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Xue Yang can’t sit still. He’s anxious and achy and every time he gets too close to the air conditioning his skin prickles uncomfortably, like his nerves are exposed and rubbed raw. When he breathes too deep, he coughs until his diaphragm constricts and he sounds like he’s going to throw up. Xiao Xingchen is going to throw a fit when he gets home from work. Xue Yang can’t handle his mother-henning, it would crush him.
Xiao Xingchen told him to go to the doctor two days ago, when his cough progressed from a mild inconvenience to this awful, chest rattling heaving. It’s a trap. It has to be. Xiao Xingchen only wants him to see a doctor so he can mock him for being weak, he’s just waiting for an excuse to kick him to the curb. It wouldn’t be the first time Xue Yang has been thrown onto the street in the middle of a terrible illness. And even if Xiao Xingchen spares him, what’s the alternative? Spend his recovery period in Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan’s shared bed, leeching off of their kindness and resources? As if that wouldn’t make them more likely to kick him out. Once they see how useless he really is, he might as well kick himself out. Run away with his tail between his legs with shame. It would be his fault, anyway. He let his guard down. He let them convince him that he was welcome in their home. He felt safe with them! He doesn’t- he doesn’t want to lose that, loathe as he is to admit it even to himself. If they kick him out now, he doesn’t know what to do.
So he does what he knows best, he suppresses the problem. Standard over-the-counter cough syrup lost its efficacy almost immediately. Xue Yang sucks on cough drops around the clock, the sting of menthol isn’t that bad anymore. He can almost trick himself into thinking the cough drops are candy. They may as well be, for all they’re doing to stop his bouts of heaving. Earlier in the week, he managed to find a bottle of cough syrup with codeine, which is proving to be the only thing that actually gives him any relief as the cough gets more and more resilient. So fine. He’s keeping it under wraps. It’s fine. It’s fine, he thinks, even as he shivers with a low-grade fever through several doses of Tylenol. Everything’s alright, even as the new cough syrup stops preventing all of his coughing fits.
The front door rattles, and Xue Yang nearly jumps out of his skin. Song Lan steps into the apartment, eyes locking on Xue Yang immediately. “Still sick?” he asks succinctly, hanging up his coat.
“A little,” Xue Yang shrugs. “It’s not as bad as it was a couple days ago.”
Song Lan narrows his eyes at him, as if he can tell he’s lying through his teeth. Is it really that obvious? “You’re shivering,” he says at length, crossing the space between them and placing his hand against Xue Yang’s forehead. “You’re a little warm, did you take Tylenol?”
“I did. I think it’s wearing off, but I can’t take more for another hour.”
“Alright,” the weight leaves Xue Yang’s chest when Song Lan finally stops staring at him. “Go lay down. I’ll heat up some soup, maybe something hot will loosen all the junk in your lungs.”
Xue Yang shrugs again but retreats to the bedroom, privately grateful for the excuse. He drags the covers up to his ears, curling up in a ball to try and fight off his shivers. The bed feels too large, too empty, without Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen beside him. He has gotten used to falling asleep surrounded by warmth. He should have known it wasn’t going to last. He closes his eyes for a moment of rest before Song Lan comes in with his soup.
When he opens them again, he’s burning hot. There’s something heavy pinning him down, and he panics for longer than he cares to admit before he realizes it’s just Song Lan’s arm. Song Lan came to lay with him. Why? To make it hurt more when he and Xiao Xingchen get tired of him? His chest aches and he shrugs off the warmth of Song Lan’s arm before his lungs convulse. He slips out into the kitchen so he won’t wake Song Lan. The clock on the microwave reads 1:37am. Xiao Xingchen’s late shift ends in an hour and a half.
Xue Yang coughs like he’s dying on the best of days. After being suppressed by the medicine for so long, his cough is back with a vengeance. He heaves until it feels like his lungs have forced every bit of air out of them, then sucks in half of a shaky breath before launching into another equally violent round of heaving. By the time he catches his breath, his abs ache like he did crunches.
Song Lan stumbles out of the bedroom, eyes bleary with sleep, bracing himself against the doorframe. “You good?”
“I’m okay,” Xue Yang responds weakly. “It always gets worse at night. I’ll take some cough medicine and come back to bed.”
