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Juliette
“Kenji, have you seen Aaron anywhere? I thought he was supposed to come out with us today, but he’s late.”
Kenji was easy enough to track down, as always, but Juliette hasn’t seen Aaron since she left their shared, makeshift room in the medical tent.
“It will never not be weird that you call him that,” Kenji shook his head, scarfing down a late lunch before they head out for some fieldwork.
“I’m serious,” she rolled her eyes.
“No, I haven’t seen him. I always expect him to be no less than 10 feet from you, though, so I haven’t really had cause to look.” Kenji seemed utterly unbothered by his absence and not keen on helping in her search, so Juliette sighed and set off to find him by herself, telling Kenji she’d meet back up with him later.
She didn’t find him in any of his usual workspaces, or with James, to whom he sometimes snuck away. She decided to check their room on the off chance that he’d decided to change, and saw him as soon as she entered the doorway.
He was sitting at his makeshift desk, a folding table cluttered with books, pens, and paper, with his head resting on his crossed arms. The lights were off, so she was slightly taken aback by him even being in there. She flipped the lights on habitually.
“Turn it off,” he demanded in a harsh voice, annoyed, then squinted up at her standing in the doorway.
He coughed, “Ella, sorry,” his eyes widened slightly when he realized it was her standing there and not, say, Kenji, “I wasn’t expecting that to be you.” She rolled her eyes.
“I imagine that greeting wasn’t intended for me, then?”
He buried his head back into his arms, either way, and groaned, “Will you please turn the light back off?”
She could see then, looking more closely at him, that something was wrong. She switched the lights back off and noticed the curtains were also drawn to keep out light. His breathing was labored. He was fully dressed but disheveled. His shirt was untucked, and his arms were out of his jacket, but it was still slung over his shoulders like a blanket. What she could see of his face was covered with a sheen of sweat, strands of hair damp and clinging to his forehead.
“Aaron?” She crossed the small room to stand next to him. “Hey, what’s wrong? Look at me.” She placed her hand on the back of his neck. His skin was clammy and feverish. He flinched slightly against her touch.
“Your hand is very cold,” he mumbled, shivering.
“No, you’re burning up. How long have you been sick? What hurts?” She coaxed him up into a seated position, and she could feel him shivering as his head fell back against the wall.
“I’m not sick, I’m fine, I’ll be ready to leave in a bit, I just,” he inhaled shakily, “I just need a few minutes.” He swallowed and she saw what little color was left in his face drain out, his lips startlingly white.
“Why don’t you go lie down?” She suggested.
“Can’t move,” he stated weakly, “I feel a little nauseated,” it seemed to pain him to admit this. His eyebrows knitted together in pain and sweat started to bead on his forehead.
“I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.” He was clearly not fine and looked moments away from vomiting. She wasn't sure why he was denying this fact, maybe wishful thinking? Delusions of grandeur relating to his willpower?
“Aaron,” she said sternly, “Tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”
He sighed, clearly unable to put up much of a fight in this condition, and then the words rushed out of him in a flustered, rambling monologue.
“My head feels like it could split open, which is why I’m sitting in the dark. I’m freezing, which I assume, given your comment, is a fever. My whole body is aching, like, my skin is painfully sensitive, and my chest is suffocatingly tight, I can’t breathe, and I feel lightheaded and weak, and I—” he slumped back forward onto the desk, cradling his head in his hand. “Wow, I’m so dizzy.” This last caveat was clearly a new development, judging by his newfound nausea. His words were frantic and he seemed a little out of sorts. She could almost feel the anxiety as it rolled off of him. His breathing got quicker and shakier by the second. “I felt off last night and a little worse this morning, but nothing really worth worrying over.”
Concern rushed through her. He’s been sick since yesterday? And didn’t say anything?
“I need you to stop feeling nervous right now,” he said, between breaths, “Everyone has been nervous all day and I can feel it from here. Is something happening, why all the emotions?”
His voice had an edge to it that sounded like anger, but she could pick up on what it actually was. Panic. “I don’t know, maybe they’re nervous about our next steps or something,” she said, as soothingly as she could, “But, I need you to focus on breathing.”
