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“Is Kriti coming this afternoon?” Adam asks from the couch. He hadn’t slept the last night, coughing hard enough to vomit and too frequently to really rest. “It’s a school day, or whatever.”
“I don’t know if you’re feeling up to tutoring, kiddo,” Calla says. “You were up all night. You should rest this afternoon.” It’s been about four months since the district and the doctors outvoted Adam on homebound schooling. He’s made it farther than she thought, after that awful week with him and Blue and the hospital, but he’s sixteen now and he needs new lungs. He’s getting up there on the transplant list, but it’s going to take another bad event for him to speed to the top. Otherwise, it’ll take a few more months.
He’s so sick. Just on a baseline level.
Actually, homebound schooling has helped. He wakes up much later, but he has energy to do something beyond what he has to do. It’s not just school, nap, RT and whatever PT they can get him to do, nap with Ronan, eat, nap with Ronan but in front of the TV, RT, sleep. He will go on a walk with Ronan, for a drive, will do something besides be at home or at school or at an appointment. And he’s not constantly getting sick from school germs.
But there’s so much that’s going on. There’s the CPAP because he just stops breathing when he sleeps, the continuous feeds through the g-tube because he just can’t eat that much anymore, and on his best days the extra energy being home isn’t that much. Not when there’s so much respiratory therapy and physical therapy and appointments just to keep his baseline from deteriorating further.
If Calla’s learned one thing this year, it’s that you do not fuck with transplant teams.
“I should do school,” Adam says from where he’s laying on the couch. “It’s just Kriti. I’ll make it through.”
“If you’re not feeling well enough to eat or sleep, you’re not well enough to do school.” Calla’s voice is gentle but firm. “And Andrew from Home Health is coming to check on your port and see how you’re doing. Is Ronan coming over?”
“Yeah, he said he was,” Adam says. “Should I tell him not to or something? I’m not sick,” Adam says. He’s very adamant about that, no matter how thin or pale or dizzy he is on a given day.
“Not unless you’re not feeling up to it.” Calla has been sure to be crystal clear on this. She has no problem with Ronan. Well, not any more. The snake is good for Adam, challenges him to get out of the house on good days, but meets Adam where he’s at. Always, and without question. He isn’t grossed out by the snot or the procedures or anything. He’s good to Adam. That’s all they can ask. “How has your sugar been today?”
“Low. Because puking,” Adam answers. The shitty mucus disease hasn’t stopped at his lungs—it’s apparently decided to plug up his pancreas, too. So now he has to worry about insulin and blood sugar on top of lungs that have decided to tap out.
“I’ll call Kriti,” Calla says. “Do you think you can try lunch, or do you want to rest in your bed before home health?”
“Can I stay down here? Stairs aren’t giving me good vibes today,” Adam says, an admission that he had refused to give when he was clinging to school for dear life. But it comes easily now, because he takes breaks on the one flight of stairs between the living room and his bedroom. “And I still have AP work to do. The tests are still in two months.”
Calla feels his forehead. “You’re a little warm, and you sound a little snotty. Are you sure you’re not feeling congested?”
“I’m always feeling congested,” Adam says. “Comes with the territory.”
“Not funny,” Calla says. Adam just shrugs. “I’ll bring you some Gatorade anyway. Do you want some phenagren?”
“No puking and a free nap? Sign me the fuck up,” Adam answers. He curls farther into what’s definitely Ronan’s sweatshirt, sinks back against the pillows and pulls the blankets back up over himself.
“Have you done your PT exercises today?” That’s Maura, coming off a phone call. They’ve stopped doing readings in person. There’s too many appointments, and the threat of introducing an infection to Adam is too big. Especially given their clientele. Calla can’t just ask for vaccination records before accepting clients, and so they’ve moved to the phone only, are doing some things online. Not a lot. Not when Adam’s this sick.
“No. Not allowed to when I’m this under calorie goals,” Adam says. “And I’m too tired. It wouldn’t go well.” Transplant wants Adam to gain weight, to be near the top of his ideal range going into surgery because he’ll certainly lose weight in the recovery and it betters his chances of it going well with every pound he gains. He’s barely maintaining.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Maura says, smooths his hair back. “How are you doing?”
