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TK sits on the edge of the hospital bed, socked feet planted firmly on the cold white linoleum. He picks absentmindedly at the ID bracelet that is still wrapped around his wrist. It looks out of place there, now that he has his regular clothes back on. Now that the cuffs at the end of his hoodie sleeves scrape against the white plastic. He’s waiting for Carlos to pull the car around to the ER entrance so that when his nurse pushes him down in the wheelchair he fought against using, he’ll be right there to hold his elbow as he completes the simple action of sliding into that familiar passenger seat.
It doesn’t take long, and his nurse, Kaley, is knocking informally at the door frame, one hand on the handle of the chair in front of her.
“Hey bud, what do you say we spring ya’ out of here?” she smiles with a twinkle in her eye that TK appreciates. She helps him stand, tells him to take a minute, gain his bearings when he starts to sway a bit, eyes shut tight against the onslaught of dizziness that makes his stomach twist. They hobble three steps before she's telling him to find the armrests with his hands, telling him to lower slowly on three, helping him lift his feet up onto the pedals. She has a way of doing it that makes him feel less silly and weak for not having done it himself.
There are some qualities that separate a nurse from a really good nurse and TK, having spent an inordinate volume of days in inpatient care in the last few years, has had more than ample opportunity to catalog them. Kaley has been his nurse twice now, she was here yesterday too. She’s given his meds on time and brought him water when he’s asked for it, sure, but mostly, she makes taking care of him seem like it’s no big deal. Everything about her is nonchalant and calm and collected. She doesn’t dismiss him, but she doesn’t indulge in his self pity either and that’s something he’s decided to be grateful for.
Once he’s comfortable, she places his big white hospital issued plastic bag in his lap. His big plastic cup with the handle and the crinkled up straw has been emptied and dried and placed there alongside his discharge instructions and follow up appointment schedule. Carlos had been there for all of that, plus he has all the important things written down, so he is in no danger of forgetting anything, but he still feels disorganized anyway. Kaley says that’s pretty normal, but she does her best to quell his fear as they make their way to the elevators.
“You outta here, Strand?” Pascal, the nurse who had taken care of him before Kaley, is sitting at the nurses’ station, wiping everything down for probably the billionth time with those little purple wipes they keep in boxes outside some of the sicker patient’s rooms.
“Yessir!” Kaley answers for him, which he’s grateful for, too. He is tired even if he acts like he isn’t. TK waves at him instead.
“Hell yeah, brother! I hope I never see you here again!” He laughs at his own joke and gets back to his disinfecting. Kaley rolls her eyes and then backs them both into the elevator stall, pushing “G” for the ground floor with the knuckle on her pointer finger.
“What’re your plans for today? You gonna get showered up with some decent shampoo and then rest like we talked about?” She asks as they listen to the beep, beep, beep, that indicates they’re moving between floors.
TK hums in affirmation, eyes already closed. A shower really does sound nice. They’d had these shampoo caps while he’d been there, that they’d pull over his hair and scrub around. They smelled good and felt nice, but he can’t wait to be properly power-washed by the superb and dream-like detachable showerhead in his and Carlos’ new shower.
She pushes him around the front desk and to the ER entrance, where she hits the handicap button to open the door.
“Alrighty my friend, looks like your ride’s here!”
And it is. Carlos is standing next to the passenger side door, arms crossed at the wrist in front of him, waiting like one of those fancy valet drivers TK has only ever seen in movies. He springs into action when he recognizes them, opening the door and coming to stand directly in front of him. He bends down and presses the quickest kiss to his chapped lips before greeting him with a soft “Hey, baby”
Kaley and Carlos help him rise up on shaky legs and they lower him down again into his seat. Carlos buckles his seatbelt even though they both know he could have done it himself.
TK reaches out and grabs Kaley's hand before she can turn around and head back inside.
“Thank you, seriously,” he says, trying his best to push past the scratchiness that lingers in his voice from the ET tube he’d so recently had secured in his mouth through a bite block.
“Don’t mention it, Stand, it’s been a pleasure.” she winks at him before turning to pull the chair back through the automatic door. “Oh and by the way, I agree with Pascal. I love you, bud, but I don’t want to see you back here again.”
Before TK can think of something witty to say back, which if he’s honest with himself, may have taken all day anyway with how slow it felt like his brain was moving, she’s gone.
