Okay, so here's my submission for Glados' Feelfest 2013! I am also juuuuust about done part 3 of Here for the Holidays, so that should be coming up pretty quickly here. Anyways, enjoy!

Heavy laid in his bed, looking up at the ceiling, a million thoughts crowding his exhausted mind. He couldn't remember the last time he got a good night's rest, but how could he?

Nobody would be able to sleep if they discovered that their best friend was diagnosed with cancer.

When Heavy had first heard the moans of pain coming from the doctor's room in the middle of the night, he had immediately thought of torture, someone, possibly the enemy Spy, torturing his Doktor. He hadn't even bothered with the tiny handle; he completely broke down the door, ready for a fight, ready to completely obliterate anyone who dared lay a hand on Medic.

The giant was extremely confused when he didn't find any spies, any blood, anything out of the ordinary in Medic's room. He did notice, however, something very wrong with the doctor himself. Heavy's mindset quickly switched from aggressive to concerned as he hurried to the side of the German, who was writhing in his bed with his arms clutching his torso, his face stricken with overwhelming pain.

Soon, the whole team had flooded into the room, and Heavy gently gathered the doctor into his arms, Engineer following him to the infirmary and telling the rest of the BLUs to stay behind. Before Heavy could make it into the infirmary, Engineer stopped him.

"Son, we don't rightly know what the doc has, and heck if I know how to find out! We should take him to the Teufort hospital, fast." The Texan suggested, though his worried demeanor did nothing to ease his teammate's worry.

Quicker than Engineer had ever seen him move before, Heavy took the doctor into Engineer's truck, holding him in his lap as the usually hard-hatted man got in and slammed on the gas. The entire ride, Medic's eyes were screwed shut, his face twisted in pain.

It made Heavy die a little inside, knowing that no matter how strong he was, how big his gun was, or how bulletproof he could become, he could do nothing to protect his best friend. He was weak. He and Medic, they had made a promise to each other, to protect each other, to help each other, to be there for each other, no matter what. It had started as something just for the battlefield, but over time, he realized that Medic was so much more to him than just someone who kept him alive and helped him kill the enemy team.

No, Medic was not his friend. Medic was his brother.

And the large man felt a strong sense of helplessness as he clutched the doctor closer to his chest. If something happened to Medic…he didn't know what he'd do.

Heavy sighed, still staring at the ceiling. He didn't like thinking about this. He hated being reminded every day that Medic wasn't there, that he was in a cold room, alone, with no one to comfort him. Maybe it wasn't so bad, now that Heavy had brought the doctor his journal. He had asked for it a few days after he had been in the hospital. It was a small brown book, though it looked quite old. The pages were yellowed, and the silk ribbon bookmark was frayed at the end. However, Heavy found that it wasn't any better after the battle when he visited the hospital. From then on, he'd see Medic in a way that he'd never seen the doctor before.

The first time that Heavy went to see him, Medic was in a state of denial. He had convinced himself that no, he wasn't going to die and everything would be alright. Heavy had admired his friend's courage, marveling at how confident he was. He couldn't help but feel confident too, knowing that such a brilliant doctor was positive that he would not die from this illness.

But thinking is a dangerous pastime, and when you're alone in a hospital room all day, you tend to do a lot of it.

After about a week of daily visits, Heavy had come to realize something very different in his friend's demeanor. Medic's hands were shaky, his breathing seemed labored, and his eyes... in his eyes, Heavy saw fear. True fear.

"Doktor?" Heavy asked, brow furrowed in concern as he pulled a chair beside the bed.

After a long moment of silence and Medic staring at the floor, the German's shaky voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

"Vhat is after deazh, Heavy?"

The question took the giant aback. Coming from a communist country, he never was allowed to have any sort of religion, though that didn't mean he never thought of such things. He assumed the doctor did as well, and he guessed that his friend hadn't come up with any kind of answer, much like himself. Medic lifted his head and looked at the Russian, not sure what to think anymore.

