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keith is abruptly awakened around 3:30 am by the sound of retching.
he sits up, blinking rapidly at the darkness until he spots the sliver of light peeking into the darkened room from under the bathroom door.
he fumbles for the switch on his lamp, and swings his legs out of bed, suddenly aware of the nauseous stench of bile. sure enough, the trashcan has been dragged over to lance’s side of the bed and vomited into. keith briefly thinks he can make out the cream color of the ice cream lance ate before bed, but more retching sounds pull him over to the bathroom door.
he swallows, growing more alert and subsequently more worried by the second. he knocks twice before gently pushing the door open.
“lance,” he says. lance looks up from the toilet, breathing heavily. there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his hands are shaking, one on the corner of the counter beside him and one clutching his stomach.
“hey,” he manages weakly before gagging again.
keith swiftly kneels beside him, fitting his fingers under lance’s bangs and pulling them back from his forehead. he looks up and grabs a hairclip from the counter with his other hand, securing the strands of hair with it.
“were you feeling nauseated before bed?”
even from his doubled over position, lance manages to roll his eyes.
“just say ‘nauseous’ like the rest of us, oh my god.”
keith huffs and presses his hand to lance’s forehead once again, taking in the heat.
“nauseous describes something that nauseates you. you can’t be nauseous. also we’re going to the hospital.”
lance makes a strangled sound in his throat.
“uh—no! we are not! what, did your hand clock some kind of rare disease? i wanna see those palm diagnostics, kogane, but until then—” he goes still and turns back to the toilet, tense all over and looking miserable. keith takes his hand and laces their fingers.
after a moment he relaxes and continues, “until then… i’ll be happy with some quality couch time and of course, your healing compassion.”
he manages a weak grin and keith frowns.
“fine, but i’m getting the actual thermometer.” lance waves him off and slowly, carefully stands up.
“ugh, it’s probably just that fucking fair food. remind me never to let a guy in cargo shorts convince me to buy a deep fried churro again.”
)(
lance collapses on the couch, out like a light, but keith is wired, thoughts buzzing.
lance calls him a sympathetic hypochondriac—never concerned for himself, but convinced his loved ones are dying at any given moment. keith’s therapist says it’s a manifestation of his issues with his father's death. keith says it fucking sucks.
regardless, he’s up googling foodborne illnesses until six, at which point he does manage to doze off in the recliner, phone in hand.
)(
keith wakes up, again, to the sound of lance throwing up.
he sits upright, the dizzy, uncanny feeling of deja vu unbalancing him for a moment. he grips the armrests of the recliner on either side of him.
his brain fully jolts awake at the sound of more retching.
right. lance is sick.
enteritis necroticans, stomach flu, salmonella. he’s sick, he’s dying.
there’s a pause in the noise from the bathroom.
“keith?”
he gasps a little too desperately at a breath, only now realizing he’d been holding it.
he shudders and stands up, shaking his hands out.
not now. lance needs you. he’ll tell you if it’s serious. get it together.
he quickly strides over to the bathroom, finding lance shakily standing up and attempting to block keith’s view of the toilet bowl. it’s futile; the smell hits him immediately.
keith blinks and says, “what’s going on?”
maybe not the best question, but he’s processing, he’s still thinking about foodborne illnesses, he’s thinking about going to the hospital, he’s thinking about how lance looks like he’s about to fall over.
“think i’m sick,” lance says, giving a feeble smile. he tilts worryingly and keith’s hand goes to lance’s elbow, fingers gentle.
“yeah,” keith says. he hesitates, but just in case. he has to be sure.
“you’ll tell me if you think it’s really bad, right? seriously, if something hurts really bad or—or anything, right?”
lance meets his gaze, eyes a little hazy but clear enough. he takes keith’s hand off his elbow and holds it between both of his.
“i promise.”
keith takes a deep breath, leans his forehead against lance’s.
“it’ll be ok,” says lance, and keith sighs; he shouldn’t be the one that needs reassuring right now.
he leads lance back out to the couch and grabs the best blanket from the closet, settling it over him before putting a pot of water on to boil. he taps his foot on the kitchen tile.
he tries to tune it out, but like an ouroboros the worry loops, a constricting thought spiral of
enteritis necroticans, stomach flu, salmonella. he’s sick, he’s dying.
