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February, 2006
Growing up, Patrick never really understood why people always claimed to hate hospitals so much.
To be fair, he’s never actually had to spend time in one, so he hasn’t given it much thought, he supposes. It just seems like a common theme, a hatred shared amongst characters on TV and in movies, one that the masses can easily relate to. It never occurred to him to consider why.
Now, sitting on a hard wooden chair in a hospital waiting room, he thinks he understands.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here–he thinks he stopped keeping track around two hours ago. His eyes rest on the muted TV along the wall, though they remain unfocused, the generic home improvement show completely unseen.
He thinks the worst part about hospitals–or maybe just this one, who knows–is how misleading everything seems to be.
The TV plays these neutral shows, ones that people probably find comforting, but the picture is accompanied by the sounds of chaos. Families crying across the room, doctors and nurses running through the halls, alarm bells ringing overhead. The juxtaposition of it burrows under his skin.
Even worse, the waiting room is decorated with impersonal naturescape photos, cheaply upholstered and uncomfortable furniture, a sickly soft green paint on the walls. He always pictured hospitals to be stark white walls and shiny linoleum floors, and the fact that this room doesn’t match his expectations is unsettling to him.
Like the hospitals knew that people hated them, so they tried to make themselves more appealing.
But no matter how much they might try, the smell of antiseptic still perforates the air, making Patrick feel sick with it. The hospital can try all it wants, but no matter how the walls are decorated or how many fake plants are shoved in the corners, there’s no hiding that this is a cold, sterile place.
Patrick supposes he should be grateful that he hasn’t had to step foot in a hospital before today. Even as he grew up playing sports, he never sustained worse than a few sprained ankles, or the occasional pulled muscle. He doesn’t really get sick often, either.
He hopes he never has to come back. Ever.
His vision swims when a figure steps into his line of sight. He blinks a few times, tries to focus on the lady now standing in front of him.
She’s an older, round black lady, wearing the same royal blue scrubs that everyone else in this hospital seems to wear. A nurse, he assumes. She has a kind face, nice eyes. Patrick can tell that she doesn’t take anyone’s shit.
As his eyes adjust, he’s hit with a subtle spark of recognition–he remembers that she led him to the waiting room hours ago, left him in this exact spot. It feels like days ago.
“How are you doing, dear?”
It takes a few seconds for Patrick to register that she’s talking to him . He shakes his head a little, tries to clear the fog swirling around in his brain.
“Hmm?”
She gives him a soft smile, one that would probably feel pitying coming from anyone else, but still somehow feels comforting. She presses a lukewarm water bottle into his hands, along with a cup of green Jello and a plastic spoon. He hadn’t even noticed she was holding anything.
He looks down at his now full hands, then back up at the nurse.
He hates the green flavor.
“Sweetie, I haven’t seen you move an inch all day. You should eat something, it’ll help settle the stomach. Get your blood sugar up,” she says firmly, but kindly.
“How–” he tries to get out, clears his throat before continuing. “How is he?”
He can tell that she’s going to tell him the same thing she did earlier, explain that since he’s not technically family she isn’t allowed to provide details. Even though they came in together, even though Art is eighteen now, even though neither of them has family anywhere even close to here.
She surprises him by sitting in the chair next to him, leaning in close and nearly whispering, “Donaldson, right?”
Patrick frantically nods his head, grips the water bottle tightly between his fingers.
She sighs, thankfully deciding to put him out of his misery, rules be damned.
He must really look as pathetic as he feels.
“Last I checked, they were just stitching him up. Everything went well, okay, hon? He should be heading to the recovery area any minute now.”
Patrick lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, letting himself feel relieved for this first time all fucking day.
He doesn’t really even know what that all means, but the nurse makes it sound reassuring.
“Can I see him?”
“He’ll be in recovery for a bit for standard monitoring after the procedure. Once he’s brought back to his room and awake, you can see him. If he’s up for visitors.”
“When will that be?”
“Probably another hour or so.”
Patrick glances at the clock on the wall, wills the hands to move faster. He nods again, looks back to the nurse.
“Okay, okay. I–thank you.”
“You’re welcome, dear. I’ll let you know when you can see him, but you really should eat something while you wait, alright?” She gestures at the Jello cup, sitting forgotten on his lap. “Even better, head down to the cafeteria. He’s not going anywhere.”
She stands back up and fixes him with a stern glance. He feels like a child again, like he’s about to be reprimanded by a coach or teacher before he’s even done anything wrong. With shaky fingers, he yanks the foil top off the Jello and spoons a too-big bite into his mouth.
He forces a closed-lip smile around the sickly artificial lime flavor, and the nurse gives a nod of approval before turning back toward her station.
