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The thing about Grace's asthma was that, most of the time, he kind of forgot he had it.
And not in a self-neglecting, 'he had symptoms but chose to ignore them out of spite and a general lack of preservation skills' kind of way either. No, most of the time he genuinely forgot he had it, at least now that he was an adult. A childhood diagnosis that got thrown at him after a particularly bad bout of croup and a subsequent hospital trip, it was something that impacted him a lot more in his youth than it did in his adulthood.
Asthma attacks were almost a bi-yearly thing for young Ryland Grace, and for a while, it felt like every wrong move was sending him away in an ambulance, lights and sirens blaring as his little lungs struggled to regain control over themselves. Every seasonal change wreaked havoc on his body, the cold winds of winter and travelling pollens of summer setting him off before anyone had the chance to prepare him. He was all but forbidden from playing sports, forced to sit on the sidelines of most P.E lessons and the only boy in his second-grade class not on the little league team. And being sick was all but a death sentence, his weakened lungs no match for even the measly rhinovirus.
Little Ryland Grace lived in fear of his own body. With an inhaler strapped to him at all times, tucked into the pocket of every bag he had and stored safely in every teacher's desk drawer, he was constantly preparing for, and dreading, the worst. Waiting anxiously for the next time his body decided it was no longer compatible with air, or breathing.
By ten, he'd gone through more medications than he cared to think about, inhalers in every colour of the rainbow as his parents fought to find something, anything, that could alleviate his symptoms. By ten, the obnoxious wails of an ambulance cardiac monitor were ingrained in his head, the sound haunting his dreams in the months between episodes, and he knew exactly what finger to present to the paramedics to put the pulse oximeter on. And by ten, he was sure he had the walls of every children's ward in the area memorised - the same, fading cartoon wall decals taunting him with each visit.
For a while there, asthma controlled his life.
But, like many other children with asthma, he slowly started to grow out of it as he became a teenager. Of course, it was still there - it would always be there, lingering dormant in his body as it waited for its chance to strike - but as he aged, something in his body seemed to click into place, and his symptoms eventually started to dissipate.
Inhalers started to get left behind, kept in his nightstand for when days got bad rather than attached to him at all times. He could slowly start to involve himself in physical activity, assuming it wasn't too intense - he wasn't about to start cross-country running - without the fear of an ambulance. A change in weather patterns no longer had him bunkering down in his house, locked in his bedroom out of fear of the outside air. And while his asthma did get worse when he was sick, that was inevitable; the common cold was no longer deadly, a real flare only happening when he was down with the flu or pneumonia. Something bad enough to send anyone to the hospital.
As time went on, his bi-yearly asthma attacks and hospitalisations became yearly, eventually spreading further and further apart in his life until he couldn't remember when he'd had his last one at all. The walls of the hospital became less familiar, the cartoon stickers replaced by the sterile blue curtains and anti-aggression posters of the adults' emergency department before he found himself back. The scream of the cardiac monitor became a horrible, distant memory, a sound he certainly didn't miss hearing once every few months. The lingering pain of asthma was slowly forgotten, buried somewhere among the rest of his childhood trauma, replaced with fresh wounds.
As an adult, asthma took such a back burner in Grace's life that he was very rarely reminded he had it at all, truly only ever showing symptoms when he was sick or partaking in absurdly strenuous activity. Now, it was nothing more than the first entry on his ever-growing medical history, a dated curse he had to explain at each doctor's appointment. Truthfully, he wasn't sure he even remembered where his inhaler was. Or if he had one at all.
And now, being on the Hail Mary, his asthma was even less of a concern. On the Hail Mary, his asthma was all but eradicated, every possible trigger long since left behind on Earth. There were no sudden weather changes, no seasons to shift, the environment around him totally neutral and controlled. There was no air pollution, no second-hand smoke or car smog to breathe in. It was impossible to do strenuous activity on a spaceship, especially one that was taken over by xenonite chambers and tunnels, and it was equally as impossible for him to get sick, at least with any kind of virus or cold.
Everything any medical journal had ever cited as a possible trigger for asthma, anything that had ever sent him to the hospital, was no longer a possibility, and therefore, was no longer a concern of his. As far as Grace was concerned, he was asthma-free.
Of course, there wasn't much in the way of oxygen, at least oxygen that wasn't simulated and heavily filtered, and it probably wasn't all that good for his lungs to be breathing in nothing but cold, artificial air, but so long as they continued to function as they had been, he could deal with it. Simulated oxygen was proving to be more than enough to keep him alive.