)(
when lance wakes up more fully around midday, keith gives him the soup and tea he prepared as well as some anti-nausea medicine.
lance kisses him on the cheek, “thanks babe.”
keith puts on die hard and settles behind lance on the couch, one hand over lance’s heart—comforted by the slightly-fast but steady bu-bump against his palm—and the other combing through his hair.
“you know, when i was little i was dead set on changing my name to john when i turned 18.”
keith blinks, looking away from the explosions on screen to look at lance, his face illuminated by the fiery colors.
“why?”
lance snorts, “so i could be john mcclain, duh.”
keith blinks a couple more times, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to sort out the logic of what lance just said.
maybe it was a joke. but if it wasn’t, he doesn’t want to laugh at a sincere desire.
lance tilts his head to look at keith.
“babe. because the main character’s name is john mcclane, but spelled differently. it’s funny.”
“oh,” keith says, letting out a breath in relief.
“sorry, i just—i don’t know. sorry.”
lance shimmies up and turns so they’re facing each other.
“hey, don’t be sorry. you’re ok.”
keith nods—but that reminds him,
“hey, what about you? how are you feeling?”
lance shrugs, it’s been about three hours since he took the medicine, and he admittedly does look a little less pale.
“a little better. way less nauseous, but still a little achy and stuff, you know?”
keith nods, pressing his hand to lance’s forehead again. a little warm, but less so than earlier.
“alright. i’m glad.”
he untangles from lance and stands, stretching his arms behind his back (to which lance wolf whistles) and makes his way over to the dvd case.
“now, die hard 2 or something else?”
“keith, i will see hot 90’s bruce willis save that fucking airport if it kills me.”
keith laughs, though he wishes lance hadn’t used that phrasing.
)(
the second day continues similarly, with slightly less puking (though there is still puking) and despite lance’s seemingly improved condition, keith is still hesitant to leave when his shift at the restaurant comes around.
“you know where the medicine is?”
“yup,”
“and the blankets if you get cold?”
“uh-huh,”
“and you’ll keep your phone in arm’s reach?”
“babe.”
keith whirls to face lance, slightly winded from bustling around the cramped apartment and blindly trying to knot his tie.
“yeah, babe? more water?”
lance is looking at him amusedly, a full glass of water at his side. oh.
“keith. señor kogane. i’m fine. and i will be fine for the next—”
he glances at the clock on the wall behind keith,
“—four hours. trust me.”
keith sighs and hangs his head, shuffling over to lance, who pulls him down by the arm for another cheek kiss (in case he’s contagious).
“see you later?” he asks, voice still a little rough from throwing up.
keith nods, “see you later. love you.”
“love you!”
)(
keith gets home around two am, a little worn out, but not too bad.
it’s a monday night, so it was pretty slow, but he almost wishes he had tables to distract him. he was checking his phone every few minutes, ready to dash home at any moment if lance needed him. regardless, he’s home now, smelling of soup and salad and anxious to check on his boyfriend.
but lance—lance is not on the couch, keith notices, pausing as he slips off his bulky work shoes.
but it’s fine and definitely not cause for panic, keith internally berates the anxiety rising in his chest.
even so, he walks more quickly than necessary to their bedroom, only to slump in relief when he recognizes a lance-shaped lump curled beneath the comforter.
he loosens his tie and closes the door behind him;
lance is sick, but he isn’t dead. everything’s ok.
)(
keith wakes up for the third time in as many days to lance’s absence beside him.
he bolts upright, heart pounding. he looks over to the bathroom, only to find darkness, which only makes his throat grow tighter.
something’s wrong. he can feel it.
enteritis necroticans, stomach flu, salmonella. he’s sick, he’s dying.
before he can make it to the bathroom, lance comes shuffling out, looking thin and ghostly in the wan light coming from their window.
“are you ok?” keith asks.
lance nods and sits down heavily on the bed.
keith stands up, unsure of what to do. there’s nothing immediate—he tangles his fingers together.
“do you need anything?”
“no,” lance replies tiredly.
keith shifts his weight from one foot to the other, blinking into the darkness of their room.
he’s sick, he’s dying.
“are you sure?”
“yes,” lance says, and it’s quick, irritated.
keith responds too quickly; “i’m just trying to help.”
there’s a beat of silence, and then, almost too quiet to hear,
“i wish you’d stop.”
keith stills.
slowly, “what do you mean?”
lance sighs, and it crackles in his throat.