He chokes down the entire cup, follows it with the water.
His gaze falls back on the clock, and he forces himself to relax–just a little.
Everything went well, Art is fine.
He repeats it in his mind like a mantra, forces himself to say it until the words become true.
A hot prickle of tears embarrassingly stings behind his eyes, burning with the relief of letting go of some of his worry. Everything had just happened so fast today, he never really gave himself time to process anything but fear, fear, fear .
He hasn’t really let himself feel anything until now.
He lets out another deep breath, wills himself to stand on weak legs. The nurse was right–he didn’t realize how hungry he was. With everything that happened, he never ate lunch. Or breakfast, now that he thinks about it.
Following the signs pointing him toward the cafeteria, he tries to figure out how he even got here to begin with.
A few hours earlier
As Patrick finally forces himself out of bed–after snoozing his alarm twice –he notices that Art is still fast asleep across the room.
Which is weird, because Art is always, without fail, awake before him. He’s freakishly peppy in the morning, and frankly, it’s disturbing. Art is constantly droning on about the benefits of being an early riser, nagging Patrick about how much time he loses in the mornings.
Because Patrick, on the other hand, sleeps until the very last second, giving himself barely enough time to make it out the door.
And what makes this even more unusual is that they have a physics test today, first thing this morning. Normally, Art likes to get in at least an hour of last-minute studying done when they have an exam, but here he is–seemingly dead asleep–just twenty minutes before they need to be in class.
Padding to Art’s bedside, he reaches out, shakes Art’s shoulder lightly.
“Dude, what the fuck are you doing? Wake up.”
Art tries to burrow further into his bed, but Patrick just rips the comforter right off his body. He groans at the loss, clearly still unaware of the time.
“Man, you gotta get up. It’s 7:43, c’mon, we have that test, remember?” Patrick shakes his shoulder again, notices that his t-shirt is damp, like Art was sweating in his sleep.
Art’s eyes fly open as the words finally register, a frantic “ what ?” leaving his lips. He practically throws himself out of bed, but the second he makes it upright he nearly collapses, completely doubling over.
Patrick scrambles to steady him, arms reaching out to rest on the tops of Art’s shoulders.
“Whoa, hey, you alright?”
Art just groans again in response, hands clutching his abdomen. He finally manages to grit out, between clenched teeth, “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”
He slowly straightens back out, but Patrick keeps his hands on the outsides of Art’s arms, just in case.
“You sure? You don’t look so good, pal. I can tell Ms. Gibson that you’re sick, I bet she’ll let you make-up the test.”
As he looks further, Art looks fucking awful. His pale skin is clammy and has undertones of green, even through the pronounced rosy flush of his cheeks. Curls damp with sweat hang over his forehead, the collar of his gray shirt dark along his neck.
Unconsciously, Patrick reaches out, placing the back surface of his hand against Art’s forehead, following down around his temple, like he always sees people do in movies.
“Fuck dude, you definitely have a fever!”
Art slaps his hand away–barely–and tries to squirm away.
“I’m fine, asshole.”
He doesn’t believe that, but after living together for nearly six years, Patrick has learned when to let shit go. Art can be kinda neurotic at times, especially when he feels out of control. He doesn’t appreciate when his routine is disrupted, and he gets especially moody when he doesn’t feel well–whether he’s sick or dealing with an injury or just plain stressed. At this point, Patrick knows that Art isn’t going to listen to him, knows it’s a worthless battle.
Last year, Art caught a really bad strain of the flu, and he went to classes sick as a dog for two full days before Patrick threatened to call his grandmother and tell her what he was doing. He slept for an entire day after that, but he didn’t say a single word to Patrick at all when he woke up. As if he’s the one that got him fucking sick in the first place.
They’re both too stubborn, definitely to a fault.
“Fine, but don’t blame me when you puke all over your test and fucking fail.”
Art ignores him–as expected–and they both rush through brushing their teeth and getting dressed in sweatpants and hoodies, barely having the time to do either. Luckily their classroom is in the building next door, otherwise they’d be fucked for sure.
They settle into their seats at 8:00 on the dot, and Art looks like he is literally on the verge of death. He hunches over in his chair, clenching his teeth so hard the muscles at the corner of his jaw jump out.
Despite Patrick’s words, Art (thank god) does not puke all over his test, but he does seem super unfocused. Out of the two of them, Art definitely has more of a math and science brain–as opposed to Patrick’s history and English brain–but Patrick finishes the test way before Art does.