She tried to relax and not push her emotions onto him, but it was hard when he was in this state.
“I don’t know if it’s my head or what, but everything—everything is so loud right now, I can feel more— I can’t—“ he gasped, “I can’t turn it off, I can’t tune it out, and it—it’s too much—I can’t breathe, I—God, I can’t believe I’m going to be sick, this is so inconvenient,” He stood abruptly, then swayed. She grabbed his arm to balance him, but he slumped back and slid down the wall, putting his head between his knees. His back rose and fell with each shallow breath.
“Would you leave if I asked you to?” he pleaded halfheartedly. She didn't answer his (in her opinion, rhetorical) question, just slid a small wastebasket next to him in a way that she hoped seemed nonchalant, and he hesitated, going very still. Several long seconds passed and he eventually lost the battle he was waging with himself. He grabbed the basket hastily and heaved the meager contents of his stomach into it. He repeated this uncomfortable action many times before pushing the wastebasket away from him, grimacing, then dropped his head onto his knees and wrapped his arms around them. Violent tremors racked his body.
She knelt down next to him, running her hands over his back and arm in a way she hoped was comforting. He turned his flushed face away from her, “Ella, love, you don’t have to stay here. I have dealt with illness many times alone and have gotten to retain most of my dignity as a result,” He tried to shrug her off, but she refused to let him shut her out. She ignored his request, settling on the floor next to him instead, and placed the back of her hand against his too-warm neck.
“Is it something you ate?” She tried.
“I haven’t eaten today, and didn’t eat yesterday evening,” he replied. Of course not. She pursed her lips at this news. He exhaled and added, “It’s really nothing, Ella, I think I’m just anxious. That can cause nausea, you know.”
“Okay, and that causes a fever too? And muscle aches?”
“No, those symptoms are seemingly unrelated.” Despite the show he was putting on of just how okay-and-not-sick he is, he couldn't quite mask the tremor in his voice and shaky breaths.
She shook her head at him, sighing exasperatedly.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” he groaned, almost comically given the circumstances, “You can go back and join the others. Go with Kenji, I’ll be fine.”
Even as he said this, despite sitting prone against the wall, his breathing just continued to get faster and rougher. Something like a whimper escaped his chest as he gasped for breath. “Please, Ella,” he pleaded.
Then, Kenji, forever known for having the worst timing in the world, appeared in the doorway.
“Hey, are you two almost—“ he noticed the scene that the two of them were making in front of him, “Shit, man. What’s wrong with you? Are you sick? Are you–”
Aaron didn't reply, instead seemingly focused on breathing. Which, she noticed, he couldn’t do through his nose, so his breaths sounded more like gasps. Actually, which were gasps, she realized. He did take a moment to look up at Kenji with what looked like annoyance to cut him off, but his features were twisted with pain or fear.
“Oh, uh, okay, yeah, duh… right —“ Kenji spouted out, rapid-fire, seemingly becoming hyper-aware of something and springing into action, “Do you still have those, like, panic pill thingies?” he asked, looking around the room, opening a few drawers.
Juliette looked up at him, confused, but Aaron replied.
“They’re in the bathroom,” he gasped with his head between his knees, “under the sink.”
“Gotcha,” Kenji nodded, seemingly totally unsurprised by this. What panic pill thingies?
Of course. She couldn't believe it had taken her this long to realize. His other symptoms, which were seemingly mostly unrelated, must have masked this obvious truth from her. Minus his shortness of breath, which, she concluded, could be a triggering factor.
He was having a panic attack.
She would know. Her life has left her fairly well acquainted with the process.
She supposed the time for explanations would be later. She settled for looking at Kenji in shock.
Kenji returned quickly with a small bottle. He noticed her questioning expression and offered an apologetic smile, but otherwise shrugged her off.
“Maybe try just one this time?” She kept expecting Aaron to make some quip at him, some snarky remark at him telling him what to do.
But he didn't. He just took the bottle, opened it with shaky hands, and placed only one pill into his mouth. Then he swallowed and put his head back between his knees.
