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“ Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dear Jo-on… ”
Martin hesitated before he concluded the song. His breath hitched with anxiety.
“ ...happy birthday to you. ”
Martin sat in a particularly uncomfortable hospital chair next to Jon's bed. He delicately held a cupcake in his hands- store-bought, he was low on time and energy these days- with a lit candle stuck into its icing. He wasn't sure if Jon would be okay with a candle since he usually seemed to dislike them, but it wasn't like he could ask, so he went ahead with one anyway.
Jon was in a coma. He had been for a few months, though the doctors didn't know what to do besides monitoring and testing him. His eyes were wide open and unblinking, so Martin told himself that Jon would be able to see his face whenever he visited, but at his core he knew he was getting his hopes up. It wasn't like he would be looking at anything nice anyway. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling buzzed uncomfortably as Martin sat by himself in the room.
“Um… make a wish!” Martin said after a few moments, doing his best to sound happy. There was an anxiety to his voice he was trying to mask- for what audience, he didn't know, but he hoped Jon was part of it. “I know you, uh… can't really blow out the candle, so, I'll do it for you.”
Martin paused, waiting. He watched Jon's still features. He was waiting for Jon to make his wish, but also- what he believed to be more selfishly- he was watching to see if he grew any less still. If any of his features twitched, if he took a breath, or maybe if he even blinked. But he didn't. So Martin proceeded.
“Okay, if you've got your wish now…” he gently blew out the candle. The way it flickered out so quickly made him strangely uncomfortable. He set the cupcake aside.
There was silence again. Well, it wasn't true silence; the lights continued to buzz, the machinery continued to beep, the clock continued to tick, and the distant chatter of nurses and patients were all audible. But it was suffocating anyway. It was suffocating the way the sound of the beeping and the ticking set a steady rhythm for his anxious heartbeat. He was the only one here, and he was talking to someone who couldn't even respond. …would Jon respond if he could? No, forget about it. The thought was better off discarded.
Martin stuttered slightly as he began speaking again. “I-I'm sorry it's a bit late, by the way. I promise I didn't forget your birthday. I… I just got a little busy, is all.” Peter Lukas had made him do work. It was very important, he had said, it absolutely had to be completed that day. But Martin quickly realized that it was simple busywork; spreadsheets and maintenance with no real due date. Still, he'd ended up completing it as instructed, and it meant he'd missed the hospital's visitor hours.
“If-” Martin winced, catching himself, “ when you're back, to the Archives I mean- well, if you choose to go back to the Archives? You don't have to. Sorry. That was me assuming. But if, or when, you go back, I left a birthday card on your desk. I wanted to get the others to sign it, but, um…” he trailed off. He had a hard time talking to the others these days. No movement came from Jon, and somehow, in Martin's mind, it came as a rejection. When he continued to speak, to cover up the false-silence, it was slightly deflated. “...sorry. The card was stupid. I'll- I'll get rid of it. You won't have to see it.”
Martin glanced between Jon and the cupcake. It occurred to him now that he hadn't once made steady eye contact with Jon this entire time, besides a few stolen glances. He didn't change this as he went back to rambling. “I did bring you a cupcake, though. It's- it's vanilla because… well, I don't know what kind of cake you like, but I thought, ‘Well, everyone likes chocolate cake.’ But they'd run out of chocolate cupcakes at the shop. How silly is that? Isn't chocolate popular, how could you just run out?” What was he even talking about? He wasn't processing words before they left his mouth. He just kept going on and on, desperate to fill the air with something, anything other than the noise of the machines. “‘Hello, boss, what kind of cake should I make today?’ ‘Oh, well, you know, people love chocolate cake! Don't make any more of it!’ What's with that? …so, um, I got you vanilla instead.”
Jon did not respond. He continued to stare. His gaze was vacant, yet piercing and bloodshot. Martin couldn't stop imagining him blinking and turning to look over with affection in his eyes and a softened expression, and telling him he'd seen and heard and loved every single one of the visits Martin had made and he was okay and Martin was okay and everything was going to be okay. But he didn't. So Martin kept talking.
“I know you can't, um, eat it, exactly. But it's the thought that counts, right? That's what they always say. And maybe- maybe when you wake up, I can get you another one. And it can be chocolate. Or- or whatever other flavour you like.”
Martin's rambling slowed, if only because it started to feel like his breath was beginning to catch in his throat. He paused, his hands held in his lap, clenched so he wouldn't continue to fidget. His mother had always told him that was an annoying habit of his.
“...Jon… can I be selfish, just for a second?”
No response.
“...okay. Um…”
Martin picked up the cupcake and the lighter. He gazed for a second upon the melted wax, almost touching the icing, before he relit the wick. He shut his eyes tight, and held the cupcake in front of him, as if his wish would work better if he put all of his energy into it.
I hope Jon wakes up.
Then he blew out the candle.
“...I made a wish too,” Martin finally explained to Jon, who was not listening. Jon who lie in bed with wide eyes and a glassy gaze. “But I can't tell you what it is. Or else it-...” He didn't want to finish that sentence. “Well. You know.”
He glanced back toward the door, and at the clock above it. It was a reflex- he wasn't even thinking about the time, it was more like an instinct to check to see if he was still alone in the room. “Oh- sorry, but I think it's about time I go. More… more spreadsheets to organize, you know? I'm like the- the Sisyphus of spreadsheets.” He lightly laughed at his own joke. It wasn't funny, and it wasn't a real laugh.
Martin stood and picked up his things to leave.
That was when he decided to make eye contact. There was something in Jon's gaze, maybe even something stirring, but he didn't know what. Maybe if he looked deeper, he could-
No. It was time to go. Peter had work for him to do.
The last noise that broke the false-silence of the room was the sound of Martin shutting the door behind him.