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In retrospect, maybe they should have been a bit more concerned about the serial killer.
Now, in their defense, they hadn’t known Los Angeles had a fucking serial killer wandering around the damn streets like some coyote-looking motherfucker, but apparently they did. Dude broke in, strangled people, and then disappeared. Somehow they still hadn’t been caught by the cops. Also in the group’s defense, Smitty had picked a rental house in one of the richer neighborhoods that hadn’t been hit yet, and had a big wall around it to make sure no one got in. There were guards and everything (okay, not the best security guards, but it was safer than the average gated community).
There was a convention. They’d decided to splurge a little bit and get a “streamer house” instead of just getting a hotel. The price had been similar, but the views were better. Plus, it wasn’t too far from the center they needed to go to. And, well, the lack of fans breaking in.
Smitty just hadn’t realized that it wasn’t fans they needed to worry about breaking in.
Anyways, they had picked the same room for the hell of it, because there was only the one guest room. The family who lived there was off taking a vacation at their second home in Hawai’i, so they did have access to the other four bedrooms. It was just really funny to shove six adult men into the same place.
He’d woken up late at night, dimly aware of two things: he really needed to piss and he really needed water. So after taking care of the former, he slipped into the kitchen to grab a glass. They had one of them fancy-ass Brita filter looking things, too. Rich person type shit. The glasses were in a cabinet right above the sink, some weird-looking tumblers that he probably could have found at his grandma’s house.
Sniffing, Smitty yawned as he kept pouring water. There were some quiet footsteps behind him. He hadn’t closed the door, they sounded like they were coming from the bathroom, so—
“Hey, dude.” He mumbled, going to raise the water to his lips. Whoever it was would say hi or at least grunt, presumably.
He didn’t expect hands to lock around his throat and squeeze.
That wasn’t a joke. They did a lot of shit—shoving each other around, throwing frog plushies at the back of Matt’s head or pretending to suffocate someone with said frog. But strangling someone was a bit too far.
Dropping the glass, Smitty slammed an elbow into his attacker’s stomach. There was a low grunt, a scuffle of shoes. The shattering of glass. The hands left his neck.
Knuckles collided with his face, sending him staggering to the side. His foot slipped on spilled water. He grabbed the counter, caught himself, looked up—
There was a man standing there, in jeans and a dark hoodie.
Smitty didn’t know who he was, but then there was a fist swinging for him again. This time, he got it to the stomach.
Doubling over with a gasp, Smitty almost slipped again. A hand wrapped around the back of his neck. He was thrown to the floor.
There were hands on his neck again.
A knee pressed into his chest, he dug his heels into the kitchen floor, and he scratched at those stupid hoodie sleeves. The back of his head felt hot, like he’d hit something on the way down. Maybe he had. Maybe he was concussed as hell.
Squeezing tighter, the man above him huffed.
Wheezing, Smitty tried to throw a punch. The hands around his neck tightened. He couldn’t breathe. Kicking desperately, he tried to get the dude. He couldn’t see much of him—just a stupid smile. Rough fingers dug into his skin. There was a grin on the guy’s face, broad shoulders blocking out most of the outside streetlights.
He didn’t know if he was clawing at his own neck or the guy’s wrists more. He didn’t care.
He couldn’t feel his hands. He didn’t know how long this had been going on. How long he’d had hands around his neck.
Wheezing, Smitty clawed at—at something. He didn’t know. The guy? Himself?
He didn’t know if he was losing vision or if it really was just that dark. Mouth falling open, he tried to shout. Tried to call for someone. Blood roared in his ears. His heart was thundering in his throat. He dug his nails into flesh, dug furrows in their wake.
Something cracked in his ribs, his throat. Everything hurt. His throat, his chest, his head. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe couldn’t move couldn’t breathe move fight he had to fight he had to breathehadtobreathehadto—
“HEY!” Matt roared.
The light flicked on, and then there was Matt, grabbing onto the guy. The pressure on Smitty’s neck got worse. If he’d had air, he’d have shouted, but he didn’t have any. It was just—he had nothing. No air, barely had any vision left, barely even had any strength.
He couldn’t move. Matt had thrown the guy against the cabinets, and there were hands grabbing his arms. Then, he was being pulled back, into the hallway, into someone’s lap.
