Nezumi hates hospitals. This is no secret. The way they look with their walls so white it's like all the color's been sucked clean out of them; how they smell with an astringent so potent he can taste isopropyl in the back of his throat; the beeping of machines rhythmically broadcasting how close people are to death.
Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep days. Two days. Two days.
If he could never step foot in a hospital again, it would be too soon. Fuck this noise—he'd rather die in a ditch than be poked and prodded and restrained and given mysterious substances and the whole thing is really just a nightmare for Nezumi specifically.
But he's here. With gritted teeth and the fury of a thousand ordinary men, he's here—because Shion's here, and he sure as fuck isn't going to leave him alone, not like this. He's oscillating wildly between feeling like he's going to throw up and feeling like he's going to punch a hole in the wall and feeling like he's going to cry. Fear like claws tears him apart from the inside out and makes him want to scream or fight someone until he gets answers or both.
The first day was spent pacing in circles around the too-big room while nurses and doctors filtered in and out, putting all kinds of tubes and needles in Shion with very little explanation for Nezumi.
"It's to help with the tachycardia."
"We'll monitor his heart better with this."
"He can't protect his airway right now, so he has to be intubated."
"It's pain control, for when he wakes up."
When he wakes up.
Nezumi holds onto that line like it's a life preserver and he's drowning at sea. Not "if," but "when." There has to be a "when," because if there's no "when" then Nezumi is going to make that everyone else's problem before he implodes in on himself.
Shion has to wake up. He's going to wake up.
It all happened so fast that on the second day, when Nezumi has time to slow down instead of tearing his hair out and walking a circular groove into the linoleum, he finally tries to process it. It still doesn't seem real. It was like this:
Nezumi comes home from his daily scavenging of the West Block for anything of significance that can be salvaged to the little cottage he and Shion share between that area of the city and No. 6. Shion, it turns out, has been home all day, which is very unlike him. He's been known to go into work practically on death's door. He's semi-conscious, flushed, vomiting, and burning up so badly Nezumi can feel it without needing to touch his skin. When Nezumi tries to rouse him, he just groans and tries to roll away, shaking. Nezumi tries everything he can think of to break the fever—cold rags, herbs, drawing a hot bath that he basically has to carry Shion into and hold him upright within—and nothing helps.
It's when his breathing begins to shallow, his pulse racing so quickly Nezumi isn't convinced his veins won't burst, that he snaps and finally brings him to the hospital in their horse-drawn cart. He carries Shion inside because he's not even conscious enough to stand and Nezumi barks and yells and screams until someone takes his love from his arms and whisks him away in a wheelchair, leaving Nezumi in the hospital waiting room. It isn't until hours later that he's finally allowed to see Shion with the briefest, most "I have to do this because it's part of my job description" explanation of Shion's condition.
"We're not sure what's wrong. We're running some tests. He's unconscious but stable. You can see him now."
And that's about as much as Nezumi's gotten in the two days they've been here.
"We're not sure yet, but we're running some tests."
It's an answer he gets about a hundred times before he finally snaps.
“What's going on?” Nezumi finally demands of one of the nurses, grabbing them by the elbow as they leave. He releases them the second they turn to face him, stiffening into a pillar of quietly shaking rage, because he's sure any longer will get him thrown out.
Thankfully, the nurse looks more irritated than frightened. Even though that annoys Nezumi even more.
You should be more frightened, he thinks darkly. I'd burn this place to the ground if I thought it would help him.
“We’re not sure. Still running tests,” the nurse says curtly.
“You've run a thousand tests already. How do you not know what's killing him?” Nezumi practically spits, his throat tightening to keep from yelling.
“We're doing everything we can.”
And that's the last human interaction Nezumi has that day.
Nezumi hasn't slept in all that time, not since he came home to find Shion barely responsive in their bed. Exhausted and at his wit's end with fear and frustration, Nezumi collapses into the chair beside Shion's bed.
