Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Whizzer POV:
As the sunlight peered into the room, I felt a throbbing pain behind my eyes. I groaned, it felt like I barely got any sleep. I turn to my side away from the sun and noticed that something was missing. Marvin wasn’t there. I pushed myself out of bed, feeling sick. A wave of nausea hit, along with a dizzy spell. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to breathe through it even though it wasn’t working. I felt hot. I didn’t know why is was just.. HOT. I went downstairs to see Marvin making pancakes. The smell only made me feel worse. I wrapped my arms around his waist, my body practically slumping against his. I buried my head in his shoulder.

“You’re sweating..” He said, sounding more like he was asking a question. He then turns off the stove and turned to face me as he wrapped his arms around me. I felt him put a hand on my cheek and rubbed his thumb over it. His expression shifted into something soft. “What’s wrong???”

I looked back up at him, confused. “Nothing, I’m fine.. just tired” I had to admit I did feel a bit sick, but I was fine. He froze, not really knowing what to do or say.

“Ok” He had this funny look on his face that I couldn’t really read. He then smiled.

“Eat some breakfast.. You seem pale” He made me a plate of pancakes and put it on the table. The thought of food made me sick “Uh, no thanks” I said

“No, no, no, that wasn’t a question.. at least eat a pancake” He said. I’d probably throw up if I at a pancake. Before I could say anything he grabbed my wrist and sat me down at the table. “I’ll eat later” I said, trying to talk my way out of the situation.

“Whizzer, you’re not leaving this table until you at least eat something” He said sternly. I agreed. What more could I say? I could barely manage to eat half a pancake before I felt sick. “I’m going to bed..” I said, disappearing into the room.

Marvin POV:
I got worried when he got up. He looked oddly green. “Whizz, wait..” I said before he disappeared into the room. I sighed. I started to clean the kitchen. I had a feeling that he wasn’t just going to bed.

Whizzer POV:
I bolted to the bathroom, barely making it to the sink before I threw up. I tried to keep quiet. The last thing I wanted was Marvin worrying over me especially when it wasn’t that serious. I coughed a bit into the sink and wiped my mouth. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked terrible. I had heavy bags under my eyes. My face was really flushed and practically a faint shade of green. I should probably go back to bed. And that’s what I did.

Marvin POV:
After I got done cleaning the kitchen, I decided to check on Whizzer. I went into the bedroom and saw a Whizzer-shaped lump under the covers that trembled. Was he okay? I placed my hand on his shoulder which caused him to tense up and then relax.

“Whizz? Are you feeling okay?” I said, trying to hide the concern in my voice. He didn’t respond at first. He then groaned, which made me uneasy. “Yea”

“Are you sure? You don’t sound like it” I said my voice softer than usual. He then groaned again. “Marvin, I’m fine..” He sounded like he was unsure. I didn’t want to bother him even if he is sick. I rubbed his back before going back to the kitchen. He barely got out of bed for the whole day. Only to use the bathroom, which was more frequent than I expected and when I made him eat.

Chapter Text

Whizzer POV:
In The Morning, I didn’t feel any better. I curled into Marvin, burying my head in his chest. I still felt extremely hot and tired. My throat burned with the taste of vomit that I kept swallowing. It got harder and harder to hold back. I got up, careful not to wake Marvin and went to the bathroom. By the time I got to the toilet, it didn’t want to come up. I coughed violently into the toilet while still trying to keep quiet.

Marvin POV:
I started to stir. I opened my eyes and noticed Whizzer wasn’t in my arm. Where could he be? Was he in the bathroom again? Did he leave early for work? Then I heard it. A violent cough. Or maybe a gag. It was then I knew. I saw that the bathroom door was cracked open. I peaked my head in and saw… Whizzer over the toilet. He was breathing heavily and coughing violently. He looked like he was gonna puke. I rushed to his side and started to rub his back.

“Whizzer, What’s wrong” He started to retch a little before puking. When he finished he swatted me away. “I’m fine, I just-“ He was cut off by a gag.

“Whizz, no you’re not, you’re literally gagging” He didn’t respond, but instead wiped his mouth and leaned his head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around him to support him. His face was flushed with a greenish tint. I put my hand on his forehead. He was burning up. I sighed.

“Whizzer, why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” He shook his head, still breathing heavily. “I didn’t wanna worry you” His answer made me roll my eyes.

“So I’m guessing you’ve been feeling like this since yesterday? You could’ve told me” He didn’t respond. I flushed the toilet and picked him up bridal style. I carried him to the bed and layed him down. I went into the bathroom and grabbed the small trash can and put it by the bed.. Just incase. “I won’t go to work… To take care of you”

“You don’t have to-“

“I want to..”

Chapter Text

Whizzer POV:
I wake up from a restless sleep the next morning, my body feels drained and my eyes struggle to stay open when I wakes up for the tenth time tonight. I felt like I couldn’t breathe as an Invisible presence presses down on my chest, trying to crack my ribs. My lungs ache, and my throat burns with the taste of vomit that I keep swallowing down. My breaths came out short and shaky. It’s been three days, why did I still feel sick? I buried my head into Marvin’s shoulder as my breathing failed to slow. Marvin claimed that my fever had dropped, but I still felt really hot. I started to get worried that maybe this was something serious. Just thinking about it was enough to send vomit up my throat. I leaned over and threw up into the trash can.

Marvin POV:
I was jolted awake, hearing a strangled sound. It took me a minute to realize what was going on. I saw Whizzer leaned over. I remember rubbed my eyes to get a better look at him. I put my hand on his back, gently rubbing it. He was breathing heavier than the past few days. It was kinda getting concerning. When he was finished, he was still leaned over for a little. Was he gonna throw up again? Was he dizzy? Was he okay? He slumped back and buried his head in my chest. I wrap my arms around him and hold him for a bit. His breaths came out shaky and fast gasps for air. This alarmed me.

“Hey, Whizz? Are you okay??” He didn’t respond. I looked down at him. His eyes were squeezed shut. This only made my anxiety skyrocket.

“Talk to me, Whizz.. What’s wrong?” He opened his eyes and looked up at me. Tears welled up in his eyes. His glossy eyes upset me. “I- just.. can’t-.. breathe..” He rasped.

My eyes widened..

Whizzer POV:
It felt like my lungs were gonna pop as the pressure intensified. I buried my head in Marvin’s chest. I felt tears well up in my eyes, but refused to let myself cry. I squeezed my eyes shut. Then I heard it… The words I’ve dreaded since I was a kid.

“We’re going to the hospital..” I froze, my breath still uneven. No hospitals not yet. It’s not even that bad. “No.. not yet..”

My eyes began to feel really heavy and it was harder to keep them open.. But if close my eyes to sleep then I might be dead in the morning.

Marvin POV:
His body felt limp against mine, which was very concerning. I looked down at him… My eyes widened. His eyes were unfocused, and droopy. He just looked dazed. His breaths were coming out as short, sharp gasps for air. This worried me. He was half collapsed again my chest. I wrapped my arms around him tighter. I looked back down at him and his eyes fell shut. I pull him close and run my fingers through his hair as his fast gasps turned into soft labored breaths.

Chapter Text

Whizzer POV:
I didn’t bring up the night I couldn’t breathe.
Neither did Marvin. It happened so quickly, almost like it never happened—like I hadn’t nearly collapsed on Marvin’s bathroom floor, like Marvin hadn’t slept beside him until dawn, his shirt soaked with my sweat and fear. But something changed.

Marvin POV:
Something had changed in Whizzer. It started subtly. He wasn’t eating much. His usual appetite, once sharp and indulgent, dulled to polite refusals and unfinished plates. I made breakfast one morning—bagels and eggs—and he pushed it around on the plate like it offended him. He kept talking about how he wasn’t hungry. He started having headaches—really bad ones. The kind that blurs most of your vision. He blamed stress. He insisted that it wasn’t worth a doctor’s visit, but that didn’t make it any less concerning.

Whizzer POV:
I started having headaches. Whispering behind my eyes in the mornings, sometimes flaring so badly I couldn’t even open the blinds. It was just stress. Heat. Dehydration. Nothing worth a doctor’s visit, right??.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” Marvin muttered one night, as I sat curled up in their armchair with a book.

“Well, maybe I haven’t,” I replied, voice dry. He approached me, crouching in front of the chair. “Are you—”

“I’m fine.” It was too fast, too sharp. I froze, brushing past Marvin toward the bathroom. I shut the door and locked it.

Marvin POV:
The door clicked shut. Locked. I pressed my lips together and stayed by the chair. A few minutes passed. Then—quiet, muffled, but unmistakable—the sound of vomiting. It wasn’t the first time that week. Or the second. When he emerged, his eyes were red, face pale, and his hairline damp. He was still insisting that he was fine. I didn’t believe him. I didn’t push. Not yet

Later that night, after he had finally fallen into a light sleep, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the ceiling. I counted how many times Whizzer had been sick this week. Five? Six? The fevers. The chills. The way he’d wince when breathing deeply. I knew something was wrong. Really wrong.
And I hated that my mind had already gone to the worst-case scenario. I reached for Whizzer’s hand under the blanket, held it gently.

“I’ll go with you,” I whispered, unsure if he could hear me. “If you’re scared.”

Whizzer POV:
I hadn’t gotten out of bed the day after. I claimed that I was just tired or burned out. I winced when I moved. I barely spoke.
Marvin hovered, useless. He tried to offer food—tea, soup, toast. I tried to eat a little, but it all came back up or wasn’t touched at all. I just shook my head, apologetic, and rolled to face the wall.

Marvin POV:
Whizzer hadn’t gotten out of bed all day.
He claimed he was just tired. “Burned out,” he’d said with a half-laugh, eyes half-closed. But I counted three separate times where he had made it to the bathroom only to retch, leaning against the sink afterward, his face drawn and ghostly. He winced when he moved. He barely spoke. I tried to offer him food—tea, soup, toast—but it all came back up or wasn’t touched at all.

By late afternoon, I had enough.

“I’m calling someone,” I said, sitting at the foot of the bed.

He groaned into his pillow. “Don’t.”

“Whizzer, this is beyond the flu. You’ve been sick for over a week. You’re pale, you’ve got fevers every night, and you still can’t keep anything down.”

“It’s fine. It’ll pass.”

“No, it won’t,” I said, more sharply than intended. He flinched at his tone. I softened, still sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re scaring me.”

Silence. The kind that makes your ears buzz. Finally, Whizzer turned to face me, and the vulnerability in his eyes was enough to break something open.

“I’ve been scared too,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “For a while.”

My throat tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to… make it real.”

There it was. The truth, bare and trembling between us.

I reached for his hand, lacing our fingers. Whizzer’s were cold, damp with fever.

“I’ll be with you. Every step,” I said.
Whizzer looked at me, eyes glassy. “Even if it’s—?”

“Yes. No matter what it is.”

We sat like that for a long time, hands intertwined. Later that night, I called a doctor. And for the first time, Whizzer didn’t stop me.