Patrick double, even triple checks his entire packet before Art makes it to the last page. He tries to inconspicuously watch Art out of his peripheral vision, not wanting to get called out for cheating, but starts to worry more with each passing minute. It looks like Art barely finishes the last question just as the bell rings, and Ms. Gibson rises to start collecting their exams.
“Man, I told you that you shoulda stayed in bed,” he whispers as they leave the classroom, Art clutching at his belly again.
“It’s fine, Patrick, seriously. Let it go.”
“Dude, you’re literally dragging your feet right now. You’re cooked. Oh! Do you think you ate something bad? Shit, do you think I’m gonna get it too? I knew that chicken yesterday tasted weird.”
“God, please just shut up.”
“Christ, man. I’m just trying to look out for your sorry ass,” Patrick reaches out, tries to curl his hand around the back of Art’s neck in a sympathetic squeeze, but retracts his hand just as fast. “Dude–” he stops abruptly, forcing Art to stop too. “You’re fucking burning up. We need to go to the nurse, or something. Holy shit.”
Art just throws his head back, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.
“I said I’m fine! It’s not a big deal, I just need to, I don’t know, sweat it out, or something. That’s what fevers do anyway.”
Art might be better at science than him, but Patrick doesn’t think that’s quite right. Sounds like a good way for Art to fry his brain like an egg, more like.
But here’s the thing about Art: he’s a perfectionist. He has a sense of drive that no one else at this fucking school does–and it all comes from himself. He doesn’t need any external motivation, but he also doesn’t know when to quit.
Over the years, even Patrick has at times found himself envious of Art’s devotion–to school, to tennis, to relationships. Art just wants so badly to be good enough, strives for absolute perfection , in everything he does. But, he’s never satisfied–always nitpicking at himself, always striving to be better, always moving the goalpost that much further away.
He’d probably work himself to death if people let him. Case in fucking point, he won’t let being clearly sick stop him from carrying on with his damn routine.
Art ignores the dubious expression that must be on Patrick’s face, and starts toward the indoor courts–Patrick guesses he’s planning to push through morning practice too.
They don’t bother to change–the indoor courts have shitty insulation and even shittier heating, so even in the dead of February they always find themselves layering up anyway. Patrick follows as Art grabs his gear bag from his locker, keeping his mouth shut. He’s made his case, if Art wants to ignore him that’s his choice.
They meet up with Coach Wagner in the gym, who somehow doesn’t catch the fact that Art is sporting the same shade of green as the fucking tennis courts, and go over the plan for this morning’s practice.
Patrick does, however, catch when Art’s skin noticeably pales at the word conditioning . Unfortunately, before Patrick can bring it up to their coach and stop this disaster before it starts, Coach Wagner turns away and starts to discuss something with an assistant.
All Patrick can do at this point is steel himself for the shitshow he can just feel is coming.
He hesitantly faces Art, slowly reaching out to drop into their mutual squat. He feels Art’s hands tense up in the position, holding himself so taut Patrick worries his head is going to explode.
Once they finish stretching, Coach Wagner orders for them to start with jumping jacks to warm up.
Art doesn’t even finish a single fucking one before he drops to the ground, landing hard on his knees and curling his torso over his thighs. His eyes are squeezed shut and Patrick can hear him groaning through clenched teeth, nearly forcing every breath out with a whine.
Patrick calls out for their coach and is about to bend down beside Art when he promptly vomits, right there on the floor, barely missing Patrick by a few inches.
“Oh Christ,” Coach Wagner mutters as he runs up to them. “Donaldson, you alright?” Patrick doesn’t think Art hears him, or he just doesn’t have the physical ability to respond.
“He started getting sick this morning. I tried to get him to stay home, but…” Patrick trails off, and starts rubbing circles on Art’s back.
“Yeah, he’s dedicated, I’ll give him that. Even if he’s also incredibly stupid for not listening to his body,” he directs pointedly at Art, who is still not giving any indication that he’s listening.
Patrick always liked Coach Wagner, he’s never one to sugarcoat with them.
“Zweig, do you think you can get him to the nurse in one piece?”
He nods, though he’s not actually sure he can drag Art’s ass all the way over there, especially if he’s dead weight like this.
“Good. I’ll have them call me with updates. Don’t let him come back until he’s better, please. I don’t need more puke on my courts.”
Coach helps him get Art to a standing position, arm slung over Patrick’s shoulders with Patrick’s arm gripping his waist tightly. He’s supporting basically all of Art’s weight like this.
He practically drags him out of the gym and across campus to the nurse’s office. To be fair, Art really tries to hold himself up, but he uses the arm not around Patrick’s shoulders to press against his belly, and tries to curl up as much as he can around it, which is not conducive to, ya know, walking .