Though as much as Grace's asthma no longer impacted him, at least not like it used to when he was young, he'd had more than enough asthma attacks to know what one felt like. It was horrible, the sensation of an asthma attack, traumatic in a way he could never describe. The clawing desperation for air he could never get enough of, the rough whistling of his own breaths as his throat constricted, the tightness in his chest and the numbness in his appendages as his body shut down around him - it was a feeling he knew all too well. No matter how much he wanted to forget.
So when he woke up that morning with that familiar tightness in his chest, with the familiar squeeze and faint rattle of his lungs as he tried and failed to get a full breath in, he knew instantly what was happening. He knew those signs like the back of his hand, the symptoms ingrained in his very code. Something was wrong. Something was going to happen.
For hours, he tried to ignore it. There was no way he was going to have an asthma attack - not here, not now. Not after years without one, both on Earth and in space. He wouldn't let it happen. For all intents and purposes, space was supposed to cure him. Space had cured him. There wasn't supposed to be anything that could trigger him up here. But maybe the buildup of his own dead skin cells had finally created dust, he thought bitterly as he rubbed his chest, easing off his bed carefully so as not to exert himself, even slightly. Maybe the artificial air was finally starting to get to him. Maybe his depleted immune system had destroyed his lungs all over again.
But even so, those things hadn't triggered him since he was a kid. Why was it suddenly happening again now? When he was alone and miles away from anyone or anything that could help him? Was Armando trained in asthma care?
But even with the lingering fear of what was to come in the back of his head, even with the twinge of pain in his chest as he moved, he went about his day as normal - if anything, with a little more care. He tinkered away in the lab, side-stepping Rocky's ball as he slammed into his ankles to get his attention. He met his quips with half-hearted rebuttals, shaking his head with a little less force than normal. He kept a pouch of water within arm's reach, sipping on it like a lifeline when his breath caught a little too suddenly, inhaling slowly through his nose with his eyes squeezed shut.
For a while, he got to pretend he had it under control, got to pretend that he wasn't facing imminent doom and yet another trauma to add to his growing collection. This was just a blip, a tiny flare. It was bound to happen eventually. As much as he liked to pretend he didn't, and as much as he was presumably safe from triggers in outer space, he did still have asthma at the end of the day. Chronic illnesses could, in fact, cross galaxies. It wasn't crazy to think he'd eventually relapse.
And, like most things in Grace's life, that control eventually slipped.
He was midway through tightening his petri dishes when the air filters in the lab suddenly whired to life, sending a cold gust of clean air through the room. Usually, Grace could ignore them; the purifiers nothing but another ambient sound he'd slowly gotten used to over the course of his journey, but as the cold air continued to fill the room, he paused, his hand subconsciously drifting to his chest.
The air was sharp, bitter, stinging his airways as he inhaled. The tightness that had been lingering in his chest all day suddenly worsened, squeezing his lungs in an iron fist. He curled in on himself slightly, his hand still spread over his chest, as if protecting himself from what he knew was about to come. Fuck.
"Grace okay, question?"
Grace jumped and straightened, looking to his feet to see Rocky directly below him, his carapace tilted towards him analytically. He exhaled shakily, rubbing his sternum with his knuckles as he tried to catch his breath. "What's..." His breath caught. He forced another. "What's that, pal?"
"Grace breathing pattern changed. Grace breathing noisy, noisy, noisy! Grace okay, question?"
His breathing was...? Grace paused and took another shaky breath, wincing as it dragged up his throat with a painful sound. Only now did he notice just how terrible he sounded. His wheeze echoed through the lab - his pathetic, little, rattling hiss overpowering even the loudest of their equipment. His exhale was no better, forcing itself out of his lungs with the same ferocity and desperation of a wild animal trying to escape a cage. The sound filled his ears, pounding in his head the same way it did when he was a child. No, no, no...
He rubbed at his sternum again, his spare hand coming up to scratch at his neck as he tried and failed to clear his throat. The adrenaline was starting to pump through his veins, his fingers starting to tingle even as they moved against his skin, and as he blinked, spots flooded his vision, knocking him off balance until he swayed on his feet. He looked frantically around the room, searching for a flat surface to lean against. He needed to sit down, and fast.
His hand clutching at his workbench, he lowered himself to the floor, leaning his forehead against the cool metal as tears welled in his eyes. His whole body shuddered with the force of his breath, his abdomen clenching as he swallowed down a cough. His parents always told him it was better to get it out, that there was no point repressing the inevitable, but he knew better. He knew that, once he started coughing, he wouldn't stop. He'd be a lost cause, at the mercy of a respiratory system hellbent on killing him.
