Work Text:
Was this some kind of silent treatment?
You said work was busy. Videocalls faded to short texts. Sometimes it was only that damn happy snowman sticker, letting him know you'd taken meds on time. Or was that only a reminder for yourself?
There was no welcome home sentiment, just fading back into his routine alone following a business trip. Zayne organized his bookshelf, reorganized his closet. He had a lot of patience, waiting until that snowman greeted his phone.
But it didn't appear. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Your conversation was open, and the typing dots never surfaced.
Are you forgetting something?
He sent the text, beginning to wonder whether you'd forgotten him.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then another. He called. There was no answer.
Zayne glanced at his keys, how the one to your apartment hung on the ring.
You resented the light. The sound of curtains pushed aside to let it in. Perhaps it was your fault for giving him the spare key.
Sweat stuck to your forehead, the only part of you that wasn't buried beneath blankets. You pretended to be asleep, not acknowledging the soft footsteps to the side of your bed.
"You should be getting up now," he said as if stating a fact. "Do you know what time it is?"
Your arm tensed around the pillow. "…hurts."
Zayne sat down beside you. "What hurts?"
Your hand slowly came out from under the blanket, drawing a shape on the sheet.
"Hm, everything?"
"Don't laugh," you pouted. Maybe the infinity symbol was a bit dramatic, but you didn't want to speak. You wanted to hurt less.
Even your eyes burned, so you shut them. Felt how dry the lids were. Uncanny, like powdered sugar. You nuzzled into the pillow, squeezing them shut tighter. Aware of how stupid your face must look, half squashed, and not caring. Zayne invited himself in. Having a key to your apartment didn't mean you would always be a good host.
His hand was on your forehead for a second, maybe two. Then rummaging through the nightstand. And then on the side of your jaw. "Open your mouth."
The only acknowledgement he got was slightly parted lips. And then your face scrunching back at the thermometer underneath your tongue.
"I'm sorry, love. It's the most accurate one, and I can already tell that your temperature is elevated."
That would make sense of how miserable you felt. Heart aching in your chest, skeleton screaming, all those usual chronic ailments dialed up and accompanied by more.
Your palm flipped over, wordlessly begging for what you'd expected.
Beeps interrupted, the oral thermometer dragged out from its nesting spot.
"We'll check it again later." He placed something in your palm. Wrapped in paper!
"This is what you wanted?" He took it back, prompting a glare. "Can you easily unwrap this with one hand? I didn't think so."
Your other arm was still pinned beneath your side. Losing circulation, but the joints were pretty stable. Not worth the effort to reposition. But you wanted that cough drop. Had spent all day trying to bribe yourself into getting up for it, but lying down without one after every bathroom trip. At least you had a few cups of water, but they hurt going down, and the idea of sleeping it off clouded your mind immediately after.
"I don't want you to choke on it. Sit up for me?"
You didn't want to move. Wanted to argue, but couldn't find the words nor the audacity to speak at all. Retreated inward just enough to cough under the blanket.
He was killing you.
"Alright, we'll take it slow." Zayne cupped your cheek where it was pressed into the pregnancy pillow, rolling your head along it until you faced the ceiling. "Not so bad, is it?" the weight of his hand didn't budge. The other began to trail along your throat. Pads of the fingers feeling just how swollen it all was. Despite the stiff soreness of your own body, the steadiness of his hands was somewhat relieving.
"Are you ready to sit up now?" And still, you knew that he was toying with you.
It was harder to breathe in this position. You knew better than to lie down on your back with a cough, and horizontal shoulders was enough to make your chest feel heavy and underwater.
Plus, you kind of were dying of thirst. Eyed the untouched bottle of water as you relented.
"Good," he slowly readjusted your legs, and then guided your shoulders to sit up against a wall of pillows. As a reward, he cracked open that room-temperature water and handed it over.
Then he placed a tablet on your lap. You recognized the page — it was an AAC board for sick children. Though adults who couldn't speak for whatever reason used the same one, its illustrations and voices always felt infantilizing. You might complain but it wasn't a high priority for a busy hospital to handle. And all you had to do was turn the volume off to eliminate most of the jab.