Patrick supposes he didn’t even get out of conditioning in the end, because by the time they arrive at the medical unit he’s nearly panting, left side of his body screaming with exertion.
“Thanks for the help, asshole,” he whispers to Art as he drops him in a chair. He doesn’t say I told you so , even though he’s dying to.
They’re greeted right away by a pretty blonde lady in black scrubs, probably in her early thirties.
“Hi Mr. Donaldson, I’m Ms. Miller, a nurse practitioner here. Your coach called and let me know a little about what happened. I’m going to be the one to examine you today.”
She checks Art’s blood pressure and puts a weird clamp thing on his finger. She also checks his temperature, tutting unhappily when the result pops up on the thermometer.
“102.5–oh sweetie you must feel awful! That’s quite a high fever.”
Patrick’s stomach drops a little at that.
“If it’s that high it must be serious right?” Art, you fucking idiot , he doesn’t add.
“It certainly can be, but we need a little bit more information to really figure out what is going on here. Do you mind stepping out of the room so Mr. Donaldson can have a bit of privacy?” She asks, directing her attention to Patrick, which, what the fuck ?
Before he can say something very inappropriate to this nice medical professional, Art grits out a rough, “He can stay.”
She looks between them for a beat, then shrugs, clearly deciding not to argue about it.
“Alright then. Art, what symptoms are you experiencing, besides the nausea and vomiting?”
Art tries his best to answer her questions, but Patrick can tell that it’s getting hard for him. He gives curt descriptions of his abdominal pain, pointing just to the right of his belly button. Started this morning. Other symptoms: yes fatigue, yes nausea, yes fevers and chills. Only one episode of vomiting. The pain is sharp, constant. 8/10, because he would never admit to a 10/10 and he thinks 9/10 is still too close, Patrick knows.
When she is satisfied with his answers, she moves on to assessing him.
She starts by listening to his abdomen with a stethoscope, which seems kinda weird to Patrick, but whatever. She then starts pressing on Art’s belly, causing him to recoil when she applies pressure where he said the pain was. She keeps pushing, in that spot and other spots, despite obviously hurting Art in the process. Patrick is about to yell at her to stop when she steps away, leaving Art curled up in a ball on her exam table, breathing heavily.
“Art, have you ever had surgery before?”
Oh fuck, that can’t be a good question. Art shakes his head no.
“Based on your history and physical exam, I have a high suspicion that this might be appendicitis. Have you heard of that before?”
Art nods, but doesn’t elaborate.
Patrick nods as well, says, “I think my older sister had that last year. She had to have surgery.”
Oh god , he panics. Is Art going to need fucking surgery? It can’t be that serious, can it? He remembers that Rachel didn’t even tell him about it when it happened, so it must not be that big of a deal, right? But he and Rachel aren’t close, so why would she tell him if it was serious anyway?
“Yes, appendicitis is typically treated with surgery, and it is considered a medical emergency. Unfortunately, I can’t confirm the diagnosis, Art. You need blood work, scans, things I can’t do here. You need to go to the hospital, quite urgently, I’d say.”
Well, fuck. Now Patrick wishes someone would sugarcoat for them, because Jesus Christ. This is insane.
“I can drive him,” Patrick offers. He wants to help, wants to get Art taken care of right fucking now.
“I actually recommend that we call an ambulance.”
All of the blood drains from Patrick’s face, and he doesn’t think that Art is faring any better. How is Miss Nurse Whatsherface just sitting here, straight-faced, as if Art isn’t fucking dying? He must be, right? If he needs a fucking ambulance .
His panic must show on his face, because she softens a bit.
“At this point, it’s the safest option.” Patrick looks at Art, sees how tightly he’s holding himself together right now, trying to hide the pain. “But Art, you’re eighteen, legally you’re an adult so I can’t make the decision for you,” she continues.
Art glances at Patrick, gaze flicking between him and the nurse, and he nods.
So she goes to call the fucking ambulance, then updates their coach. Patrick walks over to the exam table, and grabs Art’s hand. Lets him squeeze the ever loving shit out of his fingers.
He tries to ignore how his heart is starting to pound in his chest, the swirl of dread settling in his gut trying to mirror Art’s pain.
It doesn’t take long before the ambulance arrives, with a pair of EMTs and a fucking gurney to take Art away.
They almost don’t let Patrick in the ambulance with him, but somehow they finally relent and let him sit up front, while they load Art into the back. It seems like everyone, not just him, is choosing what battles to fight today, and no one deems it worth sending Patrick away over.
Honestly, if Patrick wasn’t so fucking terrified right now he’d honestly think this is pretty cool. He’s never been in an ambulance before.