It was almost ironic. He'd survived so much. A drugging, a coma, years in space with only his own mind (and eventually, a rock alien) to keep him company. He'd gone on unprepared space walks, had survived a space storm, had been exposed to alien substances and stepped into unknown tunnels, taking his helmet off with barely a second thought. But after all that, it was his asthma that was going to kill him. The same thing he'd been battling his whole life, that had been trying to kill him since he was a child, the thing he thought he'd overcome, was going to be his downfall.
He didn't want to let the panic overcome him. The panic only made it worse; he knew that. Crying did nothing but make it harder to breathe; anxiety did nothing but tighten his lungs more, but as he sat there, he couldn't help but start to freak out. He wasn't an idiot; he knew asthma attacks had the ability to kill. He'd been blue in the lips enough as a child to know that it'd nearly killed him on more than one occasion. And that was on Earth. Where there were hospitals and ambulances and rescue medications to save him. There wasn't any of that here. There'd be no blue and red flashing lights beaming through his living room window. There'd be no cartoon stickers or anti-aggression posters. There'd be no adrenaline shots, nothing to stop his throat from closing up completely.
Rocky rolled himself over to where Grace sat, stopping in front of him with a wordless chirp, the closest he could get to a questioning sound. Grace raised his head, looking at him through hooded eyes. His breaths continued to rattle, the sting of oxygen against his inflamed trachea sending pain shooting through the rest of his body. "It's okay, Rock." Grace didn't know who he was trying to reassure - himself or his companion - but even so, the words fell flat. There wasn't much to be believed when he sounded like a steam train. "It's just something that happens sometimes."
Rocky shook his carapace. "Lies! Rocky listen to Grace breathing every day. Grace breathing has never sounded like this before." Oh, if only he knew. "Tell Rocky what is wrong with Grace stupid human breathing system. Rocky fix."
"I don't think-" Unable to repress it any longer, Grace coughed harshly into his shoulder, his throat burning as it broke through. The sound was almost wet; loud and violent as it reverberated through his head. He winced, tilting his head back and sucking in a desperate breath as his head spun. His heart was beginning to pound, the force of his cough ruining what was left of his thinly veiled composure. He coughed again. "I don't think there's anything... you can do about this one."
Rocky honked a loud, offended sound and jumped backwards, his body at full alert as he stared at Grace. "Loud, loud, loud mouth sounds! What was that? Why Grace make that sound, question?"
Had he seriously never coughed in front of Rocky before? They'd been on the ship together for years, had seen each other through thick and thin. Rocky had seen him bleed, had seen him throw up, and, knowing he could see through walls, probably other things too. But he'd never heard him cough? "It's a cough. It's a reflex." He exhaled shakily. "Something the body does... when it's trying to clear the airways."
"But why Grace ♫♩♫♩♫? Grace hasn't ♫♩♫♩♫ before. Why now?"
"I-" Grace drew in another breath, the whistle in his lungs only growing louder. Talking seemed like an impossible feat, every spare ounce of oxygen he had going into the coughs that continued to force their way out of him. His heart raced, beating furiously against his ribcage and thundering through his body as it tried to keep up, only worsening his growing dizziness. Bringing his hands back up to his neck, he clawed at the skin on his throat, leaving a trail of angry red lines in his wake, desperate for air he just couldn't get. The tingling sensation that had settled in his hands was beginning to spread up his arms and down his legs, leaving him a dead weight on the floor, and as he drew in another breath, a long line of drool fell from his mouth, pooling in his lap. He was rapidly losing control, both of his breathing and his consciousness, and soon, he'd be entirely at the mercy of his own body, helpless to whatever was going to happen to him.
Despite the cold air that continued to flood the room - did the air filters always stay on this long? Or was this just a cruel trick of the universe? - heat flooded his body, leaving a trail of sweat dripping through his hair and down the back of his neck. He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up, pressing his head harder against the bench in a hopeless attempt to cool down, even as he continued to bark. Nothing was working. Nothing was helping him. There wasn't much more that he could do.
"Grace? Grace okay? Answer Rocky," Rocky trilled, clicking frantically in Grace's direction. His song was high-pitched, anxious, and as Grace forced his head up, another round of tears welled in his eyes. Rocky. Oh God, Rocky. Grace couldn't imagine what he was thinking, couldn't imagine what he looked and sounded like from his perspective; panting and drooling all over himself, all his organs in overdrive as they tried to keep up. It was one thing to be trapped in an asthma attack - a horrible, terrifying thing - but to watch someone else have one? With no context or knowledge as to why? That had to be worse. Rocky probably thought he was dying.