“Not great,” Adam says. “Calla cancelled school today.” There’s no animosity there. There should be. He needs to do school, to do well on AP exams and SATs that he should be taking soon. Adam can’t seem to muster up the energy to care.
“That’s a little harsh, Adam,” Calla says, and there’s no animosity there either. “Get some rest, okay?”
:: ::
Adam wakes up to fingers in his hair, to a hand gently rubbing circles on his left hipbone below his sweatshirt.
“Hey, ‘Ro,” he slurs out, because he knows before he’s fully awake that Ronan’s there. He reaches out, pulls Ronan so he’s Adam’s new pillow before he even realizes what’s going on. (Ronan totally knows Adam’s plan. He did most of the maneuvering to help rearrange.)
“Hello to you too, Parrish,” Lynch says, and Adam feels the rumble of his boyfriend’s chest through his cheek. Adam looks up, looks like he’s about to go in for a hello kiss. “Calla warned me she’d cut my dick off if we swap saliva. Practically made me shower at the door.”
“I’m not sick,” Adam replies, but he just flops back against Ronan’s chest. After the bad flu debacle of last year, Ronan has been extra careful about even possibly passing infections to Adam. There’s no way he’ll directly disobey that kind of thing from Calla.
“You don’t look great,” Ronan says, re-hooks Adam’s oxygen behind his ear because it fell out of place during his nap. “Feeling up to anything exciting today, or do you want to watch the Jeopardy episodes you’ve missed?”
“Jeopardy,” Adam says, even though he has barely opened his eyes. He coughs, just a little. That’s when Calla materializes.
“Hey, bud, how are you feeling?” she asks. She’s perched on the arm of the couch, right by where the med bag is. It has the pulse ox, the sugar stuff, a thermometer, houses extra bits for the oxygen condenser and extra bags of formula. There’s a separate bag to house that pump, though.
“Tired,” Adam says. “S’home health almost here?”
“Yup,” Calla says. “I talked to your clinic. They want some labs, so he’ll get some blood and samples, too.”
The doorbell rings. Adam makes no indication he’s going to try to move off of Ronan, so Ronan shifts around until he’s off the couch. Adam glares at him.
“You know you can’t octopus when you’re getting a check up,” Ronan says. “I’ll chill out here, though, if that’s okay.”
“You just want to see me with my shirt off,” Adam says, shit-eating grin on his face.
“Hello, Adam,” Andrew says, bringing his giant bag into the living room. Andrew’s got a mask and gloves on already, because Adam is essentially in a bubble at this point. If he wants to exist in the outside world, he needs to be protected from germs, or if he’s in his home, outsiders have to mask their own germs. Blue and Ronan have to sanitize at the door.
“Sup,” Adam says. “Port check?” Adam slowly pulls himself upright. “Hasn’t looked weird or felt bad.”
“That’s good to hear. I’ll give it a look, but first your clinic wants some samples for labs.” Andrew’s voice is neutral. “Let’s get those over with first.”
“Why? I’m not sick,” Adam says, because speaking into existence is a thing Calla loves to invoke when he makes death jokes, so why can’t he invoke it in the reverse?
“I don’t make the orders. I just carry them out,” Andrew says. Adam sighs, which leads into a cough, but he cooperates with the vitals and the cultures and the blood drawing. “Your temperature is a little high, and your blood pressure is a little low.”
“It’s just like that.” Adam is pulling his sweatshirt back on with Andrew’s help. “Coughed a lot and puked a lot.”
“Try for some more fluids,” Andrew says. “If by mouth is hard, go through the tube.”
Adam has dragged Ronan back onto the couch. Andrew goes to relay the information to Calla, because there’s no way Adam will follow through by himself.
He’s already back asleep on top of Ronan, who is tracing shapes onto Adam’s back, when Calla comes back in.
:: ::
Adam wakes up dizzy. He also wakes up to Calla waking him up. He decides immediately that Calla cannot know that he’s dizzy.
