Chapter 2

The night had gone from thrilling to surreal. The ambulance's flashing lights turned the nightclub’s once-vibrant interior into a garish blend of neon blues and reds, painting the sweaty faces of onlookers with an eerie glow.

Dale was being wheeled out on a stretcher, the dull throb of pain from his neck pulsing in time with the distant club bass. The ambulance lights strobed in his eyes, making the world pulse and blur.

“What happened?” the female paramedic asked as she looked Dale over, her tone professional but tinged with curiosity.

Visibly shaken but determined to keep it together, Kirk matched her brisk pace. “Someone attacked him,” he said, eyes darting between Dale and the paramedics as if he could somehow will the injury away by sheer force of will. “I didn’t see it happen, though. I wasn’t with him.” He pushed a sweaty lock of hair off his forehead, his fingers trembling.

The male paramedic tightened the gauze on Dale’s neck, the sharp sting bringing him back to focus, if only for a moment. “It’s a nasty gash,” the paramedic muttered, glancing at Kirk with a quick nod. “Looks like something bit him.” He exchanged a concerned look with his partner, eyebrows raised as if this wasn’t the wound they typically saw on a Saturday night.

Dale was barely listening; his mind felt foggy, drifting between the sharp awareness of pain and a floating sensation that threatened to lull him into some dark, restful void. Kirk’s voice was there—soothing, familiar, grounding him. “Just stay with me, Dale,” Kirk said, gripping Dale’s hand like it was a lifeline. Dale could feel Kirk’s grip—warm, firm—and a pang of gratitude fluttered somewhere inside him, dull but real.

In the cramped ambulance, Dale caught a whiff of antiseptic, a sharp, metallic scent that mingled unpleasantly with the lingering odor of the club—cheap cologne, spilled drinks, and sweat. He grimaced, wincing as the paramedic gently dabbed at his neck.

“What’s his name?” the female paramedic asked, her voice softer now as she adjusted the blood-streaked bandage.

“Dale Witherspoon,” Kirk said, his face etched with worry, his eyes glassy under the harsh fluorescent lights. He rubbed his forehead, casting Dale a look so intense it was as if he could will him to heal. “Please, is he going to make it?” The last word came out as a whisper, barely audible, and his fingers flexed around Dale’s hand as if he were afraid to let go.

The paramedic didn’t respond—she just gave Kirk a quick nod, conveying all the reassurance she could muster. Her gaze turned back to Dale. “You’re in good hands. Just stay with us, okay?”

But Dale was slipping away. His body suddenly felt light, like he was floating above himself, watching the scene from a distance. The conversation was becoming a murmur, a buzz of sounds that slipped in and out of his grasp. All he could focus on was the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat, steady but faint, like it was fading into the background.

Then, just as he was teetering on the edge of consciousness, a familiar thought bubbled up, ridiculous but impossible to ignore: I can’t die a virgin.

A soft laugh escaped his lips, a hushed whisper, but it seemed to cut through the haze. He tried to squeeze Kirk’s hand, but his strength waned, his fingers limp. The pain dulled, replaced by a strange numbness. It was almost peaceful if he didn’t think too hard about it.

“Kirk…” His voice was a breath, barely audible, but he felt Kirk lean in closer, his presence warm and somehow comforting.

“I’m here, buddy. Don’t worry, I’m right here,” Kirk said, squeezing Dale’s hand tighter, his knuckles white. His face was close now, his features sharp against the ambulance’s dim interior. His eyes glistened, wide and frantic, and Dale felt a pang of regret at the thought of leaving him behind.

“Kirk…you have to…tell my mom…” Dale’s voice was weak, barely a whisper. His throat felt tight, his words slipping away like water through his fingers.

Kirk’s brows furrowed in confusion, but he leaned in closer, his face determined, as if he were prepared to climb into Dale’s mind and pull out whatever message he had to share. “Tell her what, Dale? Tell her what?”

