Archive of Our Own

          This wasn’t how their trip was meant to go.

          It was meant to be a simple, for-fun trip in Canada. They’d rented out a cabin. They’d joked about having a snowball “war”, not a snowball fight. Maybe go ice skating. Build a snowman. Something like that. Just a chill week or something.

          Glancing at Smitty in the hospital bed, John tangled his fingers together as he exhaled. His breath shook as he did. He could barely hear it over the beeping monitors and the rush of the ventilator.

          The tube down Smitty’s throat seemed a lot bigger than it was. There was plastic surrounding it, some sort of cloth or pad or something on each cheek to make things more comfortable. Maybe. Smitty couldn’t feel any of it, as far as John was aware, so he wasn’t sure what the point was. Wires traced their way from a few other machines by the ventilator under Smitty’s hospital gown. They were tracking his heart rate. There was a clip on his finger to track his oxygen levels (John didn’t know why it was there—wasn’t that what the ventilator was for?), and an IV in the back of his hand.

          Matt was curled up on the other side of the bed, because with Smitty incapacitated and his parents unavailable, he was apparently the one making medical decisions for him.

          Unfortunately, while Matt was the kind of guy who could sleep pretty much anywhere, John was not. Matt curled up in the uncomfortable hospital chairs, set his head on the arm and his feet on the side of the bed, and then dropped off to sleep. John, meanwhile, probably wouldn’t be sleeping for the next week. Not until they had Smitty back at the cabin, or home, or anywhere that wasn’t the hospital.

          The room was warm. It should have been comfortable. He should have been able to sleep. Scrolling on his phone, though, John found himself just…listening to Smitty’s breathing. It sounded better. That was thanks to the ventilator, though.

          (Smitty was so cold.

          It didn’t make sense. They had been doing everything right—giving him hot chocolate, changing his clothes, wrapping him in blankets and using body heat. But he wasn’t getting better. His breathing was rasping, labored. His nose pressed into John’s collarbone, icy cold and weak puffs of breath fanning across John’s skin. Sliding his hands under Smitty’s shirt, John splayed his hands across his back. His skin was so cold. He was cold.

          “Come on, Smitty.” He whispered. “Stay with us.”)

          The ambulance had arrived. They’d tried a regular oxygen mask, something way less invasive than the ventilator. But it…it hadn’t worked. And now Smitty was on a bunch of medicines, and he was probably juiced to the gills, and the nurses all looked a bit too grim for John’s taste.

          Glancing at Smitty’s slack face, trying to ignore the tube down his throat and everything else that was keeping him breathing, John ripped his gaze away and went back to doomscrolling.

          It was a six-hour drive from Smitty’s house to the cabin, and all of them were somehow having the time of their lives.

          To be fair, that had nothing to do with the drive. They’d been screaming along to Toad covers of various Christmas songs, despite Christmas having been over two weeks before. It’d been fun. Smitty almost threw up after hitting one of the high notes. Something something, good company made an absurd amount of winding mountain roads easier. Something like that.

          And then they started shouting the theme song of “Sofia the First”, because it annoyed Matt (Smitty’s idea).

          Back pressed to three different bags, just ending their sixth round of the theme song and very proud of it, Smitty shared a grin with John. They had really been the ones to start the singing, to be fair. It had been automatic, looking at one another and smiling. And then they started singing. After they started singing it the second time, Matt started trying to out-scream them. Unfortunately, the only song he seemed able to think of was “Phineas and Ferb”. So it just became a sing-off in the car.

          (Internally, Smitty was thanking Nogla and Delirious’ kids for their love of Disney, because now there was plenty to bother Matt with. Once they had the chance to watch the Barbie movies, there’d be some real chaos.)

          They pulled up to the cabin to a gentle snowfall. As Smitty slipped out of the car, he heard Grizzy drop into some sort of puddle and immediately cry out in displeasure. “There’s a HOLE in my SHOE!” Grizzy screamed indignantly, shaking out his shoes. “Damnit!”

          Cackling, Smitty grabbed some of the bags. They hurried up the steps. The snow started to fall a bit more aggressively around them. As everyone rushed in, though, Smitty took a few steps back to watch the snow fall. The little flakes were black against the pale sky. One landed on his nose.

          “You coming in or not, Smitty?” Matt asked.

          Looking at him, Smitty stepped inside, knocking shoulders with him as he added, “Gotta make sure to get some fresh air. You know how these guys are.”

          “Nah, it’s all part of cuddling with the homies.” Matt replied, slapping him on the shoulder as he stole one of the three backpacks Smitty was carrying. “Gimme that, bitch.”

          “Yeah, yeah.” They shoved at each other in the foyer, kicking snow off their boots and onto the doormat. “Where are we meant to be staying again?”

          “Second floor.” Nodding at the steps, Matt added, “You go first?”

          “You just want a look at my ass.” Smitty teased, taking the steps. He could just hear the others all talking.

          As he went, Matt wolf-whistled. Smitty rolled his eyes, laughed.

          “You know how many rooms there are?” He asked. There were a lot of steps. It was hard for him with just the bags. Hopefully no one ends up getting hypothermia. Depending on who it is, we may not be able to get them up here. They were solid wood, a bit slippery except for some mats that were laid down. As they walked, he could hear Matt huffing, too, under the weight of the bags and their winter clothes.

          “I think it’s one big one, a bathroom, and then a smaller one. We can all fit in the first one if we want.”

          Listening to the others, Smitty laughed and said, “I think everyone does want to fit in the big one.”

          When they got to the landing, Smitty could see what Matt meant by “the big one” and “the small one”. As far as he could tell, the smaller room wasn’t too small. They could probably fit two or three people into there comfortably. Maybe more if they didn’t mind curling up together. The big room was easy enough for them to fit everyone inside as long as they didn’t mind sharing too much.

          “Hey, Smitty! Where do you want your and your boyfriend’s sleeping bags?” Pezzy joked, holding up his and John’s stuff. “Next to one another?”

          “Nah, might as well put them right on top of each other.” Droid argued.

          Laughing and setting down bags, elbowing Droid as he did, Smitty fired back, “Someone’s gotta put on a show for all of you.” He winked at John, who responded in kind. They both turned away, snickering.

          Puffer glanced between the two of them, “That’s fucking freaky. Stop doing it.”

          John and Smitty glanced at each other. John managed to slip a countdown in, and both of them turned to Puffer and asked, “Doing what?”

          Puffer sighed like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

          “Do we have hot chocolate or something?” He asked.

          “And marshmallows.”

          “We could make s’mores if we wanted!” Droid half-cheered.

          Matt and Smitty exchanged a glance. “Americans.” Matt shook his head.

          Nodding, Smitty agreed, “And their cursed food options.”

          “Shut the fuck up, s’mores have been Canadian tradition for, like, a hundred years now.” John dropped onto the bed, apparently in an attempt to claim it. Next to him, Grizzy unceremoniously shoved him to the floor.

          “How do you know that?” Matt asked.