Carlos gets into the driver’s seat and puts the key in the ignition. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other palm up on the console, an open invitation. TK uses all the energy he has in his whole body to jerk his own hand overtop of it, interlacing their fingers together. He leans his head against the cool glass of the window and lets the sound of tires over asphalt lull him to sleep as they make their way back home.
Carlos drives carefully, tries his best not to take any turns too sharply, to avoid the potholes and dips in the pavement. He keeps the radio off and tries to find comfort in the soft snoring coming from his right side. It’s hard not to let his mind wander. Just last week, he would’ve given anything to be where he is now. He tries not to think about that now.
When they arrive at their new place, and Carlos has put the car in park and taken his seatbelt off, he turns and rubs lightly at TK’s arm.
“Hi baby,” he whispers again. TK’s eyebrows knit together in a way that prompts him to lean forward and kiss away the tension he’s holding there.
“Home?” His voice is still raspy. They said it might take a little while for that to go away, something about inflammation that Carlos was really only half listening to. It sounds like it hurts though.
Carlos hums his response before reaching down and unbuckling the seatbelt.
“I’ll come around, okay? Wait just a second.”
TK has no intention of getting up. He’s tired down to his bones and if he didn’t know better, he might have wondered if he was wearing one of those lead vests they make you wear when you go down to radiology. But, it’s nice to hear that Carlos still thinks he’s capable of all his normal shit, so he lets it slide with a sigh.
The walk up the steps, through the door, and up the elevator has him white-knuckling his grip on Carlos’ arm. They take a couple breaks, so he can catch his breath and close his eyes just for a second. It’s deeply humiliating in a way that only being out of breath after walking five feet can be, but he’s also much too exhausted to care. He lets his boyfriend lean him up against the wall outside their door so he can unlock it, and then he’s right back at his side again, an arm secure around his waist.
“Let’s get you settled into bed and then I’ll see about getting us something to eat, how’s that sound?”
Carlos is always using the plural when he’s like this. When he’s sick or hurt, or dying or whatever, it’s always “let’s” and “we” and “us”. Everything bad about him is a team effort. He’s not sure how he feels about it, but he decides it’s something he can feel guilty about later, and he files it away in his head.
He nods, shaking from the effort of the movement.
They get him to the bed before his legs give out entirely, which is part miracle, part Carlos’ penchant for perfect timing. Collapsed could even be seen as too dramatic a word for what he really did, which was stumble backward and collide with the waiting collection of Too Many Decorative Throw Pillows.
“Easy!” Carlos says, a bit too loud and a bit to close. “Easy,” he repeats again, softer, as he's helping TK get straightened out. He unties his shoes before he takes them off, which is not a thing TK has ever done and he wants to tell Carlos this. Wants to tell him that he ties them when he buys them, then never again. He just takes them off by stepping as hard as he can on one heel with the toe of the other foot until eventually, the shoe gets accustomed to the treatment. They do not untie themselves if you do it correctly.
He doesn’t say anything though.
He feels the welcome warmth of some old quilt being tugged up from where it had been folded at the foot of the bed, up over his shoulders. It smells like home. Not his, though, so it must have been from Andrea. It smells like warm cinnamon.
Carlos kisses his forehead again, which is not something TK will ever become accustomed to, nor is it something of which he will ever feel he’s had enough. The love in that gesture is what sustains him.
“I’m right down the hall if you need anything, okay babe?”
He’s speaking so softly, like he’s talking to a newborn baby. They say if a newborn won’t stop screaming, won’t stop crying, no matter what you’ve tried, you can talk to it like this and they will quiet down just to focus in on the noise you’re making. It’s the classic story of David and Goliath, the small and the soft bringing the powerful and turbulent to its knees. Carlos knows that and it shows. TK’s mind, a giant and spinning and whirling thing, can be brought to a standstill if he chooses the right words, the right tone, the right time.
He makes them both soup from a can because it takes less time and he wants TK to actually eat it before he falls asleep again. He pours it into a mug because it’ll be easier to hold that way and he can drink it if he wants to. It’s a lot less work that way.