“i get it, ok. i get that you get freaked about stuff like this because of—what happened. but this is a fucking flu. i’m fine. but you look at me like…”
keith stays silent. (thinking of what happened. of his father, sick, dying, dead. it was just pneumonia, until it wasn’t. keith wasn’t fast enough, didn’t figure out how bad it was until it was worse.)
“like i’m already dead.”
more silence. the ac comes on.
keith takes a breath and. holds it.
then, in a rush of air, “i’m just worried.”
“so you don’t believe me?”
lance shifts like he wants to stand up, but maybe doesn’t have the energy to.
“no, that’s not—i’m just. i was reading online—”
“christ.”
“i know but i was reading online and, and your symptoms aren’t really abating, you know? your temperature’s only been down when you’ve had fever reducers. and the throwing up—you can barely keep liquid down.”
lance turns his head but keith can’t make out his expression in the dark.
“i’m not going to the hospital.”
“i just think—”
“it’s too expensive and you know it.”
keith bites his tongue and a flurry of anxiety fills his chest. yes, yes, the money. two minimum wage jobs isn’t enough. lance’s health insurance didn’t transfer from cuba.
but,
he’s sick, he’s dying.
“shiro can help out.”
“i’m not asking your brother for more fucking money, i just—i just can’t.”
keith walks to the other end of the room and back.
he doesn’t know how to tell lance this, how to tell him about the feeling in his chest, the weight in his stomach. the dread.
“i think we should go to the hospital.”
this time lance does stand up.
“babe, it’s food poisoning. those churros did me wrong, i told you before. you can take my temperature—fuck, give me a full examination if it’ll make you feel better, but you’re fucking stressing me out right now.”
he’s gesturing, frustration charging every movement.
“i can’t just do nothing, though, don’t you get it? i fucking-”
keith cuts himself off, stepping closer to lance.
“i can’t… lose. you.”
he reaches for lance’s hand but lance shifts away.
“i just need some rest, ok?”
keith didn’t notice until now, but he can hear lance panting, see him swaying on his feet. damn.
he blinks and watches as lance exits the bedroom.
goddamn it.
keith throws himself back onto the bed, distinctly aware of the cool sheets where lance should be.
)(
in the morning keith debates on whether or not to call into work, but decides he’ll check on lance before making a decision.
his stomach twists. he hopes he’s remembering the fight as worse than it was.
lance is dozing on the couch, a bowl on the floor next to him filled with clear liquid, and an empty water glass beside him. keith swallows.
salmonella salmonella salmonella.
he wasn't sure until this moment.
he gets out the medicine and grabs the water glass, pressing his forehead to the fridge as it fills.
lance is disorientated when keith shakes him awake, and much warmer to the touch than he has been up to this point.
“thirsty,” is all he says. keith holds up the glass and carefully transfers it to lance’s hand, which shakes and shakes as he brings it to his mouth.
he gulps it down, desperate, and keith’s thoughts are bathed in red, panic, alarms going off.
salmonella! he’s dying!
lance collapses back on the couch, panting, only to roll over mere moments later and deposit all of the water into the bowl at his side.
keith sits up on his knees, hands half stretched out to—to do something.
lance blinks, and blinks. his eyes aren’t really focused, like he’s looking for something he knows isn’t there.
keith slowly completes his movement, hands landing like the wheels on a plane, one on lance’s back and one in his hair, braced.
keith curls his fingers—this doesn’t seem all that comforting now that he’s looking at himself doing it. lance lurches forward then, gagging, but nothing comes up.
he finally settles back onto the couch with a half-sob, voice weak and almost angry.
he grabs the hand that had been in his hair and says, through gritted teeth,
“i can’t drink water. keith, i’m so thirsty.”
he’s sick. too sick.
his eyes are dulled and just breathing seems like it’s taking all his energy.
keith swallows, gripping lance’s hand more tightly in both of his.
“please,” he says, like a prayer, and presses it into lance’s palm, lips moving over his life line.
“please,” he says, and he holds that hand like it’s sacred, and he kisses it like it’s gold. he thinks he might be crying.
lance smooths the fingers of his other hand (because he has two, two shaking hands and not just the one that keith holds) under keith’s eye, up his temple.
it’s a good touch, tugging a little, wet with tears but still creating friction. keith blinks and feels the pull of skin.