          John just shrugged, still on the floor. “Got bored. Looked it up while we were packing.”

          “Oh, we’re packing alright.” Smitty dropped.

          Everyone looked at him.

          Snickering, Smitty wiped some lingering snow from his nose and said, “Sorry, just sounded funny.”

          Matt whacked him on the back of his head, and everyone cracked up.

          Things didn’t go wrong for two full days of the trip.

          They woke up on the fourth day to a layer of fresh snow and a chill in the air. Grizzy stumbled down the stairs sometime after nine, finding Smitty already standing at the stove and cooking. With a frown, Grizzy went to the bar counter, saying, “You treating us to breakfast?”

          They’d been handling it on their own for the past couple of days. As Grizzy glanced over the options available—pancakes, mostly, but also bacon and scrambled eggs—he turned back to Smitty. His friend’s shoulders seemed…tight.

          “Smitty? You alright?” He asked. Walking over, he went to set a hand on the guy’s shoulder. He didn’t have the chance, though.

          Turning to him, Smitty flashed a weak smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just…” He shook his head and rolled his eyes, looked back at the pancake he was still making. His hands shook slightly. “Had a weird dream.”

          Maybe Grizzy was breaking some sort of code or whatever. Guys didn’t talk about this kind of shit. But in the back of his mind, an old statistic about men dying more often from suicide reared its head, and something felt wrong. And maybe it didn’t really matter, but he needed to talk. Wanted to talk about it, not ignore it.

          “What happened?” Because Smitty didn’t just get dreams that disturbed him for no reason. He had an uncanny ability to predict things, good pattern recognition skills at best, sure. Sometimes, it seemed like more than that.

          Smitty’s throat bobbed uncertainly.

          “I don’t…really know how to describe it. It was…cold. And dark.” He turned to Grizzy, brown eyes wandering the wooden counters. “I could hear people shouting at me.”

          “People?”

          “You.” Smitty met his gaze. “I could hear you. I think…I heard John and Matt. But it—it’s probably nothing. I’m probably overreacting.”

          Grizzy did touch his shoulder this time. Jolting, Smitty looked at him. He let out a shaky breath, crossed his arms, and then leaned against the counter. “You’re not. Whenever you have a feeling about something, you’re usually right.”

          He wasn’t lying.

          Smitty’s abilities, whatever the hell they were, were serious shit. Twice now, Smitty had gotten a “bad feeling” before a road trip, and they pushed it off until his gut feeling was gone. Both times, they had ended up driving by some awful accidents. They would have been in those accidents, too, and they would have died. One had a van the size of their own that had been sheared in half by a semi truck. The other involved a car being smashed off a cliff. Another time, an entire trip had gotten cancelled—they’d stayed one extra day because Smitty didn’t feel well. Next thing they knew, there was a massive wildfire that cut off the only exit of the canyon they’d basically be camping in.

          Smitty just knew things. They didn’t need to ask him how he knew things. They just had to listen when he did have a feeling.

          But this was just a dream, so maybe…

          “How long have you been up?” Grizzy asked. Smitty shrugged. Nudging him away from the stove, Grizzy said, “Alright. Go sit down, I’m going to finish this.”

          The others came down not too long later, attracted by the smell of bacon and pancakes. Barely glancing their way, Grizzy let them have their own conversations as he pulled the last plate of bacon from the microwave. He could hear the others chatting. Smitty was involved. So that was a good thing.

          Turning around, Grizzy yelled, “Hey fuckers, come get some food!”

          Smitty ended up lingering towards the back of the group, sitting with John at the table for a while longer. Brows furrowed, John kept looking at Smitty, saying something under his breath. There was a nod, a soft smile, and then both of them were getting up and grabbing something to eat.

          By the time Grizzy had served himself, hopping in the line between Matt and Puffer because he did actually want some bacon, and then gotten back to the table, Smitty seemed to be back to his normal self. He was sitting up straight, talking with Matt and John. Actually, he was stealing Matt’s syrup with a cut of his pancakes, shoving his fork in his mouth. Matt either didn’t notice (possible) or didn’t care (more likely), as he was currently drowning his pancakes in syrup. Still, Grizzy’s own concern for Smitty was dying a quiet death.

          “We should go for a walk.” Puffer started once everyone was sitting down. “No offense, but I’m going a bit stir-crazy in here.”

          “And going on a walk with us will help that?” Matt asked, arching a brow.

          “Well, I’m not going stir-crazy because of you all,” Puffer pointed out, taking a bite of scrambled eggs. Smitty had apparently made them and then put them in the microwave to stay warm while he was…stress-cooking? “It’s just the house. Only so long you can play video games—”

          “Wow. And you claim to be a streamer.” John teased, dodging as Puffer threw a crumpled napkin his way. As he ducked, Matt reached back to steady him.

          “I wouldn’t mind going on a walk. Smitty, you want to come with us?” Grizzy asked, turning to Smitty. He didn’t want to bring up the nightmare. Smitty didn’t either, but he sent a quick smile Grizzy’s way.

          “Sure, I’ll come along.” With a casual air, he added, “You need someone to add some cool factor to the group.”

          “Cool factor.” John snickered.

          Throwing an arm around Smitty’s shoulders, Matt tugged him close and said, “You don’t have to twist my arm, dude. I’ll come, too.”

          “Nah, I’m chilling here. Feel free to freeze your asses off, though.” Pezzy said. Beside him, Yumi nodded while scarfing down bacon. “We’ll watch a movie or some shit.”

          “You’re gonna come back and we’re gonna all be dead.” Droid huffed. “Murder by MarioKart.”

          “MarioKart? At least use Monopoly or some shit like that. They have the metal pieces.” John waved a hand at him almost dismissively.

          Glancing at Smitty, Grizzy rolled his eyes with a smile. Smitty returned the expression, snickering.

          A couple hours later, the five of them left Droid, Pezzy, and Yumi in the cabin. They’d have to drive their rental van out to the lake. It wasn’t too far, but by the time they stepped out their light snowfall was enough to make Grizzy and Puffer complain about how cold it was and how little they wanted to walk through all that.

          So the car it was.

          When they got to the lakeside, Smitty watched Grizzy get out of the car. “You two are way underdressed.” Grizzy said, glancing him and Matt up and down. Both of his dumbass friends were dressed in jeans, boots, and zip-up hoodies. Even John had a proper snow jacket on—and a hat, too. Puffer and Grizzy were wrapped in warm clothes, because they had prepared for a proper snowfall. “What’s going to happen if you fall in?”

          “We’re Canadian. We’re born for this.” Matt replied lackadaisically, waving a hand. He turned to Smitty, asking, “Right?”

          Giving him a fist-bump without even looking, Smitty laughed, “Right. We’ll be fine.”

          “Besides, I’ve been working on cold conditioning. If anyone does fall in, then I’ll save them.” Matt shrugged. Then, he and Smitty were walking, and John followed. Puffer and Grizzy shared a look.

