Archive of Our Own

“I had a thought, dear
However scary
About that night
The bugs and the dirt
Why were you digging?
What did you bury
Before those hands pulled me
From the earth?”

Dennis is six years old the first time he faints. 

He doesn’t mean to, he just remembers feeling really off and trying to fight his way after Gerry, Kevin, and Casey. Usually one of them reaches back to push the broad green leaves of the fresh corn aside so Dennis doesn't get smacked in the face again, but today they're too busy racing one another, and he's left to shove through the scratchy stalks himself. His oversized denim overalls — already patched twice at the knees after belonging to at least two brothers before him — slap against his skinny legs with every step. He's barefoot, like he always is in the Nebraska summer, soles of his feet tough enough for packed dirt and he only winces when he pokes a broken husk or two. “Gerry! Casey!” He whines. “Kevin! Wait for me!”

But then he finds himself squinting up at the sky, feeling weird and shaky as he looks up. He doesn’t remember falling down. But when Gerry stomps back, annoyed, Dennis clams up. “There you are!” Gerry’s red-faced and irritated, probably after realizing the little tail he'd been ignoring had disappeared in the stalks completely. “What're you doin'?” Dennis doesn’t answer, his tummy still feels really bad. But Gerry just plants his hands on his hips. "For cryin' out loud, Dennis, you're layin' right on the corn.”

Dennis looks beneath himself, his head swimming around like a bagged goldfish at the state fair and sure enough, several young stalks have been bent flat where he'd landed. Gerry reaches down and grabs a fistful of Dennis’ denim overall bib and hauls him upright. “C'mon then! You're gonna get us in trouble crushin' Pa's corn.” 

It’s not the last time he faints, but it never gets less annoying — not just for him, but for everyone else around him too. He tries so hard to hide how bad it gets, but even then, his family knows he has funny turns. They know he ain’t right, but he figures how to fix it on his own. He figures his body will always be busted and if he don’t get a handle on it by himself then — well, no one else is gonna. 

By the time he's eight, he realizes hot showers are almost guaranteed to end with him on the floor: he'll scrub the dirt from behind his ears, rinse the shampoo from his hair, step out into the steam-filled bathroom and immediately feel the familiar wave crashing over him — he’ll stumble, arms pinwheeling as his pulse runs into a frantic gallop. Bright sparks will dance across his vision like fireflies and his hands will start to tremble so bad he can barely work the towel around him. The first few times it happens, he tries to make it to his bedroom — he never does though. Eventually, he gives up trying. Instead, the moment he dries off enough not to soak the floor, he lowers himself onto the cool tiles outside the tub, flat on his back with one arm over his eyes. He waits and waits and waits and within a minute or two, the pounding in his chest eases. The black curtain over his vision gets pulled away and blood seems to find its way back to his head; the terrible floating feeling slowly disappears.

His body, he realizes, likes being horizontal — it’s broken like that. But if he lies flat, then it acts a little better. He wishes he could always be flat.

Regardless, it's a useful thing to know and by the time he's ten, Dennis has become an expert in managing himself real good. He drinks water constantly, not because he's thirsty, but because if he doesn't, he pays for it. Every couple of hours he fills a mason jar from the kitchen sink and drinks until his belly feels stretched tight beneath his overalls, and he starts carrying a battered metal water bottle with him into the fields, ignoring his brothers when they tease him about drinking like a dairy cow. If he don’t drink, he feels even worse and even when he ain’t faintin’, he doesn’t feel good. 

Then there's the salt — his ma catches him eating plain salt off his palm one afternoon and wrinkles her nose. “Dennis Whitaker, what on earth are you doing?”

He shrugs. “It makes me feel better, Ma.”

He salts everything now: tomatoes, corn, potatoes, eggs — and sometimes, if no one's looking, he pours a little into his hand and licks it clean before chasing it with half a jar of water.

