Francis spends the entire morning dramatically insisting he’s dying. He paces around the house in his robe, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead like some tragic poet on his deathbed, sighing theatrically as he lists off his symptoms: fatigue, dizziness, an undeniable tightness in his chest. Henry, unimpressed, ignores him for as long as possible before finally getting tired of the performance and dragging Francis into the car.
The drive is, as expected, a disaster. Henry speeds down the winding roads like he has no regard for human life, one hand on the wheel, the other flipping through the radio stations with infuriating nonchalance. Francis clutches the door handle, knuckles white, already feeling ten times worse than before. Every sharp turn sends him lurching against the seatbelt, and by the time Henry runs a red light without blinking, Francis is gasping, convinced this is it. This is actually the end.
His chest tightens. It’s not dramatic this time. It’s real. He struggles to catch his breath, hand grasping weakly at Henry’s arm. At first, Henry doesn’t react, assuming it’s another one of Francis’s attention-seeking theatrics. Until Francis actually slumps forward, his breathing erratic, body seizing up.
For once, Henry panics. His usual cold detachment is shattered in an instant as he pulls the car over, yanking Francis upright, pressing two fingers to his pulse. He’s still breathing, but barely. Henry doesn’t hesitate; he shoves the car into gear and speeds off toward the hospital, suddenly driving with the kind of precision that would make any racing professional jealous.
Francis wakes up hours later, disoriented, hooked up to monitors, Henry seated stiffly at his bedside, staring blankly ahead. He doesn’t even look up when Francis groggily murmurs his name. But his fingers tighten slightly around the armrest, a dead giveaway.
Turns out, Francis was actually dying this time. But he would rather go through cardiac arrest again than admit that Henry might have been right about something.
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