Maybe he was.
It was an inevitability that Grace was going to die in front of Rocky. It was a fact, one that kept him up at night. The knowledge that, one day, he'd die just like Rocky's crew did. That Rocky would watch over a sleep Grace would never wake up from, leaving him alone once again. It just wasn't supposed to happen like this. It was meant to happen gradually. If not from the torturous pains of starvation, then from the burden of old age - whatever got to him first. It was meant to be slow. He was meant to give Rocky time to prepare. To accept it.
He wasn't meant to die like this. He didn't want to die like this.
Slowly, on trembling legs that buckled underneath him, he stood, clutching at any surface he could grab as he moved towards the dormitories. The dizziness was consuming, and he swayed on his feet, his whole body on an axis that begged for him to be horizontal, but still, he moved forward, a newfound level of determination pumping through him. Maybe it was the adrenaline starting to kick in harder, the survival instincts ingrained deep in his body finally overpowering the panic, or maybe it was the sound of Rocky's distressed cries, but Grace knew he had to do something. He couldn't just sit there and let himself fall into the darkness.
Even if he hadn't had an attack in years, asthma was the first thing listed on his medical history. Stratt had his medical history. Carl had his medical history. The fucking government had his medical history. With how long the mission was planned for, with the very idea alone that he and the others would be living on the Hail Mary for several years, surely at least one of them thought to pack some kind of medication? They'd managed to think about everything else, had planned for seemingly every scenario. He just prayed this one didn't slip through the cracks.
"Where Grace going?" He could hear Rocky trailing behind him, the xenonite crashing against the floor loudly in Rocky's haste to follow. His clicks were growing frantic, loud enough that Grace could hear them over his rasping and the ringing in his ears. "Grace sit down! Grace lungs struggling! Grace breathing getting worse!"
Finally, Grace reached the dorm, and he slumped to the floor, shuffling the rest of the way to his bag. Rocky wasn't wrong - his breathing was getting worse, becoming weaker and threadier by the second, and his chest was on fire, a blinding pain radiating through his abdomen with each cough he let out. Still, he reached for his bag, his numb fingers fumbling with the zip. Everything was blurring into one, every item he owned reduced to a haze of colour as his eyes glazed over, and nothing he touched felt real, every sense reduced to a far-off sensation he couldn't quite grasp or comprehend. But he dug, tossing t-shirts and socks to the side as he searched blindly for his personal kit. If it was going to be anywhere, it would be in there.
"Grace, take deep breaths, command!" Rocky cried, rolling the ball repeatedly into the back of his legs, his speed and force almost leading him to roll up his ankles. Though Grace could feel him, could feel the warmth of his body through the xenonite as he continued to slam into him, and could hear his chirping cries, Rocky felt far away, almost as if he were on a different planet. "Grace take deep breaths, now!"
On a normal day, Grace would've rolled his eyes. What a ridiculous thing to say to someone who literally couldn't breathe. Wasn't that the example that everyone on the internet used? 'Saying just don't be sad to someone with depression is like saying just breathe to a person with asthma.' He was sure he'd seen it somewhere before; he'd probably even laughed. But now, he just shook his head sadly, the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness combining with the crushing weight on his chest making him cough harder. "If... I... could-" He wheezed. "I... would."
Pulling his personal kit from the depths of his bag, he tore the pouch open, a sickening sense of relief filling him when he saw what lay there. An inhaler. They'd packed him an inhaler. The same greyish-blue rescue inhaler he'd been using his whole life, the only one that had ever come close to lessening the severity of his attacks. There was no spacer (ironic), just the pump itself, and there was no way it was in date; any inhaler he'd had lying around his apartment back home was long since expired, and even if they'd gotten him a new one when they sent him up, he'd been in space for well longer than its shelf life. At this point, though, he didn't care whether it was expired. An inhaler was an inhaler. He had no other choice. He brought it to his lips with a shaking hand and...
Nothing.
His hands were too weak, too numb, to do anything useful, and as he tried to press down on the metallic button, it slipped, falling through his fingers and skidding across the floor with a loud clatter, landing somewhere he couldn't reach. He whimpered, slumping against the bed behind him as another, harsh wave of coughing overcame him. There was no way he could get up, not again. Not with the way his legs were starting to ache, the lack of oxygen rendering them all but useless. Not with the way his vision was swimming either, clouds of blue and black dots dancing around his vision.