TK blinks slowly at him when he walks back in, then struggles on weakened arms to haul himself to a more upright position. He winces as the movement twists his sore ribs. Three of them were broken during CPR, but TK made him promise not to talk about it. At least not in front of Nancy and Tommy. Even though they likely heard the crack crack crack as the bones snapped in two, even though they felt them give way under the pressure of their interlaced fingers and palms, he doesn’t want them to feel bad about it for even one fleeting second.
Carlos stands beside him, puts a supportive hand on his back as he gets himself adjusted the way he wants to on their bed. Then he presses the warm ceramic into his awaiting hands. TK smiles a tiny, tiny, smile, holding it up to his face so his skin is just kissed by the steam. It’s peaceful. He is content.
“Once you finish that up, we can either get you cleaned up, or we can put some of that balm on your ribs, whichever you want to do is fine with me” He says, running his fingers through the tangled, slightly greasy hair that sits in unruly clumps atop TK’s head.
“Mmmm, shower” is the only response he gets, but he’ll take it. He’s not sure how they’ll manage it when just walking from the car to the front door was such a challenge, but they’re creative and they’ve got nowhere to be, so it shouldn’t be too hard to work something out.
“I’m sure it’ll feel really good to get all nice and clean, huh?”
He doesn’t know what to talk about, really, but he doesn’t feel the same comfort in the silence that he used to. And, if he’s honest, he’s pretty exhausted himself, too.
TK nods and slurps at the soup. He’s making a little too much of a show about it for Carlos to really believe that he’s eating as much as he should, but he lets it slide, just this once. He’ll try and get him to eat something again later if he can. It's a process. It’s baby steps. They’re both doing their best.
“I’m gonna go get us some towels and then I’ll be back, okay? You wait for me here and I’ll help you up.”
There’s that “us” again. TK pretends not to notice. He nods and sets the mug down on their nightstand, still half full of chicken and stars, and lets his head thunk back against the headboard, closing his eyes for what feels like the billionth time today. The guilt of dependence settles heavy and familiar in his gut.
They make it to the bathroom with a shuffling gait, Carlos walking backwards, TK hanging on to his outstretched forearms like a lifeline. He’s out of breath by the time he’s deposited onto the closed lid of the toilet. He lets Carlos pull up on his hoodie from the bottom, tries to keep his winces to a minimum as he slowly and gingerly works his arms out through the sleeves.
He has two sites, both on the right, with one just below his armpit and the other just below his collarbone where they’d had two chest tubes running “thoracic lavage” which is something Carlos had the misfortune of Googling as he waited to hear more news about the rewarming efforts out in the waiting room. They’d thrown in a couple stitches when they’d pulled the tubes, and they’d have to go to his regular doctor in a week or two to have them taken out. They’re scabbed up and don’t look too bad, all things considered, but they make Carlos’ legs hurt all the same.
The bruises that mottle his chest are beginning to turn a sickening greenish yellow around the edges, but they’re still deep purple and black just left of the center. Carlos runs his fingers across it, no pressure, just awe. TK is alive in front of him. TK is breathing in front of him. TK is okay in front of him and it’s all because he was with a team of people who know what to do when this kind of thing happens. When this kind of thing happens.
What a thought to have.
There are people out there every day whose hearts stop beating and never start back up again. TK is okay in front of him, but he almost wasn’t.
The thought of him has him in a trance.
TK cracks open one eye before whispering the same reminder he always does.
“Breathe, baby”
He brings his hand up to cup Carlos’ cheek, rubs his thumb over the dark circles that have formed under his eyes. It takes him a second, but he heaves a shuddering breath in and clears his throat before he starts working on the rest of TK’s clothes.
He smooths little gauze squares and tegaderm over each set of stitches to keep them from getting wet before they get in. Hushes apologies as he smooths down the thin plastic at the edges. TK turns his head and kisses whatever skin is closest to confirm his understanding, which happens to be the inside of a bicep with the way they’re fit together.
Before he knows it, they’re standing up again, hands latched to elbows, a chaotic dance of slow moving feet as they make their way under the spray. TK slumps forward into Carlos’ chest and lets the heat wrap around him, lets his lungs take the deepest breath he’s taken in days, lets the smell of antiseptic rinse from his skin like runoff after a long winter.