His questions were simple enough. Prodding for symptoms he hadn't already noticed. And when was the last time you ate? The damn calendar was confusing. You ate when the alarm to do so went off on your phone. But when was that?
When I texted you, you typed out instead.
"Have you only been eating when it's time for meds?"
You nodded once, hitting the button for bed.
Avoiding Zayne's eyes, you finished off the water, dropping the empty bottle carelessly at your side. He took it away, and finally placed that very loosely-wrapped cough drop in your hand.
"Be careful," he reminded gently.
You hated that. Hated how a damn hypermobile flare could make it painful to text, to unwrap a cough drop, how it sometimes became difficult to swallow without choking. A salad craving was practically a death sentence. Dry foods were out of the question. Something that melted in your mouth should be pretty safe.
But he could see it. How your joints were on fire, how every bone felt spiky, especially in your ribcage. That inflamed, sensitive connective tissue could flare up so easily. And being sick on top of that? With a cough that could trigger costochondritis if you didn't already have it?
You didn't even want to be observed by yourself, let alone another person. You kept wincing. Short of breath, yet heavy. Blinking through the heat of your burnt eyes, and yet a shiver spread from your shoulders. The covers were only across your lap. You needed them higher—
"It's already warmer than usual room temperature in here," he frowned. That disapproving stare, the closest Zayne had to pouting.
Maybe you were driving him just as mad.
Zayne kissed your forehead with a promise of warm soup.
Your end of the deal was probably to not hide under the covers again. Getting comfortable in a new position until he returned wouldn't be worth the strain… But throwing an extra blanket over yourself? It was better that way. You weren't very good at regulating body temperature on the average day, he should give you some grace.
You flinched, just barely, hearing his footsteps back to your room.
"Let's take it outside." His voice was still so calm, so light, but always steady. Unmovable, most likely.
"I'm gross," you shook your head, clawing for excuses.
"It's warm outside. You could use the sunlight."
"Don't care," the tablet spoke. You turned the volume up for that and cringed at the sound. Why were all the voice actors children, or pretending to be?
Zayne's arms crossed, his head tilted to the side. "Alright, then. Bathing."
You closed your eyes, lips pressed together. You could go along with it, call his bluff by agreeing easily. But that was his fighting stance, and you couldn't believe it had been a joke.
"Fine." Your throat ached, but you were disgusting. Barely moving in the past week, even to get clean. Either you'd win this little spat or come out of it feeling a little lighter.
Zayne had one arm beneath your shoulders, and the other under your knees. Whether he was taking you to the bathroom or the balcony felt like a game of Russian roulette.
Bath. It was bath.
But he didn't make any petty remarks. Didn't make you feel worse for it. Just helped you undress, removing the clothes you'd worn for days, returning your limbs to a position without too much strain each time. He didn't make the water cold, though it could have been a bit hotter.
You didn't exactly get to complain when it was his hands clearing away the buildup of old skin and sweat. It hurt to have skin. It hurt to have bones. It hurt to have hair follicles. But this wasn't making it worse. Pressure of suds and washcloths worked out some tension hidden deep within the muscle. Just sitting in the bath was a pathetic welcome change in scenery. The back of your eyelids, the blanket, the wall, got old sometimes.
The transition from warm water to slightly less-warm air was annoying. You shivered in a towel sat on the sink, welcoming whatever clothes he picked out for you. Welcoming the summer air and sunlight, even.
Zayne passed you a thermos of soup with a straw in it. He'd gotten a matching one for himself.
"I noticed you're running low on liquid doses," he frowned, measuring out your daily meds into a syringe. "Next time, I'll write a script for those instead of pills."
It was your turn to frown. Thump your straw against the bottom of the thermos.
"Are you unhappy with this?"
You glanced at the table, to the AAC board still up. You typed, but turned the volume off first again.
I'm tired of feeling like a child.
His brows furrowed. "You are not a child. Sometimes, adults need accommodations that most often go to children. And there are young children who walk with canes. Age is not the deciding factor in anyone's care."
You sighed, knowing that he was right, and drank your soup.
The pills made you feel more grown, more capable of handling anything at all that you were supposed to. But there was often a price, a weighing of the risks before swallowing them down. It was unpleasant.