Chapter Text

Whizzer POV:
I didn’t sleep the night before. I stared at the ceiling, tense under the covers, each breath too shallow, each heartbeat too loud. Marvin was curled beside me, not quite asleep either, judging by the way his arm would occasionally tightened around my waist, like he could sense the storm beneath his skin. Morning arrived slow and grey. By 7 a.m., I had already thrown up twice—dry heaves, mostly. Nothing left in me.

“It’s nerves,” I whispered to myself, hunched over the sink. “Just nerves.”

But I knew better. I knew what the whispers on the news said. What the pamphlets in that free clinic had suggested when I’d gone last year for something “routine.” I knew what it meant to be a gay man in New York in 1981 with a cough that wouldn’t go away and fever sweats that drenched the sheets.

I clutched the sink edges so hard my knuckles turned white. When Marvin found me, I was still there—still shaking, still pale, eyes locked on my own reflection like I didn’t quite recognize it.

“Hey.” Marvin’s voice was soft, like talking to a cornered animal. “You okay?”

I flinched. “Fine.”

“Liar.”

I let out a shaky laugh, then dropped to sit on the closed toilet lid. I covered my face with my hands, shoulders trembling. “I’m scared, Marv.”

Marvin knelt beside me without hesitation. “I know.”

“I can’t breathe when I think about it. What if… What if they say it’s that? What if I’ve known this whole time? Then we know. And we fight it. We do everything we can. What if I can’t?” My voice cracked. “What if I’m not strong enough?”

Marvin reached up and gently tugged my hands away from my face. “You don’t have to be strong. You just have to show up. I’ll do the rest. I swear.”

I stared at him, something vulnerable flickering in my eyes. Marvin continued, quietly, “You’re not alone in this.”

A silence stretched between us. Then, barely above a whisper: “I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not dying,” Marvin said quickly, his
voice trembling. “You’re not. And even if… even if there’s something wrong—we’ll get through it. You and me.”

I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his. My body was hot and trembling, but he didn’t pull away. For the first time in days, I let himself cry. Not from sickness. But from fear. And Marvin held me until it passed. Marvin recoiled slightly, and then nodded. “Okay. Then we’ll just… know.”

My breathing was fast now. Too fast. I pressed a hand to my chest like it might slow the panic inside me.

“Shit,” I whispered. “I can’t breathe.”

“Hey, hey—” He moved closer, gently taking my shoulders. “You’re okay. Look at me. You’re not dying right this second, okay? Just breathe with me.”

“I am breathing.”

“Then slow down. Match me.”

My fingers clawed at his shirt. “It feels like I’m gonna pass out.”

“Okay. Sit with me. Come on, like this.” He shifted so I could lean against his chest. He had one hand rubbing my back in circles.

“In through your nose. Out through your mouth.” I trembled. “My heart’s too fast. Something’s wrong.”

“I know. I know.” He kissed the top of my damp hair. “You’re not alone.”

It took several minutes, but eventually my breathing began to slow. My fists unclenched. I sagged into his arms like I was finally surrendering. We sat in silence, the weight of tomorrow settling around us.

“You’ll go with me?” Whizzer asked, almost childlike.

“Of course.”

“And if they tell me it’s… you know…”

“I’ll still be here.” I closed my eyes. “I’m scared.” He held me tighter. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

Whizzer POV
Hospitals always smelled the same—disinfectant and something faintly metallic, like fear had a scent. I sat stiffly in the waiting room chair, hands clenched around a paper cup of water I hadn’t touched. Marvin sat beside him, eyes darting every time someone in a white coat passed by.
Neither of them spoke. They hadn’t spoken much since getting in the cab that morning.
The fluorescent lights made me look paler. My cheeks were sunken, and my lips were cracked despite the water. Marvin wanted to say something comforting—anything—but everything felt too small for the moment.

A nurse appeared at the doorway. “Whizzer Brown?”

I looked up, startled, then stood too fast. The world swayed around me, and I grabbed Marvin’s arm for balance.

“Whoa,” He steadied my. “Easy.” I straightened, nodded once to the nurse, and followed her down the hall with Marvin right at my side. We passed curtained exam rooms and sleepy patients on gurneys. The hallway felt like it stretched forever. In a small room, a doctor waited. Mid-forties, female, clipboard in hand, eyes already scanning Whizzer like a puzzle to solve. Her badge read Dr. H. Melnick.

“Mr. Brown. I understand you’ve been experiencing several symptoms?” Her voice was calm, measured. I nodded. Marvin sat in the visitor chair, arms crossed tightly, eyes flicking between them.

“How long has this been going on?”

I hesitated. “Couple weeks,” I said.

“Months,” Marvin corrected gently.

Dr. Melnick looked between us, then nodded. “Let’s go through the symptoms together. You’ve had…?”

“Fatigue,” I muttered. “I’m tired all the time. I wake up tired.”

“Nausea,” Marvin added. “Vomiting. Almost every day.”

“Fevers,” I said. “Night sweats. And I—” I paused. “—I get dizzy sometimes when I stand. Like this morning.”

Dr. Melnick nodded as she wrote. “Any cough?”

I nodded. “Dry. Not constant, but it’s there.”

“Sore throat?”

“Yeah.”

“Appetite?”

“Gone.”

She made a few more notes. “Have you noticed any skin changes? Rashes, discoloration?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “There’s a rash on my chest. And some spots on my leg. They don’t hurt.”

Dr. Melnick’s brows furrowed subtly, the first crack in her neutral expression. “Okay. I’m going to order a full panel of labs—bloodwork, chest X-ray, and a few others. I’d like to keep you here for observation while we wait for some results.”

I stiffened. “You think it’s serious.”

“I think we need more information. But your symptoms are significant enough that we should move quickly.”

I looked down. My hands trembled in my lap. Marvin reached over, resting a hand on my shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing.”

I didn’t answer.

The next few hours moved like molasses. They took my blood, scanned my chest, ran tests Marvin couldn’t even pronounce. They moved me to a small observation room where I lay under a thin blanket, looking even smaller than usual—Marvin’s words not mine.

He sat at the foot of the bed. Occasionally, I would drift off to sleep, only to wake moments later nauseated or shivering.
When the doctor returned, she had the same clipboard, but her eyes were gentler.
“We’re still waiting on a few results,” she said. “But I can tell you what we know so far.”

Marvin stood. I sat up straighter, bracing myself.

“Your chest X-ray showed signs of a type of pneumonia we’re seeing more often in young men—Pneumocystis jiroveciipneumonia. It’s rare, and usually only shows up in people with weakened immune systems.”

I blinked slowly. “Okay.”

She continued, carefully. “Some of your other labs—your white blood cell count, T-cell levels—suggest your immune system is under considerable strain. We’re going to run one more test. It checks for HIV antibodies.”

The room fell into stunned silence. Marvin’s mouth opened, but no words came.

I stared at the doctor, eyes wide. “You think I have AIDS.”

“I think it’s a possibility,” she said quietly. “But we’ll wait for the confirmation.”

I exhaled hard, like all the air in my body had been punched out.

“I need a minute,” I said. I turned away from them, burying my face in the pillow. Dr. Melnick nodded, gave Marvin a brief look of sympathy, and left.

Marvin stood there, rooted.

“I didn’t think it would be real,” I said, muffled. “I thought—if I ignored it—maybe…”

“I know.”

I turned my face back toward him, eyes glassy. “Are you going to leave?”

The question cracked something open in Marvin.

“No,” he said, moving to sit on the bed. “God, no.”

I let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I’m scared.”

“I am too.”

Marvin took my hand. I clung to it like a lifeline.

We sat in silence until the sun began to set outside the window. The world kept turning. But in that little hospital room, time stood still.

The walls of the hospital room were beige, like someone had tried to choose a color that wouldn’t offend anyone but only succeeded in making time feel slower. I lay curled slightly on my side, the thin blanket tucked under my chin. The nausea had eased, but the fatigue hadn’t. My eyes fluttered open now and then, only to close again like it took too much effort to stay in the world.

Marvin sat in the chair beside the bed, a crumpled magazine unopened in his lap. He watched the steady rise and fall of my chest, counting seconds in between. I hated the silence—but also hated filling it.

“Do you want anything?” Marvin asked quietly. “Water? Ice chips?”

I cracked an eye open. “Maybe burn this place down so I can go home.”

Marvin smiled thinly. “I’ll check if that’s in their discharge protocol.”

We sat for another beat before I spoke again. “I saw the nurse whisper to the doctor earlier. I don’t think they’re telling us everything.”

Marvin hesitated. “They’re waiting on results.”

“Waiting,” I repeated. “That’s all we ever do now.”

A knock at the door interrupted us. Dr. Melnick entered, a chart in hand, her expression unreadable. I tensed. “We got your blood test back,” she said softly, stepping inside.

Marvin stood, his stomach flipping. Dr. Melnick looked at both of us.

“We ran the HIV antibody screening…”

I sat up, gripping the blanket. Marvin moved instinctively closer, heart pounding.

“And—”

The monitor beeped once. The room buzzed with electricity. “Doctor,” a nurse called from the hall, cutting her off. “You’re needed in 3B—urgent.”

Dr. Melnick froze, torn. “I’ll be right back,” she told us. “Please—just give me a few minutes.”

And then she was gone, leaving the door swinging shut behind her. I stared at it for a long moment. Marvin did too. The only sound left was the soft, slow beep of the monitor and the faint hum of fluorescent lights above.

Chapter Text

Marvin POV:
The room was too white. Whizzer squinted as we stepped inside. The fluorescent lights buzzed like an insect in my ears, and my grip on his hand tightened. The woman waiting for us was unfamiliar — tall, dark-haired, in a lab coat too crisp for the late hour. She looked up from the folder she’d been reviewing and offered a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You must be Whizzer. And Marvin?” Her voice was kind, calm in a practiced way. “I’m Dr. Charlotte. I’ll be overseeing your case from here.”

Case. Whizzer hated that word. Like he was a puzzle on a table, a project to be handled.
I gave a small nod, my voice was caught somewhere in my throat. He collapsed into the nearest chair, folding over like someone had taken the wind from his chest. I stayed standing, my back against the wall, like I wasn’t sure if I could sit without unraveling.

Dr. Charlotte took her time. She sat down across from him, folded her arms, and waited a moment before speaking.

“I know it’s been a rough few days,” she said gently. “We’ve run several tests. Viral panels, T-cell counts, a few biopsies based on the skin irritation.”

My stomach clenched. “Whizzer,” she said, “the tests are consistent with an opportunistic infection — Pneumocystis pneumonia. It explains the cough, the shortness of breath, the fever.”

She paused.

“And your bloodwork… Your T-cell count is low. Extremely low.” Whizzer blinked. “That… that means what I think it means, doesn’t it?”

Dr. Charlotte nodded. “We’re diagnosing you with AIDS.”

I sat down fast. Too fast. The chair scraped violently against the tile, the sound sharp. My breath hitched.