          As they walked, Grizzy glanced around. It was a pretty area, even if it was way too cold. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he studied the trees around the lake. They couldn’t see the lake itself, though fence posts some hundred feet away stuck out of the snow. Those weren’t where the lake itself was, as far as Grizzy knew. Still, it looked fascinating. The black silhouettes of conifers and wooden fencing, gentle snowflakes turning from gray to white as they fell against waterproof nylon. Puffer’s bright yellow parka and his own purple one seemed strangely bright, especially compared to John’s black, Smitty’s pale gray, and Matt’s faded blue colors.

          The cold nipped at his nose, his cheeks, his fingertips. They walked for maybe two, three minutes. The snow kicked up with their footsteps.

          Bending down, Smitty scooped up some snow, waited for John and Matt to get ahead, and then flashed a grin at Grizzy and Puffer. His face was something wicked, eyes bright.

          For some reason, that image of him just…stuck, in Grizzy’s head. The curve of Smitty’s mouth, the mischief in his eyes and the way the dimmed sunlight shone down on his hair. The smile lines by his mouth and the crow’s feet beside his eyes stood out more—little echoes of old laughter on his face. His breath fogged out around him. Like Jack Frost in Canadian form…or maybe Smitty was hiding another secret.

          Then, Smitty turned and nailed Matt in the back of the head with a snowball.

          Matt stumbled forward, turning to look at Smitty. John hid a snicker in the back of his hand. “Oh, it’s on, Jaren.” Matt said.

          And then he shoved John into the snow.

          Their walk very quickly devolved into a snowball fight, scooping up fresh powder with frozen fingers. As they fought, they kept moving. Grizzy got used as a shield by Smitty, Matt chasing him around like two toddlers. They were just missing the brightly colored clothes, honestly. Grizzy turned to watch them, sighing before he reached out. He grabbed Smitty with one hand, Matt with the other.

          If he really wanted, he could have lifted them both up. They weren’t that heavy, he was strong. It’d be kind of funny, actually.

          “Grizzy! Grizzy, put me down! I’m gonna spill some milk!” Matt threatened, laughing.

          Smitty, meanwhile, was wheezing. Glancing between the two, Grizzy met John’s gaze. “What do you think? You’re the middle ground.”

          “Give him a five-second head start.” John replied, shrugging.

          Grizzy let Smitty go.

          Matt was shouting, barking. Puffer was patting his pockets down for his phone, apparently intending to film things. “Aw, damn, left it in the car—” He finally mumbled, while John audibly counted down. Smitty was already running across the ice.

          Grizzy let Matt go.

          Charging towards Smitty, Matt stumbled a few times and yelled, “You better get your milky-white ass over here, motherfucker! I’ll go easy on you, I promise!”

          Laughing, Smitty turned as he ran, going to scoop up some snow. He overbalanced, though, arms pinwheeling. There was a low sort of sound, almost like something from fucking Star Wars. Grizzy didn’t think anything of it—Smitty, Matt, and John all did, though.

          Smitty’s face went panicked, stumbling back. There was another one of those sounds, almost like a series of pings. It didn’t make sense. John had gone still.

          Matt was sprinting faster now, running hard. “Jaren!” He screamed, voice pitched up in a panic.

          Smitty landed hard on the ice, and then he was gone.

          Fuck. Grizzy’s heart skipped a beat. “Smitty!” He roared, whipping his head around, “Puffer, go get the van, park it by the fenceposts!”

          “On it!” Puffer started running, glancing over his shoulder as he did. Grizzy stumbled towards Matt and where Smitty had been.

          “Matt, careful!” John warned in a panic.

          Matt dove into the water after Smitty.

          Grizzy and John both stopped and stared, helpless. “This isn’t part of the lake. There’s not supposed to be—there shouldn’t be water there.” John said, digging his fingers into his hair. “He must—there must have been flooding.”

          “There should be shore close by, then, right?” Grizzy asked.

          Glancing his way, John shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know.”

          Matt surfaced, splashing around and grabbing onto the ice where he had been. “I got him! I got him!” He yelled, one arm wrapped around Smitty. He kicked onto the snow, floundering onto a safer area. Hammering a fist against the ground, he tilted his head. “It’s safe! Help me get him out!”

          Grizzy and John hurried over. Grabbing Smitty’s arms, Grizzy dragged him back far enough. Smitty’s head fell back, eyes closed and mouth fallen open. Meanwhile, John had his hands on Matt’s shoulders, holding him steady. “Is he breathing?” John asked.

          Grizzy got Smitty laid flat on the ground, ripped his hoodie open, and then pressed his ear to Smitty’s chest. Smitty’s shirt was soaked, he wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing. Grizzy couldn't hear his breathing.

          He also couldn’t hear Smitty’s heart.

          There was just nothing.

          “Is he—” Matt started.

          Ignoring him, Grizzy tilted Smitty’s head back, already thanking everything that he had just retaken that fucking CPR class. He pinched Smitty’s nose shut, sealed his mouth over his, and forced air into his lungs. Come on, come on, please be right.

          Smitty’s chest rose once, twice, and then Grizzy was shoving himself back up, locking his fingers together, and starting compressions. Hands in the center of his chest. Thirty compressions, two rescue breaths, use your whole body.

          “Fuck, Smitty—”

          “John, take Matt to the van.” Grizzy ordered, not turning.

          “What? No—”

          Still not turning their way, Grizzy shouted, “JOHN, TAKE MATT TO THE VAN!”

          His voice cracked. He ignored it. Thankfully, he heard John force out a, “Yeah, yeah, right.” And then their footsteps were crunching in the snow.

          “Come on, buddy,” Grizzy murmured to Smitty, “come on. Don’t do this.”

          He leaned down, forced more air into Smitty’s lungs. He’d been so slack as Grizzy pulled him from the ice. Back to compressions, he glanced down. His friend’s chest sank under his hands. Still counting under his breath, Grizzy dared to glance at his face. There was frost in Smitty’s eyelashes, little snowflakes forming. His eyes might have been iced shut. Grizzy didn’t know for sure.

          Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

          Bending down, Grizzy pinched Smitty’s nose shut again. Sealed his mouth over Smitty’s. Forced more air into his lungs. Both times, Smitty’s chest still rose. Still fell. (His lungs weren’t too full of water. They had a chance. Smitty had a chance.) Then he was back to compressions.

          I’m not giving up on you, Smit, he swore to himself. You’re going to get out of this.

          Dimly, he could hear the hum of the engine. The car arriving. A door slammed shut. Then, there were boots thundering on the snow, crunching again and again.

          And then Puffer was there. “When you need to switch out—” He offered.

          Nodding, Grizzy ordered, “Rescue breaths. At thirty.” He saw Puffer give a nod of his own. Then, he was at Smitty’s head, hands on his face. Glancing at Smitty’s face, Grizzy counted a bit louder. He hit thirty again. Puffer was breathing for Smitty.