Heavy sighed. He was compassionate for the frightened man, and he felt his heart fall when he couldn't come up with an answer. He wanted so badly to tell Medic not to worry, that he could fight this, but he couldn't. He couldn't implant any more false hope in the man that was closer to him than anyone he had ever met.

The Russian took Medic's hand in his, squeezing tightly as he closed his eyes. Medic returned the gesture, and for the rest of the visit, the two sat in silence.

Heavy groaned and turned onto his side. He felt a familiar churning in his stomach, that horrible feeling of anxiety that had begun to visit him every night. That had been about a little more than a week ago, and he hadn't been able to get the topic off his mind since. The giant wondered if he felt more scared than Medic did. After all, it was he who had to try and live on after the doctor left this world. The giant squeezed his blanket in his fist. He didn't want to have to face every day after his best friend was gone. He was afraid that life would lose its meaning, that each time he woke up, the weight on his chest would get heavier and heavier. No matter how strong he was, there was no way he would be able to lift the pain that would surely come if Medic passed on.

But the thing that terrified him the most was that if there really was no afterlife, no place across a river that souls traveled to after they had shuffled off their mortal shells, he would never see Medic again. The doctor would die and be forever gone, never to play chess or drink tea with the giant Russian any longer, even after Heavy had followed him on Death's path.

Heavy was frightened of being alone. Alone for all eternity.

He huffed. No, don't think about this. Don't think about anything to do with Medic being gone. Instead, he told himself, think about all the happy times you had with Medic. The giant couldn't help but smile. Oh yes, he had plenty of those memories. Like the time when Scout had a cavity and was complaining about it on the battlefield, so Heavy held him down and Medic pulled his tooth out right then and there. It hadn't been very fun for Scout at the time, but they were all able to laugh about it afterwards. The Russian grinned, remembering how the Bostonian had gone cross-eyed for a moment at the force with which Medic had extracted his tooth from his mouth.

Or there was that time when the enemy Spy had snuck up on Medic and knocked him out, hiding his body in the sewer so he couldn't respawn. After Heavy had found Medic's oppressor, he was pretty sure that the Frenchman didn't come out of his resupply for the rest of the battle. Heavy snorted. It served him right.

A soft smile found it's way onto the giant man's face as he remembered everyone's first day on the job together. Scout was acting arrogant and annoying, Demoman and Soldier were discussing explosives, Engineer was the only one Pyro could talk to, since he was the only one that could understand it at the time, Spy and Sniper were nowhere to be found, and the only other person standing in the area was a man clad in a white coat. He stood with perfect posture, a pristine white dove perched on his shoulder

At first, Heavy had thought of him as just an uptight old man, and the last person that he would ever want to talk to. The two had spent the week getting to know the base, their teammates, and just what they would be doing everyday. Heavy had found out that the German man was the team's medic, and he also found that they worked famously together in battle.

He remembered how their friendship had blossomed from there. Although Medic had found him annoying at first, a simple game of chess had allowed Heavy to break through the doctor's hard outer shell. Medic soon realized that he had more in common with the larger man than he had originally thought, and the two got along out of battle even better than they worked together on the field. Heavy remembered Medic apologizing to him one day, telling him that he was wrong for thinking that the Russian was just some big stupid brute. Heavy was not angry, in fact, he had pulled Medic into a rib crushing hug and offered to make him some tea.

The two understood each other, it was almost as if they could read each other's minds. Sometimes, they would have fun messing with Soldier by communicating by only using facial expressions. It angered the American to no end, especially when they did it during a team meeting, though the rest of the mercenaries found it absolutely hilarious.

Heavy sighed, remembering the time when he had gotten the flu. Medic had stayed with him day and night, forbidding him from getting out of the infirmary bed. It had just been the common cold, but the doctor was always there (except for during battle) to get him a glass of water or a bowl of soup. This was yet another time when the two were able to enjoy a good game of chess. Sometimes, Scout would bring the television into the infirmary (with Medic's approval, of course) and the three would watch the latest soccer games.