Whizzer POV:
I looked away — not at Marvin, not at Dr. Charlotte. I looked at the floor like it might give me something solid to hold onto. I wanted to scream. Or sleep for a year. I swallowed hard, tasting bile. The nausea rose quick and merciless. I lurched forward and barely made it to the small waste bin beside the desk. My stomach emptied in fits and gasps.

“Sorry—” I muttered between retches. “God, I’m so—”

“It’s okay,” Dr. Charlotte said, rising quickly, grabbing tissues, a cup of water. “That reaction isn’t uncommon.”

Marvin turned, his hands trembling. He pressed the heel of one against his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. His own stomach flipped in sympathy, bile rising. He stood up, pushed open the adjoining restroom door, and staggered inside. The sound of him vomiting echoed faintly through the wall.

Dr. Charlotte stayed still — calm in the chaos. When I leaned back, sweat on my brow, she handed me tissues wordlessly.

“I didn’t want him to see that,” I whispered. “He’s already so scared.”

“You’re both allowed to be scared,” she said.
After a moment, Marvin re-emerged. He looked pale, shaken, eyes red-rimmed. He didn’t sit. He walked over to me, knelt beside me, and placed his hand on my thigh like he might steady both of us that way.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Marvin said, voice hoarse. “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

I leaned into his touch. “Even if I do?”

Marvin shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I just—” I cut myself off. My throat tightened. “I’m scared too.”

Dr. Charlotte’s voice was quiet but firm.“There are treatments. We’ll discuss all your options. But for tonight, just… rest. Go home, or stay here. Be together.”

Marvin nodded. “We’re staying.”

The doctor smiled again — small but sincere this time. “Then I’ll give you some privacy.”

She left us alone in the white room, closing the door softly behind her. Marvin sat in the chair beside me and reached for my hand again. There weren’t any more words left to say that night. But we stayed there, holding on. And breathing.

Chapter Text

Whizzer POV:
The apartment was quieter than usual, sunlight cutting gently through half-open blinds, casting warm patterns across the floor and up the couch. I was curled in a blanket. My eyes, slightly sunken but alert, flickered toward the door as I heard Marvin’s key click in the lock.

“Home,” Marvin announced softly, not quite expecting a response, not after the week we’d had. But to his surprise, I sat up a little straighter and cracked a tired smile. “You brought me soup?”

Marvin blinked, stunned to see color in my face. “I—yeah. Matzo ball. From that place you hate.”

“Great,” I teased, voice still a little hoarse but alive with mischief. “The terrible soup from the terrible deli. I’ve missed it.”

Marvin POV:
It had been three weeks since the diagnosis. Dr. Charlotte had explained everything with a kindness that didn’t sugarcoat, but didn’t crush. I remembered how he had gone pale as her words landed like stones. I remembered holding him in the hallway after he ran out of the room and vomited from sheer fear.

Since then, every little victory had been celebrated: keeping down tea, a full night’s sleep, a laugh, a walk around the block. This—Whizzer alert, teasing—was a miracle.

“Are you actually hungry?” I asked as I toed off my shoes.

He nodded. “Starving.”

I didn’t question it. I fetched a bowl, heating it quickly, eyes flicking constantly to the couch as if afraid he would vanish. I returned with the soup and sat beside him.

He blew on a spoonful and took a sip. “It’s horrible,” he muttered. “Just like I remembered.”

I laughed softly. “Shut up and eat it.”

For most of that evening, things felt almost normal. We watched an old noir film, he leaned into my side, warm and comfortable. I nearly forgot to be afraid.

The next morning began too quietly. I stirred early, used to the rhythms of Whizzer’s nighttime coughing or the creak of him padding to the bathroom. But this morning, the silence was thick. I sat up, immediately uneasy, and turned to see him curled tightly, still asleep. Or… no. His skin was pale, damp. I leaned closer. Whizzer’s eyes were open, glassy with discomfort.

“Hey,” I said gently, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

Whizzer swallowed, clearly nauseated. “Didn’t wanna wake you. It started in the night. Just… felt off.”

“How off?” I asked, already pressing a hand to his forehead. Too warm. He rolled onto his side. “I thought it was a fluke. Maybe the soup. I just—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he bolted up, making it halfway to the bathroom before he gagged and dropped to his knees. I rushed after him, catching him as his body lurched forward and a thin stream of bile spilled onto the tile. His body convulsed with a dry retch that left him breathless.

“I got you,” I said, trying to hold his shoulders, trying to pretend his hands weren’t trembling. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” He gasped, voice raw. “I was getting better—”

“I know,” Marvin whispered, clutching him tighter. “You were. Maybe it’s just a bump. Maybe it’s nothing.”

But the morning turned into an afternoon of vomiting, weakness, cold sweats. He barely spoke, too exhausted to do more than curl up on the bathroom floor. I stayed with him, pressing cool cloths to his neck, whispering useless comforts, calling Dr. Charlotte again and again until she answered. She gave them a choice: ER or wait it out with hydration and observation. Whizzer insisted on staying home. I wasn’t sure if it was bravery or fear.

By nightfall, Whizzer was dry-heaving, chest aching from strain. I finally overruled him and called for help. In the ambulance, he clung to my hand, silent tears tracking down his cheeks—not from pain, but from frustration, from the cruel reminder that this disease didn’t play fair.

At the hospital, after fluids and meds, He stabilized. They kept him overnight for observation. I sat in the chair beside him, holding a cup of stale hospital coffee, staring at the heart monitor as if it would offer answers.

“I thought I had more time,” He said suddenly, voice fragile. “I felt good yesterday.”

I looked at him, eyes stinging. “You do have time. You still do.”

He shook his head, but not to argue. “I want it to mean something. The good days. I don’t want to waste them being scared.”

I reached out and gently touched his hand. “Then let’s not. We’ll take them one at a time. One good day, one bad, and everything in between.”

He looked at me, weary but alive. “Deal.”

Whizzer POV:
Marvin sat down on the bed for a while before looking down at his watch. I froze. He looked back up at me and he brought a hand up to my cheek.

“Sorry Whizzer, I should go home..” He said, looking kind of upset. I didn’t move. I just looked up at him. What could I say? What would I do.. without him?

“Whizzer, I know it’ll be hard.. but, I have work tomorrow.. I’ll be back as soon as I can..” He assured.

“Marv, it’s fine“ I said. There was silence between us but not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt comfortable and somewhat comforting. He then kissed my cheek. And just like that… He disappeared into the hospital light.

Chapter Text

Whizzer POV:
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, too bright and too cold. I blinked against the sterile whiteness of the hospital ceiling. The click of Marvin’s shoes down the hall had faded minutes ago, swallowed by the late-hour silence and the hum of machines that monitored what was left of my health. Alone again.

The room was too still without Marvin. It always was, lately. And though I’d never admit it, I missed the warmth of another body, of hands that fidgeted nervously, or a voice that babbled just to fill the silence. Now, there was only the rhythmic beep of the monitor and the soft hiss of oxygen through plastic tubes. I hated both. I stared at the IV in my arm and the bruises beneath it. So much for dignity.

“You gotta die sometime, right?” I muttered aloud, voice rough with fatigue and bitterness. My throat hurt. Everything hurt. But not enough to make it feel real yet. Not the way it was supposed to. Shouldn’t it feel dramatic? Sudden? I had tried—really tried—to face it like it didn’t scare me. With sarcasm, with bravado, with the kind of cocky smirk that had once won me more lovers than I could count. I was Whizzer Brown. A winner. Even now, when my body was shutting down one cell at a time, I still wanted to play the part. But alone, I couldn’t.

I couldn’t stop the questions. Was this really it? Was it coming soon? What would it be like? Would it hurt? Would Marvin be here? Would it be messy?

My stomach churned—not with illness this time, but with dread. The corners of my eyes burned, but I blinked it away. I wasn’t crying. Not yet. I wouldn’t give the virus that satisfaction.

“Dying sucks,” I whispered, almost amused at the understatement. I tried to sit up, but even that was too much for my body. The fatigue pressed down like lead weights. So I stayed slumped, eyes drifting to the window. The city was still alive out there.

Somewhere, people were dancing. Laughing. Drinking. Kissing. I missed dancing.

“Why me?” I asked, not expecting an answer. Not from God, or fate, or whoever was supposed to hear dying men’s prayers. I’d never really believed in anything. Now wasn’t the time to start. I glanced at the empty chair Marvin had left behind. The impression of his body still lingered in the cushion. I reached for the blanket and pulled it tighter around myself, suddenly cold. My hands were shaking again. I gritted my teeth.

“I don’t want to die,” I whispered, barely audible. The words tasted like shame. I wanted to face it all like a man. Like someone fearless. But I wasn’t fearless. I was human. And I was terrified. Still, even in the fear, maybe I wasn’t alone. Not truly. Marvin would be back in the morning. He always was. And tomorrow, maybe he’d put on the smirk again. Maybe he’d make a joke. Maybe he’d pretend he wasn’t scared. But tonight—only tonight, we were allowed to be afraid. Just for a while. I let my eyes close, listening to the monitor, pretending the beeps were someone’s heartbeat other than my own.

Jason’s POV:
I sat at the edge of my bed, knees drawn up to my chest. The hall light spilled into my room, casting long shadows over the floor. Down the hall, I could hear the soft murmurs of Marvin’s voice—tired, raw—talking to Charlotte and Cordelia in the kitchen. I couldn’t hear the words, only the weight behind them. Whizzer was at the hospital again.

I reached under my pillow and pulled out the small, creased paper his rabbi had given me months ago. A simple prayer. I wasn’t even sure if I believed in all of it. Not completely. But tonight… it felt like the only thing I could do. I looked up at the ceiling, blinking hard.

“Please,” I whispered. “I don’t know what You do up there. I don’t even know if You’re listening. But Whizzer’s really sick. And I—I love him.”

I paused, voice catching.

“He makes Dad better. He makes me better. So… if You’re real, if You do miracles or whatever—please don’t take him away. Not yet.”

There was no reply, of course. Just the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant creak of floorboards. But I stayed still a little longer, clutching the paper in my hands, until my eyes drifted shut. And in the silence, my heart kept repeating the prayer, over and over, into the dark.

Whizzer POV:
My eye fly open. I groggily blinked away the slight blur in the corners of my eyes. I then heard a knock at the door. I looked down at my watch—5:21. Hm? Who could possibly be at the door, Marvin usually wasn’t up til at least seven. Then the door creaked open…And the doorknob twisted.

Chapter Text

Whizzer POV:
When the little man walked in with a suit and tie—And over sized blazer and dress pants, my eyes lightened and went wide. Jason! Man, he looked just like Marvin, but with Trina’s dark brown curly hair.

He was smiling—bright and genuine. Then he said.

“Hey Whizzer, aren’t you glad I’m here..” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yea, but why are you so dressed up?”

“For my bar mitzvah”

Oh that’s right, it’s Jason’s bar mitzvah. I completely forgot about what Marvin told a few weeks after we got back together.

Suddenly, Marvin, Trina, Mendel, Cordelia, and Charlotte walked in. And then they redecorated.