Grace drew his legs to his chest, pressing his forehead against his knees. He was in real trouble now. His saviour was out of reach, lost somewhere he couldn't get to, and he was paralysed, left a heaving ball on the floor. He knew, realistically, that without medical intervention, he didn't have much time before he passed out. His back was arching with the intensity of his coughs, his wheezing somehow still getting worse, and he was tired. So, so tired. He couldn't go on much longer.
"What Rocky do? What Rocky do to fix?"
Grace squeezed his eyes shut, a bubble of snot popping in his nose as he choked on a sob he didn't have the energy to generate. "Please-" He whispered, his voice instantly lost under the harsh sound of his breath. "Don't... leave... me."
That's all he could wish for now. Even if Rocky knew how to help him, even if Rocky could help him, he was a lost cause. He just didn't want to be alone. He was terrified, and though Rocky's scared cries and frantic rolling were only making him sadder, his presence was enough to at least bring him some peace, some comfort. If he was going to die, he wanted it to be with Rocky by his side. At least then the last thing he would see would be his best friend. Even if his best friend was on the verge of a panic attack himself.
"What Grace saying? Rocky can't understand Grace when Grace breathing so noisy!"
Grace's eyes drifted shut. Everything hurt, though at the same time, the numbness was enough to mask most of the pain, drowning him in awful tingling instead. He just wanted it to be over now. "Rocky-" There were so many things he wanted to tell him, so many things he'd planned to say when he died. That he was sorry for leaving him alone. That he was sorry for scaring him, for dying in the same way his crew did - in a horrible, traumatic way, right in front of his eyes.
That he was sorry he couldn't be there to watch him sleep anymore, and that he still wanted Rocky to watch over his, even if he never woke up from it. That, even if he wasn't there, it would be a comfort to know that Rocky never left him. That they'd be together even in death. He wanted him to know that he hoped he made it back to Erid, that he wanted nothing more than Rocky's happiness and success. That he wanted him to reunite with Adrian, and that he'd been looking forward to meeting them, something he would now never get to do.
He wanted to tell Rocky that he loved him. That he'd miss him. That he was the best friend he'd ever had, that finding him was the greatest gift he ever could've been given, and that he'd always be thankful that they crossed paths. That being forced into space was worth it, if it meant getting to meet him. That he'd do it all over again in a heartbeat, for him.
But he couldn't say any of that. He couldn't speak, couldn't do much more than slump against his bed and pray for it to be over soon.
"Grace!" Rocky wailed. Grace's pounding heart clenched. "Grace breathe! Grace has to breathe!"
Grace shook his head, his hands moving back to claw at his neck again. It burnt, but nothing could compare to the fire that was in his throat. His coughs, once violent and harsh, were growing weaker, turning into hopeless rasps the longer he sat there. Phlegm pooled at the base of his tongue, and for a horrifying moment, he thought he was going to throw up, but he didn't. He swallowed it down, feeling it the whole way down his throat. His breath was turning shallow, worse than it was before, and finally, a tear slipped from his eyes. Why couldn't it just be over?
His head still resting on his knees, he turned and caught sight of himself in the mirror from his personal kit. His skin was deathly pale, his eyes raw, his lips a horrible twinge of blue - almost the same colour as the stupid rescue inhaler. Even as a kid, he thought it was ironic. That the thing made to save him was almost the same colour as certain death.
In his spiral, he hadn't realised that the slamming against his ankles stopped, that he could no longer hear the devastated cries of Rocky. His head shot up, making it spin, and he searched the room frantically. No, no, no. He was alone. "Rocky-" He coughed, the sound not enough to travel through the now empty room. "Rock-" Another tear dripped onto his cheek, the congestion from crying clogging his throat further. "Ro-"
"Rocky fix! Rocky fix!" Like a superhero - his own, personal superhero, come to save the day - Rocky rolled back into his field of vision. At the edge of his ball, being pushed along with his momentum, was Grace's inhaler. "Have Grace medicine! Grace take medicine! Can breathe again!"
Grace shook his head. He'd tried. He was too weak, too pathetic, to do it himself. "I can't-"
"You can! Rocky help Grace!" Rocky nudged himself closer, forcing Grace to drop his legs and straighten his back to lean further against the bed. Already, the position was better, less straining on his lungs, but even so, pain continued to radiate through him, the muscles in his chest spasming as he leaned back. Rocky kept pushing forward until he was flush with Grace's chest, and using Grace as something of a ramp, forced the inhaler to rest on top of his ball. "Grace put arms on Rocky ball! Grace push button, is easier with ball!"