“So,” Kenji started, “What is it? What’re you freaking out about?”
“Kishimoto, thank you for your help, but if you could just do me the honor of reading the fucking room right now,” Aaron choked out between breaths.
Juliette is surprised by his uncharacteristic language choices but oddly relieved by his otherwise more characteristic response. Kenji just laughed. What is happening?
“He’s sick. He has a fever, it seems like the flu or something,” Juliette answered for him.
“I do not have the flu,” Aaron interjected confidently, but the coughing fit he was consumed by shortly after didn’t help his case.
“I can’t—” Aaron’s voice broke, “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.” His words weren’t much more than a whisper, only for her to hear, but his voice was laced with panic. As his words turned into another bout of coughing that lasted several long seconds, Juliette moved to sit in front of him, dropping in front of him with her legs crossed. He leaned his head forward onto her, resting his forehead against her neck.
Juliette wrapped her arms around him protectively, smoothing his hair with her hand.
Kenji stood behind her, shifting uncomfortably.
“Well, as romantic as this display is—“
“Leave,” Aaron snarled with as much venom as he could muster, but he mostly just sounded embarrassed.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Kenji laughed as he walked out.
They sat like that for a long while.
“Aaron?”
He sniffed hard through his nose but otherwise didn’t reply.
“You know… we can talk about it later if you want,” she conceded.
He finally shifted from his position, but only to lie down on the floor with his head in her lap. He was still shivering, his knees curled slightly up into his chest. She placed her hand against his clammy forehead and verified the presence of a fever.
“I should get Sonya and Sara,” she whispered.
“Please don’t,” he replied weakly.
“Why?”
“I just want to be left alone. I’ll be fine.”
“Aaron…”
“Please, Ella. Just give me this one, please. I know they would help, but I don’t want to be touched right now and I can’t handle anyone else’s overwhelming emotions right now, no matter how well-meaning, and—“ he sighed, “If Sonya and Sara come, then everyone will find out, and I don’t—I don’t want that, I don’t want to look weak. You knowing about this whole embarrassing affair is quite enough, I think.”
“Getting sick isn’t a sign of weakness, Aaron.” She brushed his hair back where it had fallen over his eyes, and he relaxed a bit against her cool hand.
“Maybe not, love, but sitting on the floor with my head between my knees and having a panic attack over it definitely doesn’t make me the poster child for a strong constitution.”
“Does this happen to you often?” She tried not to sound accusatory, but there was just so much she didn’t know about him. She seemed to learn something new about him every day. Which didn't necessarily bother her, but she couldn’t help but feel slightly annoyed at Kenji’s assumed knowledge of this issue when she was fully in the dark.
“More often than I’d like, yes, but not very often, no.” He conceded, and then added in a whisper, “Not since I’ve gotten older, anyway.”
“How did Kenji know what to do?”
He didn't speak for several minutes, and she suddenly felt bad for pushing him. Clearly, he wasn't in the best state to be interrogated. From where she was sitting, she was able to reach over to pull the blanket off the bed. She draped it over him in an attempt to stop his shivering. Eventually, he stopped trembling and his breathing got more even. She thought that he may have fallen asleep until he started speaking.
“He found me after I told you what I had learned about who you really are,” he sounds ashamed. After I left him, she thought. “I was lying on the floor in my office. I very clearly couldn’t breathe or move or, well, do anything other than lie there lamely on the floor, so I couldn’t do much to hide it from him. He asked me what was happening, so I told him and I told him about the medication and he, for whatever reason, chose to get it instead of letting me lie there and suffer for hurting you. I should have thanked him more properly, I think.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. That was her fault, then. He had a panic attack because of her.
“Why have you never told me?” Her chest ached. She didn’t like the thought of him suffering in silence. He was so unused to having someone to take care of him that it had become like understanding a foreign language to him. He didn't know how to respond to it, let alone know how to accept it. If he couldn’t already feel it, her face would have betrayed her concern.
He sighed.
“Because I didn’t want you to look at me like you’re looking at me right now,” he murmured, “I didn’t want you to think of me as damaged goods.”