Jason POV: After redecorating
The room didn’t look like hospital room #21 anymore. Paper streamers looped like garlands from IV stands. The sharp smell of antiseptic had been replaced—at least for now—by the warm scent of the rugelach Cordelia brought in Tupperware. A folding table, hastily decorated with a white cloth and a plastic Kiddush cup, stood in the corner. On the window sill sat a modest challah, covered with a cloth stitched with Stars. Charlotte had brought battery-operated candles, flickering gently beside it. Mendel arranged folding chairs borrowed from a conference room. They squeaked, but no one minded.

The pale white walls had been overtaken by a patchwork of family photos, posters of the Knicks, and garlands of silver and blue that Mendel had insisted were festive but were just tacky. Mom had spent the morning arranging deli platters on the rolling tray table and smoothing out the wrinkled white sheet they’d brought from home to throw over the foot of the hospital bed. It was a tablecloth now, she claimed. No one dared argue.

The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of machines and the hush of gathered breath. Mom stood near the door, blinking quickly, her hands clasped so tight the knuckles were white. Mendel had an arm around her. Charlotte stood a respectful distance away, giving us our space. Dad—I mean Marvin was seated at Whizzer’s side, holding his hand. And I, in a small, too-big blazer, stood near Whizzer’s bed with a worn prayer book in my trembling hands. We had decided, together, that the Bar Mitzvah would happen here—because Whizzer wouldn’t make it to the synagogue. Because I wanted him there more than anything.

“You look like it’s strangling you,” Whizzer muttered with a weak smirk. He looked pale. Frail. But his hair was combed back, and Marvin had helped him into a clean shirt—one of my old dress shirts from years ago, actually. It fit now. That fact sat heavily in Marvin’s chest.

I laughed. “Well, you try putting this thing on. I look like I’m being eaten by a cloud.”

“You are being eaten by a cloud. A holy cloud,” Mendel said, trying for lightness. “A very important, Jewish cloud.”

Whizzer’s fingers drifted to my wrist and gave it the smallest squeeze. “You look great, kid.”

I ducked my head, face flushing. “Thanks.”

“Better dressed than Marvin was at his own Bar Mitzvah,” Mom added.

“Hey,” Marvin protested from his seat on Whizzer’s bed, “I had an excellent corduroy blazer. I was fashion-forward.”

“No,” Mom said flatly. “You were in beige. There’s a difference.”

Laughter rolled through the room like sunlight, warming the space, clearing out the heaviness that had settled in the corners.

A pause. Then, Whizzer said softly, “Thanks for letting us do this in here. I wanted to be here, I missed enough already. I wasn’t gonna miss this.”

I nodded, lips pressing tight. I looked around. Cordelia was checking the bagels. Charlotte was finishing adjusting the lighting. I was fiddling with the prayer book in my hand. Everyone was trying so hard to make it feel normal. Sacred. Like it wasn’t happening in a place where people died.

“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” I admitted, still watching Whizzer. “I mean… because it’s me. I know I’m not—like—your real kid or anything.”

Silence. Then Whizzer pulled a breath that made his chest rattle. “Kid,” he said, “I don’t care how you got here. You’re part of my life. And that makes you mine too.”

I blinked quickly. Marvin reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder. “You ready?”

I gave a shaky nod. “Almost. Just… give me a minute.”

Marvin and Mendel stepped aside to give me space, whispering something about checking the camera setup. I looked back at Whizzer. “Do you think… do you think God cares it’s not in a synagogue?” I asked. “That it’s not right?”

Whizzer blinked slowly, eyes wet and gentle. “I think God would be delighted” he whispered. “And right now? I think He’s standing at the foot of this bed, waiting to hear you chant.”

I leaned forward, quick and impulsive, and hugged Whizzer tightly. Whizzer returned it as best he could, arms shaking. “I’m glad you’re here,” I mumbled into his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” Whizzer said.

Marvin helped me put on the prayer shawl and led me to the podium “Relax, relax” He told me almost like he could tell just how nervous I was.

Mendel smiled—goofy and sweet— and then said. “Son of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Son of Marvin, Son of Trina, Son of Whizzer, Son of Mendel and Godchild to the lesbians next door”

And in that small hospital room, wrapped in clouds, battery candles and mismatched prayer books, I step back and straightened my tallit. The Torah—scanned and printed and bound in spiral binding—rested on the podium.

I took a deep breath and began, my voice unsteady but sincere. “Vie-eme-low yea-o-leh, Heh-oh-non vi-low, Ah-yis-is-ooh ay-ysi-ro-ale, Ha-ooh low toe vo-o-meem aboh”

I read from the Torah portion I had practiced for weeks. It was clumsy in spots, my eyes flicking up now and then to Whizzer, who was in Marvin’s arms, pale and exhausted, but alert. He was watching me the way no one had ever watched me before—with unfiltered pride, love, and sadness.

My voice cracked midway through. Marvin started to move toward him, but Whizzer raised a shaky hand. Let me finish. His eyes never left me. When I reached the end of the reading, I stood frozen, uncertain. The room stayed still with me. And then, slowly, Whizzer lifted his hand again and motioned him closer. I stepped forward. Whizzer’s breathing was labored, and his face was damp with sweat. Marvin brushed a cloth against his temple. But Whizzer’s eyes found mine—sharp, even now. Real. With effort, Whizzer raised his hand and rested it gently on my shoulder. His palm was warm, trembling.

“…Thank you,” he whispered, voice hoarse but full of something deeper than words. His eyes shimmered—not with fear, but with peace. I nodded. I didn’t cry yet. I just held Whizzer’s gaze as long as I could. Whizzer gave the faintest of smiles.

And then, gently, his hand slid from my shoulder and he softly fell against Marvin’s chest. Marvin pulled him closer and he closed his eyes. The machines kept beeping for another few seconds—slow, quiet beeps that filled the room.

Then silence.

Marvin’s eyes went wide. He and Charlotte led him to the bed. They layed him down and covered him up. I tried to go back and uncover him to get one last good look at him. The lump under the covers was completely motionless. No stirring. No rise and fall of the chest. My eyes went wide and tears welled up in them. I then felt Mom grab my wrist, her grip was really gentle and tender.

Moonlight seeped into the small room. “Let’s go, honey..” She said softly. We left the hospital for the night. When the car, I couldn’t stop thinking about Whizzer. Was he really dead? Was Dad still there? I broke down. Mendel, who insisted on sitting in the backseat with me for emotional support was rubbing my back as I cried.

Chapter Text

Marvin POV:
I couldn’t sleep. The couch remained untouched. Jason had eventually been coaxed into it, curled up beneath someone’s sweater—Trina’s or Charlotte’s, no one remembered whose. His breathing was soft and even. It was the kind of rest only exhaustion, not peace, could offer. I stayed seated in the bean bag next to the couch.

My hands were clenched in my lap, knuckles white. My shirt was a little damp at the collar. I hadn’t noticed I’d been crying again.
It had all happened too quickly—too slowly.
The silence of the room had resumed. Life moved on, like the universe didn’t notice what the hospital had taken.

There were no words. Only a deep, strange emptiness. Like something inside me had fallen silent as I thought back to a few weeks ago.

Flashback:
The fluorescent lights above us buzzed faintly, casting a dim wash over the room.
Whizzer layed back against the pillows, thinner than ever, color gone from his cheeks. The IV lines tugged gently at his arm, and a cup of untouched apple juice sat on the table beside him. His breath was shallow, steady but strained. His eyes flickered toward me as I paced slowly in the corner.

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," He murmured, voice gravelly but faintly amused.

I stopped pacing but didn’t look up at him. “I just… I can’t sit still.”

"You never could."

There was silence, filled only by the hum of the machines and the distant chatter in the hallway

I finally turned to face him, my expression tired and brittle. "You're not allowed to die."

Whizzer looked at him for a long moment, then smiled—small and aching. “You know I don’t get to pick, right?”

“I know.” My voice cracked. I sat at the edge of the bed, my fingers wrapping tightly around Whizzer’s hand. “But I want to believe that if I sit here long enough—if I beg hard enough—somehow the rules will change.”

Whizzer squeezed my hand. “Then you’re still you.”

“I never got it right with you,” I whispered. “I messed everything up. I didn’t know how to love you until it was too late.”

“You learned,” He said simply. I blinked, and for a moment, tears threatened. “And now I have to lose you.”

He looked at me, eyes shining. “You’ll still have me. Just… in the Marvin-way. Loud, inconvenient memories.”

There was a knock at the door. I wiped my eyes quickly, rising to answer it. Charlotte and Cordelia stood in the hall, both with hesitant smiles and paper bags.

“Hey,” Charlotte said softly. “We brought soup. And cookies. Mostly cookies.” Cordelia added, “And absolutely no applesauce. We learn from our mistakes.”

I opened the door wider, letting them in.
“Look at this stylish crowd,” Whizzer said, trying to sit up straighter. “My favorite lesbians in one room.”

Cordelia beamed. “And you say romance is dead.”

Charlotte set the food down and moved closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a wet towel that someone wrung out and left on the floor. But thanks for asking.”
Whizzer answered.

They chuckled, softly. The kind of laugh you make when your heart hurts. Cordelia perched at the edge of a chair. “So. What’s on the emotional docket today? Existential dread? Bitter confessions?”

“Tragic gay reminiscing,” Whizzer said, raising a hand. “But we’re just getting started.”

Charlotte glanced at me, I sat back down and held Whizzer’s hand again, more openly now. “You two doing okay?”

I didn’t answer right away. “I love him,” I said quietly. “More than I ever knew I could.”

“I know,” Charlotte said. “That’s why we’re here.”

Cordelia leaned her head on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Unlikely lovers, huh?”

I frowned in thought. “No. We’re not that unlikely anymore.”

Whizzer smiled faintly, his eyes on me. “We figured it out. Eventually.”

We all sat together in silence. The sound of the rain softened. No one rushed to fill the space. In that little room with its peeling wallpaper and steady beeping monitors, love lived in tired jokes, warm hands, and the quiet resolve of people who stayed. Neither of us knew how many nights were left. But this one—We held onto.

And now he was gone. I don’t want to think about that but it felt impossible. What would I do without arguing with you about movies? Or dragging you out of bed on Sundays? What would I do if I didn’t get to roll my eyes every time you made that smug face when you won at chess?

The apartment was too quiet when I finally snapped back to reality. I was still in the beanbag chair long after everyone else went to the kitchen. Trina was cooking, Charlotte and Cordelia were seated at the table talking with Trina. Jason had fallen asleep on the couch beside me, under the thin Superman blanket that Trina put over him. I didn’t cry. Not at first. I just sat there. I was too drained to cry. I just went to bed.. without dinner.

The unbearable silence broke.

I didn’t bother changing out of my clothes—just collapsed onto the mattress, and let myself disappear into the sheets. They still smelled faintly like Whizzer. Cologne and laundry soap.

