We fit like an enfit (Tube 'verse)
This one is Steve in hospital directly post-colectomy. I have had this exact procedure done to exactly these results. This is James's POV. Some swearing, some medical lingo, and emeto.
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Steve's been through the wringer these last two days. Washer and dryer. Extra hot. Bleached. Sanitized. To hospital quality standards.
Because that's exactly where they are. And that's exactly where they're going to stay.
The beginning, Steve's exit from the PACU, had been downright frightening. Steve looked tiny and pale, and still attached to so many tubes. James Jumped up and followed the rolling bed straight to the floor, one specifically dedicated to patients recovering from gastric surgeries.
How many people are they doing this to? James had thought. The hallway was long, and the room, though private, wasn't spacious.
Steve blinked slowly into consciousness about half an hour after his nurse and transport team had abandoned them, and then promptly threw up all over his white bedding. Then all over James, who didn't realize the emesis basin and a stack of kidney dishes were actually behind him.
The nurse came in before either one of them could find the call button, for the racket of retching and shouting had apparently been audible from the hallway. James apologized for being deaf and loud. Steve backed him up with a sigh that turned into a burp that turned into a sticky, stringy hand.
A parade of techs and MAs entered and exit edthe room, getting Steve's blood pressure, changing his bedding without moving him out of it, providing a plethora of triangular graduated cylinders to collect further vomit.
Then what are all those other fucking bowls and dishes for? James wondered. Once everyone else is had gone and it was just him and Steve again, James quickly stripped off his stained shirt and zipped up his hoodie over a bare chest. As much love as he has for Steeve, James wasn't going to smell of bile all day.
"Ha," Steve had murmured, wincing as pushing out vocalizations forced chest rise. "Good idea."
"Press your morphine button." James pointed to the cord dangling half off the bed, then to the pole carrying the rest of the setup for Steve's epidural.
"It's ok--" But Steve cut himself off with a gag that brought up a trickle of something vaguely the color of Sunny D. That made James wince, too.
"See?" Jame lifted the cord and settled the push button in James's hand. "You're entitled to medicine. Every 15 minutes, even. I don't want to watch you be in pain."
"I don't want you to watch me keep throwing up," Steve replies in what can only be described as a pitiful whine.
"I'm sorry that keeps happening." James moved his chair as close to the bed as possible. He could barely reach far enough to put his hand on Steve's foot. "I'm with you till bedtime. Then I gotta go to work."
When the night nurse came to sedate Steve on another round on pain meds, he left as quickly and graciously as he could. James had had his own encounters with narcotics. Good, bad, necessary, non... He still wasn't sure where he stood. He was also going to be late for the start of the overnight shift if he kept standing and didn't scram.
Even though James watched the clock emphatically, refrigerator boxes have never seemed lighter. He barely had to push the dolly to ferry one across the warehouse. Sometimes everyone joked about the man with one arm trying to keep up with the rest of them, but that night, even if nobody was watching, it was true.
Well, it wasn't, exactly. James surpassed them by a mile. He could only think of mechanics. Scoot. Grab. Lift. Elevate... If he had a backache, he couldn't feel it. Compared to how he'd last seen Steve, the scab on James's wrist from last week's encounter with a shattered porcelain toilet, was nothing. The sweat on his brow was nothing. The cardboard dust settled on his shoulders... That might make Steve sneeze.
After he'd parked crookedly in their next-door-neighbor's designated space, James ran into the apartment, showered so quickly the water didn't even have time to fog up the mirror, got dressed, and shoveled down two of Steve's probiotic yogurts while standing in front of the open refrigerator.
Alpine wound around James's ankles. He made an attempt to put his paws into the vegetable drawer to bat at the bag of bell peppers and banana pudding multipack.
"No," James said with his mouth full.
Alpine turned and licked up a drip of yogurt that had fallen from James's spoon. "Oh, you..." James shakes his head. "I know Steve's been letting you lick the containers under the table."
After he tossed his trash and threw the spoon into the sink, James patted Alpine on the head. "I'll see you..." James thought. He couldn't remember his schedule. Work. Sleep. But always, first, Steve. "When I get back."
James shoves his feet into already-tied sneakers and throws a bag over his shoulder. He hadn't cleaned it out since he finished his associates and kissed community college goodbye. Some stupid class notes might be in there. Maybe they could entertain Steve.
Although it was the end of James's day, most people, or at least those at the hospital, were just starting theirs. After following the same maze of hallways, James found Steve's room. He waited with his back against the wall while someone in an apron yelled out "Nutrition!" and carried a cup of green jello through the doorway on a tray.
James tried not to laugh. As if Steve would eat that. Even when he wasn't puking up his guts, Steve carried an aversion to unnaturally colored things, like blue popsicles. Iced purple roses decorating frosted cakes. Bright red cherry cough medicine that James joked about using to get high, while Steve did, in fact, just use according to the directions.
When James steps into the room, he feels the oppressive hospital atmosphere settle in over his head. It's like he's broken the surface tension and plunged into a world that isn't compatible with him. Or isn't anymore.