Reflecting on all of these memories made Heavy feel a little better. Even if Medic did die, he'd still be able to remember all the good times that he had with his best friend. All the times they were able to have a quiet game of chess with a warm cup of tea, the times they had laughed together and fought together. They looked out for each other, no matter what, and Heavy thought of how he couldn't have asked for a better friend.

But that brought the Russian back to his most troubling thought: what if, when Medic died, Heavy and all the memories that the two had would be forever forgotten by the doctor, and when Heavy died, he would forget them too? The giant man began feeling uneasy all over again. He didn't want to lose his best friend, he didn't want to forget the most enjoyable moments of his life, he didn't want to be alone all over again.

The Russian soon heard a knock on his door. He sighed and got up, twisting the handle and seeing Spy behind it.

"Zhere is someone on zhe telephone for you." Spy told him, a faint look of worry in his eyes. Heavy quickly brushed past his teammate and made his way to the rotary phone, picking it up and holding the receiver to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hello, this is the Teufort Hospital Emergency Care Center. Is this Mr. Ivan?" The cheery voice asked.

"Yes."

"Oh good, we just wanted to let you know that your friend, Mr. Henrich, has recovered well. We were going to call you in the morning, but he insisted on being back at work."

As soon as she uttered those words, Heavy had dropped the receiver and was racing to Engineer's truck. Spy followed him out, clearing his throat and tossing Heavy the keys to the truck when the large man turned around. Heavy fumbled the key with excited hands, hopping in when he was finally able to unlock the vehicle. He slammed on the gas and was down the road to the hospital in a flash.

A feeling of joy washed over the Russian. Medic would live! Medic would be okay! They could continue on their lives playing chess and beating up spies and watching soccer with Scout!

Medic was waiting for him inside the lobby, sitting in one of the chairs. He looked stoic, dark rings under his eyes and his skin pale. He looked up at Heavy once the man walked in, but didn't smile. In fact, he barely uttered a word to the Russian before brushing by him and getting into the truck.

Heavy wanted so badly to say something to him, to ask him what was wrong, but something about the doctor's demeanor was confusing and worrying to him. He didn't know what he was going to ask just yet, because asking what was wrong would surely get him a simple, 'Nozhing'. The giant man just drove back to the base, hoping that it was just some kind of medication the German was on or a lack of sleep.

Once they had gotten back, Medic immediately went to bed. He didn't even get a fresh pair of pajamas, just flopped onto his mattress in the ones he had been wearing when he first went to the hospital. Heavy summed it up to Medic just being tired.

The next day, however, Medic was just as quiet as he had been the other night. He barely ate anything for breakfast and didn't speak to any of his teammates, despite their best efforts to welcome him back.

"Is he okay?" Scout had asked, genuinely concerned.

Spy shrugged. "'e's probably just feeling a little down. He did just recover from a life zhreatening illness, after all. Or, maybe being in zhe 'ospital 'as changed 'im."

Scout frowned and crossed his arms. "Shut up, Spy. No way does bein' in da freakin' hospital change a guy dat much."

The Frenchman looked at Scout and sighed. "Whatever 'elps you sleep at night, lapin."

This thought had troubled Heavy. Had the doctor really changed through his experience at the hospital? He knew that Medic had been scared, scared of dying and what came after, but he had overcome that. What could possibly be bothering him?

Medic was not the same during battle the next day. Instead of working as a team with Heavy and the other powerful classes, he stayed in the back lines with Engineer. Even when he was out on the front lines, he was never as dynamic and determined as he once was. He seemed exhausted, sometimes retreating back to the resupply for a while during battle. He still looked ill, his skin seemingly tinted yellow. Once, Heavy had seen him speaking with Engineer, a look of saddened apology on his face. He had left shortly after Heavy noticed them, but the Texan told him not to worry, although there was a sad tone in his voice as well.