          There was a crunch under Grizzy’s hands. A sort of wet snap sound. This one, Grizzy did know the source of. That was Smitty’s rib, or maybe more than one. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

          “Shit.” Puffer whispered.

          “Shit.” Grizzy agreed, wincing at how easy it was to compress Smitty’s chest now. It hadn’t been hard earlier. But it was easier now, it was so much easier now. But if Smitty was able to complain about broken ribs, he’d be alive. He’d be breathing on his own.

          Smitty’s face was slack. He was lying against the snow, his clothes beginning to freeze. His skin was cold, too. “Should we—do we stop?” Puffer asked.

          “He’s not dead until he’s warm and dead.” Grizzy replied, huffing. A faint ache started building in his arms. Snow fell around them. Sweat dripped down Grizzy’s temple, edged along the bridge of his nose. From the sound of things, another of Smitty’s ribs broke.

          He hit his fourth, maybe fifth round of compressions. He didn’t know. It didn’t really matter, because Smitty still wasn’t breathing on his own and his heart hadn’t restarted and Grizzy’s arms were beginning to tire. He needed to put more effort into his compressions. Too much effort.

          After the next round (his fifth, it was his fifth round, had it really been just two and a half minutes?), before Grizzy could even do anything, Puffer had done rescue breaths and was smacking his hands away, taking over. Smitty still didn’t have a pulse.

          “Come on, Smitty,” Grizzy begged, desperately watching his friend’s face for something. Anything. “Please. Just give us something.”

          He could hear Puffer singing quietly. Stayin’ Alive. Of all the songs.

          Grizzy went to do more rescue breaths. Puffer was praying, too, between half-breathed lyrics. Just loud enough for Grizzy to know, but he couldn’t make out the words. It was a frantic sort of thing.

          Honestly, Grizzy was about to start praying, too.

          This was beyond just hoping that Smitty would be alright. There was the quiet sound of air being forced out of Smitty, but that was from the compressions. That wasn’t from Smitty inhaling on his own. He dreamed about this, Grizzy thought. Dread built in his chest. He dreamt about drowning. He didn’t know it. But he did.

          Touching Smitty’s face, Grizzy winced. Smitty’s face was so cold. His lips were bluish, skin pale. Way too pale. He was as pale as the snow around him, white frost in his hair. “Jaren.” He whispered, “Jaren, please.”

          They kept going.

          Smitty didn’t respond.

          So...they didn’t give up.

          They couldn’t. If they gave up, Smitty was going to die. And Grizzy definitely wasn’t going to let that happen. He wasn’t going to let him die—not like this. Not lying in the snow, cold and pale and not breathing. Maybe in forty, fifty years. But not like this.

          They just had to keep going. They could keep going. They would keep going, or Grizzy would even if Puffer didn’t.

          Almost three hundred compressions later (five minutes. Smitty had been dead for five minutes), Smitty jerked. An awful gurgle escaped him. “Shit, fuck, turn him,” Grizzy ordered, grabbing Smitty’s shoulder.

          They got him turned on his side.

          It wasn’t like the movies. Smitty barely threw up any water. He didn’t wake up, either, even as his face twisted in pain. Gently, Grizzy rubbed his arm.

          Smitty whimpered softly in response.

          He wasn’t shivering.

          Not good, Grizzy glanced over at Puffer with a grimace. “We need to get him into the car.”

          “Is that safe?” Puffer replied, “That can cause cardiac arrest, can’t it? Well—another cardiac arrest.”

          Between them, Smitty was rasping for breath, still curled on his side. Puffer moved his head into his lap, off the snow. Water dripped from his mouth.

          “We have to take that risk—it’s not like we can leave him here.” Grizzy said, peeling off his parka. Puffer was doing the same. It wouldn’t be good forever—really, they needed to pull Smitty’s clothes off. But it would work until they got his half-frozen ass to the van. As they wrapped Smitty up, being as gentle as they could, he added, “We’ll get him in the van, then to the cabin. We just… we’ll have to be delicate about it. Okay?”

          Taking a sharp breath, Puffer nodded.

          Returning it, Grizzy added, “Alright. I’m going to carry him. Hopefully the body heat will help. Help me get him settled?”

          Puffer nodded, helped Grizzy carefully get Smitty into his arms. He felt a lot smaller than he should. Heavier, too, complete dead weight against his chest. There was a weak, half-whimper and half-whine as Grizzy pulled him close, Puffer nestling Smitty’s head in the crook of Grizzy’s neck and shoulder. His breathing was loud, labored. It was shallow, though, and raspy—like he was wheezing. His skin was ice-cold, hair even colder, and he still—wasn’t—shivering. Even with the parkas.

          “Hold on, Jaren. We got you.” Grizzy whispered, slowly getting his knees under himself. His jeans were wet, there was a hole in the left knee that he had somehow missed, and his joints ached as he hoisted himself up. He could just feel Smitty’s heart beating where his neck pressed to Grizzy’s own shoulder. Holding him closer, pressing his cheek to wet hair, Grizzy added, “Just hold on.”

          Smitty didn’t wake on the walk back. He didn’t even stir, barely let out little pained sounds as they moved. He wasn’t dripping water. All of it had turned to ice.

          Inside the van, Matt and John were curled up together in the back, wrapped in blankets they’d pilfered from somewhere else. Looking up, Matt instantly turned to Smitty. His face went a few shades whiter, and he rasped out, “Is he—”

          “He’s alive,” Grizzy eased Smitty into the back with them. Already at the controls, Puffer was cranking the heat. “We need to get him warmed up. John, can you handle him while I drive?”

          “Y-yeah.” John stumbled over the single word, and Grizzy eased Smitty into his arms. Puffer slipped by him, climbing into the backseat.

          By the time Grizzy had closed the doors and rushed around the car, getting into the driver’s seat, Smitty was in the cocoon of blankets. “Jaren? Jaren, come on. You gotta wake up.” Matt whispered, begging. “Please, Jaren.”

          He heard someone fumbling with their phone. Then, Yumi’s voice came over speakerphone. “What’s up?”

          Puffer started talking. “Smitty almost drowned, he and Matt are hypothermic. Get Droid and Pezzy downstairs with as many blankets as you can find, and then call an ambulance and have them come to the cabin.”

          Grizzy kept his eyes fixed on the road, but he heard Yumi swear sharply.

          “They’re going to take a while,” he warned. “It’s snowing pretty hard.”

          He wasn’t wrong. The snow had started getting harder when they were trying to bring Smitty back. Turning on the wipers, Grizzy dug his fingers into the wheel. Puffer kept talking, “I know, that’s why we need the blankets. Matt’s awake. Smitty’s not.”

          They took a left turn, driving closer to the cabin. As they did, Grizzy glanced back in the rearview, just briefly. John had given up his part of the blankets, wrapping Smitty in it. He’d shoved his beanie over Smitty’s hair, pulling it low. The ice on his eyelashes was beginning to melt, from the look of things. The wet clothes and the parkas had been discarded in the footwell.