It all works well enough that he can keep up, enough that he can throw hay bales, carry feed buckets, muck stalls, and gather eggs beside his brothers without ending every afternoon unconscious in the dirt. He learns other tricks too: never stand still for too long and if his vision starts sparkling then he’s gotta cross his legs and squeeze every muscle, but if his heart starts racing then he’s gotta sit down in the dirt before he ends up face down in it. He never tells anyone about how bad it feels. He just drinks another glass of water when everyone else reaches for lemonade and quietly slips away after every day in the heat to lay on the cold bathroom tiles until the room stops spinning. He hates the hot so much. 

It isn’t until he’s seventeen in the nurse’s office, holding an ice pack to his swollen nose after going down hard in the bathroom at school, that he gets his first diagnosis: “Some folks are just weaker than others.”

Dennis faints for the first time in front of Jack and Robby, when he’s twenty-eight years old and he wants to kick himself for it. He’s so stupid. Stupid, for thinking that just because he’s in love and happy and eating and has a roof over his head, suddenly his body will work the way other bodies work. So stupid, so hopeful. 

He's spent years making sure people never see this part of his life, this part of him that can’t seem to get through everyday life, not the way other people do. He disappears into supply closets at work when his vision starts going fuzzy and leans against the Hub, desperately squeezing every muscle in his legs to keep his blood pressure up, chugging an electrolyte drink between traumas without anyone questioning it — everyone’s thirsty, everyone’s tired, Dennis is just uniquely unsuited for life. 

But of course, he can’t even remember to eat a handful of pretzels and has to put on a show — he’s so fucking weak. 

Jack’s standing at the stove, balancing on his crutch, with one hip smushed against the countertop for the rest of the support, fussing with a cast-iron skillet as butter foams around the pancake batter he’s been mixing for the last hour. The whole place smells like coffee, browned butter, and maple syrup. Robby’s sitting at the kitchen table with yesterday's newspaper spread in front of him, his attention divided between that and his Outlook on his iPad, grumbling under his breath about PTMC’s admin while pretending he isn't stealing bits of turkey bacon from the plate in the middle of the table every time Jack turns around.

Dennis would purr if he could, like a happy fat cat in the sun, it’s perfect; he’s so damn happy. Jack lovingly glances over one freckled shoulder as Dennis slips his long arms around his soft waist from behind, both of them mindful of the hot skillet as Dennis presses his cheek between Jack's damp shoulder blades. Jack smells like Irish Spring soap, coffee, and the stink of a long restful sleep, a rarity for the older man. He stretches up onto his toes to get even closer to bare skin, Jack’s a bit taller than he is and Dennis noses into the back of his neck, where his gray curls are making damp little sweaty ringlets. Without thinking, Dennis catches one soft curl gently between his teeth and gives it an affectionate little tug. Jack snorts, “Quit it, puppy.” It’s a tone that says he would swat at Dennis’ hind end if he could. 

Mornings are always the worst, symptom-wise. Dennis’ blood volume is lowest after a night's sleep and he hasn't had his first liter of water yet. He hasn't even eaten breakfast. It never crosses his mind to go for the handful of pretzels or salted peanuts he usually reaches for before he even brushes his teeth. He's been standing perfectly still for several minutes to cuddle Jack, balanced on his tiptoes, instead of quietly flexing the muscles in his calves like he usually does. It shouldn’t be surprising, what comes next — his ears begin to ring. Oh. Then his heartbeat surges, galloping because of nothing, straining from the effort of just keeping him upright, trying to get blood to his head. The kitchen suddenly feels hotter and Dennis opens his eyes to sparkles, tiny silver flecks dancing across his vision. “Uh oh.”

It’s the only warning his lovers get, usually Dennis is so much better at getting himself on the floor.

Instead, the next thing he knows, he’s blinking up at the ceiling — his head pillowed on what can only be Jack’s thick thighs. “You scared the shit outta me, sweetheart.” 

Dennis groans. “Oh.” He shuts his eyes again. “I’m such an idiot.”