The sirens make his ears ring.
Once they get to the ER everything blurs together. A mess of nurses and doctors and more nurses and more doctors mix together in his mind, ones that take Art’s blood and wheel him away for scans, ones that start him on IV drugs and tell them about his “ white blood cell count ” as if that means any fucking thing to either of them.
Though he understands the word infection . The words emergency surgery .
Tears finally leak out of Art’s eyes at one point. Patrick doesn’t know if it’s because of the pain, or because he’s scared, or because he just can’t hold himself together any longer. Probably all of the above.
He settles in a seat at the head of Art’s bed, runs his fingers through his matted, sweaty curls. Art seems to settle a little, and Patrick lets the contact ground him, too.
His skin is still so, so hot.
When Patrick tells someone in scrubs–he can’t keep track of who they are anymore–that Art didn’t eat breakfast, hasn’t eaten since last night, they go into overdrive. Everything happens way too quickly after that, and it seems like not even two minutes later they’re wheeling Art away– taking him to pre-op , they say.
Patrick freezes, all of a sudden. Completely overwhelmed by the chaos of what has just happened. It’s like his body starts to shut down–he feels like he’s watching everything through funhouse mirrors.
He barely even got the chance to say anything to Art before they took him away, as if Patrick wasn’t even in the room.
Everything continues to blur together, and he feels like he’s floating as someone in scrubs walks him to the surgery waiting area, where Art will be brought when he’s done. They ask if he’s family, as if blood relation is the only thing a hospital cares about.
As if Art isn’t the only family he actually fucking has, the only person that matters.
As if they aren’t two halves that make up one whole.
They tell him that since he’s not real family , they can’t update him during surgery. He completely zones out after that.
He sits in the first chair someone points out to him, facing the TV mounted on the wall.
Heart in his stomach (or maybe somewhere else in this hospital entirely), he waits.
A few hours later
Stomach finally full, Patrick must admit that he feels exponentially better. His limbs feel less weak and shaky, and the fog is definitely starting to clear from his mind a bit.
Everything went well, Art is fine.
He repeats the mantra in his mind, playing it back over and over again so he keeps believing it to be true.
Art is fine Art is fine Art is fine.
As he’s finding his way back to the familiar waiting room, the same nurse waves him down, summons him to her station.
Nerves flutter in his stomach, anticipating news of a freak complication, like Art being placed in a coma and he’ll never wake up again. Or he started hemorrhaging and lost too much blood, there’s nothing they could do, it was too late .
A cruel part of him thinks they wouldn’t actually tell him if any of that happened, seeing as he’s not “real family.” Even sitting a few closed doors away from Art, he’d hear the news from his grandmother–the only family that Art has (besides Patrick) who gives a single flying fuck about him. It would wreck her, Patrick is sure. She’d be the next to go, certainly, and Patrick thinks he’d be close behind.
But the nurse doesn’t look somber. Would she, though, if something was wrong? She must be desensitized to death and gore and all flavors of human suffering at this point.
But no, she has a hint of a smile and a lightness in her eyes. Patrick clings to it tightly, like a lifeline.
“I’m assuming you’re Patrick. I don’t think I actually got your name earlier,” she says, lips quirking up like they’re sharing an inside joke that Patrick isn’t privy to.
He nods.
“Everything went well,” she repeats. “He’s awake, keeps asking about Patrick .”
He lets the relief wash over him completely.
“Can I see him now?”
She nods. “Let me walk you over there. Now, hon, just as a warning–he’s still a little bit loopy from the anesthesia, and he’s on some powerful pain medications. If you’re going to sit with him, I want you to make sure he doesn’t try to get up on his own. He had major surgery on his abdomen–we don’t need him popping his damn stitches out.”
Patrick stifles a chuckle at that. He catches a glimpse of her name badge– Constance –and nods in affirmation. He can do that. He can handle that.
Constance leads him over to a room down the hall and starts asking him questions about how he and Art met, if they’re from around here–basic questions to make polite conversation.
That is, until she asks, as if it’s no big deal, “So, are you the boyfriend, then?”
And Patrick is so shocked he nearly trips over his own feet. His brain whites out for a moment, jolts him like a record-scratch.
“What?! No! What? I–we. We’re just best friends, is all.” He tries to laugh it off, but it comes out forced. Heat rises in his neck, burning his cheeks and ears. “Did he say–” he trails off, unable to entertain the idea of Art suggesting something.
To an extent, this isn’t completely new to him. Classmates at the Academy like to joke, teasing that he and Art are like an old married couple. He’s even heard the whispers behind their backs, gossip from people who actually wonder if there is more to their friendship. Wonder what they actually do behind their closed door at night.