I curled in on myself on the bed and sobbed until my chest ached. I buried my face in the pillow and tried to breathe through it, but every inhale hurt. Every heartbeat was too loud. I cried. It started as a few tears, then swelled until my chest shook. I wrapped my arms around the pillow like I could hold Whizzer there, like the right amount of grip could pull him back. My sobs were broken and quiet, choked off by the guilt and the exhaustion.

I cried for every fight we ever had, for every kiss cut short, for every moment we didn’t get. I thought, for a second, about the scent of boiling pasta radiating through the apartment—Whizzer liked pasta. I could almost hear his voice saying, “Al dente, Marvin. It’s a texture, not a suggestion.”

My hands wouldn’t move. My body wouldn’t follow. My stomach twisted at the thought of eating, a lump forming in my throat, not of hunger but of memory.

When the grief quieted to a numb ache, the doorknob twisted.

Trina POV:
I hadn’t meant to go in, but something had told me to. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe the memory of how he used to fall apart in college, when things got too hard to say out loud. I brought him some pasta in a plastic bowl, thinking maybe he’d eat if someone put it in front of him.

I stepped into the dark hall, concerned by his coat on the floor.

“Marvin?” I called softly.

No answer.

I stepped further in the hall, the door to the guest room slightly ajar. I pushed it open and stopped when I saw him: fully dressed, curled up on top of the covers, his shoulders trembling.

Trina’s face softened. “Oh, Marv…”

I didn’t speak at first. I sat down gently beside him and laid a hand on his back.
He flinched but didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” He whispered, voice hoarse. “I didn’t want to eat. I didn’t want to do anything.”

I rubbed his back in slow, steady circles. “You don’t have to do anything tonight,” I said gently. “Just… let it be what it is.”

“I’m so tired,” He whispered, sounding like a child. “I miss him so much, Trina. I thought I’d be braver than this.”

I layed down beside him, fully clothed, and pulled the blanket over us both.

“Missing someone doesn’t make you weak,” I said. “It just means you loved him right.”

He didn’t reply, but his hand found mine under the blanket, gripping it like an anchor.
I held it without question. Marvin didn’t fall asleep easily that night, but when he finally did, it was with me at his side and a trace of peace in his breathing. And for the first time since Whizzer’s death, the silence didn’t crush him.

The Next Morning

Sunlight poured in through the blinds the next morning, far too bright for a day like this. Marvin and Jason walked down to the kitchen and sat at a corner table. Jason picked at a piece of toast. Marvin didn’t eat at all.

I came by around noon, my face blotchy but calm. I kissed Jason on the forehead and rested my hand on Marvin’s shoulder. “You can stay with us,” I said gently.

Marvin nodded, but didn’t commit.

Marvin POV:
I stood in the doorway of the kitchen for a long time, unsure that it didn’t feel like home anymore. The couch where Whizzer would stretch out with a book. The counter where I'd leave notes. My toothbrush was still in the bathroom.

Jason went to my room and sat cross-legged on the bed.

“Do you think he knew?” Jason asked. I leaned in the doorway. “That he was going to die?”

Jason nodded.

I exhaled slowly. “I think… he knew he didn’t have much time. But I think he held on because he wanted to see you become a man.”

Jason didn’t say anything. He just stared at his hands in his lap. I crossed the room and sat beside him. “You made him proud, Jason. That meant everything to him.”

Jason leaned against me quietly. “I didn’t want him to go.”

“I didn’t either.”

We stayed like that—father and son, both changed, both older than we’d been the day before. Later, when Jason finally fell asleep again, I wandered into the living room, sat on the couch, and stared out the window for a long, long time. And for the first time, I whispered it aloud: “I loved you. I love you. I always will.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel so empty.

Chapter Text

Marvin POV:
It was raining on the day of Whizzer’s funeral.

The kind of rain that didn’t pour, but fell in a slow, persistent mist, soaking into coats and clinging to skin like grief. The sky was gray—soft and heavy—and it felt appropriate somehow. Not theatrical, not dramatic. Just quiet and tired.

The kind of weight you carry not in your arms, but in your chest.

The funeral was small—just close friends and family. No grand spectacle, no public display. He would have scoffed at anything that felt too sentimental or forced. But this? That’s how Whizzer would have wanted it—though I didn’t know for sure. We hadn’t talked about it, not in any real way. Every time Whizzer tried to bring it up, I’d shut it down with, “Don’t,” or “Let’s not think about that yet.” But yet had come. Too fast. Too soon.

This was quiet. This was real.

The service was held outside, beneath a canopy of trees in a private cemetery not far from the hospital. Charlotte had found the spot. Trina had helped organize the details. Mendel had arranged for Jason to be excused from school. I had done nothing but sit by the window for three days. Until now.

The small group stood beneath a green awning at the cemetery, umbrellas blooming like muted flowers around the grave. Charlotte and Cordelia stood together, their hands clasped tightly. Trina sat beside Mendel, who had his arm around Jason.

I stood at the edge of the chairs, hands trembling as I held the folded piece of paper I’d rewritten a dozen times. Not far away. Just… a little to the side. I was paler than usual, dark circles carved beneath my eyes, but I wore the suit Whizzer liked best on me. The navy one, with the sleeves a bit too long.

I hadn’t meant to be alone, but I wasn’t sure I could hold anyone’s hand. Not right now. My own hands shook too much, and my jaw was clenched so tight I thought I might break a tooth. I hadn’t spoken all day.

Jason sat in the front row, next to Trina, his back impossibly straight. He clutched a small stone in his hand—one he’d painted for Whizzer the day after he died. A red heart in the center, with "W" etched into the side.

The rabbi spoke gently. Soft words about peace and rest, the eternal memory of a life lived, however briefly. I barely heard it. My mind swam with images—Whizzer in the racquetball court, Whizzer brushing my hair out of my face, Whizzer smirking from the couch with a crossword puzzle, Whizzer trembling in a hospital bed.

And then, they called me up.

I didn’t know if I could do it. But Jason looked up at me. Just a glance. And that was enough.

I stepped forward. The paper crinkled in my hands. “I… I don’t know how to do this,” I began, voice already cracking. “Whizzer would say I’m making this too dramatic. He’d probably roll his eyes. Maybe he’s doing it now.”

A few people chuckled softly—Charlotte, Mendel. Jason didn’t move. I swallowed hard. “I didn’t love Whizzer because he was perfect. God knows, he wasn’t. He was impulsive, and stubborn, and flashy. He stole the covers. He left his socks on the floor. He had too much cologne. And he made me furious at least three times a week.”

I looked down at the page. Then folded it and put it in my pocket. “I loved him because he made life feel alive. He made it big and sharp and painful and bright. He made me better. And braver. And more human.”

Silence.

My throat tightened. “And I should’ve told him that more. But I hope he knew.”

I stepped away quickly, breath shaky, and sat back beside Jason. Jason reached out and took my hand.

Trina stood next. She kept her speech brief—kind, honest. She spoke of Whizzer’s presence in our strange little family, how he made Jason feel seen, how he challenged them all to be more honest with themselves. Mendel followed, tearfully. Charlotte closed the service with a prayer.

Then, one by one, we approached the casket. It was dark wood, simple, elegant. We all placed something beside it—stones, letters, photos. Jason stepped forward last. He laid down his a chess piece down next to his motionless hand. Then he leaned forward and whispered something I couldn’t hear.

When he returned, I gently pulled him into my arms. As the casket was lowered, I closed my eyes.

It was final. It was real. And it broke something inside me. But in that space, surrounded by the people who remained, there was something else, too—something Whizzer had left behind. Love. Messy, complicated, powerful love.

Chapter Text

Marvin POV:
The apartment was too quiet. I stood in the doorway, keys dangling from my fingers, staring at the empty space that used to feel like home. It had been three weeks since the funeral, three weeks since I'd last been here. I'd been staying at Cordelia and Charlotte's place, unable to face returning to the apartment that still held so much of Whizzer.

But I couldn't avoid it forever.

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. Everything looked exactly as we'd left it that last morning, when I'd rushed Whizzer to the hospital, both of us knowing, but not saying, that he wouldn't be coming home again.
Whizzer's jacket still hung by the door, his camera still sat on the side table, cap off, as if he'd just set it down for a moment and would be back to pick it up any second. A half-empty mug of tea—Whizzer's favorite kind—still stood on the coffee table, a faint ring of lipstick on the rim.

I touched it gently, remembering how Whizzer always left those marks, how I used to tease him about it.

"I can't help having perfect lips, Marvin," Whizzer had said once, laughing. "Consider yourself lucky—you get to kiss them."

The memory hit me like a physical blow. I sank onto the couch, my legs suddenly unable to support myself. I picked up the mug, cradling it in my hands as if it were something precious and fragile.

"I miss you," I whispered to the empty room. "God, I miss you so much."

There was no response, of course. Just the hollow silence of an apartment that used to be filled with Whizzer's laughter, his music, his endless commentary on everything from fashion to politics to whatever ridiculous thing Jason had said on the phone.

I set the mug down carefully and made myself get up. I had to do this. Had to sort through Whizzer's things, had to figure out what to keep and what to give away, had to learn how to live in this space that would never feel right again.

I started with the closet. Sliding the door open was like releasing a ghost—Whizzer's scent, that particular blend of cologne and shampoo and something uniquely him, wafted out, and for a moment I could almost believe that Whizzer was there, standing behind me, ready with some sarcastic comment about my own fashion choices.

The closet was meticulously organized, of course. Whizzer had been fanatical about his clothes, arranging them by color, by season, by style. I ran my fingers along the sleeves of his shirts, each one bringing back a specific memory: the black jacket Whizzer had worn to Jason's baseball game, the green one from the anniversary dinner, the soft white one he'd worn on quiet Sunday mornings when we'd stayed in bed late, reading the paper and drinking coffee.

I pulled that one off the hanger and held it to my face, inhaling deeply. It still smelled like him. Without thinking about it, I took off my own shirt and put on Whizzer's. It was slightly big—Whizzer had been taller, broader in the shoulders—but it felt like an embrace. Like a small piece of Whizzer was still with me.

He continued through the apartment in this way, finding pieces of Whizzer everywhere. His reading glasses on the nightstand. His favorite book, a biography of some photographer I had never heard of, a bookmark still holding his place halfway through. His special brand of coffee, imported from some small shop in Italy, almost empty now.

In the bathroom, I found himself unable to touch Whizzer's things—the expensive face creams, the hair products, the aftershave that I had always complained was too strong but now found himself desperately trying to memorize. How long before these things lost Whizzer's scent? How long before I started to forget the exact timbre of his laugh, the precise shade of his eyes in the morning light?

I looked at myself in the mirror, at Whizzer's shirt hanging loosely on my frame, at my own red-rimmed eyes, the grief etched so clearly on my face.

"What am I supposed to do now?" I asked my reflection. "What would I do without you?"

My phone rang, cutting through the silence, making me jump. It was Trina.

"Marvin? Are you okay? You were supposed to pick up Jason an hour ago."