Don't change happy snowman.
"Don't change happy snowman? You mean the pills on his head?"
You nodded. A syringe would look cute on him too; it was at least better than a spoon. But you liked Zayne's stickers the way they were.
"Alright, then. I won't."
You believed him. Watched Zayne's hair drift in the breeze, the way he seemed to bask in it, contrasted by the chills raising on your own arms.
You hit the blue snowflake button for cold, knowing that he would notice even without the sound.
He laughed under his breath. You forced yourself up, bracing on the table. Vision suddenly pulsing a dark blue, swaying on your feet despite the way your palms had planted themselves.
"Why would you do that?" Zayne asked lightly, not expecting an answer. You'd just given him one, anyway. You wanted your bed. It was cold.
You didn't bother to retort, only catching your breath and letting Zayne carry you back inside. Onto the sofa, more like a chaise lounge with the way it was decorated by pillows against the arm.
"Reckless as always," he commented. "I'll be right back."
He was right. You knew better than to stand up so quickly on a good day. And now? Your vision was still crawling back to normal, even darker from having adjusted to the light outside.
The balcony door slid open, then shut behind Zayne as he returned to the coffee table.
"You should take your meds now, that your stomach isn't empty."
"Right," you breathed, still blinking up at the muted ceiling as you felt a syringe between parted lips. It was easier this way. Tasted weird, at least that made you feel older. Closer to your own age, at least.
"I've also prepared some medicine that was left in your cabinet. They can be taken together."
You got the idea. Complied again, eyes hazily looking up to him this time.
Zayne stroked your forehead, emptying the last syringe into your mouth. "I'm going to change the sheets. You might start to feel drowsy soon."
He left no chance to argue. Just faded down the hallway, throwing old bedding in the laundry and replacing it. You should be doing that. But all you could do was breathe, feel the snot slide down the back of your throat. At least he didn't get to see what color it was.
"Want to go back to bed?" Zayne was down at eye level. You hadn't heard him approach over the electric hum and running water.
He carried you easily back again, set down carefully before crawling in himself.
"You'll get sick," you mumbled, looking around for the missing J pillow. Your mattress felt bare without it.
"It's alright. The business trip finished ahead of schedule, so I have this week off already. And you may kick me out, but those pillowcases are not dry yet. You'll have to rely on me, for now."
Seriously, what right did this guy have to scold you on a sense of self-preservation? Not to say that it didn't end up in your favor. Your breath felt too loud, uncertain whether that was your own sensitivity to any stimuli, or the loudness of a sick person.
Still, he encouraged your head to rest in his shoulder. His thigh pressed between your knees the way that J pillow always was. Despite how your heart throbbed, his beat evenly, like seconds passing by an analog clock. Maybe you would see if it was possible to tell time by. Counting each pulse might distract from the fire on your bones.
"Whats wrong?"
Your eyes were heavy, head leaned against the bathroom wall. The door was left open after sinking to the floor, deciding to pick your nose with toilet paper until gathering the strength to stand or crawl back to bed.
That never happened. You only grew more tired, half-asleep when the light must have kept him awake.
"Sorry," you whispered through dry lips. Tempted to bite the skin off, but for the ache in your jaw.
"Don't apologize. Do you need something? No? Let's go, then."
Your head felt so heavy. Pounding as you found chapstick on the nightstand and rubbed it on.
"I don't like seeing you like this," Zayne reached for something. "You should drink more water."
You leaned over, resting your head on his chest instead.
"I mean it."
You huffed, spinning around to collapse on your back. There were a million things that you should be doing. A trillion more that you wanted to. And you were sick of every should.
If Zayne didn't want to see you like this, then he could look away. Replace his presence with your pregnancy pillow. Its cover had to be dry by now. A yawn took over. You couldn't care less what he did. Wasn't sleep recommended? Hadn't he given you medicine specifically for that?
Zayne's hand closed around your wrist, holding it away from your mouth. Beyond your closed, watering eyes there was a light. His other hand was on your chin.
You pulled away, rolling onto your side. "You cannot be serious."
"You could let me help you."
"God, you're such a creep," you argued, voice cracking into a coughing fit.