“Take a shower. The steam might help. I’ll tell Xingchen-”
Xue Yang shakes his head frantically, “Don’t tell Xingchen. It’s really no big deal, it’s just a cough.” If Song Lan tells Xiao Xingchen anything, then he’ll have to go to the doctor. He’ll have to sit in a sterile office while a stranger pokes and prods at him with cold instruments, cold eyes. No thanks. He’ll get over this on his own.
Song Lan doesn’t look convinced, but he shrugs anyway, “If you say so. Go shower.”
Xue Yang trudges off to the bathroom and cranks the shower up until he can just barely stand to be in the water. Song Lan was right, after a few minutes breathing starts to feel easier. Each inhale rattles less, each exhale doesn’t make his lungs itch terribly. The water is so hot he’s almost sweating, but he doesn’t want to get out. He should, though, before Xiao Xingchen gets home and asks him questions. He sits on the floor of the shower and leans his head against the cool tile of the wall. It feels so nice to breathe this easily. By the time he hauls himself out of the shower, half an hour has passed.
Song Lan set up a humidifier in their bedroom while he was showering. Why? Why waste all of his effort? He could barely keep himself awake, why did he go through the trouble of finding the humidifier? He can’t even fill it with water from the sink, so he had to go out of his way to drag the jugs of purified water out of the closet. All for Xue Yang.
He must be staring, because Song Lan explains, “I figured you’d sleep easier this way.”
“Thanks,” Xue Yang replies, eyeing him suspiciously. Song Lan has spoken more words to him in the past week than he has throughout the last year of their relationship. It feels like a trap.
He lies down in bed anyway. Song Lan shuts off the light and follows him, settling back into bed beside him and draping his arm around Xue Yang’s shoulders like it was earlier.
He wakes up alone. Xiao Xingchen’s voice drifts in from the kitchen, gentle like the rays of sun that stream in through the white curtains. When did Xue Yang get so sappy? He tries to stay quiet, but his stupid cough has other plans. Xiao Xingchen pokes his head through the bedroom door, smiling sympathetically.
“Hey, trouble. You feeling okay?”
Xue Yang wants to sock him in the jaw, wants to slam the door on him, anything to wipe that stupid smile off his face. Someone like him shouldn’t be looked at so tenderly. He shouldn’t be cared for like this. “I’m fine,” he insists, weak with exhaustion. His abs are still sore from coughing so hard previously.
As if he can read his mind, Xiao Xingchen settles beside him on the bed and begins tracing aimless patterns across his stomach with the tips of his fingers. “I’m sorry you’re sick, baby. I know you’re nervous, but it would make me feel a lot better if you would go to the doctor. You’ve been coughing for the past week and a half, I think you should get it checked out.”
“Why are you sorry I’m sick? It’s not like you’re the one who gave this to me.” Maybe if he responds to part of the statement, Xiao Xingchen will let him off easy.
To his surprise, Xiao Xingchen just keeps smiling at him with eyes full of pity. “I know,” he sighs. “Zichen is making waffles, if you want some. You don’t have to get dressed.”
He can’t answer right away because his lungs decide to spasm uncontrollably. The sooner he can take cough medicine, the sooner Xingchen will stop looking at him like that. He answers, breathless, “I’ll come eat.”
That seems to make Xiao Xingchen happy, so Xue Yang must be doing something right. When he shrugs off the blankets, he’s surprised to find that the cold air isn’t as uncomfortable as it was last night. His fever must be going down. That’s a good sign, right? He follows him out into the kitchen, nodding to Song Lan, busy mixing waffle batter at the island. Song Lan catches his eye and smirks mischievously.
Xue Yang watches in disbelief as Song Lan pulls a box of brownie batter out of the cabinet. Xiao Xingchen looks equally shocked, but his eyes are warm when he teases, “You’re going to give him that much sugar first thing in the morning?”
“His immune system could use the sugar rush.”
“I don’t think that’s how immune systems work.”
“No?” Song Lan asks.
“No,” Xiao Xingchen laughs, bright and twinkling. Xue Yang could watch them forever, if they’d let him. He shoves down the pang of melancholy that sings through his veins.
He coughs again, ruining their moment. His abs ache with the force of it, and he feels the telltale compression of his lungs that marks the end of a fit. Except this time, it doesn’t end. He keeps coughing until his vision goes black around the edges, sucking in wavering breaths where he can. Xiao Xingchen places his hand on Xue Yang’s upper back, rubbing firmly in circles to try and alleviate his pain. It feels like he’s drowning. He can’t get any air- he can’t- he can’t breathe. He’s going to die. He gasps pathetically for air, gripping the fabric of Xiao Xingchen’s shirt like he’s the only life preserver in a stormy sea. He can’t keep his head above water. Xiao Xingchen’s other hand smooths back his hair, wipes away the tears from his watery eyes.