He's barely recognizable, hooked up to all those monitors with a huge plastic tube down his throat doing his breathing for him. Nezumi watches the rhythmic, mechanical rise and fall of his chest in a sleep-deprived, hypnotic trance. Almost automatically, he takes one of Shion's hands and presses the back to his lips. It's warm and soft and smells like that horrible jasmine-scented soap that Nezumi hates, but right now it smells like Shion so it becomes another raft keeping him buoyant enough to breathe. He brushes his lips against Shion's skin over and over and over and over again, until his lips are chapped and the back of Shion's hand is pink and the only thing his body seems to know how to do or feel is the motion of the kiss.
Hypotheticals have never been Nezumi's forte. There's always too much to worry about in the present to think too far into the future. It's the only saving grace now, his ability to pull his mind from the worst case—the only thing worse than the incessant beeping of the machines, which would be them ceasing to do so—and simply focus on the smell, the feel, of Shion against his lips.
At some during this reverie, he nods off. It is in this space that Nezumi is plagued by the what-ifs. What if Shion doesn't wake up? What if he's hooked up to all these monitors and machines forever? They'd ask Nezumi to be the one to pull the plug, and he would just to spare Shion any further torture in this place, but at least a part of him would be pulled out and die alongside him. Or even worse, what if Shion does come to and is completely, irrevocably different? That happens sometimes, Nezumi’s heard. What if he loses Shion, to death or to a changed mind?
It's not that Nezumi can't lose Shion, as in “it isn't possible to lose Shion,” it's that Nezumi can't lose Shion as in, “I will tear this city apart before I lose this man.”
It's been a while since Nezumi has been this afraid, and there aren't even any guns involved.
The what-ifs give way to sleep. His dream is amorphous and confusing: he's following Shion down a long, dark hallway, and he's always about twenty feet or so behind him. When he tries to call out, it's silent, and when he tries to run forward, he can't seem to catch up. The longer he follows, the more Shion starts to change. His hair slowly starts growing just a little too long, fading from white back to its natural brown, his shoulders slimming down more than normal, his fingers growing just a touch too clawed. There's a point when Shion stops in the middle of the hallway, and Nezumi stops too, and then Shion starts to turn around and Nezumi isn't sure if he should look at the face of the creature in front of him—
When he wakes up, the first thing he becomes aware of are the voices in the room. He keeps his eyes shut because it's probably just nurses and doctors coming to stick more things in Shion or take more things out of him like he's a kitchen junk drawer. But then there's some canned laughter and a musical sting and he realizes it must be one of those fancy televisions built directly into the wall opposite Shion’s bed. When his eyes fly open, he almost comes to with fist swinging because what kind of unprofessional, inconsiderate fuck would watch a sitcom in the room of a dying man and his lover?
But then eyes the color of a dying star flick to his face and thin, serpentine lips curl upward and Nezumi nearly vomits.
“Fuck.” Nezumi straightens as relief and affection and more anger (this time the knife points inward rather than outward) flood his system. He wipes some drool off the corner of his mouth, realizes he was still holding Shion's hand from where he'd slumped forward against the hospital bed and wipes some saliva from there too, and scoots closer. “Fuck. I'm sorry. I—god I didn't mean—how long was I out? When did you wake up?”
“Hello to you too,” Shion says with a quiet, croaky voice. Shit. That's right. He had a fucking plastic tube shoved down there for at least thirty hours.
“Don't talk, it sounds painful,” Nezumi corrects quickly. He reaches forward and brushes a thumb across Shion's cheek, feels his forehead. He's still warm, but not enough to kill braincells. “Just… fingers, how long have you been awake for?”
Shion's smile widens and he looks bemused, if not exhausted. He could move across the world packed in the bags under his eyes.
He holds up two fingers.
“Hours?” Nezumi clarifies.
Shion nods.
“Do they know what happened?”
Shion nods again.
Nezumi exhales. “Is it contagious?”
Shion shakes his head. He opens his mouth to speak, but Nezumi leans forward and captures those lips in a kiss before he can cause any more damage to his clearly raw throat. It's short, but Nezumi pours a thousand unsaid words of gratitude and love into the contact and hopes to god Shion can understand all the things he can't say. By the soft, contented look on his face when Nezumi sinks back into his chair, it appears he does.