He knows how it looks, okay? He just doesn’t care what people think, because none of it matters outside of him and Art anyway.
And if Patrick secretly loves the rumors, feels validated by the fact that other people see something deeper between them, well… it’s no one else’s business.
But to be clocked like this? By a total stranger? He feels weirdly vulnerable. Like he somehow walked through one of the scanners they sent Art through earlier, and everyone can see all of his secrets. Everything he’s hidden away and kept under lock and key, now just open and uncovered–spilling all over the fake wood floor of the hallway.
Constance doesn’t pick up on Patrick’s inner turmoil–just stops outside a closed door and replies, calm as anything, “Oh, well my mistake, son. He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
She gives two short knocks to the door, pumps the hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall, and pushes into the room. Patrick, not sure what to do, does the same and nervously rubs too much gel into his hands, feet frozen in the doorway. He keeps twisting his fingers even when his hands dry.
“Art, honey, I found someone who has been dying to come see you.”
She gestures for Patrick to come closer, so he takes a steadying breath and walks further into the room.
The air in the room palpably shifts the second Patrick’s eyes land on Art, as he lets go of all of the worst-case scenarios swirling around in his mind. Because Art’s face fucking lights up when he sees Patrick, and damn if that doesn’t go straight through him like an arrow to the heart.
His head lolls to the side, resting heavily on the pillow, and his lips pull into a huge, goofy grin. Patrick feels himself smile back until his cheeks start to ache.
“Hey, pal.”
“Patrick!” He gasps out happily. He turns to Constance–who is now fiddling with the vitals machine attached to Art–and says to her proudly, “Patrick is my best friend.”
Shit. Patrick kinda wants to steal whatever drugs they have Art on, if only so he can always be this happy to see him.
“That’s very nice, Art,” she says, placatingly. “Your vitals look good, how’s your pain?”
Art hums, turns his face back toward Patrick. “Goooood,” he drawls out.
Patrick thinks he tries to wink, but he ends up aggressively squeezing both eyes shut while he tilts his lips suggestively. Patrick has to swallow a laugh.
Constance directs him to the chair next to Art’s bed, shows him the call button, how to work the TV, and where Art’s morphine drip is, how to press the button to release more meds in case his pain worsens. With everything squared away, she leaves the room, leaving Art in Patrick’s care, and closes the door behind her with a soft snick .
Patrick scoots the chair–the same uncomfortable wooden kind from the waiting room–right up against the bed, so his knees are pressed into the metal frame next to Art’s head. His hands find Art’s curls again, combing through the messy strands and scratching at his scalp.
“How ya feelin’?”
Patrick’s heart clenches when Art leans into his hand, moaning softly when he rubs behind his ear.
“Mmm good. Floaty.” Art giggles again.
“Yeah man, you look like you’re feeling real good right now.”
Art reaches out with his left hand, the one not tethered to his IV, and tries to grab Patrick’s hair too. He goes where Art pulls, gets up so he’s half-leaning directly over Art’s face. He steadies himself with a hand on the far side of the bed, just next to Art’s hip, and tries to keep his balance so he can keep caressing Art’s hair with the other.
“Patrick,” he whispers, looking around like he’s about to share a secret. “They stole my ap–appendix.”
“Yeah, man. Cut it right out.”
“It exploded inside me,” he emphasizes.
“That’s crazy dude,” Patrick says, playing into Art’s high rambling. “Can you believe you took a physics test with an exploded appendix?”
Art gasps, like he forgot that only a few hours had passed since this morning.
“Whoa.” Art moves the hand still clutching Patrick’s hair and uses their new closeness to reach out with his right hand as well, and grabs the shell of both of Patrick’s ears. He pulls them out, nearly using them as handles to keep Patrick in place above Art.
“Whoa,” he repeats again, this time with a hint of wonder. “Your eyes are fucking crazy right now.” He tries to lift his head to bring his own eyes close to Patrick’s, as if that will help him see better.
Patrick eases him back down against the pillows, ignoring Art’s little huff in protest.
“Dude, your eyes look crazy.” Art clearly thinks that is hilarious, because he starts cackling like Patrick just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. His laughter is honestly contagious, and really refreshing after all the drama from earlier. Art keeps his grasp on Patrick’s ears, pulling them out and pushing them against his head over and over again.
Art’s pupils are ridiculously tiny, even in the dim hospital room. It really highlights the warm brown that seeps into half of the blue in his right eye. Patrick honestly feels transfixed, like he’s just now noticing the depths of Art’s eyes for the first time.