He was shaking. Or maybe the world was. Was there an earthquake? His hands weren’t working, he could feel his whole body shivering. “Smitty? Smit?”
He couldn’t talk. Mouth falling open, he tried to say something. Nothing really came out.
“Come on, Smit.” John leaned over him, eyes dark and worried. “You okay? You with us?” Just simple yes-or-no questions. He should be able to say something, but he couldn’t even move.
Staring at the ceiling, eyes watering and face hot, Smitty tried to move. Tried to talk. It hurt to swallow, though. His face felt like it was on fire—all of him felt like he was on fire. When he tried to move his fingers, all he could do was twitch them. The world was shaking.
Gently, John brushed his bangs from his face. Smitty wheezed, staring up at him. Eyes flicking across his face, John begged, “Stay with us, dude. Come on. Keep breathing—”
Fingers pressed to his neck, checking his pulse. Smitty opened his mouth, tried to say something. All that came out was a pathetic, wheezing gargle. His breath hitched when he swallowed. It hurt. Everything hurt. I don’t want to die, Smitty thought dimly. I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not here.
He still had Octavia to handle. Sure, he had a will—had made it because he was worried, because something could happen, because he had to take care of his parents, his family. Eyes flicking to the person beside him—Yumi, Yumi had joined them, it was Yumi checking his pulse. There was a phone pressed to his ear.
Things kept fading in and out. Smitty’s chest ached. There was fire in his nerves. Rasping again, he glanced around. John’s fingers were cool against his face, he brushed his thumb across Smitty’s cheek. Am I bleeding? His neck burnt, too. He couldn’t tell—everything was spinning. He was splayed out on the kitchen floor of a house he didn’t know, didn’t own. But he—he hurt. Everything hurt, and he couldn’t move, and he needed—
He could barely hear Yumi talking. There wasn’t anymore scuffling from Matt, Puffer, and the—the dude. Suddenly, a hand wrapped around his. Smitty tried to look. He still couldn’t turn his head. Another whimper left him. Thankfully, Matt started talking. “Hey, dude. We got you. We’re right here, you’re okay.”
Smitty whimpered again, again with that gargling sound. His throat hurt so badly, it hurt when he tried to swallow and it hurt when he tried to breathe. Again, John brushed his hair back. Matt gently squeezed his hand again. He was still shaking. “Do you think he’s having a seizure?”
“I don’t think so,” Matt replied. “We had a classmate who passed out a lot in high school. When she was out, she shook sometimes. Something about her brain not getting enough oxygen, I think. He’s going through the same thing.”
Smitty gasped weakly.
Blinking hard, he tried to move again. Someone touched his neck again, hands landed on his cheeks. Matt? He was pretty sure that was Matt. “Hold on, dude. You just gotta stay still, you’ll be okay.”
He couldn’t even nod.
Squeezing his eyes shut, feeling his throat seize up, Smitty let out another sound. It could have been a sob. John swiped one of the tears away from his face, using his thumb. The touch was gentle. It’d be soothing if everything didn’t hurt so much. There must have been the others, somewhere in the house.
Blinking, Smitty let out another groan. He heard some shouting, dimly.
“—ty! Smitty, come on, dude—” There were hands on his face, tapping his cheek.
He didn’t remember closing his eyes. He must have, at some point. Jolting back to consciousness with a gasp, Smitty groaned again. He still sounded like he was gargling rocks, he was still lying in John’s lap. Now, his head was tilted back a bit, a hand on the back of his neck to try and keep him conscious. To keep him there with them.
There were strangers there, too. He could hear sirens. Blinking hard, Smitty let out another sound. He could see people swarming around. More voices he didn’t recognize. Police? He couldn’t tell.
Someone was kneeling at his side, talking to John and Matt but not him. Wasn’t like Smitty could hear any of that, anyways. His ears were ringing too hard.
There was something pressing to his lips, hands on his neck. Something was locked around his neck. Stop—no—he tried to jerk his head away. “No, dude—they’re trying to help. Let them help.” Matt begged.
The next thing Smitty remembered, he was waking up in the hospital.
He wasn’t alone, which was the nice thing. The hospital room was mostly empty, but Matt was there, sitting next to his bed in one of those uncomfortable office chairs. Ankle resting on the opposite knee, he had his phone propped against his leg as he read…something.