After a few seconds, he laughed humorlessly and gestured weakly to his current position. “And look how well I’ve succeeded on that front. An award-winning performance, you wager?” His words were cold, but his voice wasn't.
Maybe it’s the medication or the fever, but he seemed so soft and vulnerable then. His face nuzzled into her lap, his hair mussed, a weak smile on his lips at his poor joke… he was lovely, even in this state.
“You aren’t damaged goods, Aaron. And you aren’t broken.” She ran her fingers through his hair as she spoke, pausing to massage his head at the temple. He made a small appreciative noise, but otherwise didn't reply.
“I mean it. Don’t ever think that. I don’t think you’re broken, or damaged, or weak. On the contrary, you’re the strongest person I know. You’re constantly putting yourself and your needs aside as if you don’t even have them, but you don’t have to do that. Not with me and not in general. People care about you. I care about you. I want you to be honest with me about what you need and how you feel. You might not have always had someone to take care of you, and trust me, I understand that… but you do now. And you always will. You know that, right? You can feel that I mean that?”
He nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“So, let me take care of you for once, yeah?”
He nodded again, seemingly not trusting his voice, but his face betrayed his swell of emotion.
“I’ll be right back. Get in bed,” she asserted, pulling him to his feet.
A cool, damp washcloth in hand, she sat down next to him in bed, her back against the headboard. He rolled over on his side and put his head back into her lap.
“This will help, but it will be cold at first,” she warned as she wiped the damp cloth across his forehead a few times before holding it still against his warm skin. His eyes fluttered closed.
“Ella?” His voice was hoarse from sleeplessness or coughing, she wasn’t sure.
“Yes, love?” The corners of his mouth twisted up slightly at her use of his words.
“I love you. More than you know.”
“I love you more.”
“No,” he shook his head and placed his hand against her heart. His face took on a look of intense concentration.
Suddenly, she was filled with a flurry of powerful, positive emotion. Love. But not love for him. Love from him… for her. She inhaled sharply at the influx.
“Did it work?” He whispered.
“Yes,” she breathed, “Yes, it worked. How—how did you do that?”
“I don’t really know. Kenji has mentioned the basics of projection to me in passing. I’ve never tried, but I had a suspicion it was possible for this aspect of my ability.”
She didn't reply, just savored the feeling coursing through her until he removed his hand from her chest, leaving her skin cold and her head spinning.
“Now you never have to wonder,” he mumbles in a sleepy voice. She doesn’t reply, just dips the cloth in the bowl of cool water, squeezes out the excess water, and replaces it against his skin. Eventually, his breathing deepens and she pulls the blanket up higher over his sleeping form and drops her cheek down to rest against his shoulder.
“I never had to wonder,” she whispered to him anyway, pressing a kiss against his shoulder, “You never gave me a reason to.”
He cleared his throat lightly, masking a cough.
“Loving you is the only redeeming thing I’ve ever done,” he shifted to take her hand in his and pressed it against his lips, then held it under his chin, “I’ve survived many horrible things in my life, but in the end, I don’t think I would’ve been able to survive myself . I have—“ his voice broke and tears welled up in his eyes, “I have hated myself, hated myself significantly more than anyone else was ever able to,” he squeezed his eyes shut against the tears and they slipped silently down his flushed cheeks. “You’re the first person to convince me that I might be worth saving. That I could even be saved. You are my redemption. You’re my saving grace. There aren’t enough words to convey how much that means to me.”
Juliette’s own tears streamed down her face, and she hoped he wouldn’t look up at her. In response, she only returned to massaging away his headache and refreshing the now warm cloth. She wipes his tears away with the cloth as well, swiping below each eye in an attempt to make him smile. He scoffed a laugh half-heartedly at his own expense, but his smile was genuine enough to reveal the dimples in his cheeks.
Before he fell asleep, his pinched facial expression smoothing into something slightly more serene, he whispered,
“Or maybe there will be the words one day. But not tonight.”
She isn't sure how long she sat awake, watching him, doting over him, maybe even, she admits, giggling silently at his quiet snoring that accompanied his stuffy nose… Just that when she slept, she dreamt of him.