Reluctantly you forced yourself up to drink.
"Was the back of my throat so fucking enlightening?" Through a tired glare, you saw the smile he fought.
"A little, sure. But I'd like to run some tests to be certain."
Of course he would.
You pressed your forehead into his shoulder. Skin not only burning, but trying to crawl off. Every fucking thing hurt so bad. It always did, but just kept growing. Like sisyphus with a boulder wrapped in snow, mounting into an avalanche. And the weight of gravity on your neck, of the pressure on your chest, it all felt so buried alive.
You wanted to ask for painkillers but knew that afterwards, sensitivity would increase. And when you dealt with chronic pain? The aftermath didn't seem worth a temporary relief. Not to mention potential side effects, or whether it was even possible to combine with your other medications.
"You will get better," Zayne rubbed your shoulders. "Faster if we can diagnose and treat it properly."
Did you forget that not all illness was eternal? That just because this seemed like an extension of the average, didn't mean it was also a new normal?
There was no cure for hEDS. And even if there was, would its cure leave your heart condition still in its wake? You were born this way. Taking a casual beating every day from the inside out, until it became too debilitating to function. Only then did you realize most people complained about standing in line due to their own impatience, not physical pain. That sitting in class was boring, not that it caused a pit of dread to drop from everyone's heart and spread panic like poison into their hands.
"Let me take your temperature."
Zayne waited to pull away until you agreed. It seemed more elevated now than before. You were afraid of what he might see, but even more desperate to feel a little less terrible, to gain some semblance of independence.
He kept holding your head to his chest, while putting the thermometer under your tongue again. You hated feeling so observed. But with or without any kind of exam, there was illness blatantly on display. Logically, that one little instrument added nothing.
Still, there were better uses for Zayne's hands. You took them to your ribcage, wincing at the touch. It hurt so bad. But you needed his cold fingers. Wanted him to stop playing doctor so severely, just be your ice pack for a moment. He felt around gently, no doubt noting the warm skin and inflammation beneath it.
Again, that alarm protruding from your mouth broke the quiet. You sighed, handing Zayne the thermometer. One of his cool hands stayed splayed on your side.
"I should stop by the office, regardless of your being sick. But I am still your primary care physician. Let me help."
You bit your tongue. If letting Zayne run his tests meant feeling less terrible sooner, then you were stupid to turn that down. It wasn't likely you'd be able to sleep well in your own bed.
"Okay." You made no move to get up. Meant to, but it was so heavy. Rigid. Every breath draining the energy it would take to move. And then the mental strain of navigating your own joints, how to move slowly and carefully and not pull something out of place. Keep legs attached to the body. It all took so much energy to walk from one room to the next.
"Are you ready? Good. I'll get the chair."
Your fists gripped the edge of the mattress, feet dangling for a second. It was a manual wheelchair because you wanted to feel in control. But bad shoulders were not a good match, and you mostly self-propelled at home. Easier to walk while sitting down than standing up.
Zayne attached the footplate, slid a comfortable pair of shoes on your feet. The handle bars you resented settled onto the back so that he could push it. This was, at least, better than being carried into the hospital and borrowing one of their wheelchairs.
The drive was too short. The hospital fluorescents too bright. At least it was late at night, and no one stopped him in the hall to socialize or ask for advice. It was nicer in his office, with potted plants Dr. Greyson cared for in his absence, and jasmine on the windowsill.
"Now then, let's start with vitals." Zayne helped you onto the exam table, running through his routine. A blood pressure reading from both arms. A pulse oximeter. Another goddamn thermometer.
"Didn't we just," your throat closed up, forcing you to cough into your shoulder.
"Humor me."
It wasn't funny. But you didn't have the energy to fight it.
The otoscope looked into your ears. Maybe there was an infection. You hadn't figured out where the fever came from. Just… You were always ill, for no reason, besides that being the way that you are. Chronic illness means always falling somewhere on the spectrum of unwell. Asking why was futile.
Zayne kept one hand on your head, supporting the weight too heavy on your neck, as he moved to the other side and looked again. He instructed your breaths with the bell of that stethoscope on your back. And then its diaphragm on your chest as he listened.
