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“Where is he? What’s going on?” Bernie asks, skidding to a halt at the hospital information desk. He got there as quickly as he could, having made sure everyone at the house made it out of there safely and Elton’s mother had a place to lay down. In all the chaos, he tried his best to keep a clear head, but it was difficult when his heart was lying unconscious in a hospital bed across the city.
And now he’s in a nearly-empty hospital waiting room, staffed by a bored-looking woman in a blue uniform who seems unimpressed by his noise and bother. Frankly, Bernie had expected a little bit more noise and bother; where were all the people waiting for Elton.
“Oh, settle down,” he hears a familiar Scottish accent say from behind him. He turns and there is John Reid, legs crossed, casually flipping through a tabloid. He looks like he could be waiting at the hair salon – at which he must spend a lot of time – or before getting his teeth cleaned.
Bernie turns on his heel and stares at John, who won’t even look at him. “Everything must be going well, then?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You seem just fine.”
John shuts the magazine closed and drops it onto the seat next to him. “I’m doing just fine, thank you for asking.”
“And Elton?”
“Hell if I know,” John says. He sighs, letting his head drop back against the wall for a moment, eyes closed. “Wish he’d just get on with it one way or the other.”
“John,” Bernie says, something angry swelling in his chest, blurring out the fear and panic that’s been sitting there since Elton climbed onto the diving board that afternoon.
“You and I both know that he’s doomed. It’s only a matter of when.” He opens his eyes and smiles at Bernie, cheeky like usual. “We can collect the royalties without the stress when he goes.”
Bernie takes one breath, then another. He tries to swallow but there’s something stuck in his throat, croaking and angry, wanting to break free. Instead of letting it out, he shuts his eyes, tries to focus.
All he can see is Elton sitting alone in his bedroom. All he can see is himself, irritated with his obviously struggling friend.
“Don’t get all upset,” John says. Bernie opens his eyes to see John watching him intently. “I can only deal with one selfish bastard trying to off themselves a day.”
“You need to stop,” Bernie says, voice level.
“Do I, now? Tell me, who is going to make me do that?” he asks, looking round to the empty waiting room, then back to him. “Surely you can’t mean yourself.”
“And why not me?” Bernie asks, despite the voice in his head telling him that he has no right, that this is someone Elton has allowed into his life, has made a life with.
John chuckles, reaching back down for his magazine. “You don’t have the stomach for it,” John says, flipping it back open.
Just then, a nurse opens a door at the back of the room. “Bernie Taupin?” she asks.
Bernie looks up. “Yes, that’s me,” he says. “How is he?”
“Just woke up. He’s asking for you, if you want to come see him.”
Bernie braces himself and nods. “I’ll…” he says, taking a step forward, but pauses and turns back to John. “Choosing to be kind is a strength. You should stretch your muscle sometime,” he tells him before making his way towards the nurse.
“I flex my muscles plenty, thank you very much,” John calls after him, then yammers on some more. Bernie doesn’t hear what else he says, only the way that his shoes tap against the linoleum floor in tandem with his beating heart.
“He’s in here, dear,” the nurse says, gesturing to a private room. He glances at her and she nods, reassuring.
“Thank you,” he tells her.
“You go on in there,” she says, so he does.
It’s strange seeing Elton John, usually so bedazzled in rhinestones and feathers, stripped back down to the basics, though still attached to the fantastic machines that tell Bernie that his heart is still beating. He’s Reginald Dwight in a way that he hasn’t been in ages, but it feels wrong, unaccepted.
“Bernie?’ Elton asks, voice so quiet, dwarfed by the small hospital room.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, stepping towards his friend. He kneels down at Elton’s hospital bed and takes his hand. “How are you doing?”
“Oh peachy. Really stuck the landing with this one.”
John takes a breath, lets himself feel Elton’s hands underneath his, warm and soft. When he dropped into that pool, it was like the entire world stopped. Every time Elton breathes, the world keeps turning.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Bernie says, feeling tears at the corners of his eyes.
“Don’t get emotional on me now,” he says, a weak echo of John’s earlier sentiment, cracked around the edges.
“Elton,” Bernie says, making sure that he’s looking him in the eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Elton nods, a little liquid leaking from his eye. “I’m glad you want me here.” His voice is barely above a whisper; it sounds like the words are being forced out.
Bernie brings Elton’s hand up to his lips, presses them onto it, eyes shut, for a long moment. “Stay with me,” he says. “We’ll figure it out together.”
Elton doesn’t say anything in response. He looks up at the ceiling, breathes in and out.
It’s a start, Bernie reminds himself. It’s a start.
And something inside of Bernie starts, too. Or maybe it doesn’t start. It’s been in motion for years now, since they sang The Streets of Loredo together in a café a hundred lifetimes and a hundred million dollars ago. It’s been an ongoing tick of the heart, a feeling reserved for Elton John and for Reggie Dwight, the fighting spirits in the single body of a man that Bernie loves.
He loves.
“Do you mind if I sit here for a while?” Bernie asks.
“If you’ve really got nothing better to do today,” Elton says, the brash words in conflict with his soft voice.
Bernie holds Elton’s hand tight for a long moment. “I’m here now,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t. Not for a very long time.”
It probably surprises Elton when he kisses him. Honestly, it surprises Bernie a bit, too. But it feels like lyrics and music finally coming together in a song that they should’ve been playing this whole time.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Bernie says as he pulls away.
“No Bernie, of course I don’t,” Elton says, eyes open and smiling for what feels like the first time in years.