Robby grunts at that and Dennis expects a lecture or at least him to be pissed off, as he peeks open his eyes and peers over. But first, he spots the way his legs are up on Robby’s shoulders. Then he sees the worry in those warm brown eyes. “How long was he out, Jack?” 

“Five, maybe six seconds.” Jack’s fingers slide from Dennis’ cheek to the side of his neck. “Pulse is fast, 140 but falling.” Oh, he must have been sky-high then. 

“It’s fine.” Dennis tries, his voice wobbling, “It happens sometimes. Lemme up.”

“What?” Jack looks at him carefully, eyes hawk-keen, “What do you mean, it happens?”

Dennis swallows back a mouthful of what is probably puke, it stings — he should have just kept his big ol’ mouth shut. “It’s been happening since I was a kid. Probably some kind of dysautonomia, I’m handling it though.” It falls on deaf ears. 

Jack practically balks, “Pup, you’re on the floor — you ain’t handling shit.”

Dennis feels indignant, the frosting on his ever-rising cupcake of shame. “Look, it’s just, my body does this sometimes, okay?” He huffs, scrubbing at his face. “It’s always done this. I know what it feels like before it happens, the presyncope. Usually I can stop it.”

“What do you mean probably? You probably have dysautonomia?” Robby squeezes his calves, three quick pumps in quick succession. “Have you been evaluated?”

Dennis shakes his head, with a little sigh. “No, but I’ve looked it up.” Robby makes a noise of profound suffering. “Stop, I’ve read papers,” Dennis adds. “It fits. I’ve always had orthostatic symptoms, tachycardia, and presyncope. Sometimes I get nauseated. Sometimes I’m exhausted for no reason. Heat makes it worse. Mornings are bad. Standing still is bad. But I feel better when I’m lying down. It’s probably some kind of autonomic dysfunction and that’s lifestyle management, I’ve got it.”

“Bullshit, there are meds, fluids — you just diagnosed yourself! You could have any number of other conditions, Jesus H. Christ.” Jack grits out.

“Hey, I made an educated guess.”

“You’ve never seen a doctor for it!”

Dennis pouts, petulant at the best of times, “I am a doctor.” But it sounds thin, pathetic, even to him. 

“You’re telling me,” Robby says slowly, “— that you have recurrent syncope, chronic orthostatic symptoms, tachycardia, heat intolerance, and possible exercise intolerance, and you have never been evaluated. Dennis.” You know better than that. 

But it’s ridiculous! Come on, Dennis has watched people come into the emergency department with ruptured aneurysms and septic shock and bullet wounds, and compared to that, his dizziness feels ridiculous, his fainting feels embarrassing. He knows what real emergencies look like. He knows what sick people look like. He isn’t! He works, he knows exactly how much water to drink and exactly when to salt his food and how much. He knows what to do if the floor starts moving. He knows how to lock his knees without making it obvious. He knows how to smile through the ringing in his ears. It’s not a big deal! He manages just fine, no one else has to know how weak he is. 

He startles a little as Robby rips open a BP cuff. “I don’t need that.”

They both pointedly ignore him. “Lie still.”

Dennis sighs and shuts up as he watches the numbers climb — they’re low; not critically, it’s not shock, but they are pretty low. Robby looks at the screen, then at Dennis. “Have you checked this before, puppy?”

“Sometimes.”

“How do you usually run?”

Dennis doesn’t answer. He knows Robby won’t like the answer, neither of them will and Dennis has had enough of that today. The quiet must piss him off more though, because Robby visibly grits his teeth and adjusts the cuff. “You’re going to make an appointment with cardiology, possibly neurology. You need an ECG, echo and labs. We need to rule out anemia, thyroid disease, electrolyte problems, malignant arrhythmias, structural cardiac disease—”

“I’m not getting an echocardiogram because I fainted one time in front of you guys.” Dennis is horrified, he can’t help it — this is such overkill. 

“You are if we think you need one.” 

Dennis groans, covering his face with both hands; humiliated.