Art’s right hand moves to Patrick’s eye–nearly poking his eyeball with his clumsy fingers, Christ–and tries to use his thumb and pointer finger to pry Patrick’s own eye open. Thankfully he only holds it for a few seconds, then he shifts his hand to trace a finger over the bridge of Patrick’s nose, all the way to the tip.
Patrick suddenly can’t breathe under the attention.
Art taps the tip of his nose, then drags his finger over the bow of Patrick’s top lip, then down to pinch at his chin.
Art is usually a pretty giggly and touchy drunk, when he lets alcohol loosen the tight control he maintains over his body, but this is… different. He has a tight grip on Patrick’s chin, and his other hand is still keeping its hold on his ear. Their faces are so close, and Patrick can’t escape.
Not that he wants to, but fuck.
He really wants to steal some of this morphine, especially if it turns Art into an even more affectionate version of his drunk self.
Art hums again, a sweet, dopey smile on his face. He bites into his lower lip, hooded eyes tracing all over Patrick’s face.
Patrick swallows, feeling his mouth go dry.
“You’re so pretty.” Art giggles again, moves the hand on his chin to squeeze at Patrick’s cheek.
“Hey!” Patrick protests, halfheartedly at best, and hopes that Art is rolling too hard to notice the heat rising in his cheeks. “I’m more than my pretty face, you know.”
“Pretty, pretty, pretty,” he sing-songs around breathy laughs.
Patrick starts giggling himself, feeling nearly delirious, when Art suddenly, without warning, pulls Patrick’s face down against his own, in what Patrick thinks is supposed to be a kiss.
Art’s lips are smushed against his, slightly off-center and a bit too clumsy to be good, but Patrick still thinks it might be the best kiss he’s ever had in his life.
He lets himself experience it for just a beat, before the cold realization of what they’re doing dawns on him. He yanks his head away and presses his hand to Art’s chest to stop him from chasing after him, keeping him pressed against the pillows. He nearly drops himself back into the chair, creating a safe distance again.
He tries to rub soothing circles along Art’s sternum while he pouts, and paints a normal look on his own face. As if his best friend didn’t just fucking kiss him under the influence of anesthesia and narcotics.
He does not let himself think about how badly he wants Art to do it again. Because that would be wrong. So wrong.
A furrow develops between Art’s eyebrows, and he whines softly in the back of his throat.
“Hurts,” he gets out, lolling his head back and forth against the pillow. Patrick scrambles back up, reaching for the painkiller button that the nurse showed him. He pushes it, and watches as the lines of Art’s face relax again. Patrick brings his hands back to Art’s hair, pushing his curls off of his forehead.
Art’s eyes flutter shut, and he nearly instantly stills with sleep while the drugs pull him back under.
Face turning toward the ceiling, Patrick lets out a hysterical laugh, that might also be a little bit of a cry at the same time. He suddenly feels exhausted as well, like Art’s morphine drip is working on him too.
Art is laying on his back, arms relaxed along his sides. Patrick rests his palm on Art’s arm, not groping, just keeping contact, and crosses his arms against the mattress. He pillows his head on his own forearms, and nearly falls asleep as fast as Art did.
* * *
A hand on his shoulder startles him awake. Luckily, Art doesn’t stir as Patrick jerks himself to a seated position, leaving him face to face with Constance.
“Sorry to wake you, hon, but visiting hours are over.”
A sympathetic look paints her face, like she really is sorry to make him go. Despite him putting on the charm and giving her his best tricks, his pleas to stay are rejected. Even when he resorts to almost begging her. She already apparently gave him an extra thirty minutes past when he should’ve left, and that’s as far as she’ll let him push it.
She tells him when he can come back in the morning, but otherwise nearly drags him to the door. He gives one more look to Art, still dead asleep, pale skin nearly blending into the white sheets.
Outside the hospital, the cold February air stings his face, and the overwhelming events of the day all come right to the forefront of his memory. He also remembers that he doesn’t have a car here–the ambulance ride nearly forgotten amongst the other chaos.
Once he secures a ride in one of the cabs out front, he takes the time to update Coach Wagner, letting him know that Art had emergency surgery but is otherwise doing well.
He also debates with himself about calling Art’s grandmother, but he knows that Art would want her to know what happened. She’s just such a sweet lady and he hates being the one to have to break the news to her. She really cares about Art, and by extension, Patrick, so he decides in the end that she deserves to know.
As expected, she’s terribly worried, even when Patrick tries his best to reassure her that everything is okay, that Art is safe and will be fine. She thanks him for taking care of her boy , which may have caused Patrick to let a few tears fall in the back of the cab.
It’s been a long fucking day, okay?