The next morning, Medic was nowhere to be found. His bed was set neatly, his work clothes folded and put into the drawers and his coats hanged in the closet. Heavy had been extremely confused as to why this had happened. They contacted the Announcer, and all she had said was that Medic had resigned, that they would be getting a new medic very soon. She hadn't given any specific reason, and neither did Engineer, though Spy could tell he knew something.

Heavy didn't notice any of his teammates, however. He was devastated. His best friend, gone, just like that. He didn't even say goodbye. Would he ever see the doctor again? He felt as though this was worse than Medic's death. He felt as though Medic had reached into his chest and ripped his heart out, stomping on it a few times for good measure.

Medic didn't even care enough to say goodbye to Heavy.

The first emotion that came to the Russian was sadness. He had lost Medic, not through the doctor leaving, not through death, but through the fact that he had disappeared without so much as a farewell. Medic had proved to him that everything that happened at that base, every promise they made, everything that had strengthened their brotherly bond meant absolutely nothing to him. That broke Heavy more than death ever could.

Heavy spent weeks at a time just thinking about what he could've done wrong to make Medic abandon him like that. It had seemed as though Medic was happy around the Russian, that he considered Heavy his dear friend. The only thing running through the giant's head was that it was his fault, his fault, his fault.

Eventually, something snapped inside of Heavy. The burly man was suddenly harsh and cold on the outside, bristling at any form of human contact. Even Scout, who he had actually enjoyed spending time with, was pushed away. He could no longer feel emotion. Any and all thoughts of his so-called "brother" were shot down as soon as they arose. The situation no longer bothered Heavy, though it changed him for the rest of his life.

The new medic that had replaced the giant man's former friend had taken his room. After all, it was the designated room for the team's medic. Though tonight, the young man felt as though he couldn't sleep. It had been a year since the day he was hired, and a small brown book was wedged into the very corner of his bookshelf, seemingly begging for his attention. He had found it in the top drawer of the nightstand, and had always been curious as to what it was exactly.

He felt on the nightstand for his glasses, slipping them on and making his way over to the shelf. He turned on his lamp and opened the small book carefully, the old binding cracking slightly and the frayed silk bookmark keeping place between the yellowed pages. Full of curiosity, the young medic began to read.

"November 18, 1969

My mother always said that I should have a journal handy at all times in my life. She said that a troubled mind needs somewhere to go, and that bottling up feelings and unsettling thoughts will only make everything worse. She gave this to me when I was a young boy, and she is gone now. I don't know what happened to her, I just know that I cannot contact her any longer.

I've been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The pain started a few nights ago, and thankfully, Ivan found me and brought me here. It is excruciating, I feel as though I am being impaled. This is only my third day in the hospital and I already know what fate befalls me.

I don't know what I'm going to tell Ivan. I don't even know what I should tell myself."

The young man quirked an eyebrow. Ivan? Wasn't that the name of the Heavy Weapons Man that he now worked with?

"July 21, 1969

What is after death? I suppose no one really knows, and once you find out, there would be no way to pass on that knowledge to anyone living who might like to know. But wanting to know would also depend on whether our souls move onto another world, or if they roam the earth, forever to sustain a lonely existence. What if we don't have souls? What if once we die, we simply forget? Our entire lives, just forgotten by us and eventually, the people that knew us.

I think that frightens me more than anything."

This entry made the new medic think. Who did this journal belong to? He felt like an intruder, but continued anyway.

"July 22, 1969

I can't fathom forgetting everything I know now. I just can't. It is literally impossible for me to comprehend losing every last bit of knowledge I have. But if that does not happen, then what does? Do our souls go to a haven to be at peace? Religion tells us that there is, but if so, which am I to believe? Which god am I to expect once I leave this world? Though, I don't think such a place exists anyway."

The page flipped, and he pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"July 27, 1969

I've been thinking day and night. I cannot write, for my hands cannot keep up with the rate at which my thoughts going. It has taken time for me to collect them, piece them together, throw away the ones that won't help me solve this mystery, though I think that I may never get an answer."