He knows where his energy is going, and it’s not to anything but this goal.
Calla is taking off his CPAP mask, hands him his oxygen cannula with a frown on her face. “You’re feeling way too warm.”
“G’morning to you too,” Adam gets out, rolls over and coughs hard and deep. “S’probably fine.”
“I’m going to get a thermometer,” she says, frowns deeper. “And I don’t like the sound of that cough.”
“It’s probably fine. I’m probably fine,” Adam says, slowly sits up and is impressed with himself at how little he actually sways. He does not feel fine at all.
But Calla comes back and hands him the thermometer. Calla looks at the number and sighs.
“You haven’t had a fever this high in a while, kiddo,” Calla says. “103.2.”
“Jesus,” Adam gets out, but pulls himself out of bed and stumbles over to where his plastic cabinet of medical supplies is. He’s ready to do the day on autopilot. Step one is treatment.
“Let me help you set it up,” Calla says, because she does not trust Adam not to mix up used and sterile pieces and that would be a mess. “Maura is going to call your clinic, see if they can get you in today.”
“I can do it,” Adam says, but he doesn’t stop Calla from doing it herself. He coughs again, and that makes his hands feel numb and tingly which isn’t great but Adam doesn’t feel the need to share it.
RT is a mess. He doesn’t get through the nebulizer, because he’s coughing too much and it hurts and he can’t do it. Vest is an absolute no.
Somehow, someway, Adam makes it to the couch on his own without braining himself on the stairs or alerting the moms’ sixth sense.
“Don’t get too comfortable. We need to take you for labs soon, because your pulmonologist has an opening this afternoon,” Maura says.
“I’m not goin’ now. No time to come back in between,” Adam says. “S’too far and they can do labs at the appointment.”
“They want some of the results before-hand,” Maura explains. “We can go to the lab place five minutes from here. It’ll be quick.”
Shit feels so far away. He cannot super tell the TV from the couch from the floor from the blanket, but he knows that this isn’t something major. It can’t be. He’s just coughing harder, coughing shallower. There’s no weird or bad mucus, no nothing that feels like pneumonia or the bad bacteria acting up or anything. The moms seem worried but not coddling worried. It’s bad but it’s not awful.
It’s sick but it’s not sick.
“Why can’t it wait?” Adam asks, closes his eyes so he can stop feeling so fucking dizzy.
“It’ll be quick,” Calla says. “Let’s get some shoes on.”
“What time is it?” Adam asks, leans over to cough. “Is it late?”
“Eleven a.m., honey,” Calla says. “Your appointment is at three.” Adam groans. And then he coughs.
“I honestly don’t feel bad,” Adam says, tries to make it believable. “I’m not sick sick.”
“We’ll see what the doctors say.” Calla places a hand on his forehead. He feels warm. Too warm.
Here’s Calla’s problem: Adam’s baseline is so bad that she can’t tell how worried she should be anymore. It’s rare that he gets through a full RT in one go on his best day, it’s normal that he sleeps late and that he’s drained of energy. But he hasn’t had a fever this high in a long time. Since he was probably twelve. That sets off a warning bell.
They need to be careful. He could just be having a cold that’s hitting him badly because his whole immune system is two T-cells trying their best, but they need to treat it like it’s the worst. Until an M.D. says otherwise. They can’t mess around because if he gets too sick he could just… not recover.
Calla can’t lose him to a cold. Can’t think about losing him, even though it’s a constant thrum under her skin. She can feel her lungs and her heart get out of sync when he misses a breath, feels her heart ache when he’s tired out by something that he shouldn’t be. Adam, on some levels, understands and doesn’t understand the precipice they’re stuck on. He will make relentless death jokes, is frustrated when he needs to take a break walking up the stairs to bed, but at the same time he refuses to see what’s lurking beyond the cliff’s edge.
So Calla needs to be as careful as she can.
:: ::
Adam falls asleep on the couch under the guise of watching the Food Network. He coughed up what he needed to and let the people draw blood, and so he can go back to sleep.
