Date: Thu, 14 Dec 2000 16:39:14 -0800
From: whippedcream@audiohighway.net
Subject: Slow Down My Beating Heart (chapter one)

First: This is fiction. I do not know the Backstreet Boys. They do not know
me. I do not know a thing about their sexual preferences, but I do know
that AJ looks butt ugly in frilly pink lingerie.

And then: Hi, it's me again. I got such a great response to 'Never Been
Kissed," that I thought I would try again.  Thanks to all the wonderful
people that emailed me, both critical and complimentary, I really
appreciate it.

So, this is for all the people that wanted to see more of Nick and Jake.
Well... it's not Jake, and it's not Nick either, but Brian and Julian and
Matt are pretty cool too. Most of the time.

Anyway, this can very well stand on its own, but I left it somewhat
open-ended, so if you'd like to see more, let me know. And if you'd rather
it end here, let me know that too.

Finally: Please send all feedback, flowers and candy to
whippedcream@audiohighway.net

JJ

Slow Down My Beating Heart
Chapter One

All these years, and just the sight of it was enough to make his blood run
cold.  True, he'd spent more than one cliff-hanging episode in one of these
places, but he'd thought that by now he would have grown accustomed to it.
That its mere presence would have made him feel... comforted? Reassured? He
wasn't sure, but apprehension wasn't on that list.

So instead he stood outside the double doors, watching the inhabitants go
on with their duties, looking for all the world as through they were at a
holiday party, the receptionist chatting with the visitors, children
reading picture books or watching TV, laughing, talking, smiling. And then
once in a while, a doctor would stride by, his face lined with grim
determination, and the smiles and laughter would falter a little as people
watched and wondered who was next to be saved, or lost.

But for the most part, it looked a warm and happy place to be inside and he
wondered again why he stood out here instead of in there, here in the
cold. Well, that was an exaggeration; this was Florida. It got a bit nippy
at times, but it rarely got cold. But then, what were those chilling
tingles that raced down his spine, why were his hands shoved deep in his
pockets to ward off icy numbness, why were his teeth on the verge of
chattering, if it wasn't cold?

With an exasperated sigh, he pulled one of his hands out and stepped up to
the door, the determination on his face matching (he hoped) the expressions
of the doctors that rushed by, on their way to save lives, or lose them, or
whatever they did.

The receptionist looked up as he approached, bestowing a polite smile on
his presence. He wondered if she actually saw him, or if he was just
visitor #24601, just another in a long line of scared, hopeful, desperate,
confused warm bodies that passed through here, but thankfully on this side
of the glass. He noticed a few others look up curiously at his presence,
and he automatically tugged his cap down further, even though he realized
immediately that they didn't recognize him per se, only saw in him the same
wanting and waiting that they themselves felt.

"Hi," he said, his voice a soft hush. "Um, I'm here to see a friend in the
ICU."

"I'm sorry, patients in ICU aren't allowed visitors." He nodded, expecting
that answer.

"I know, but uh, I have special permission to see him. His name is Nick,
and I'm Brian. His doctor's name is Dr. Rifkin." She looked at him
thoughtfully before picking up the phone.

"Dr. Rifkin, please call 4562," she paged, and then hung up. Pointing to a
row of chairs along the wall, she said, "If you don't mind?" He nodded and
walked over to them, seating himself on the near end.

He watched in distracted interest as a young blond boy attempted to build a
block tower. Carefully, he placed one block on another, until he reached
the fifth block, at which point it fell over. Brian braced himself for the
inevitable tantrum, but instead of tears, the child smiled and started
over. Once more, he undertook the effort, and once more the tower collapsed
prematurely and once more he smiled and started again.  There was a cosmic
message here, Brian thought, bemused, here in this scene of a small child
and his own personal Pisa. But he didn't have time to ponder it as the
receptionist motioned him over. Standing, he smoothed his shirt and
approached the desk again, smiling lightly.

"Okay, your friend is in Room 167, east wing." She pointed to a set of
double doors to her left. "Through there, stop at the desk for a pass." He
nodded, thanked her and set off down the hall. Taking a deep breath, he
pushed open the swinging doors and stepped into the intensive care unit.

He hated hospitals. Hated the sterile whiteness of the corridors that no
amount of decorating and repainting could ever soften, hated the
half-hearted politeness of the staff, long past the point of seeing their
patients as people, but rather just one more in a never ending body count,
hated the frozen emotions that emanated from the walls and the inhabitants
and the memories.

Desperation. The whole place reeked of desperation. Of doctors battling
against time and nature, determined that the next patient wouldn't be like
the last one, yet dreading that moment of confrontation with the
survivors. Of family members and friends, haunted by visions of their loved
ones balanced on that precarious edge between life and whatever came
after. Of ill patients clinging to the last dregs of hope all the while
wondering what horrors or wonders awaited them on the other side.

It was funny, he thought, as he made his way to the nurses' station, they
came in with the expectation of life, and left with the assurance of death.