Grace paused, looking at him with delirious wonder. It was worth a shot; he'd try anything if it meant the pain would stop, that it would finally bring his breath back. His arms like a dead weight, he lifted them until they rested on the top of Rocky's ball, the tingling bursting like pins and needles as his elbows hit the xenonite. Rocky was warm, his heat clashing almost uncomfortably with Grace's, but he couldn't complain. Not as he was trying to help him. With his hands trembling, he reached for the button once again, and finally, finally, the medication hit his tongue, the aerosol taste stinging his taste buds. It worked.
He turned his head away, the force of the medication setting off another round of barking coughs. "It's okay," Rocky reassured him. "Try again."
Again, he pushed down weakly on the button, forcing his lungs to expand in a way they hadn't in almost an hour. It stung; the rescue inhaler always did, but Grace closed his eyes, desperately trying to take a deeper breath. Even as he came up short, even as his breath dissolved into skipping exhales with each puff of the inhaler, he kept going. Somewhere deep down, he knew it was working - even if it didn't feel like it yet. The wheeze began to soften, both in volume and intensity, and his coughing paused as he breathed around the nozzle, its presence in his mouth forcing him to take slower breaths.
Eventually, Grace slumped forward, falling into Rocky with the inhaler in his hand as he finally got his breath back. He'd had far too many doses of the inhaler; he'd lost count at around ten, and though the lightheadedness had only gotten worse, the wheezing had finally stopped, instead turning into a little rasp as his body regained control. He coughed one last time, wet and painful, and wiped at his face, his cheeks wet from sweat, saliva and tears alike. His whole body shook rapidly, the adrenaline crashing now that he could finally breathe, and he was exhausted. He forgot how taxing that was. His lungs felt like bruised fruit, his arms and legs like anvils but... he was alive. The medication had worked. He'd survived another asthma attack.
Carefully, like one wrong move would set Grace off again, Rocky rolled backwards and out of Grace's lap, hovering anxiously by his side. Grace brought his arms back up, wrapping him in a half-hug. He wasn't ready to let him go just yet. He needed him close. He needed the comfort. "Grace okay now, question?"
Was he okay? Not really. He still felt horrendous, every inch of his body in excruciating pain, and part of him was traumatised all over again, every memory from his childhood flooding back at once, but he was breathing. That's what mattered. He smiled half-heartedly. "Yeah, buddy, I'm okay now."
Rocky trilled, cautiously optimistic. "What happened to Grace?"
Grace bit his lip. He knew this was coming, the questions, the research. He just didn't expect it so soon. He expected at least a minute to breathe. Ha. Get it? "That was an asthma attack. The cold air caused my airways to tighten, and it made it harder for me to breathe."
"Has happened to Grace before, question?"
"Yeah, Rock," Grace sighed shakily, hiccuping the way one did after a particularly bad bout of sobbing. "I have asthma. That's happened... a lot of times before."
"Why Grace no tell Rocky Grace has ♫♩♫♩?”
"It hasn't happened in a long time." I didn't think it would happen again went unsaid, at least to Grace. He was stupid to be so naive; it was almost embarrassing. What kind of doctor, what kind of teacher, was he to believe his chronic illness could just vanish? He really was an idiot. "Not since I was young."
"Grace breathing sound bad, bad, bad. If Grace stop breathing, Grace die." Rocky's chirp was quiet, soft in a way he rarely was, and Grace's chest squeezed all over again. He really had scared him; he knew that, but hearing the vulnerability in Rocky's voice was enough to break his heart. Looking down at his best friend, tucked under his arm, looking up at him like he hung the moon and the stars (or so Grace liked to imagine), he couldn't believe he was almost so accepting of inevitable death. "♫♩♫♩ can kill Grace, question?"
"It..." Grace swallowed thickly. Though the mortality of asthma was something he had to grapple with at far too young an age, it never got easier to think about. "It can. Yes."
"Grace has to stay alive" Rocky wilted, pressing into Grace's arm. Grace had a sneaking suspicion that Rocky needed the comfort just as much as he did, and he tightened his arms where they lay around him, resting his cheek against the xenonite. "Rocky like Grace alive."
Grace smiled down at him, drawing him ever closer. That was something he could get behind. "I like me alive too, pal. I like me alive too."