Everything is completely the same as the night before, except someone's moved the rolling table so it emulates a bedstand, holding all necessities, which, for now, seem to be a triangular graduated cylinder with brownish splashed down the side, and the cup of jello. James notices that they haven't brought Steve any utensils, so he takes it upon himself to move the unpalatable breakfast to the back counter of kidney dishes.
Steve's still out cold, but sleeping, James thinks, instead of passed out. The oxygen cannula under his nose seems to be delivering a constant flow, just boosting Steve a little while he breathes on his own. James squints at the muscles of Steve's neck, trying to take his pulse without touching him, and then comparing the number to the speed of his breathing. Basic medical told him Steve wasn't dying. If he'd paid more attention in basic, or maybe took Air Force route and became a PJ, he'd probably know a lot more.
The chair's set up just as James left it, and he settles into the plasticized leather cushions. It's not a comfortable chair. But James didn't come here to be comfortable.
Whilst keeping one eye on Steve, James lifts the flap on his bag and peers inside. As he expected, it's a mess of student and everyday-person needs. The organization's gone to shit, if there was any to begin with. The bag has interior pockets. Maybe that was back when he was in his fuck-therapy stage, before he let OT and PT help him work his body into something he could be comfortable with. It had helped him find a job, at least. And a boyfriend.
The most interesting find from the bag, so far, is a tangled pair of earbuds. The plug is compatible with the port on his phone, so James attaches them and scrolls to his music app. After wiggling one hearing aid out and replacing it with the soft plastic earbud, James runs his finger down the available albums and chooses one at random.
Is this the real life? Is it a fantasy?
James almost starts laughing. Bohemian Rhapsody? Seriously?
Well, for a half-delirious working man shirking sleep to protect Steve, to make money for rent for Steve while he healed up, paying the parking garage in quarters from beneath the center console in the car...
Nothing really matters to--
James cuts off the end of the song before the ending notes can play. No. He doesn't want to hear it. He can't hear it. Or it'll be true. Something has to matter. Even if it's remembering to go home often enough to feed Alpine something other than artificially flavored strawberry yogurt.
James presses the button to play the next song. The first beat sounds. James recognizes it. His foot moves automatically, tapping the floor to the notes of the refrain before the lyrics even start.
Steve walks wearily down the street
his brim pulled way down low
There's a soft groan from the bed. Steve blinks sleepily and seems to be trying to stretch his shoulders without sitting up.
James realizes, too late, that he's been tapping the undercarriage of Steve's bed every time he thought he was tapping the floor.
"I'm sorry," James says, quickly standing up and moving to Steve's side so he's level with his chest and head. "Was I hurting you?"
"What'd you call me for?" Steve asks blearily.
"Huh?" James doesn't understand. "I didn't..."
"You said my name," Steve insists. "But like, mumbly. Were you, like talking while you were writing something down?"
"Mumbly?" James is still confused.
"And I think your headphones are broken," Steve points out. After a couple fumbles, he catches the dangling earbud, the one James left hanging.
Steve lifts it up so it's high between their faces.
Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
"Fuck." James buries the earbud in his fist and turns off the music on his phone. He turns off his phone for good measure. "I was-- I thought--" James shakes his head. "I didn't think you could hear it. I didn't mean to bug you."
"No, that's ok." Steve scoots his body a millimeter closer to the pole of epidural machines. The push-button has made its way to the floor again, so James bends to grab it and give it back.
"But," Steve continues, after giving himself a good dose of painkiller, "Why's my name in it?"
James hast to think on it. There's a "poor boy," but he doesn't have a name... Another one bites the dust is, well, about a serial killer... but...
"Oh." James points upward to show his realization. "No one's ever broken the news to you?" He goes for a sly smile, but laughter is trapped in his chest and throat.
"You did it," James informs him. "You're the perp."
"Steve walks wearily down the street, his brim pulled way down low," James recites.
"That's in the song?" Steve asks, as if he isn't sure he believes James.
"It's the first word. 'Steve.'" James can contain his laughter no more. "Everybody just knows 'Another one bites the dust.'"
"Wow." Steve ponders the ceiling. "How many people did I kill?"
"I don't actually know." James furrows his brow. "I can put it on again and we can count." He looks down at the janky earbud in his hand. "Or you can keep it a secret. 'Cause if anybody here in the hospital catches wind that you're a criminal, they'll probably send you back to prison."
"You'd bail me out, right?" Steve manages to pry his spine from the mattress using the strength of one elbow. Though he's speaking, he still has all the tells going. Quivering lip, pale face, clenching jaw...
Steve looks at the graduated cylinder as if it's a bacteria sample for a biology project. Colonies to numerous to count. Remain sealed due to unidentifiable contents.
"Should I not watch?" James asks gently.
Steve shrugs. He lets saliva drain openly in expectation of the first wave. "Bail me out of here?"
James smiles sadly. "That's not exactly how things work around here. Sorry." He pauses. "And that damn yellow gate with the meter in the parking garage-- it's eating up all my gold doubloons."
"But," Steve asks in a small voice. "You'll stay."
"Somebody's gotta make a dent in the mattress and shove some boxes and feed the cat..." James shrugs. "But I'm here as much as I can be. And I'm with you to the end of the line."
