he cringes away from the touch– a shock of anxiety going through him at the sensation. because it's too real, cuts through the disconnect that's settled over him. "please," he says, not wanting to be cruel, "don't–" but the room starts to bleed in again, even with his eyes shut against it. the decals on the wall that send a stab of pain through his heart whenever he walks by them; the vinyl flooring masquerading as wood, cold and false beneath his free hand.
the thought presses in again– you failed. you failed him, you failed her, you're failing all of them, right now, on the other side of that door. he lets out a ragged laugh– not derisive, not at her. but there's something incredulous to it, something directed inward. this is the last place doctor king should be, knelt on the floor telling a grown man, her attending, how to breathe– when he should be out there, breathing for someone else. when they both should.
he doesn't say anything. doesn't tell her he's heard of it, has explained it to countless patients, has held their hands and done it with them. that somewhere, he doesn't believe it would work on him, not when he's like this. but he needs to get up. he knows he does. and he can't. but maybe he can do this. breaths shudder in and out of him, trying to follow the counts, half tethered down, feeling childish, embarrassed– while the other half still floats somewhere out of reach.
"please, doctor king." he rasps, "i'll tr–" a breath squeezes out of him, air he doesn't have to give, but it fights its way out all the same. "i can't be the reason you're not out there."
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