Dale struggled to focus and gather his thoughts, which seemed to float further away. He mustered all his strength, forcing the words past his numb lips. This message was important. “Tell her…I didn’t get to do any gay stuff.” The silliness of his repeated words was calming, a glimmer of humor in an otherwise terrifying moment. “It’s okay. She can… bury me next to Nana.”

Kirk’s mouth fell open, his expression somewhere between disbelief and heartache; Dale’s final moments seemed obsessed with getting this message to his mom.

Through slitted eyes, Dale could swear he saw Kirk fighting a grin. “Dale, don’t you dare die on me,” he said, his voice breaking. “I swear to god, you stay with me. You’re not going anywhere—not until you’ve done plenty of…gay stuff. Just hold on, all right?”

A soft chuckle bubbled in Dale’s chest, but he didn’t have the strength to let it out. His eyes fluttered closed, the darkness pressing in, wrapping around him like a blanket. Kirk’s voice was still there, a constant thread pulling him back, but it was fading, slipping through his grasp as the weight of sleep tugged him under.

Somewhere in the background, a distant beeping grew louder, followed by muffled voices, the urgent tone of paramedics rattling off medical terms he didn’t understand. Then his body jerked, the sensation foreign and violent, and his eyes snapped open. He caught a brief glimpse of Kirk’s wide-eyed face, his mouth open in a shout, before his vision clouded again.

In a sudden burst of clarity, Dale realized he was flatlining, his heart-stopping, everything fading to black. This was it. He’d reached the end. Panic clawed at him, and he struggled to fight the pull of unconsciousness, grasping for something—anything—to hold onto.

The next thing he knew, he was on a hospital bed, disoriented and weak, the scent of antiseptic thick in the air. The doctors and nurses bustled around, looking both baffled and exasperated. He glanced around, his mind hazy, catching Kirk’s anxious face hovering near the edge of his vision.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get off me!” Dale heard his voice, thin but defiant, and with a sudden surge of energy, he jerked upright, pushing at the doctor hovering over him. The instruments clattered to the ground, the metallic clang echoing through the sterile room.

The doctors exchanged exasperated looks, one shaking his head as he muttered something about “pranks” and “wasting our time.”

“I don’t know what kind of sick prank you two are pulling,” the doctor snapped, his face tight with irritation as he glared at Kirk. “We have real emergencies to attend to. Next time you two feel like wasting medical professionals’ time, call the fire department instead.”

Kirk’s face went pale, his hand flying to his mouth as he struggled to stifle a laugh. He gave Dale a look that was equal parts relief and delight. “Dale!” he whispered, his eyes shining. “You’re alive!”

Dale blinked, trying to make sense of it all. He looked down at his neck, expecting to see bandages, blood—something. But there was nothing. His skin was smooth, unmarked, as though the attack had never happened.

He touched his neck, fingers brushing over the unbroken skin, feeling bewilderment and… something else. There was a hum beneath the surface as if his blood was running a little faster, his senses sharper and clearer.

Kirk didn’t wait for an invitation—he threw himself at Dale, hugging him so tight Dale thought he might lose consciousness all over again.

“I thought you were dead, you jerk!” Kirk said, his voice muffled against Dale’s shoulder. “You flatlined! I was ready to give you the gay eulogy of the century, and here you are, sitting up like nothing happened.”

Dale squirmed, patting Kirk’s back, feeling gratitude and confusion. “Kirk…get off me. People are staring.”

Kirk laughed, pulling back just enough to give Dale a look of pure joy. “Welcome back to the land of the living, drama queen.”

Still reeling, Dale glanced around the room, half-expecting this to be some strange, feverish hallucination.

“What…what happened? Am I…did I die?”

Kirk beamed, delighted by Dale’s confusion. “Oh, you died, all right. Heaven didn’t want you. Threw you back, straight into my arms. And your last words?” He smirked, raising his eyebrows. “Priceless. Guess what? You’re going to live long enough to do all the gay stuff you want, Mr. Almost Martyr.”

Dale groaned, his cheeks warmed as he slumped back against the pillow.

“Oh, God. Let’s never speak of that again.”