“alright,” lance breathes. his blue eyes move and live, but they are so tired.
“thank you,” says keith, and he stands up to pack a hospital bag.
)(
the drive is quiet, and hot. lance is too sensitive to listen to music or to have either the heat or air conditioning on, so they sit in the hot car with the windows closed.
keith glances over, watches lance watch the passing desert, and wonders what the doctors will say.
he goes over the information he has to tell them, the same symptom list he’s been running in his head since lance started throwing up.
dehydrated. can’t keep water down. consistent vomiting and diarrhea. fever hasn’t dropped below 100 in five days. probably foodborne, probably from the fair, probably salmonella. he’s sick. he’s dying. he’ll die.
keith slams on the brakes, car jerking to an abrupt stop in front of the red light keith was apparently prepared to run.
his breath is coming too quickly. keep it together. lance is looking at him, concerned even in this state. keep it together. get to the hospital. lance needs help—get it for him.
keith is worried. his sweaty hands slip on the steering wheel as he carefully presses down on the gas, green light reflecting on the sweat on lance’s forehead.
)(
keith brings him into the emergency room, panicked as can be.
the woman at reception tells him he needs to fill out a form before lance can be seen.
“you don’t understand, he’s—he’s really sick, ok? he needs to see a doctor right now.”
“i understand, sir, but we need some information before he can be seen, alright? i’m going to have to ask for your patien—”
“listen,” keith says, raising his voice a little,
“he’s dehydrated, it’s something viral; he can’t keep fluids down. can you at least get him an iv?”
the receptionist meets his eyes, then glances behind him where lance is laid out across three of the waiting room chairs.
“i’ll page nurse shipp.”
“thank you,” keith breaths, retreating back to sit next to lance.
)(
it’s a whirlwind from there; they’re moved to another waiting room, supposedly where the nurse will help them.
when she does arrive, she can’t get the iv in because lance’s veins are too flat (keith is frozen in terror. it’s too late, he wasn’t fast enough) and then they’re moved to a real patient room, with two doctors and another nurse.
each of them attempts to find a vein, the places they try becoming increasingly strange, and keith can only hold lance’s hand while he squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the continuous pricking to be over.
finally, finally, one of the doctors gets it into lance’s upper arm, promising to move it down to his wrist once he’s a little less dehydrated.
“the symptoms should abate by themselves—salmonella itself is usually non-lethal, but mr. mcclain seems to have been caught by a rather nasty strain. you seem to have brought him in the nick of time, sir.”
keith can only nod. he’s pretty much out of it at this point, only the weight of lance’s hand in his keeping him grounded.
lance looks at him, face unreadable. the doctors leave and he dozes off after a few minutes, no doubt exhausted from the ordeal.
)(
two hours later keith’s hand shakes over lance’s, fingertips pressing too hard into the spaces between the knuckles.
“hey,”
keith looks up, brain buzzing, hand still working at the skin of his neck. he’s teetering, just a little bit. it’s been a long day.
lance squeezes back, weakly, gently, and lets out a breath. he’s tired, too.
“you can go, if you want. i know it’s a lot.”
keith says, “mmmmmm,” and shakes his head. his hair falls into his eyes. he shakes his head.
“mmmm,” he says.
then, he freezes the hand on his neck and lets it drop, turning his head 45 degrees and letting it swivel back. his vertebrae crack, vibrating up into his skull. he prys his mouth open.
“here for you,” he manages, soft and a little slurred, like he’s just woken up. talking is hard. it’s been a long day.
lance nods, and lets his head fall back onto the pillow.
he looks so tired, exhausted. the illness stole all his energy, ate it right up, and left him hollowed out.
keith squeezes his eyes shut, focuses on letting go of lance’s hand
gentle, keith, be gentle
and stands up blind, rocking on his feet.
heels, toes, heels, toes. the motion is nice.
finally he makes his way to the light switch and is pleased to find a dimmer, and sets them as low as possible without being off.
“hey. i’m sorry we fought,” lance says.
keith looks at him, shakes his head.
“s’ok,” he says, “we were both. bad.” his vocabulary has abandoned him, but lance seems to understand, nodding.
“yeah.”
they’ll talk about it more later, keith knows, and he can feel the tension in the air, lance gazing at the iv, wondering how much a bag of saline will cost them.
but now, now they’re ok. not dying, nor dead.
they’re ok.