Shit. I'd forgotten. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice rough. "I... I came back to the apartment. I lost track of time."

There was a pause, and when Trina spoke again, her voice was gentler. "Do you want me to bring him over? Or he could come tomorrow instead?"

"No," I said quickly. "No, I want to see him. I'll come get him now."

"Okay," Trina said. Then, after a moment: "It's going to get easier, Marvin. Not better, maybe, but easier."

I didn't know how to respond to that. I thanked her and hung up, then looked around the apartment one more time. There was so much still to go through, so many decisions to make, so much grief still to process. But Jason was waiting, and life, somehow, was continuing, even without Whizzer in it.

I changed back into my own shirt, carefully hanging Whizzer's back in the closet. Then I picked up my keys and headed for the door.
I paused with my hand on the knob, looking back at the empty apartment. "I love you," I said softly. "I'll always love you."

Then I stepped outside, closing the door behind me.

Jason was quiet on the drive back to the apartment, casting worried glances at me when he thought I wasn't looking. "It's okay to talk about him, you know," I said finally, as I pulled into the parking spot. "About Whizzer."

Jason nodded, fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket. "I miss him," he said, his voice small.

"Me too, kid." I reached over and squeezed my son's shoulder. "Me too."

We rode the elevator in silence, but as I unlocked the apartment door, Jason spoke again. "Dad? Do you think... do you think we could look at some of his photographs? The ones he took of us?"

I felt my throat tighten with emotion. "Yeah," I managed. "Yeah, I think he'd like that."

Inside, Jason went straight to the bookshelf where Whizzer had kept his photo albums. He pulled one down—a leather-bound volume that I recognized as the one where Whizzer had stored his favorites—and carried it to the couch.

I sat beside him, and together we began to flip through the pages. There were photos of all of us: Jason at his baseball games, Me cooking (badly) in the kitchen, Cordelia and Charlotte dancing at some party, Mendel making one of his earnest, gesturing points about something, Trina laughing. And there were photos of Whizzer himself, ones he'd set up with a timer or asked someone else to take, his smile brilliant, his eyes alive.

"He was really good," Jason said, lingering on a particularly beautiful shot of the sunset from their apartment window, the light catching on the glass buildings of the city skyline.

"The best," I agreed.

We continued through the album, sharing memories as we went. "Remember when he tried to teach you how to throw a baseball?" Jason laughed. "And you hit Mendel in the head?"

I smiled despite myself. "He never let me forget it. Every time we went to the park after that, he'd say, 'Mendel, you might want to stand back. Marvin's going to attempt athletics."

Jason giggled, and the sound was like a balm to my raw heart. We kept going through the album, laughing and sometimes crying, until we reached the last page.

There, Whizzer had placed a photo of the three of us—Me, Whizzer, and Jason—at the Central Park Zoo. We were standing in front of the seal exhibit, Jason between us, all three smiling widely. I remembered that day clearly: how warm it had been, how Jason had asked endless questions about each animal, how Whizzer had known the answers to most of them, surprising both Jason and me with his knowledge.

"That was a good day," Jason said softly.

"It was," I agreed, my voice thick.

"Dad?" Jason looked up at me, his eyes serious. "I know it's hard right now. But we had a lot of good days with Whizzer, didn't we?"

I nodded, unable to speak. "And I was thinking... maybe that's what we should remember. Not just that he's gone, but all the good days we had with him. Because there were a lot of them."

I pulled him close, holding him tight as tears streamed down my face. "When did you get so wise?" I murmured into Jason's hair.

Jason shrugged against me. "Whizzer used to say that to me. When I was upset about something. He'd say, 'Focus on the good days, kid. There are always more of those than bad ones, if you're looking right.'"

I closed my eyes, hearing Whizzer's voice so clearly in those words. "He was right," I said. "He usually was, though I'd never tell him that. His ego was big enough."

Jason giggled again, and we sat there together, holding the album between us, surrounded by the memories of the man we had both loved, who had loved us in return.

Later, after Jason had gone to bed in what used to be his room for the weekends, I sat alone in the living room, the photo album still open on my lap. I traced Whizzer's face with my fingertip, memorizing the lines of his smile, the crinkles around his eyes.

"I'm trying," I whispered, voice breaking. "I'm trying to focus on the good days. But it's hard without you here to remind me."

There was no answer, of course. Just the silence of the apartment, the distant sound of traffic outside, the soft tick of the clock on the wall.

But as I closed the album and finally headed to bed—our bed, which would feel too empty, too cold without Whizzer's warm presence beside me—I felt something shift inside me. A tiny loosening of the grief that had been wrapped so tightly around my heart since the moment Whizzer had taken his last breath.

It wasn't much. Just a small space, a tiny opening where something else—not happiness, not yet, but perhaps a kind of peace—could begin to grow.

And maybe, I thought as I laid down in the darkness, maybe that was enough for now. Maybe that was how I would learn to live with this loss, this absence that would never be filled. One breath at a time. One memory at a time. One good day at a time.
In the quiet of the night, I could almost hear Whizzer's voice: "That's it, Marvin. You're getting it. Focus on the good days."

And for the first time since Whizzer's death, I slept without dreams.

Chapter Text

Trina POV:
The house was too quiet.

Even when Jason practiced piano. Even when the phone rang and rang. Even when I stopped by and made noise just by existing—cutting apples too loud, sighing too loud, asking questions too loud. It didn’t matter.

The silence always won.

Marvin barely ate. He’d lost weight. The collar of his shirt sagged now. He hadn’t shaved in over a week, and his hair had grown long enough to curl at the ends—unkempt and uncharacteristic. He didn’t talk much, not even to Jason. Just the occasional nod. A muttered “I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t.

We all knew it.

I stood in the kitchen with Mendel, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. “I’m worried,”

“You said that yesterday,” Mendel replied gently. “And the day before that.”

“Because I am worried. He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t eat. I found him standing in the bathroom, just… staring at the wall. For ten minutes.” I said.

Mendel sighed. “He’s grieving, Trin. It’s raw. This is what raw looks like.”

“But what if it never stops looking like that?” I whispered.

Jason hovered near the door, not quite in the room. Listening.

Charlotte POV:
I decided to take Cordelia to visit with Marvin soup and energy. Things have been hard.. Especially with Whizzer gone.

“Marvin,” I said, pressing the container into his hands, “please eat.”

He didn’t respond

Cordelia chimed in. “Or at least talk. To someone. Mendel? Anyone?”

He sat motionless, soup in hand, eyes unfocused.

“You know,” I tried again, “there’s nothing weak about seeing someone. If anyone understands grief, it’s me… Or Mendel. I work in a hospital, remember? And he’s a psychiatrist”

That got a reaction. Barely.

“I’m not a patient,” He muttered.

“You are now,” I said. Quiet. Not unkind. Just honest.

Jason POV:
That night, I sat on the couch next to dad, who was sunk into the cushions like someone had removed his bones. I cleared his throat. “Mendel said I could start coming in again.”

He blinked at me. “For what?”

“Sessions.”

“…I thought you stopped.”

“I did. But now…” I hesitated. “Now I think maybe you should go.”

He looked at me. Really looked. “I’m the grown-up,” He said, voice cracking.

I shrugged. “You don’t seem like it right now.”

A silence fell between us. Then: “I miss him too,” I added. “But it’s okay to ask for help.”

It took two more days, three more ignored phone calls, and one visit from Mom where she physically opened the blinds and threw out the spoiled milk before Marvin finally said the words: “Fine.”

Just that. One syllable.

“I’ll go.”

Mendel POV: Session 1
I didn’t gloat. I didn’t nod or smile or make it about me. I just opened my notebook and waited for Marvin to speak

Chapter Text

Marvin at the psychiatrist, a 20 part mini opera!

Part 1: The first session back!
It was raining the day Marvin came back.
Not pouring, just a steady drizzle that painted the windows of my office in long, quiet streaks. Appropriate, really. The kind of weather that makes people look smaller in their coats, like they’re trying to disappear.

He didn’t knock. Just opened the door like he used to—like he’d never stopped showing up. But his eyes told the truth. They were hollow, like someone had reached into him and scooped out something essential.

“Marvin,” I said, trying to keep the warmth in my voice even though my chest tightened at the sight of him.

He nodded, the kind of nod that doesn’t mean anything at all.

The silence stretched between us for a full minute. I didn’t interrupt it. Grief doesn’t like noise. Sometimes it just needs space.

He sat, not on the couch like usual, but in the chair by the window. Crossed his arms, stared out at the grey sky.

“I didn’t come for advice,” he finally said.

“I didn’t think you did.”

“I just… didn’t want to be in the apartment.”

He didn’t say “our apartment.” I noticed. His fingers drummed against his leg—nervous energy. Always had to be doing something with his hands. Whizzer used to tease him about that.

I let him talk in pieces. Broken sentences. Jumbled thoughts.

He said he hadn’t been eating. He said Jason kept looking at him like he might crack down the middle. He said he felt selfish for missing Whizzer when Whizzer was the one who had to die. He even mentioned that Whizzer wouldn’t want him to be upset and how he couldn’t stop it.

“I feel like I should be okay by now,” he muttered.

I didn’t say, there is no timeline on grief. I just looked at him and said, “You’re here. That’s enough.”

His lip trembled. Just once. And then he breathed—deep and shaky—and looked back at me with a softness I hadn’t seen since the funeral.

“I don’t want to talk about him today,” he said, voice smaller now. “Not yet.”

“That’s okay,” I told him. “We can talk about you.”

Marvin nodded again, this time with a little more meaning. The session was quiet. But it was a start. And sometimes, that’s everything.

Part 2: A sandwich and silence!
He brought a sandwich today. I didn’t mention it when he sat down, but I noticed it the moment he walked in—paper-wrapped, tucked under his arm like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to eat it.

“Turkey,” Marvin said, halfway through the session, unprompted. “Whizzer hated turkey.”

It was the first time he’d said Whizzer’s name in here. He didn’t cry. Didn’t smile either. He just stared at the sandwich like it had wronged him somehow.

“He said it was dry. Called it the ‘worst of the poultry family.’”

I leaned forward slightly. “But you still bought it.”

“I always liked it,” he shrugged. “But I stopped eating it. Dumb, right?”

Not dumb. Just love. Quiet, invisible love that lives in grocery lists and brand loyalties and silently avoiding turkey sandwiches.

“You can like it again,” I said gently.
He tore a piece of crust off and rolled it between his fingers. “Feels wrong.”

I didn’t push.

Instead, I asked him how Jason was doing.
Marvin softened a little, the way he always did when talking about his son. “He’s still lighting candles. Like Whizzer’s Jewish now.”
“Maybe that’s Jason’s way of holding onto him.”

Marvin nodded. “He says Whizzer’s in his dreams sometimes.”

“Do you dream of him too?”

A pause. Marvin’s fingers stopped moving.
“No,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid if I do, I’ll wake up.”

He stared down at his sandwich again. Didn’t eat it. Just held it. Then, without a word, placed it gently beside him on the couch.