          “Got it. See you soon.” Yumi hung up. Reaching over, Grizzy turned up the heat more. He glanced at Smitty.

          “How’s he doing?” He dared to ask. Prayed the answer was good.

          “He’s still breathing. Heart rate’s, like...I don’t know. Thirty-something.” Puffer said.

          Matt audibly hissed. Grizzy glanced at him. Smitty was in his arms, leaning heavily into Matt. Shifting, Matt pushed Smitty’s face into his neck. “He’s fucking freezing,” he murmured, glancing John’s way.

          Swallowing, Grizzy turned back to the road and kept driving.

          By the time they got back to the cabin, Smitty still hadn’t started shivering.

          His lips were still that awful purplish-blue color, face whiter than his fucking milk-bag avatar. The blanket wrapped around him was cold. Too cold.  

          Cradling him bridal-style, John carefully picked his way up the steps. Grizzy and Puffer were leading the way, helping Matt, too. Going from the heat of the van to the chilly winter air was painful enough for John. He didn’t want to think about what Matt was feeling, and definitely didn’t want to think about what Smitty could be feeling, hypothermic and beyond freezing.

          Weak puffs of breath hit his neck. Smitty’s breathing, which was still raspy. Still weak. John was careful not to hit him against the door frame, walking inside.

          In the living room, Yumi, Droid, and Pezzy were waiting with a bunch of blankets. There were mugs of what was probably hot chocolate and bowls of soup on the coffee table. Smitty was still freezing against John’s chest.

          There was a soft mumble. A frozen nose pressed into John’s neck. Glancing down, he studied Smitty, added, “Hey, Jaren. You’re okay. You’re alright. We’re gonna get you warmed up, okay?”

          Smitty didn’t respond, but John didn’t expect him to.

          “So, we all just strip?” Yumi cracked weakly. He had a hoodie thrown over his shoulders, but the band t-shirt he’d been wearing was thrown in with the blankets and his hands were already at the hood to pull it away. No one answered him.

          They got Smitty to the blankets. Setting him down, John started tearing his shoes off. It was a lot sloppier a process than he’d normally take—he didn’t even bother untying his shoes, just kicked them off and threw them carelessly to the side. Then, he was grabbing blankets, and then Smitty, and then wrapping them both in the blankets. He pulled that cold blanket away, winced as Smitty shuddered once. He was strangely pliant in John’s hands.

          Matt settled down, too, shaking. His hands fisted in the blanket he’d wrapped around himself. His hair was clinging to his forehead. Puffer was gone, Pezzy was gone, and Yumi and Droid were kicking their shoes off to handle Matt.

          “We got some of their clothes!” Pezzy yelled, thundering down the stairs with Grizzy in tow and without care. Cradling Smitty close, John glanced up. Puffer had towels in his hand, returning from the hallway.

          “I’ll take care of Smitty,” John offered.

          “Okay. Matt, can you handle yourself?”

          “I can help him if he needs it.” Droid replied. Taking his shirt from Pezzy, Matt pulled it on quickly.

          Smitty’s hair was still wet. Grabbing a towel Puffer offered him, John began drying Smitty’s hair for him. He still didn’t stir. He still didn’t move, just kept leaning into John. His arms awkwardly fell into his lap.

          Some thirty agonizing seconds passed. The others moved around him. John kept his focus on Smitty alone, running his fingers through damp curls after the towel, trying to adjust the blankets to warm him as much as possible. The whole time, he held him as close as he could. John pressed Smitty’s ear to his chest, felt chilled skin and still-barely-damp hair. His breathing was still labored, heart still slow.

          He’d started to shiver, though. That was a good sign—a really good sign. He just needed to wake up…

          “It might take a bit,” Puffer warned. When John glanced his way, Puffer’s eyes didn’t meet his—staying on Smitty, instead. “He was pretty cold. And he was…he was lying in the snow for a bit.”

          No one mentioned why Smitty had been lying in the snow.

          Nodding, John tugged Smitty a little bit closer. Whatever it took to keep Smitty alive until the paramedics arrived, he’d do it. Smitty was one of his best friends. He wasn’t going to let him go that easily. Pressing his nose into Smitty’s curls, John whispered, “I’ve got you, buddy.”

          Smitty’s fingers tugged at his shirt.

          There was a low moan, something mumbled against John’s neck.

          Everyone paused what they were doing. John felt him swallow. Sucking in a deeper breath, Smitty groaned again. Louder, this time. His grip on John’s shirt tightened even more. His breath quickened, rasping louder. “Easy, Smitty. You’re alright.”

          Smitty’s groan pitched up into a whimper. Turning his head, he buried his face in John’s neck. He jolted once, a sort of jerk making its way through his shoulders. “Ow.” He slurred out, voice warbling and weak. It barely even sounded like a word.

          “Your ribs?” There was a slow nod. “Sorry ‘bout that. We got EMTs on the way.”

          “Don’t…need ‘em.” Smitty mumbled.

          “It’s not a choice, Smitty. Jaren. You drowned.” John fired back. Glancing at Puffer, he asked, “Can we have some of the hot chocolate? You up to drink something, Smit?”

          Smitty managed to nod again. Propping Smitty up against his chest, arms wrapped around him, John leaned back against the couch. The hot chocolate mug was in his hands, not Smitty. He was literally spooning it into Smitty’s mouth like soup. His hands were shaking too much for him to hold the mug himself.

          But he was shivering. A lot, now, and hard. But his lips were still blue. His nails were in the same state. John didn’t like that.

          Please just be the cold, he prayed in the back of his mind. Gently, he tugged Smitty back a bit more. Relaxing against John would take less energy than keeping himself upright. Plus, with his back pressed to John’s chest, he could get a look at him. Make sure he drank enough of the hot chocolate. Make sure he was conscious.

          Smitty whimpered sharply.

          Under his arms, John felt Smitty’s stomach convulse, muscles seizing up. Pulling the mug away, John said, “Puffer, grab a bin—”

          Smitty retched horribly, curling in on himself. His shoulders shook. Nothing came out of him, though. Holding him up, John glanced around in a panic.

          Smitty was left gasping, shaking. The episode passed pretty quickly, thank everything. He slumped back into John with a weak rasp. There were tears running down his face.

          “We should get him lying down. The hot chocolate can wait.” Grizzy said. Pointing at Matt, he added, “Not for you, though. You’re more conscious, you drink all of that and you have some soup. You need to make sure you heat up.”

          “Sure, sure,” Matt waved a hand.

          “Does anyone have a thermometer? It might help—” Puffer was getting up again, walking off.

          John glanced down at Smitty, brushing his hair from his face, and then settled down behind him.

          Smitty’s breathing worsened.

          Fast.

          They managed to wake him up twice, once to drink hot chocolate and then a second time to get a little bit of soup in him. Otherwise, they left him curled in the blankets, curled in John’s arms and shivering again. John must have dozed off, because he stirred to Smitty’s raspy-ass breathing.

