The sounds of the heart monitor and the respirator were part of Mark's mental soundtrack now; if they stopped, something would be missing, empty, not-right... exactly how Mark's life would be once they were turned off.

"I wish I hadn't kissed you," he whispered to the too-young (always too young, always had been) former rock star in the bed. "If I hadn't done that... I would've been here. We could've worked it out. You wouldn't be here," he trailed off brokenly and sighed. "I'm sorry, kid. I'm so sorry."

There was nothing more to say. There was too much left to say. But he hadn't woken up in three weeks and Mark refused to be selfish anymore. He pressed a tender kiss to Roger's forehead, then called the doctor in.

The doctor turned the respirator off and left. Mark tried not to notice the absence of the hissing and whirring, concentrating on the beeping of the heart monitor.

The beeps melted together. The doctor came in again and turned it off. Mark's ears felt strange, empty. Hollow.

He didn't cry.