That was the whole session. No breakdowns. No confessions. Just a man sitting in his grief, turkey sandwich and all.
Sometimes healing doesn’t sound like crying. Sometimes it sounds like silence… and letting yourself buy something you love again.

Part 3: The empty seat!
He sat on the edge of the couch today, like he was ready to leave at any moment. Like the cushion behind him would swallow him whole if he relaxed too much.

"I didn’t go to synagogue this week," he said. "First time I’ve missed since... you know."

I nodded. “How did that feel?”

“Guilty,” he said, quickly. Then softer: “Relieved.”

I waited.

Marvin exhaled and rubbed his face with both hands, like he was trying to scrub away something permanent. “They keep asking about me. The neighbors. My mom. Everyone.”

“And what do you say?”

“I say I’m fine.” A humorless smile. “That classic line.”

He looked down at the floor. I could tell he wanted to fill the silence but didn’t have the strength today.

So I filled it for him.

“Marvin,” I said, “do you want to be fine right now?”

His head jerked up. He frowned. “What kind of question is that?”

“A real one.”

He didn’t answer for a long while. Just stared at the opposite wall like it had something to say.

“I want to function,” he finally said. “That’s not the same thing, is it?”

“No,” I said gently. “But it’s a start.”

He tugged his sleeves down over his hands like a kid hiding from the world. “I keep setting a place for him. At the table. Every night. Like a lunatic.”

I didn’t call him that. I never would. Instead, I asked, “What happens when you sit down to eat?”

He hesitated. “I don’t. I just… stare at the plate. Then throw it away.”

“Every night?”

Marvin nodded, and I could see his throat tighten, like he was swallowing a scream.
I didn’t ask him to stop. I didn’t tell him to move on.

Instead, I said: “One night, you’ll sit at that table and eat. Even with the extra place set. And that’ll be okay too.”

His voice cracked. “Will it?”

“Yes,” I said. “Because missing someone doesn’t go away. It just… gets quieter.”

Marvin didn’t cry today.

But he closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch for the first time since he started coming. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

Part 4: Ghosts in the kitchen!
He told me a story today.

Unprompted.

“I burned the soup,” Marvin said, dropping into the chair like gravity had doubled. “I’ve made it a hundred times. The first one that Whizzer hated. Matzo ball. It’s muscle memory by now.”

He laughed bitterly. “Not this time.”

I asked what happened.

“I stepped away for a second,” he said. “To grab the old chessboard from the closet. I thought maybe Jason and I could—never mind.”

He waved the thought away. “I came back and it was black on the bottom. The house smelled like smoke. And I just stood there.”

He looked at me. Really looked at me.

“I didn’t cry,” he said. “I didn’t panic. I just stood there… and waited for him to yell at me.”

My chest tightened. “Whizzer?”

He nodded. “He used to hover when I cooked. Not in a bad way. Just… always there. Complaining I under-salted everything. Telling me to turn the heat down. Grabbing a spoon to ‘check’ the taste.”

Marvin rubbed the back of his neck. “The soup wasn’t even that good. But it was ours.”

We sat in silence for a while.

“Do you still want to cook?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It feels… hollow. Like I’m feeding a house full of ghosts.”

I gently suggested that maybe making the soup again—with Jason, or Trina, or even alone—might feel different next time. He nodded, but I could tell he didn’t believe me yet.

“Ghosts or not,” he muttered, “the house needs feeding.”

He said it with a sigh, but I saw the faintest flicker of something underneath. Duty. Maybe even hope.

Marvin didn’t cry today either.

But when he left, he said, “Thanks,” before the door closed.

It was soft. Almost automatic.Still, I wrote it down. Because healing doesn’t shout. It whispers.

Part 5: The 'almost' empty chair!
He didn’t sit down at first today.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes flicking around my office like he was looking for a reason to bolt.

“I almost didn’t come,” he muttered. I offered him his usual seat. He didn’t take it.

“Is it bad,” he asked, “that I’m getting tired of being sad?”

I told him no. That it wasn’t bad. That grief is exhausting, and he’s allowed to want relief. He sat down, finally, slowly.

“But I feel like—if I stop hurting, it means he’s more gone.”

He looked at the couch next to him. The empty space. “I wake up and he’s not there. I open the closet and his shirts aren’t… it’s like I’m being asked to live without proof he ever existed.”

I reminded him: love leaves traces. That Whizzer is in the soup recipes, the records stacked crooked on the shelf, Jason’s half-grin.

Marvin scoffed. “You’re a romantic.” But his voice cracked when he said it. He fiddled with his hands the whole session. Picking at a loose thread on his cuff.

“He’d hate this,” Marvin said. “Me, here. Talking to you. He used to call it ‘navel-gazing.’”

“Sounds like he knew you needed it,” I said.
Marvin chuckled. “He knew I needed a lot of things. Especially ones I refused.”

There was silence again. He let it sit this time.

Then, almost a whisper: “I keep seeing him in crowds. On the subway. Walking by a cafe. Just for a second.”

“That’s normal,” I said gently.

He nodded. “Still feels like hell.”

The session ended a little differently today. He lingered by the door.

“See you next week,” he said. And before I could answer, he added, “Thanks… for keeping his chair open.”

It was a metaphor. Maybe. Maybe not.
But either way, I didn’t move the second chair.

And I won’t.

Part 6: The photos!
Marvin brought a box today.

Didn’t say anything as he entered, just placed it carefully on the table between us. Sat down. Waited.

“You can ask,” he said after a moment.
I gestured gently toward it. “What’s in the box?”

“Whizzer.”

He opened the lid like he was revealing something sacred. Inside were photos—loose ones, in no order. I caught glimpses of Whizzer laughing, sunburned, asleep on a blanket in the park, one where he and Jason wore matching ridiculous sunglasses.

“He hated when I took the pictures,” Marvin muttered. “Said I always caught his bad side. But sometimes he forgot I was taking them.”

He slid one across to me.

Whizzer was mid-laugh, hair windblown, head tilted back, eyes nearly closed. It was… full. Alive.

“I don’t know if this is helping,” Marvin said. “I thought if I saw him like this—whole, before the hospital—it might make the end feel less heavy.”

“Does it?”

“No.”

I nodded. Let him keep talking.

“But it reminds me why I loved him. Why I still do.”

He held up one of the photos. “This was the day we argued over picnic food. I brought egg salad. He said I was trying to poison him.”

Marvin smiled faintly. “We didn’t speak for half an hour, then he kissed me in front of a group of horrified old ladies.”

Silence again. He didn’t cry. Just looked.
“I’m scared,” Marvin finally admitted, voice low.

“That I’m going to forget what he sounded like. Or how he walked. His stupid cologne.” I assured him—memories fade, but love doesn’t disappear.

He didn’t say anything to that. Just packed the photos back up, carefully, as though each one might shatter.

At the end of the session, he paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“I’m gonna bring more next time,” he said. “I think he’d like knowing someone else saw him as more than just... what he became.”

I didn’t tell him that he’s already doing exactly what grieving people are meant to do: remembering out loud. I’ll be here to listen every time.

Part 7: Jason stops asking!
Marvin came in late today—rushed, hair damp, shirt inside out. I didn’t comment.

He collapsed onto the couch and stared at the ceiling for a good while before he said anything.

“Jason stopped asking about Whizzer.” I waited.

“He used to ask something every day. Little stuff. Like… did he like mint chocolate chip? What was his favorite movie? Did he really beat you at racquetball all the time? And now—nothing. It’s like he’s pretending he never knew him.” He said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“And I get it. I do. It hurts. But it’s like he packed Whizzer away in some box in his mind. And I can’t stop unpacking mine.”

“You’re grieving differently,” I said gently.

“Yeah, well, mine looks pathetic. Jason gets to be resilient, and I’m… falling apart over cereal commercials and empty closets.” He told me he tried to bring Whizzer up last night, just in passing. Said something like, “He would’ve hated this weather,” and Jason just nodded and went back to his homework.

“No comment. No memory. Just—moved on. Is that healthy? Is that what kids do?” I asked Marvin what he wanted Jason to say.

“I don’t know. I guess I want him to need to talk about him. Like I do. I want to feel like I’m not the only one holding the pieces.”

He looked down. “Sometimes it feels like I dreamed him. Like Whizzer happened to me but not to the rest of them.”

I reminded Marvin that Jason had his own connection with Whizzer, but kids grieve in motion—through activity, distraction, routine. And often, their silence isn’t erasure—it’s survival.

Still, it ached. I could see that.

Marvin clenched his jaw. “I told him he could always talk to me. About anything. But I don’t think he believes me. Or maybe he doesn’t want to see me cry anymore.”

He said he was afraid he was becoming “the sad dad.”

I asked if he’d ever tried writing Whizzer a letter. Not for Jason. Not for anyone else. Just him and the memory of the man he loved.

He looked at me sideways. “I’m not great with words.”

I smiled. “You’re better than you think.”

He left without a promise to try. But he took a notebook from my shelf on the way out.

Part 8: The notebook on the table!
He brought the notebook back today. It sat beside him on the couch like a guest he wasn’t ready to introduce. He didn’t say hello, just stared at it for a moment before sighing.

“I wrote one page,” he muttered. “Half a page.”

“That’s more than none,” I said. He nodded without looking up. “I didn’t know what to say. I thought I’d write about the day we met or our first fight or… something important. But I ended up writing about the stupid way he used to brush his hair back before going out. Like he was starring in some kind of shampoo commercial.”

He chuckled under his breath. “It wasn’t even about Whizzer. It was about how I felt watching him do that. How it made me jealous and furious and stupidly in love all at the same time.”

He glanced up. “Is that what you meant?”

I told him yes. That grief is not just about recording facts. It’s about capturing the fingerprints of someone who left them all over your life.

“He was infuriating,” Marvin said. “He made everything harder than it had to be. But sometimes I think… maybe I liked things being hard. Because it meant they were real.”

He looked suddenly embarrassed. “God, I sound like a soap opera.”

I shook my head. “You sound like someone grieving someone who mattered.”

He swallowed. “I miss him in the little ways now. The things I used to hate. The clothes on the floor. The cereal left open. His stupid jazz records that he never alphabetized.”

He shook his head. “It’s the clutter I miss. The proof he was here.”

Silence hung heavy between us. Then he asked, “What do I do when I start forgetting more than I remember?”

I paused. “You remind yourself. In letters. In notebooks. In moments of stillness.”

“And if that’s not enough?”

“Then you bring it here,” I said. “We’ll remember him together.”

He picked up the notebook on his way out. Didn’t open it, just held it close to his chest like a shield.

Part 9: Yesterday sucked!
Marvin stared at the chair across from him, the one he never let anyone else sit in.

“He used to sit there,” he said. “Crossed one leg over the other and made himself at home like he owned the place.”

I nodded. “I remember.”

“He had this habit of correcting me. Mid-sentence. Always with that smug little smirk.” Marvin smiled at the memory, a mix of irritation and affection.

“He’d say, ‘That’s not what you mean, Marv. Try again.’”