          “Smitty?” He mumbled, lifting his head. Against his chest, he could feel Smitty’s breath hitching. There was a weak sound, a rattling breath. John shoved himself up, reached out and cupped Smitty’s cheek. Panic shot through his chest. He tilted his friend’s head up, asked, “Smitty? Fuck—Jaren?” His eyes flicked across Smitty’s face, studying him. The others were stirring, too—had they all fallen asleep? They must have, but—how long had they been out?  

          Smitty’s breath crackled. Panting, chest heaving, he arched his back. “Jaren. Jaren, don’t you fucking dare.” Grizzy lurched over to them, took Smitty from John and moved him onto his side. “I will restart your heart again. Don’t you dare die on us, you bastard.”

          Smitty moaned weakly. He didn’t fight anything, even as Grizzy tipped his head back and moved his arms. His lips were still fucking blue. A wheeze left him. “Jaren? Jaren, hey—” Matt was moving, too, touching Smitty’s cheek. His eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t stir. Didn’t open his eyes. His breathing sounded awful.

          “That ambulance should have been here by now.”

          “Does anyone have a time?”

          “Ambulance doesn’t matter, we just need to keep him alive until then. And stay awake this time,” John snapped (the last part was more to himself). Turning back to Smitty, he frowned and laid back down next to him, pulled Smitty’s head to his chest, and whispered, “Come on, Jaren. Stay with us.”

          Smitty’s breathing rasped even more on the next inhale. Maybe it was just more audible with his face pushed into John’s neck. Maybe it wasn’t. He was breathing too hard either way. There was something else to it, too.

          Something else is wrong.

          “John?” Puffer asked. The worry must have been showing on John’s face. “What’s wrong?”

          “His—I can hear, like, bubbling or something. I don’t—” He shook his head. “Okay. Just—hold on, Smitty. Hold on. Just keep breathing.” He let his voice go low, quieter. In his arms, Smitty just kept wheezing. His head fell back, John adjusted to press him closer.

          Smitty jerked in his arms.

          Matt laid down on Smitty’s other side, meeting John’s gaze briefly. His face was panicked, pale. “Did anyone take his temp while I was out?” John asked.

          “It was something like ninety, but they—thermometers get a bit inaccurate under ninety-three.” Droid said, shrugging. “So somewhere around there?”

          “He might be warmer now,” Matt told him, rubbing Smitty’s arms.

          “Don’t rub him too much. It could hurt him.” John warned, glancing at him.

          All of them went quiet, listening to Smitty’s rasping breathing as they waited. Every second that passed, every breath he fought for, was painful and great all at the same time. Because he was alive. He was still breathing, even if it was rough and pained. He was still with them. He still had a chance.

          It felt like an hour before the ambulance got there.

          It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, honestly.

          Then, someone was knocking at the door. Yumi was on his feet a second later, rushing over and throwing the door open. “Hi, are you—”

          “Yeah, yeah. Thank fuck, he—he’s not breathing right.” Yumi started, stepping to the side. John watched as the EMTs came in, one of them holding a medical kit and two of them guiding a gurney through the door. There seemed to be a second pair behind them.

          “There were two victims?” The EMT asked, crouching by Smitty’s side.

          “He fell in the water. I jumped after him—” Matt started. When the EMT glanced his way, he hurriedly added, “I’ve been doing cold conditioning for three months now, I knew that I could handle the cold and we were immediately on rewarming.”

          “Charlie, Mark, check him. Make sure he’s alright.” The EMT ordered over his shoulder. Nodding, the two who had been in the back appeared. Matt went to the couch, sat down, and let them do whatever they wanted. John let go of Smitty, looking at the EMT.

          The man checked Smitty’s pulse, frowning. Then, he pulled an oxygen mask from the kit, started fixing it to Smitty’s face. “Cyanosis, low pulse. Low temperature. Did he wake up?”

          “A few times.” Grizzy reported. “Took five minutes to restart his heart when he got out of the ice. He’s…he’s been breathing like that ever since. Uh, he threw up earlier, so he may have had some nausea, coughing some, whimpering when he’s breathing. That could be from broken ribs, though. At least one of them broke during CPR. Breathing’s been pretty shallow.”

          There was a nod, and then Smitty was rolled onto his back. The EMT cut through his shirt with a set of shears, revealing fresh, darkening bruises over Smitty’s ribs. Gentle hands checked his stomach, his sides.

          “He was conscious?”

          “The first couple of times we woke him, yeah. He was kind of confused?” Grizzy answered.

          “Hmm.” Turning to his partners, the EMT said, “Potential ARDS. Near-drowning victim. Feels like three broken ribs, maybe more. Help me get him on the gurney.”

          The EMTs took Smitty from John’s arms. The moment he was gone, John was missing the heat. His heart raced—they were going to take Smitty from him and it might be the last time he saw him and—

          “We can only take two people. Does he have any family here?”

          “I’m his emergency contact.” Matt offered, standing weakly.

          I might not see him again. He’s really sick.

          “Is that it, then?” One of the EMTs said.

          “We really need to be going.”

          I need to be there.

          “I’m his husband.”

          Everyone glanced John’s way. Clutching the blankets, throat tight, he stumbled to his own feet. Almost immediately, though, Grizzy was talking, “He is. We went to their wedding last June.”

          “Cool. Come on.” The EMT said.

          Kicking on his shoes, grabbing a random jacket (Yumi’s), John shot Grizzy an appreciative smile and then hurried out the door.

          Smitty was floating.

          He could hear people talking. He didn’t know who they were, except one voice. John. Just John’s voice. There were hands in his hair, devoid of their rings but familiar all the same. He could hear beeping. Monitors of some sort. But he wasn’t—he wasn’t breathing on his own. There was something down his throat. Everything was warm. It was kind of pleasant, actually.

          He didn’t know where he was, though. That bothered him. They’d been in the cabin, hadn’t they? Been on a walk?

          He didn’t remember what had happened to the others. Something must have happened, though. Had he fallen in? He must have. If he had—wait, had the others fallen in, too? Were they okay? What if they weren’t?

          He wanted to ask.

          Wanted to know.

          But he couldn’t.

          Matt woke some three hours after they were finally allowed into Smitty’s hospital room.

          His eyes fell on Smitty, then John. “How is he?” He asked, turning to John.

          Thumbing at his phone, John mumbled back, “He’s alive.” He didn’t look at Matt, though. The corners of his eyes were reddened, dark circles under them. Smitty was as still as before. There was still that stupid tube down his throat. The monitors were reading the same thing, though the one monitoring his temperature had improved.

          Smitty seemed a bit better, too. He was still pale. When Matt reached out, moving to grab his hand, his skin was cold. “He’s still cold.”

          “He will be for a while.” John replied. Shifting, he pulled his legs up, curling into the chair and rubbing his arms. Glancing his way, Matt frowned.