"Good morning," the petite redhead behind the desk greeted him. Once more
he noticed how her smile never quite reached her eyes, how the lines of
tension and weariness permanently seared her otherwise youthful appearance.

"Room 167," he stated, offering her a slight smile of his own. She nodded
and reached under the desk, pulling out a small white mask.

"Dr. Rifkin recommends you wear this," she explained. He nodded. He had
expected as much, given his own body's weakened immune system and penchant
for illness. He took the mask from her, thanking her, and placed it
carefully over his nose and mouth. He felt slightly ridiculous, but for
once caution prevailed over fashion. With a nod to the young nurse, he made
his way to room 167.

The halls were still fairly empty, for which he was somewhat grateful; he
was still not accustomed to the sick and dying.  As he passed rooms on his
way to his destination, he kept his eyes diverted, as if not seeing meant
those inside didn't exist. It almost worked, too, until, passing one door,
he caught a brief snippet of conversation.

"Scalia's an ass," a voice scoffed. Brian smiled to himself, amused by the
death grip the recent elections still had on the nation. He moved to pass
the room, when the other voice spoke, and halted him in his tracks.

"They're the highest court in the land," the second voice chided, but
gently, "and even if you don't like him, we have to abide by the decision."

The voice was melodious, soft and medium-pitched, with a masculine timbre.
But what caught Brian's attention was the amusement behind the voice, so
out of place in this lifeless place. Without a second thought, he paused
outside the door, glancing inside to put faces to the speakers.

Both men were riveted to the TV, but that was where the similarity
ended. While one lay placidly against the pillows of the hospital bed, a
bemused smile playing on his lips, the other paced next to the bed, his
arms and legs in a constant state of motion, matching the agitated
expression on his face.  Despite the difference in demeanor, an ambience of
comfortable intimacy hung over the room, the one bright spot in a thousand
rooms of sorrow.

Fascinated, Brian took an inadvertent step closer, pausing just outside the
threshold when the one in the bed coughed, a dry hacking sound that turned
the agitation to alarm on his companion's face.

"Julian?" he asked, his voice now flooding with worry. Julian, the one in
the bed, Brian presumed, nodded, his hand over his mouth.

"I'm okay, Matt," he croaked out weakly.

"Damn staph infection," Matt (whom Brian brilliantly deduced was the other)
muttered, and at those words, Brian's eyes widened and he backpedaled into
the hallway, whirling quickly and striding back down the corridor to his
original destination. He felt a momentary twinge of regret, but the icy
grip of fear, so familiar to him now, would never have allowed him to
remain. Reaching Nick's room, he pushed open the door without knocking and
closed it behind him, leaning against it to control his trembling.

"Brian!" He raised his eyes to see Nick's grinning face. He smiled back,
composing himself and walked toward the bed.

"Hey, Frack," he said, "how are you?" Nick shrugged, and picked up the
remote, clicking off the TV so he could talk to his friend without
interruption.

"Better, I guess. The headaches suck, though." Brian nodded.

"Yeah, the doctor said you'd have them for a while. You're just lucky it
was caught in time," he reminded.

"I know, I know," Nick grumbled, a pout briefly making an appearance on his
lips before disappearing in a grin again. "How is everyone else?"

"Just great," Brian answered. "AJ and Howie already came to see you and I
think Kevin's coming tomorrow."

"Yeah.  Pretty sexy." Nick pointed to the face mask as Brian smiled.

"So when are you getting out of here?" Brian sat down on the chair next to
the bed and studied his friend carefully. He'd lost a few pounds, and the
bags under his eyes were almost purple in color, but other than that, he
seemed okay. Definitely not on death's door, as he had been in the
nightmare Brian had had the previous day. Nick raised one shoulder in a
half-hearted shrug.

"Not soon enough. The food is awful." Brian nodded; he could sympathize.

"Stay away from the green jello," he advised, a smile on his face. Nick
smiled back.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Me? I'm fine," he replied vaguely, his eyes darting away slightly before
returning to meet Nick's. Nick knew his friend was lying, but for once, he
decided not to call him on it.

"I'm glad you came to see me," he said, his face serious, as one hand
snaked out to catch Brian's in a reassuring clasp.  Brian smiled, and
squeezed his friend's hand gently.

"It's the least I could do," he said. "For all you guys did for me."

"We're friends," Nick replied. "It's what we do." Brian nodded, words
suddenly escaping him. Nick noticed that too, and smiled to cover for his
friend. "The doctors say meningitis is really rare."

"Yeah? Figures you'd catch it," Brian replied, thankful for the
distraction.

"Yeah, I know, tell me about it. But the good news is antibiotics will
clear it up in no time."

"That's great."

"Yeah." They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Nick looked down and
noticed his hand still entwined with Brian's. With a sheepish grin, he
looked at Brian and gently removed his hand.

"So, uh, do you want to play some PlayStation?"