When he can finally breathe again, he reaches for a napkin and spits into it. The mucus he spits out is nuclear green, and- as scared as he is to see a doctor- this can’t go on. He can’t die like this.
“Song Lan,” he says weakly, when he’s sucked in enough air to see straight. “Can you take me to the doctor?”
Xiao Xingchen may be mad that he can’t come, but if he comes he’d fret and worry about Xue Yang the whole time. He’d ask questions and check in and Xue Yang would spend the whole time trying to figure out what mind games he was playing. Xiao Xingchen is overwhelming. Song Lan is quiet. Song Lan doesn’t overstep.
Song Lan nods. Mercifully, Xiao Xingchen doesn’t do anything other than smile softly.
Half an hour later, he and Song Lan find a seat in the waiting room of an urgent care. Xue Yang’s hands are clenched tight around the armrests of the uncomfortable wooden chair. He’s trembling. It’s embarrassing to be this worked up over something as simple as a visit to the doctor, but the sterile scent of antiseptic is setting him on edge.
“Do you want me to hold your hand?” Song Lan offers, startling Xue Yang out of his anxious spiral.
Xue Yang shakes his head, because as much as he wants to say yes, “You don’t like holding hands.”
“We won’t be here for long, I can deal with it.”
The doctor calls his name, and Xue Yang threads his fingers through Song Lan’s as they follow the doctor back to her office. She’s a professional-looking young woman, with sharp features but kind eyes. The way she smiles while introducing herself, as Xue Yang hops up on the table, eases his anxiety, but the real thing keeping him from bolting is the weight of Song Lan’s hand in his. The office itself is far too sterile for him to relax fully. Even with Song Lan grounding him, he can feel his mind slipping away. Back to when he was a little boy, in so much pain from a crushed hand, begging in the ER to be seen by someone. Back to the sneering faces of the doctors, of security personnel throwing him to the curb.
Song Lan squeezes his hand.
“So,” the doctor says, not quite brightly, but something close. “Your chart here says you’re a nervous patient.”
Xue Yang wants to throw something. He wants to scream that nervous is the biggest understatement he’s ever heard. He shouldn’t even be here. He has to get out, he has to leave. He can’t get his voice to work. Helplessly, he tugs on Song Lan’s arm, trying to communicate something- anything.
“He is,” Song Lan answers for him.
The doctor purses his lips, “Well, I’ll make sure I’m clear about what I’m going to do, okay? We’ll make this as easy on you as possible.”
Xue Yang’s words continue to fail him. He feels shaky, off center, like he could cry at any moment. Song Lan gives the doctor his symptoms, tells her how long he’s been coughing, how long he’s been feverish. Somehow, it doesn’t feel patronizing. The doctor remains patient as she explains the blood pressure cuff, calm as she explains the areas she’ll use the stethoscope in. It isn’t-
It isn’t as bad as Xue Yang expected it to be. She doesn’t scoff at him or threaten to throw him out for being uncooperative, even though he can’t find the courage to speak to her. She doesn’t mock him for being weak. Song Lan doesn’t mock him. He just calmly answers all of the doctor’s questions.
They walk out of the doctor’s office ten minutes later with a prescription for antibiotics and an inhaler. Pneumonia, it turns out. Was probably bronchitis when it started. Take the antibiotics as directed on the label, use the inhaler when necessary. All in all, it should be fine. It was stupid to drag his feet for so long.
Xiao Xingchen welcomes him home with a hug. Song Lan picks up breakfast where he left off. Soon, Xue Yang is swaddled in blankets, cradled in Xiao Xingchen’s arms, holding Song Lan’s brownie-waffle-monstrosity doused in whipped cream and strawberry sauce. He doesn’t deserve this, but for some reason Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen have decided he does.
“We still love you,” Xiao Xingchen assures out of nowhere. “Being sick doesn’t make us see you any differently. We won’t make fun of you or judge you for things out of your control.”
“I know that,” Xue Yang scoffs.
Privately, Xiao Xingchen’s assurance soothes some aching, wanting beast in Xue Yang’s chest. He won’t admit to it, but he gets the sense that he doesn’t have to. Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan already know.