          The door opened, and they both turned to see a nurse walking in. They smiled at Matt and John as they walked in, stopping by Smitty’s side to check a few things. After finishing, they glanced over Matt and John. Their nametag said ‘Janna’. “Your friends have all been asking about him. You all seem to be very close.”

          “We’ve been friends for years.” Matt said. Beside him, John said nothing. Glancing at Smitty, Matt dared to ask, “Is—is he going to be okay?”

          The nurse paused for a moment. “Technically, I’m not allowed to say either way. What I can say is that your friend here’s a fighter. I’d be shocked if he did deteriorate. That doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods yet—he’s in critical condition and we’re going to put him on an ECMO unit for the hypothermia and ARDS. But he’s fighting with everything he’s got, as far as I can tell.”

          Matt nodded. “Do you know how long he’ll be on it?”

          Janna tilted their head from one side to the other. “I mean…I’m not sure, exactly. It could be a few days. It could be longer. It depends on how well he responds to treatment. Your husband will be just fine.”

          John nodded, letting out a shaky breath. His hands shuddered a little bit as he pulled them to his chest. Matt rubbed his thumb across Smitty’s knuckles.

          He just wished Smitty was awake.

          The ECMO unit was a beast of a thing.

          Ironically, it didn’t seem to be that big. John couldn’t even see it where he was, because it was on Smitty’s other side and basically hidden by everything else. The ventilator was bigger. There were two cannulas sticking out of Smitty, one drawing blood and the other returning it after it had been run through the unit. He was still sedated, still holding on. Just looking at it made something in John’s chest go tight, though.

          It shouldn’t have gone this way, John thought miserably, for the second time that day. He’d finally stopped doomscrolling—his phone was about to die, and even with Matt making the medical decisions John wanted to have it as an option. So he could research things.

          Like ARDS. Like how even what they were doing now only had a survival right of fifty-five percent, which meant Smitty was still in critical condition. Like how ECMO was fucking life support and he had every chance of not surviving or surviving with a worse outcome than if they hadn’t put him on at all. He could be dying and John would have no idea.

          And they were meant to be hanging out.

          They were meant to be chilling at a cabin, not sitting in a hospital desperately hoping Smitty pulled through. Matt was sleeping, covered by a blanket Janna had brought in for him. He hadn’t even stirred, eyes twitching. He’d settled down a moment later. There’d been a soft sigh, and then he’d started snoring a few hours later. John couldn’t sleep no matter what he tried.

          If he closed his eyes for a second, Smitty might—

          (He couldn’t help but think about it. Matt had pulled Smitty from the water, and he hadn’t been breathing. He hadn’t had a pulse. He’d been dead and now he had machines breathing for him and warming him up and keeping his heart working, because he couldn’t really do it himself.

          He’d been so cold in John’s arms, later.)

          Apparently, John could fall asleep.

          Jolting hard, he ripped his head up and looked at Smitty’s heart monitor. His head ached, chest burning slightly. His eyes hurt. He hadn’t realized that was a thing, but fuck him he guessed.

          At least Smitty was okay. John hadn’t missed anything important. Scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand, he unlocked his phone and cleared his throat. As he shifted in the seat, he heard Matt mumbling again.

          Smitty’s chest was still rising and falling, face still pale. He didn’t seem any worse, but John was probably biased. As long as Smitty was breathing, then he was alive. He was still fighting.

          Pulling his legs up to the bed, he watched that rise and fall. It was a machine. It wasn’t him. It was the fucking ECMO thing. He couldn’t forget that. Couldn’t forget Smitty struggling to breathe in his arms, the crackling of water in his lungs, the way he had been so cold and pliant when the EMTs pulled him onto the gurney and started wheeling him out.

          Fuck, Smitty, John glanced at him again. What are you doing to me?

          He didn’t get any answers. He didn’t have any of his own, either. Smitty was just…there. He was still in the hospital bed and he wasn’t supposed to be there and—

          John sighed, digging his fingers into the bridge of his nose. He needed to calm down. He couldn’t break down and start sobbing. Cursing himself internally, he hunched over a bit and took a deep breath. It didn’t quite work.

          His breath caught in his throat. It was like there was something stuck in his throat, stopping him from breathing normally. Chest and shoulders hitching, he choked, clamped his hand over his mouth. His eyes and nose burnt. Stop it. You can’t do this right now.

          Unfortunately, his body didn’t seem to give a shit that he wasn’t meant to cry.

          An embarrassingly loud sob cut through his chest. He leaned forward, tried to hide his face. Matt was still asleep. Smitty was still—

          Thinking about that made his chest twist. With another sharp noise, John dug his nails into his cheek.

          He didn’t know when Matt got up.

          He was just there, suddenly, touching John’s shoulder with a gentle hand. John jolted and turned to him, eyes wide. Matt cracked a weak, sympathetic smile.

          “He’s going to be fine,” Matt offered. “It’s fucking Smitty. He’s going to be laughing at us crying over him, just you wait.” Slowly, he sat down by John, pulling him over. “C’mere.”

          John leaned into him, trying not to shake too much.

SMii7Y 10 minutes ago

Matt here—

Stole Smitty’s phone. He’s on break for a bit because he kept trying to work on our vacation. You know how it is. (:

When he gets his phone back, I’m sure he’ll post something. You know how he is.

          Smitty woke three days later.  

          They had all gotten into the hospital room. He was still on the ECMO unit, so they’d been made to mask up. They had to avoid him catching an infection. If he did get sick, he might not walk out of the hospital. The ventilator and all the monitors were still attached, beeping away just loud enough for them all to hear.

          And they were talking about someone’s Tomodachi Life save including all of them, reading off the Reddit posts on Yumi’s phone.

          “Oh, oh, there’s a new one.” Pezzy started, straightening up.

          “Who had a kid this time?” Grizzy asked. Apparently, it was a five-year-old save file, made on a church trip by two then-teenagers who were now college students and who watched a lot of their videos. So far, Matt and his wife (not his actual wife, but Princess Leia from Star Wars) had six children and were apparently raising their seventh. Pezzy and Droid’s Miis were together (they didn’t know who was the woman, the person hadn’t released it) and had one kid. John had married Anna from Frozen, had a child with her, and then divorced her only to start dating Elsa. He and Elsa had broken up.

          Pezzy gasped dramatically. Looking up at them with a crooked grin, he added, “Puffer! Why didn’t you tell us you and Markiplier were dating?”

          “I’m what?” Puffer shoved himself up and walked over.

          “Also, I hate gingerbread cake and Droid’s loves it.”

          “That’s gonna get real awkward at the wedding.”

          “Droid, I think you’re past the wedding. You have seven kids.”

          Smiling, Matt glanced at John. He hadn’t spoken much, clinging to Smitty’s hand like the man would disappear if he didn’t. His eyes were on Smitty’s face, too, even as Yumi demanded updates on himself and the others laughed about John’s Mii-self’s dating chaos.

          Brows furrowing, John squinted at Smitty’s face. His shoulders straightened, he sat up, and he leaned a bit closer. “Smitty?” He asked, softly.