“Oh good, you're both awake.”
Nezumi nearly falls out of his chair at the sound of someone suddenly at the end of Shion's bed. God, he's so sleep deprived and distracted he hadn't even heard them come in. He's got to be more on his edge than this. Especially now.
“I just came to check on Shion here, make sure he's still recovering.”
The… doctor? Nezumi assumes by his long white coat that Nezumi can't believe people still actually wear and isn't just something from old movies. Anyway, the doctor pulls out a piece of technology Nezumi thinks is called a tablet or something and starts tapping away at it.
“You certainly gave us quite the scare,” the doctor continues. “Toxic shock is serious business.” The doctor's gaze moves to Nezumi and Nezumi squirms internally. There's something piercing about those eyes he immediately detests. “Good on you for bringing him in when you did. A few more hours without medical intervention and I'm not sure he would have made it.”
Okay. Okay so maybe… maybe Nezumi did do the right thing.
Nezumi just nods. He should probably thank the doctor for doing whatever they did to make sure Shion was okay, but Nezumi isn't in the practice of thanking people for just doing their job and he's not about to start now.
Shion, ever the more polite one, manages to rasp out a “thank you,” for them both anyway.
“Of course. Now, rest up. We're not out of the woods yet.”
The doctor doesn't say anything else to clarify whatever that extremely upsetting phrase means, just taps a few more times before giving both Nezumi and Shion a nod and leaving.
“They seemed nice,” Shion says, then coughs, then coughs harder.
Nezumi reaches over to the bedside table and shoves a cup of water into his hands, which Shion gratefully accepts.
“You think everyone is nice.”
Shion takes a long, long drink, actually finishes off the cup of water and swallows a few more times in an attempt to lubricate his throat.
“No, I don't. I think most people aren't… well. They might be nice for politeness sake, but they aren't kind,” Shion says thoughtfully. “It takes too much effort to be kind.”
Nezumi snorts and shakes his head. Almost automatically, he reaches forward and grasps Shion's hand with both of his, brings it to his lips again. “I've made you too cynical.”
Shion hums at the kiss and settles back against his pillows. “I was cynical before you. I just didn't voice it.”
His head rolls to the side, and he looks absolutely exhausted but for some reason he's smiling. “I can't believe you actually brought me to a hospital. Are you starting to put trust in society again?”
Nezumi makes a disapproving noise through his teeth. “Fuck, no. But I wasn't about to watch you die on our bathroom floor.”
Shion's smile fades and his brows pinch together. “Was it that bad?”
Nezumi clenches his teeth, remembering Shion leaning over the side of their bathtub and vomiting blood into a tub they used for washcloths, and he nods. Shion's face falls.
“Oh. I'm… I'm sorry. I didn't—”
Nezumi lurches forward and captures Shion's lips in another kiss, not at all interested in hearing Shion apologize for something that wasn't his fault, as usual. Shion makes the most adorable little noise out of his nose before relaxing against Nezumi’s mouth. Feeling Shion's living, breathing warmth soothes something inside Nezumi.
Shion is here and he's alive and he's going to be okay. The sun could fall out of the sky and Nezumi’s world would still be fine.
“Don't apologize, idiot highness,” Nezumi mumbles, pulling back. “Just… don't scare me like that again. Ever.”
Shion chuckles, his cheeks pink again but not feverish. “Alright. I'll do my best. Kiss me again?”
And Nezumi does. And does. And does.
Loving someone might be a burden, but with Shion alive in front of him and kissing him, Nezumi feels it's more than worth it.
Hi dreamingsap! Please see the attached link, since the content is too long for a tumblr post. What you'll see in the fic I've attached is a role play between my partner, z3phyros, and myself, with them playing Rat and myself playing Shion. I have been having a lot of unexpected issues with my health for the past month. I wasn't able to dedicate the time and energy to my Secret Santa gift and I wanted to apologize for that. I hope what I'm providing might still make you smile.