When he gets back to campus, his feet drag on the way to his room. He takes a long shower, wanting to wash the sterile hospital smell off where it clings to his skin.
Once he’s dressed and ready for bed he makes his way over to his bunk, but stops short. His eyes land on the empty bed across the room, and it suddenly feels so far away. The room feels so empty . Feels so wrong without Art here with him.
He hasn’t ever spent a night on campus without Art around.
Call him pathetic, but when he crawls into Art’s bed instead of his own, he feels incrementally calmer, surrounded by the scent of his best friend, traces of him that linger on his sheets. Almost like he’s here–where he should be–and not halfway across town.
He falls asleep quickly, face pressed into Art’s pillow.
The next morning, he wakes up early so he can be ready right when visiting hours start. If only Art could see him now, not snoozing his alarm, aiming to arrive somewhere early. He should be proud, really.
Patrick packs a clean outfit for Art as well, assuming he’s itching to get out of the gown he wore yesterday. He knows how much Art hates dirty clothes.
Nerves start creeping their way up Patrick’s spine as he drives back to the hospital, and he’s not even sure why. He knows that everything is fine–that Art is fine .
No, he knows why. He just doesn’t want to admit it to himself.
He has been replaying the kiss–which honestly feels too generous of a word for what it really was–in his head, over and over again, on a loop.
Normally, Patrick would say that he can read Art effortlessly. Can guess what he’s thinking at any given time and probably be close.
But this… the way Art was acting while basically stoned out of his goddamn mind? It stumps him.
Because Patrick thinks he’d know if Art shared his… feelings. Affections. Whatever. But he’s never gotten that vibe, and he’s honestly made peace with that.
But now, he doesn’t know what to make of Art’s actions, with his inhibitions lowered like that.
He didn’t seem worried yesterday, but he was also barely able to stay awake immediately after. He probably didn’t even realize what happened. What if he wakes up today and regrets everything? What if he gets mad at Patrick for letting him do that in the first place, now that he’s in his right mind? A million possible reactions that Art could have are running through his brain right now, and none of them end well for Patrick.
He spirals the entire way to Art’s room, as he knocks on the door and peeks inside. Only when Art looks up from the TV–the morning news playing softly–and smiles at the sight of Patrick, does he let himself relax.
“Hey,” Art greets, looking worlds better than yesterday.
“Hey, man.” Patrick walks into the room, settling into the same chair from yesterday. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better. A little sore, where my incisions are, but otherwise pretty good.”
“You look better. You looked like shit warmed over yesterday, Jesus Christ.”
“Fucking hell, man, be nice to me! I had surgery, I’m fragile,” he pouts out his bottom lip, blinking up sadly at Patrick.
Shit, he’s so weak for him. He’s pathetic.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I guess you can have a pass.” He rolls his eyes, playfully pinches the apple of Art’s cheek.
“But really, you look way better. You were super out of it yesterday. High as shit too,” he offers up, trying to put out feelers, to gauge any weird reactions.
Art groans, like he’s embarrassed. “Ugh, please tell me I didn’t say anything stupid.”
Interesting .
“Do you even remember anything from yesterday?”
Art leans his head back, clearly trying to catalog what he remembers. “I remember the physics test, puking on the court–” he shudders “–pretty much everything up to the ER. Then things get a little fuzzy.”
“Wow, glad you remember nearly puking on me, asshole. I told you not to go to practice, and that’s how you repay me?”
“Okay, fine. You were right, Patrick. What would I ever do without you?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, fucker.” He pinches Art’s cheek again, laughing when Art tries to slap his hand away.
They sit in comfortable silence, letting the news drone on in the background. After a while, the doctor comes in and lets them know that Art is stable for discharge, and he should be free to go in a few hours. He’s under strict instructions to take it easy for at least a month, no heavy lifting or strenuous exercise. Art tries to argue, but the doctor assures him that with the proper rest he should be back to his full activity level soon enough, and that pushing himself too much too soon will only cause more problems down the line.
Reluctantly, Art agrees. Patrick promises the doctor that he’ll keep Art in line, earning him a scowl in the process.
In the end, Patrick resolves not to tell Art about the kiss. If he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t need to know. He’ll probably just feel embarrassed, and Patrick doesn’t think it’s worth potentially making their relationship weird over something so inconsequential.
It’s fine. He’ll keep the memory, lock it away in his secret box of feelings. He’ll keep it safe, where no one else can disturb it. Easily accessible, so he can replay it every night before bed.
And if he has to take it with him to the grave, he will.
And even if–in four months from now–he and Art kiss for real, he’ll never ever let it slip that it isn’t the first time.