They take their time. His hair gets scrubbed even though he can’t really lift his arms up above his head and the lather from the ivory soap glides smoothly across the purple patches on the backs of his hands and the creases in his elbows. He wants to express his gratitude verbally, he wants there to be words enough to describe how grateful he is to be here , to describe how lost he would be without the man standing in front of him, doing most of the work of holding him upright. But there aren’t enough, so he settles for letting his forehead find its perfectly carved out spot where Carlos’ neck meets his shoulder and he presses a kiss to his skin there.
He hopes it’s enough for now.
They get him dried off and into clothes that fit slightly too loose to be his own. He has two pairs of socks on.
As he’s getting back into bed, Carlos, ever the worrier, ever the prepared, ever the task completer, is collecting supplies in his arms, cradling them against his chest in an effort to balance them all. He has the leftover bruise cream from the last patient who had caught him in the eye accidentally during a seizure, the ice pack that was added to the first grocery run they made after the fire, and a bottle of extra strength acetaminophen. He can have 650 of that in twenty minutes if the schedule he has written down on the yellow legal pad on the dresser is correct (It is, of course it is ).
The white paper bag with his prescriptions in it is sitting in his backpack, so he’ll have to grab that later when it’s time for those, too. He has something in there for nausea that Carlos can’t remember the name of and a muscle relaxer that he knows TK will refuse. He says he doesn’t like the way it makes his head feel, but they both know it’s because it feels a little too close to the real thing for comfort.
He sets his supplies down on the bed and gets to work.
TK is quiet and compliant during the whole ordeal, which has Carlos feeling uneasy in a way he can’t quite explain. He tries to be gentle as he works the cream into the spaces between TK’s ribs, which have become much more prominent than either of them prefers. TK tries to hide the winces, he really does, but busted up bones hurt, no matter how tough you’re trying to be about it. He peels off the tegaderm by himself, ignoring the protests above him and throws it in the general direction of the trashcan. They’d said leaving those open to air was fine, they weren’t that big and they had a whole ocean’s worth of bigger fish to fry.
He’s getting more frustrated and more tired by the second. His chest hurts and the stitches itch and he’s so tired of feeling this weak. He can’t find a good way to verbalize that, though, because his brain feels like it’s still thawing out. All of it seeps out in the tears that start dripping from his cheekbones, soaking into the pillowcase beneath his head.
He wants to swipe the tears away with his fists like a petulant toddler, but he can’t even raise his arms high enough to do that, which only adds to the frustration of it all. If only the mattress would open up and swallow him whole.
Carlos takes a second to notice what’s happening. That’s sometimes the case with him, not because he’s inattentive, not because he doesn’t care, just because he is so task oriented that he forgets to stop and look around sometimes. But, when he looks up from his ministrations to really see what’s going on, his whole body slumps forward.
“Oh, sweetheart” he says, half under his breath. Then he’s up by his head again, stroking his still-damp hair back away from his forehead.
“How can I help, babe?” He’s so close now that TK feels the little puffs of breath that come out with each word on the skin of his forehead. “What do you need?”
“It hurts and I’m cold and I’m tired” he sobs openly now, shaking his whole body. Carlos kisses his cheek and swipes at the wetness that greets him with a thumb on either hand.
“I’m sorry baby, I know, I know. Hey, the good thing about that is those are three things we can fix! Right? We’re gonna be just fine once we get some more Tylenol and some rest, huh? That’s easy.” He keeps up the mindless chatter as he grabs the bottle from the dresser and his waterbottle from the bedside table.
“Sit up just a second for me sweetheart, I know, I’m sorry” He keeps a hand rubbing along his spine and he pulls the bottom hem of TK’s shirt down over his exposed ribs as he hands over the two big red pills.
“Good job, baby, okay, let’s get you back down,” And then he’s cradling the back of his head and helping him lower back down onto the mattress. He walks to the doorway and shuts off the light before making his way back, sliding in under the covers on his side of the bed. He pulls him close once he’s settled in and holds him with his head on his chest again, the way he likes, and he shushes him and whispers stories about TV program they’d had on in the waiting room and whatever else he can think of until TK’s breathing evens out and he’s finally, blissfully , asleep.
He looks down at the man in his arms and the love that wells up inside of him is so big that he feels like he might come apart at the seams. If such a power exists to draw pain from another with a touch or a kiss or a sacrifice, whatever it may be, he is sure he would do it all. He loves him to the point of aching and suffering and he loves him all the way back home, too.