          The others quieted down fast.

          Matt followed John’s gaze, focusing on Smitty’s face.

          The nurses had taken Smitty off of sedation the day before. He’d “woken” twice, not really awake either time and drifting back off a few moments later. This time, though, it seemed…different.

          Gently, John traced his thumb across the back of Smitty’s hand. Smitty’s fingers twitched, curling around John’s own. The monitors’ beeping changed, heart rate quickening though his oxygen levels didn’t change. “Smitty? Can you hear us?” Matt prompted, trying to get a response.

          Smitty’s face twisted, nose scrunching up and lips twitching around the ventilator tube. Quickly, Matt reached out to grab Smitty’s other hand, covering the IV port for him. “Jaren,” John tried. “Easy. You’re okay.”

          Cracking his eyes open, Smitty tilted his head towards John. His heart monitor skipped a beat as he stirred. A low moan worked its way around the ventilator tube.

          “There you are.” John murmured, rubbing a hand up and down Smitty’s arm. His eyes landed on John, and he blinked a few more times. Pulling at John’s grasp, Smitty tried to lift his hand. John let him. Reaching up to his face, Smitty touched the ventilator. Brushing a hand through his hair, eyes on his face, John added, “You’re okay, it’s helping you breathe.”

          Smitty nodded weakly.

          His hand dropped back to his chest, and John grabbed it again. He smiled, eyes tired. From the look of things, Smitty didn’t notice it. His eyes were glazed over—probably from drugs. Painkillers. Whatever it was that was keeping him from reacting too much to the tube down his throat.

          John’s free hand began brushing through Smitty’s hair, pushing it back and away from his eyes. Their gazes held for a long moment.

          Matt watched the two of them for a while, then glanced back at the others. They were all watching, too. His eyes met Grizzy’s and Grizzy rolled his eyes, mouthing, “Them.”

          Matt turned back to his two best friends, settling back in his seat. Smitty was looking down at all of them, slowly. Then, he was looking at Matt’s hand on his own. “Hey, Jaren.” He said quietly. “You feel alright?”

          Smitty shifted in the bed, brows furrowing even more. After a moment, he slowly nodded. His fingers tightened around Matt’s hand. His chest rose and fell with another forced breath. None of them said anything for a moment.

          And then Smitty started crying.

          Matt’s heart skipped a beat, because he didn’t remember the last time he’d seen Smitty cry. The last time he remembered was back in high school, when he’d found out his girlfriend had been cheating on him. There had just been a lot going on. But that had been years before, and now he had Smitty sitting in front of him—laying in front of him, actually, in a hospital bed and doing nothing more than that.

          John was better than he was at this sort of thing. That wasn’t even exaggerating. Immediately, John reached out and started brushing tears from Smitty’s face with his thumb. Smitty turned to him, making a choked noise. His chest heaved. His hands went to his chest, fingers digging into the sheets and his hospital gown. Matt hit the button for the nurse.

          It didn’t take long for a nurse to come in.

          She hurried to Smitty’s side, Matt leaning back to let her in. Shoulders slumping as she turned off some of the more frantic beeping, calming the monitors or something like that, she said, “It’s alright. Sir, my name’s Jenny. You’re okay, I’m just going to give you another dose of morphine and the pain should fade, okay?”

          Smitty’s chest hitched and he nodded, hand going to his throat. He made some sort of gesture, turning to John. “He wants to know about the tube. If it can come out.” John interpreted. Somehow.

          Jenny looked at Smitty, eyes scrunching up as she smiled. She had a mask on, too. Hands settled on Smitty’s arm, she reassured, “It’s helping you breathe, but I’ll ask your team about it and see if you can safely come off of it. Is it uncomfortable?” He managed another nod. “Okay. I’m going to up another one of your meds, it’ll help numb the feeling.”

          Smitty nodded again, but his hand found Matt’s and squeezed tightly.

          Matt returned it, glancing at John.

          He came off the ventilator tube by the evening, which led to John spooning ice chips into his mouth for him.

          Jenny had brought in food for them all. Grizzy was pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to, but she had snuck them all sandwiches with a wink and then closed the door. Smitty kept working his jaw, reddened patches on the side of his face where the ventilator had been supported. (A mild allergy to the adhesive, apparently. He’d been less than pleased.) There was a cannula in the ventilator’s place now. He didn’t seem to like that much either, but he wasn’t complaining.

          “What’s with the masks?” Smitty asked between scoops of ice chips. John sat back in his chair, holding a cup in his lap. So far, they’d been eating around the masks. Somehow, Pezzy and Droid had figured out how to drink through their masks, which Grizzy wasn’t going to bother asking about. He and Puffer were sitting far enough away that they could just pull their masks down and eat without risking Smitty’s health.

          “Infection risk.” Matt offered for him. “You went into respiratory distress, so you already have enough fluid in your lungs.”

          “And you drowned.” Yumi offered. Reaching over, Droid smacked him on the back of his head.

          Nose scrunching, Smitty reached out for his own food. He didn’t have a sandwich. He had some steaming broth and hot chocolate on a tray for him. “Who asked for hot chocolate?” He prompted.

          “Your blood sugar is a bit low and you lost blood in surgery.” When Smitty glanced at him, Puffer tilted his head to the side and added, “They needed to get you connected to the ECMO unit. Which is what some of the tubes are for, so don’t fucking kink ‘em.”

          Smitty hummed and dropped his head against the pillows, closing his eyes. “How long have I been out?”

          John replied, voice soft, “Three days.”

          With a groan, Smitty pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut.

          He got discharged another two days later, right in time for their trip to end.

          He still had three broken ribs on his left side and a cracked sternum, plus some healing bruises. No more fluid in his lungs, though (Grizzy’s face had darkened when the doctors congratulated him and Puffer on a job well done with their CPR. They’d done it right. Smitty, personally, was just glad he was going to remember shit about it). That was good.

          They still had the rental van for a bit, but they were driving back to the cabin. They had to grab their stuff. Then, they’d be driving back to Matt’s house and staying with him and Danielle, because Smitty was on his own and he’d agreed to stay with Matt while he recovered. He had a good couple of weeks before he’d be properly on the mend.

          As much as he wanted to lie down and sleep like that, he couldn’t. None of the others were letting him. So, he was stuck with a barely reclined chair, blankets and pillows shoved around him, because they could drive with him lying down when he was freezing to death but not when he was totally fine.

          (He was being disingenuous, he knew that. But if he didn’t complain about it, he’d have to deal with things. He didn’t want to deal with things.)

          “You’re feeding me ice cream when we get back.” He told John, annoyed.

          Smiling back at him, John huffed and added, “I will feed you soup. You’re not getting ice cream.”

          “You’ll keep the dying man from his ice cream? You’re fucking cruel.”

          In the front seat, Puffer pointed at him and declared, “You have had enough ice for the next year. You’ll have your hot chocolate and you’ll like it.”