His monitors started beeping differently, catching Matt’s attention. Looking up, eyes going wide, Matt kept his mouth shut. Just for a bit, letting Smitty take everything in. The hospital room was pretty empty, other than the two of them. Did he have some sort of private suite or something? That felt…off. Still, he could…everything felt weird. There was a brace around his neck, a mask pressed to his face, a needle in his arm. He really didn’t like the needle part. That was—
“What…happened?” The words were hard-fought-for. His throat still hurt.
Matt grimaced. “So…we caught a serial killer.” There were bandages wrapped around his knuckles. Glancing down at them, Smitty frowned. “You almost became the next victim, I guess. He had a thing for choking.”
“Oh, great.” Smitty rasped. Instead of making a lewd joke, because he really didn’t feel like it, he asked, “The—guys?”
“They’re fine. Everyone’s fine.” Tilting his head, Matt stumbled over the words. “Chris and I managed to subdue the guy until the cops got there. We were really the only other ones in danger, and other than some split knuckles and bruising. Uh…if your neck is sore, that’s normal. Docs suggested we ice it, but otherwise there’s not much else we can do. If it’s your throat that’s sore, that’s because of the oxygen and…”
He waved a hand.
Smitty frowned at him.
“Matt.” He started, slowly. “What. Happened?”
Matt was looking down at his hands, picking at his nails. He hesitated to talk, explaining things slowly. His eyes didn’t meet Smitty’s the whole time. “Turns out, when…when the rest of your family is in Canada, the person who ends up…authorizing surgeries for you is…me. So if there’s…if you feel some other pain…”
Smitty huffed, rolling his eyes. “What, did they neuter me or something?” Matt flinched at that. Staring at him, Smitty frowned. It wasn’t a good joke. That really didn’t need—wait. “Did I fuckin’ die?”
“No?” Matt kept frowning, taking a slow breath. “You have four broken ribs and some of the cartilage in your neck fractured. It caused some air to end up in your chest. Your lungs collapsed.” Shifting as he sat, he tangled his fingers together and then leaned forwards, staring at the floor like he was counting the damn tiles instead. “You went into respiratory arrest.”
“Arrest?” Smitty stared at him. “Like—like cardiac—”
“Your heart was fine. You weren’t breathing. That was the problem.” Matt explained. “They had to stick a tube down your throat at the house.”
“How long—”
“Three days.”
Letting out a breath, leaning against the bed behind him, Smitty just said, “Fuck.”
Thankfully, Smitty got out of the hospital within the week.
He and Matt had decided to cancel their airplane tickets, because collapsed lungs and flying didn’t exactly go together. If he did fly, he’d be risking collapsing a lung all over again. Also, the airline wouldn’t let him on. He was too much of a health risk at the moment. So, instead, they had gotten a rental car and then started driving, heading north from California. They’d dropped John off in Washington on the way, but the others had had to fly.
Smitty spent half of the drive sleeping, curled up in the passenger seat with pillows and blankets. Half of it was because he was tired from the hospital, and the surgery, and the murder attempt. The other half was because he was on drugs. Oxycodone, because it was the one that worked and he had just been through an attempted murder, respiratory arrest, and who knew what else. Matt still wouldn’t explain all of it, but he didn’t seem to sleep. They just drove from Los Angeles to the border.
Customs was…amusing. He kind of forgot all of it? It was passports, Matt had to fetch the medical papers for the poor customs agent, but there was still some awful bruising on Smitty’s neck. He looked a proper mess—there was a red splotch in his left eye, burst blood vessels all over his neck that were only just beginning to turn dark, and marks from his jaw to his shoulders.
The next time that Smitty stirred, he was being carried to his house. Casually. He didn’t know how Matt had gotten him out of the car without waking him up, but by that point his mom was opening the house door and his dad was holding Octavia back and he really didn’t care. When he drifted back into consciousness, it was to his head in his mom’s lap and her fingers smoothing his hair back, and Matt talking with his dad by the door and their stuff.
“I can stay as long as he needs me,” Matt offered. “Just like a sleepover, you know? Uh, but if his ox sats drop again, he’ll have to go back to the emergency department.”
Smitty’s mom’s fingers scratched gently across his scalp. Groaning softly, he cracked his eyes open and looked at her. “Hi, sweetie. Just get some rest, okay? You need to heal.”
Tilting his head to the side, Smitty closed his eyes and drifted off again.