The page flipped.

"July 28, 1969

I spoke with the Announcer on the phone. I told her that I am resigning. I told her that I do not wish to die in this hospital, not when everyone is aware that if I don't go back, I am dead. She said that I would only have to work one more day so she could organize the proper forms, and then I would be free to go.

I am going back to the base tonight. I do not wish to speak to anyone there, for I fear that I may begin to miss them before I even leave. I just hope that Ivan understands."

"July 29, 1969

I am leaving tonight. I am going to spend my last months in Stuttgart with my sister, for she is the only family I have left.

No, that is not right. She is my only family I have left besides the one I am leaving behind.

It breaks my heart to think that I will be leaving without a trace in just a few hours. I want so badly to hug Ivan one last time, tell him how much he meant to me and how grateful I am for his friendship, for all the times he looked out for me and how much he cared about me.

I did not deserve it."

The young medic's brow was now furrowed. Whoever this journal belonged to must have died long ago, and whoever he was, he must have been extremely close with Ivan.

He flipped the page, seeing the next entry to be undated. He read the first line. It was not an entry at all, it was a letter, which he read. Once he was done, he sat silent for a long while, an idea forming in his head.

The young man slipped on his robe and his slippers, making his way out of his room and tiptoeing down the hall. He stopped when he came to a door three from the right of his, and carefully ripped the letter out of the journal. He then slipped it under the door and quietly retreated back to his own room.

The next morning, Heavy awoke with a sigh. It had been a year, a full year since Medic had left him. And even though he promised himself that he would never think of the German ever again, he couldn't help himself today.

Sighing, Heavy got up. He scratched the back of his head before stretching and yawning, feeling absolutely no motive for waking up that morning. He made his way over to his door and turned the handle, but paused when his foot brushed against something that was not his carpet.

Frowning, he looked down, seeing two small pieces of paper folded up and on the floor. With a curious hand, Heavy bent over and picked them up. He quickly went over to his desk, found his reading glasses, and proceeded to unfold the paper.

"My dearest friend Ivan,

I know that you will never get this letter, and I hope that you don't. That would mean that you know I did not win the battle. I am going to die, and I cannot bear to put such a burden on your shoulders. I have gone to Suttgart to visit my sister, and I wish you the very best.

Do you remember when we started the pie fight in the Teufort bakery and blamed it on Soldier? I hope you do, because that was the most fun I had ever had in my entire life. Scout ended up eating more pie than he threw, and Spy's face looked hilarious when Sniper threw a banana cream pie on his freshly dry-cleaned suit.

How about the time when I pulled Scout's tooth out on the battlefield? I still remember how he went cross-eyed when I pulled it out so suddenly. We were laughing about that for weeks. Remember when Demoman tried to teach Scout and Pyro how to hold their liquor? Besides when his tooth was pulled, I had no idea that Scout was capable of such ridiculous facial expressions.

Despite all these exciting times, there were also the quiet ones, and I think that these are the times when we truly bonded. When a game of chess was the only thing going on in our hectic world, and a whether or not the tea water had boiled yet was the only worry we had at the time. There were no rockets to dodge, no spies to be alert for, no dying teammates to protect. Just peace and quiet.

I want you to know that these memories will remain with me forever, no matter what world awaits me once I leave this one.

And though I know you may forget me, I shall never forget you. I'll see you again in another world.

Sincerely,

your brother, Henrich.

Heavy stared at the letter for a long time, the silence of the room overwhelming him. He just wished that he had gotten a chance to tell Medic how much he missed him right now, and how much his heart was aching. He wished that he could've reminded Medic of all those good times when he was in the hospital, he wished that Medic didn't feel the need to leave.

But the thing that he wished most of all was for his best friend back, even though he knew that Medic had long since died of his cancer.

For the first time in a long time, Heavy sat down on his bed and cried.