"Figure it out yet?" you muttered, reaching for tissues and a paper cup of warm water.
"Not exactly. Ask me again after the labwork results come in."
Your brows scrunched up. "What labs?"
"A few nasal swabs and blood tests."
You frowned. "I don't want to."
"You would prolong your own suffering by days, if not weeks, to get out of a few uncomfortable seconds?" Zayne's arms were crossed again, looking down at you like you both knew better than to make such a choice.
"I'll sweeten the deal. One poke, we'll get the blood sample and place an IV at the same time. While the root cause may not be dehydration, it certainly isn't helping your case."
You scoffed, "That's a bribe?"
"It is. We'll begin treatment without delay, and you only have to give me one attempt with a single needle."
You bit your lips and decided to let him try.
Zayne's hand was under your jaw, guiding your head back just a little as his long swabs grazed high in your nostril. Maybe you shouldn't have agreed to that. The itch, the tickle, the watering eye, the brightly colored snot that must be on there… You didn't want to look at it. Listened as he shut those samples into their long tubes.
"Good job. You're welcome to lie back if it's more comfortable."
With a sigh, you did as he suggested. Glanced over the sofa in his office for a blanket to steal. By the time you summoned determination to sit up, the door opened and he was back already with more medical supplies.
"Give me your hand."
You flinched. There were needles.
"Don't look at it," Zayne chided. "If you let me do this, then I'll get you a warm blanket. Maybe even two."
It was only half-fair. He knew the fluids ran cold.
"Fine," the word forced out through gritted teeth.
"Good," his tone remained light. Too light. You wanted to force your hand away from the tourniquet, but didn't want to be called a petulant child. Even if you were acting like one. Even if cold fluids might help your fever go down.
"Just breathe." He continued, and you didn't want to see what he was doing.
Turned to look out the window instead. Blue hour was fading in already. You wondered if the birds were all identified and named as they streaked across the sky. If he knew them by silhouettes, and called them all by medications.
The needle was sharp. The pinch was over so quickly, and soon an IV catheter was sitting nicely in the vein. You wouldn't admit that it would be more painful to drink the water yourself. Kept watching the birds, or windows lighting up in the other building.
"There," his thumb smoothed the adhesive over where the line entered. "You can look now."
You wanted to remind him that was a nurse's job. But already knew what he'd say. That they're busy, and he doesn't want to let any skills waste away, no matter how common or trivial they might seem.
And truthfully, you knew he was good at it. Felt less anxious in his hands than you would anyone else's.
Ultimately it wasn't Zayne that had you irritated. It was pain that grated harshly at the slightest motion; it was mostly your own skeleton's fault if you needed to point fingers somewhere.
He adjusted the clear bag hung from a metal pole, adjusted the drip rate and you tried not to squirm at the sensation.
"Can you turn the light," your voice broke again. The coughs were getting worse. Zayne came here to get some work done, he couldn't be your ice pack.
The lights shut off save for a soft lamp at his desk and the deep blue sky. He promised to return with the blankets and tea after dropping off vials of blood you hadn't even noticed being collected.
Zayne helped you get settled on the sofa, using rolled up blankets in place of your J pillow. "Sleep if you can. Or if you would like something to eat, I don't mind going for a walk. We can go together if you'd prefer."
Besides the aforementioned tea, he'd also set down a snack plate. You took an applesauce, not for eating, but to use as an ice pack.
"Thanks," you whispered, noticing the soft cold packs on his table and thinking it might feel good to eat something. But your hand couldn't peel off the tab sealing that container shut.
"Of course," Zayne took it and opened a small portion so that it would be easy to drink from without spilling. "It's what I'm here for."
He ate a few snacks of his own, and sat down to check on test results. Calmly told you the diagnosis and the medication he was going to add.
With nothing left to anticipate, it was almost fun to watch him finish setting up the IV. Some of the medications that got injected to the bag of saline were brightly colored, and watching them mix was kind of like a lava lamp.
Until it all blended to one solid color, the only point of interest how it glowed from a golden ray of sunrise through the window. Zayne typed behind his desk quietly, focused on files that were finally not about what was wrong with you.
You nuzzled into the makeshift pillows, finally able to rest.