emile instantly lurched over the sink and coughed, the water and pills spluttering out of his mouth rapidly. He kept coughing and gagging, letting the air rush into his mouth, and saw the colourful pills winking up at him from the basin. Tears beginning to run down his face, he let the faucet run and splashed his face with it. Looking up at the mirror again, Remy was gone.

"But I need you," Was all Emile could muster. "I always have. So you can't go."

There was a feeling in his chest. It felt like he was heart was breaking again but someone was holding it together. Like someone holding anothers' hand in theirs. He tightened his grip on the sink and sighed weakily. Slowly, he reached for his phone and pulled up a contact.

"Virgil," He whispered, as soon as his best friend answered. "Please... I need help."