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Smitty hugs him like he’s the one dying. Like the mountain of emotion he’s been sitting on, trying to rein in, can be conveyed to John if he can just hold tight enough. So he does. He locks his arms tight around John’s neck, tucks his chin over his shoulder.
As much as Smitty has been trying to school his emotions, it’s here that he breaks, just for a minute. His face crumples, eyes squeezed shut as he buries his face into the crook of John’s neck. There’s nothing to tell him about the tears that leak into his pale hair.
John is shaking, just the slightest bit. Smitty probably is, too. He’s so goddamn relieved that John showed up — dizzy from the heavy almost-necessary desperation of what he would have to do if he hadn’t.
“I’m sorry,” John says. Smitty can feel the words hanging in the air, weighty in the busy airport. John tips his head back, speaks to the ceiling like he’s trying to swallow tears. He doesn’t want to let go of John. To Smitty, he feels insubstantial, like he might float away if someone doesn’t keep eyes on him. “This is stupid,” John mutters. He’s looking away from Smitty.
Jaren wonders if he’s overreacting, flying over a better part of the country to keep an eye on John.
Mentally, he replays the sound of the pill bottle hitting the ground.
“It’s okay,” he says, and he’s trying to push everything he wants to say into those two words. He still has both hands fisted in the back of John’s jacket. “It’s not stupid. You needed help, and I’m here to do what I can.” He pulls back just enough, fingers skating down John’s arm. He doesn’t want to let go of him entirely, and from the way John is staring determinedly at the floor, he feels the pause. Smitty squeezes his bicep lightly, offering up a weak smile when their eyes meet. “Come on. let’s go home.”
The car ride back to John’s is quiet, and Smitty breaks the silence only to explain that he would like to go with John to the hospital the next day. “They’re professionals, John. I love you, brother, and I’m here to help you, but I don’t know it all. You need real help.”
John nods along slowly, but through the flashing of the streetlamps in the dark, Smitty can still see reluctance in his agreement. He pats John’s hand on the gearshift, resting his palm gently on top of his fingers. “C’mon, we’ve still got a night of beer and Fortnite before that, yeah?”
It feels to Smitty like John’s life is hanging in the balance, dependent on every word that he says. The ocean of anxiety threatening to swallow him is worth it just to see that little twitch of John’s lips.
Smitty is jumpy all the way until they are curled up on the sofa, plied with Chinese food and just enough alcohol, watching the TV as lazy as they can be without actually being asleep. It’s creeping close to 5 AM and John is leaning close to him – Smitty feels like he lets out of breath he didn’t know he was holding, like he hasn’t been able to enjoy himself because every moment has been part of Operation Keep Kryoz Alive.
But this moment, sitting with his shoulder pressed to John’s while the sun crawls up the horizon, this moment he can lean into, let his hands stop shaking.
It’s not too much longer before he rouses John, smiles gently at the man’s drooping eyelids. Smitty herds him towards the master bedroom, pauses in the doorway to make sure he actually makes it to bed before he falls asleep. He faltered a moment longer.
John tenses up as he puts together Smitty’s hesitation. It hasn’t been a dilemma yet, since they’ve been together all night. “All the pills are in the guest bathroom,” John mutters. “My razor, too.”
“Okay,” Smitty says softly. He would trust John with his life, but right now, not knowing where John’s head is at, he doesn’t trust John with his own. “Get changed, man. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He changes slowly, pulling pyjamas haphazardly out of his suitcase, and wanders back into John’s room with his toothbrush and toothpaste. John is lying on one side of the large bed, phone held above his head as he scrolls lazily through it. He hums when he notices Smitty standing in his bathroom, blinks at him before turning back to his screen.
When Smitty crawls into the bed with him, he drops the phone on the nightstand and flicks the light off, rolling to face the wall. Smitty tucks himself under the covers and watches the slope of John’s back rise and fall as he breathes.
Halfway asleep, John rolls over to face Smitty, shuffles close until their knees knock together under the blanket. Smitty watches him nuzzle into the pillow, a strand of pale hair falling over his eyes, and tucks an arm around his friend’s waist, pulls him an inch closer. He takes one more breath and lets himself fall asleep.
When Smitty manages to blink awake, John is tucked up behind him, breath landing heavy on the back of his neck. One hand is propped on Smitty’s waist, scrolling aimlessly through Twitter, and the other is curled under his head. Drowsy with sleep and trying to blink off the sunlight pouring into the room, Smitty rolls over halfway, nudges John’s chest with his chin. “Morning, little spoon,” John murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
Smitty hums, tucks his head under John’s chin. “Hospital day,” he reminds John lowly. “Nervous?” He’s close enough that he feels more than hears the resulting sigh.
“Just don’t know what to expect, ’s all,” John admits. He’s still looking blankly at his phone, thumb frozen over a black screen.
Pushing himself up to an elbow, Smitty manages to catch his eye. He's blindsided by the urge to hug John tingling in his fingertips. it’s a simple statement, the diction almost childish; Smitty is caught is a harsh contrast of hating that John has ever had to feel this vulnerable and appreciating that he has trusted Smitty with his raw edges. it takes him a second to piece together a response, still bleary from sleep and trying to say things {right}. Delicate, but not condescending; encouraging, but truthful; informative, but acknowledging every right to be nervous. He tries to pluck out the simplest parts first.
“It’s just a doctor’s visit,” he says. “Just gotta tell them what’s been going on with you.”
John barks out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s the part I’m nervous about.”
Smitty drops back down off his elbow, burrows back under John’s chin. He watches the pulse flutter under John’s skin, the pale expanse disappearing under the collar of a thick hoodie. “I did some research on the plane,” he starts, trying to shake off all the words he feels he has to choose. “From what I can tell, they’ll start with just an evaluation, just questions, and choose the next steps based off that. The ER’s pretty short term, obviously — for, uh, emergencies — but they’re the ones who’ll help you decide whether you should be hospitalised or referred to a therapist or what.”
He feels John’s hand, which had been resting on his waist, bunch in the hem of his t-shirt. “I didn’t realise hospitalisation is an option,” he sys quietly. Smitty feels the words ruffle his hair gently, chin resting on the crown of his head. John pulls his hand away, as though he had caught himself, and it drops over his eyes. His fingers are trembling, and he rolls onto his back, dislodging Smitty from his side. He watches John’s throat catch on a hard swallow.
The urge to {care} hits Smitty like a truck. He can almost taste John’s developing fear, and he’s watching the man literally pull away from him. “Hey,” he says softly, fingertips reaching out to brush the crook of John’s elbow. “You did the hardest part already. I’m here with you now, man, we’re gonna deal with everything that gets thrown your way today.”
John wipes his hand down his face. He doesn’t respond, but the anticipation building in his eyes seems to have melted away, at least the slightest bit.
“First things first. Do you wanna head to A & E in pyjamas or put real clothes on?” He’s only halfway joking, but it coaxes a halfway smile out of John, so he thinks he’ll keep doing it.
For the time being, though, he just smiles warmly back at John, wrapped warmly in his bed. It won’t be a quick fix — he knows that. But he’s planning to stick around regardless.