Work Text:
It was already settled when Jake was born. The word Countdown.
Nobody had ever explained it to him, not even his parents, but he understood quickly.
He understood that everybody had a number of words they could use during their life. That this number was written like a tattoo on their wrist. That when they had said their last word, they just disappeared like sand in the wind. He had seen it, once.
He understood that some people had more words than others. That writers could use as many as they wanted, as long as they had the allowance, an infinite sign on the wrist.
What he didn't understand was, why ?
Jake became an orphan at 19. His parents used their last words for him. "We love you, son."
He never said them back to them.
Strangely enough, people were okay with that. Nobody tried to go against the Countdown. Hard to rebel when you can't talk.
As every afternoon, when Jake went back from his part-time job, he walked down the street, his head down. As every afternoon, everything was quiet. As every afternoon, he walked through the park to the fountain.
Unlike every afternoon, he wasn't alone.
There was a boy, around his age, sitting on a bench with a guitar on his knees. Singing.
"'Cause even the stars, they burn
Some even fall to the Earth
We've got a lot to learn
God knows we're worth it
So I won't give up"
It was like the boy didn't care he was losing his words. It was like he still believed they could go through this and be free again. It was like hope.
It was beautiful.
Jake fell in love.
The boy's name was David. He was 16. He liked singing and beautiful landscapes. His parents had disappeared when he was 11, and since then he had been playing the guitar in the streets to make a living.
David never said all of that, but still, Jake understood.
Sometimes after many coffees, some drinks and a sleep-over, they started dating. Nobody cared. Jake had noticed a while ago that without words, other people's lives didn't matter anymore. He didn't know why, but he didn't care. He was like everyone else, after all.
David never used his words, except for singing. Jake loved it when David was singing. It felt like the world was suddenly way better than it was before, like they could be happy, together.
Jake felt like talking when David was singing. (He never did, though.)
Jake knew something was wrong when David just hummed a melody, on the bench near the fountain. David never hummed. David sang with all his heart, all his soul, like his life depended on the words he was saying — and maybe it did.
Jake tried to find out what was wrong. David just shook his head and smiled brightly at him. Jake forgot everything and kissed him.
It happened again. Then, David just stopped singing. Still, Jake couldn't convince him to go and see a doctor.
After some times, David started coughing. At first it was just after drinking or eating, but it became more and more frequent.
When he woke up during the night, coughing like his lungs wanted to leave his body, Jake couldn't take it anymore.
"David. Please."
Those had been his first words since they met.
David went to hospital.
Jake was there all along. When they tested his blood pressure, when they put a tube trough his throat, when he had a MRI.
He was there when David was asked to talk to the doctor, in private.
Jake hated doctors. Like writers, they had an allowance which gave them the right to talk as much as they wanted.
He hated the fact that someone decided some people deserved to speak more than others. (In his opinion, David deserved to speak more than anybody.)
And he hated more than everything the words the man said.
"It's pulmonary hypertension. Pretty bad. It's too late. There's nothing we can do. At this stage, you'll be dead by next week. I'm sorry."
David didn't cry, so Jake didn't cry either. They spent the next few days together. David taught Jake how to play the guitar, and Jake was fairly good at it. It was like everything was normal again. Except it wasn't. The dark circles under David's eyes, his fading smile, the way he woke up during the night and couldn't breathe anymore, it was not normal.
"It's today. Let's go to the park."
Jake helped David on his feet, took his guitar, and they went out.
The park was empty. They were sitting on the same bench where Jake had seen David for the first time.
David took his guitar, and he tried to sing, but he ended up choking on the first word. Jake wanted to kill someone.
They spent the day on the bench, watching the water in the fountain and the wind in the trees.
David had his eyes closed, and his hand was getting colder and colder in Jake's.
He had to say it before it was too late, again.
"I love you."
(It felt like he hadn't said anything truer in his life. Maybe he hadn't.)
David opened his eyes and they stared at each other.
Jake noticed the little "4" tattooed on David's wrist when he lifted his free hand to stroke Jake's hair gently.
"I love you too."
Then he was alone, the wind blowing David's shape away like smoke, like sand, like dust, whatever. (He couldn't care less. He didn't feel anything, anymore. David had taken his soul with him.)
He closed his hand.
Jake didn't cry. Instead, he went back to their house, put the guitar on their sofa, and slept on their bed. It was cold.
The next morning, he didn't go to work. He took David's guitar and went to the park.
And he spent his day sitting on the bench, guitar on his knees, singing.
"I won't give up."