I let the silence stretch. I knew what was coming. It was the reason he hadn’t been able to look me in the eye all session. “I tried to go back to the gym yesterday.”

That surprised me

“I got halfway through changing before I panicked,” he admitted. “There was a guy in the locker room who looked like him from behind. Same stupid hair. I just… stood there, staring. Then I ran into the bathroom and threw up.”

He laughed once. Bitter. “That’s pathetic, right?”

“No,” I said. “It’s called trauma.”

He swallowed hard. “I keep thinking if I just keep moving forward, he’ll stop haunting everything. But then I see him in every stranger’s reflection, hear him in songs he hated, find his toothbrush in the back of the cabinet and I’m back to square one.”

“Grief isn’t linear,” I said. “It loops. It spirals. Sometimes it stands still. But it doesn’t forget.”

“I don’t want to forget,” Marvin said. “I just want to stop hurting this much.”

“I believe that day will come,” I said. “But maybe not yet.”

He looked again at the empty chair. “Do you ever feel like he’s still here?”

“I think,” I said carefully, “that people don’t vanish. They echo. Especially in the people who loved them.”

He nodded slowly.

“I want to tell him I’m trying,” he whispered.

“I want him to see that I’m still standing.”

“You just did,” I said.

He didn’t cry. But he didn’t speak again either. We sat together in silence, honoring the echo.

Part 10: The list!
Marvin arrived with a folded piece of paper in his hand. He didn’t say hello right away—just sat down stiffly and laid the paper on the arm of the couch like it might burn him.

“I made a list,” he muttered.

I tilted my head. “Of?”

“Things I miss,” he said. “About him.”

I waited while he unfolded it. His fingers trembled. He didn’t read it out loud—just stared at the words like they might vanish.
He finally said, “Some of them are stupid. Like... the way he always stole fries off my plate. He said he loved extremely bitter things, said they were comforting, even though I never knew what he meant.”

“Not stupid,” I said gently.

He nodded, voice softer. “How he’d get all quiet after we fought, like a kid who knew he’d gone too far. He’d never apologize right away. Just… slink around the apartment like a sulking cat.”

A small smile played on his lips, then faded.
“I miss his smell,” Marvin said.

“Cologne and aftershave and something else—like cinnamon. I miss how he used to hum when he brushed his teeth. I miss his damn racquetball schedule, and his laugh, and even when he called me an idiot.”

He gripped the list. “I keep thinking if I just remember enough, it’ll keep him alive. But it doesn’t. It’s just me talking to myself.”

“Talking to me counts too,” I reminded him. He blinked. “You don’t think this is pathetic?”

“I think it’s love. And you know love can tell a million stories… And this is yours.”

He didn’t respond, but after a moment, he folded the list and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Not his wallet—not tucked away out of sight—but close to his heart.

“I’m scared I’ll stop remembering eventually,” he admitted.

“You won’t,” I said. “Love leaves a mark. You’ll carry it forever.”

He let out a slow breath, and for the first time in days, he looked less like a man unraveling and more like someone starting to patch himself back together.

We ended the session quietly. But when he left, he held the door open an extra second—like he expected someone else to walk out behind him.

Part 11: The phone call!
Marvin was late to our session, which was unusual. When he finally arrived, he looked… different. Haggard, but quieter—like a storm was settling down.

He sat down and pulled out his phone, staring at it like it might explode.

“I called Trina,” he said after a long pause.

“Trina!?” I echoed.

“Yeah,” Marvin whispered. “I haven’t talked to her much since… well, you know. But I called. We talked.”

He didn’t say more, but I could see the weight on his chest lift just a little.

“You miss her?” I asked gently. He nodded slowly. “It’s complicated. But she’s Jason’s mom. And I can’t do this alone. I guess I’m ready to start trying again.”

“Good,” I said. “Sometimes healing means opening doors you thought were closed.”

Marvin’s hand trembled as he put his phone away. “I want to try. For Jason. For me.”

We spent the session unpacking all the feelings tangled around that phone call—the fear, the hope, the anger, the love.

By the end, Marvin looked tired but… maybe a little more hopeful. Sometimes recovery isn’t a straight line. Sometimes it’s one step, then two back, then three forward.And that’s okay.

Part 12: Small moments!
Marvin walked into the room, a little less guarded than usual. His eyes flicked up briefly with a tired smile.

“Today was… different,” he began. “I went to Jason’s school meeting. I sat in the back, mostly. But I was there.”

I nodded. “That sounds like progress.”

He sighed, rubbing his hands together “Yeah. It’s those small moments that catch me off guard. The quiet, the silence when I expect chaos.”

He paused, then added softly, “I don’t want to be just the sad guy anymore. But it’s hard not to be.”

I leaned forward. “You’re more than your grief, Marvin. It’s okay to let yourself live beyond the sadness.”

Marvin’s smile grew a little, fragile but real.
“Maybe one day,” he said. “Maybe one day soon.”

We talked about finding joy in small things—like a clean kitchen, or a quiet walk, or even a good cup of coffee.

It’s those little sparks, I reminded him, that can light the way through the dark. Marvin nodded, a quiet determination settling in. Healing might be slow, but it was happening.

Part 13: Silence weight us down!
Marvin sat in the chair, staring out the window. The room was quiet, except for the faint hum of the city outside. He didn’t speak at first—just breathed, heavy and slow.

After a long moment, he said, “Sometimes I think the hardest part isn’t the pain. It’s the silence. When everyone stops asking how you’re doing because they think you’re still broken.”

I watched him carefully. “People can be afraid of pain. But silence can be lonelier.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Like being invisible, except everyone can see you.”

I nodded. “That’s why you have to speak for yourself. Let people in, even if it’s scary.”

He sighed deeply. “I want to be better. But I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” I said firmly. “Step by step. Day by day. You’re already on that path.”

Marvin finally looked at me. His eyes were tired but searching.

“Thanks, Mendel,” he whispered.

I smiled softly. “Anytime, Marvin. Anytime.”

Part 14: Small steps!
Marvin came in holding a notebook, a little worn but clearly cared for. He sat down heavily, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

“I started writing again,” he said quietly, flipping it open. “Not poetry yet. Just... thoughts. Trying to catch the bad days before they swallow me.”

I smiled, feeling a flicker of hope. “That’s good. Writing can help give shape to the chaos.”

He nodded, eyes fixed on the page. “It’s scary. Sometimes the words feel like they’ll drown me.”

“That’s normal,” I told him gently. “But each word is a step away from the silence.”

He looked up, meeting my gaze. “Maybe I’m ready to keep walking.”

I could see the tentative spark of something new — not quite hope, but the start of it.

“Let’s keep walking together,” I said. Marvin gave a small, grateful smile, and for the first time in a while, the room felt a little lighter.

Part 15: Facing the mirror!
Marvin’s face was drawn, tired. He sat before the mirror in the therapy room, hands trembling slightly as he steadied himself.

“Tell me what you see,” I said softly. He swallowed hard. “A man who’s lost. Broken. I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

“But that reflection… it’s only one part of you,” I encouraged. “Behind that tired man is the Marvin who loved, fought, and survived this far.”

He looked away, voice cracking slightly. “Sometimes I’m scared I won’t find him again.”

I nodded understandingly. “The journey back isn’t linear. Some days you’ll get closer. Some days, farther away. But you’re moving, and that counts.”

Marvin’s eyes moistened, but he took a slow, steadying breath. “I want to try. Really try.”

“That’s brave,” I told him. “Let’s keep facing the mirror together.”

And in that moment, I saw a fragile strength beginning to bloom.

Part 16: The weight of silence!
The room was quiet, save for Marvin’s uneven breaths. He sat curled on the couch, hands clasped tightly, as if holding himself together.

“Sometimes the hardest part isn’t what we say,” I said, “but the silences we carry.”

Marvin nodded, voice low. “After Whizzer... the silence at home was deafening. I couldn’t fill the space he left. I still can’t.”

I leaned forward gently. “Grief can make silence feel like an ocean. But sharing even a word can build a bridge across it.”

He met my eyes, raw and vulnerable. “I don’t want to drown in that ocean.”

“We’ll find you a lifeline,” I promised. “One step, one word at a time.”

For the first time in weeks, Marvin’s lips twitched into a faint, weary smile.

Part 17: Small victories!
Marvin showed up today with a new look in his eyes—quieter, softer, but clearer.

“We’re not chasing miracles,” I said, “just steady progress.”

He nodded. “I slept through the night without waking. I didn’t feel that crushing weight when I woke up.”

“That’s good,” I smiled. “What about the silence?”

He exhaled slowly. “Still there. But I spoke to Jason last night. Not about Whizzer, just… life. It felt good.”

“Talking is the start of healing,” I told him. “Even if it’s slow, even if it’s painful.”

Marvin’s hands unclenched a little. “Maybe I’m starting to come back.”

“Maybe you are,” I said. “Maybe you’re already on your way.”

Part 18: The weight of memory!
Marvin sat quietly, fingers tapping the armrest like a metronome.

“Memories are tricky,” I said gently. “They can trap us or set us free.”

He looked up, eyes shadowed. “Every corner of the house… Whizzer’s laugh, his touch, the way he looked at me. I can’t escape it. It feels like drowning.”

I nodded. “Grief is a heavy cloak. But you don’t have to wear it forever.”

He swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “How do you stop feeling like you’re losing him every moment?”

“By holding onto the moments you did have, not the ones you wish you did. And by letting yourself live again—for Jason, for you.”

Marvin’s hands folded in his lap, trembling. “It’s harder than I thought.”

“Nothing worthwhile ever isn’t,” I said softly.

Part 19: Bigger steps!
Marvin shuffled into the room, eyes tired but a flicker of something softer in them.

“You made it here today,” I said with a small smile.

He gave a weary chuckle. “I thought about not coming. But I’m tired of running from this.”

We began a simple exercise — grounding, focusing on breath. “In… out. Notice the feeling of your feet on the floor. The chair beneath you.”

Marvin’s shoulders loosened just a bit. “It’s like I’ve been holding my breath for so long.”

“Because you have,” I said. “Now, you’re letting it out.”

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them with a fragile hope. “Maybe I can learn to breathe again.”

“One breath at a time,” I reminded him.

Part 20: Light through the Darkness!
The room was quiet, soft afternoon light filtering through the blinds. Marvin sat across from me, a calmness in his gaze I hadn’t seen in months.

“You’ve come so far,” I said gently. He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I still carry the weight,” he admitted, voice steady. “But it doesn’t control me anymore.”

“Grief isn’t something you get over,” I reminded him. “It’s something you learn to live with.”

Marvin took a deep breath. “I want to live. For Jason, for Whizzer… for me.”

“That’s the light,” I said softly. “Even in the darkest places, it’s there.”

He reached out, briefly clasping my hand. “Thank you, Mendel. For helping me find it.”

As he stood to leave, I saw the man who walked out was no longer the broken soul who had first come to me — but someone beginning to heal, ready to carry the love forward.