That’s when he loses the tight grip he’d had on himself.
“Adam, honey, it’s time to wake up,” Calla says, frowns at the heat radiating from Adam’s skin. Adam’s eyes blink open, but it looks like he’s not tracking.
“Huh?” Adam asks, leans over to cough harshly. “Oh, shit.” The whole room is spinning.
“What’s wrong?” Calla asks. “Are you dizzy?”
Adam just nods, has not made an effort to sit up.
Something is on his finger, something else slipped under his tongue. “Stop,” Adam gets out, and the thing is in his mouth is no longer. He goes for the thing on his finger, but Calla stops him first.
He’s not satting well.
“Adam, sweetheart, I need you to keep this in your mouth for like five seconds,” Calla says gently, puts whatever it is back in. It beeps, and Adam’s head absolutely explodes. When the world comes back (still Fucking lilting and spinning like the living room suddenly became a carnival ride), Maura is on one side, Calla the other.
“His fever is up to 103.7, and he’s desatting,” Calla says over his head. “Should we still take him to clinic or just bypass that and go to an ER here?”
“Let’s give him some advil and up the oxygen,” Maura says. “He wasn’t feeling bad this morning. He had a high fever, but he wasn’t feeling lung sick.”
“I’m fine, moms,” Adam gets out, pulls himself to sitting. The world goes just a little bit grey.
“Does breathing hurt? Is it difficult?” Calla asks gently, as Maura puts his shoes on his feet and there’s a pair of pills pressed in one hand and a water bottle in another. “Take the advil, honey.”
Adam swallows the pills, washes it down.
“Doesn’t hurt,” Adam responds, has to pause because he’s pulled to his feet. The world is blurred, fuzzy, and he doesn’t realize he’s pitching over until the moms are on each side and keeping him upright as he’s walked to the car. Sound isn’t working right, even through his good ear. He thinks the moms are talking, but it’s warping and moving in a way that doesn’t make any sense by the time it reaches his good ear.
And then he’s laying down in the backseat, and things still just enough.
“Goin’ to clinic?” Adam slurs out, fiddles with the oxygen cannula because it’s going harder and his nose feels dry. His hands feel just a little bit numb.
“Yeah, we are, buddy,” Calla says, turning around in the passenger seat to check in on the pulse ox still on Adam’s finger. “Can you give me three words for how you’re feeling?”
“Cold, dizzy, blurry,” Adam gets out.
“Okay.” It’s then that Adam realizes she’s on the phone. He feels himself cough, registers that it should hurt, that it probably does, but he cannot pull it together.
He lets it go, drifts out to the motion of the car.
:: ::
“What did Jackie say?” Maura asks, looking in the rearview mirror at Adam. He’s asleep, face pale with bright red spots on his cheeks, and they can all hear him work for his next breath. “Are we still going through the clinic?”
“Yes. She said to keep the oxygen turned up to the max on the condenser and to keep an eye on him, but there’s not going to be that much of a difference and the ER is rife with germs this time of the year,” Calla says. “Do we have a bag packed for him?”
“We have the emergency bag, but there’s not a lot of clothes in there. Less than a week,” Maura says. “They’re pretty sure he’s being admitted?”
“With a fever like that and a steep down turn? Yeah,” Calla responds. “At least until they know what’s going on. So it’ll probably only be a brief clinic visit.”
“When we get there, I’ll grab a chair for him. I don’t think we can keep him upright the whole way from parking to clinic.” Maura’s voice is all-business, but the lines on her face are deeper and she’s glancing at the rearview as often as she’s looking at the road.
“I’m worried,” Calla says, as they pull into the all-too-familiar Children’s parking garage. “He was fine this morning. Sick, but fine. And now he’s not.”
“We’re where he needs to be. It’ll be figured out,” Maura says, as they pull into their usual spot. She’s not sure if it’s for her or Calla that she says it at all. “Let’s just get him there. Do you have his mask and gloves?”
“Yep. I’ll wake him up if you get the chair,” Calla says, already sliding out of the car. Maura nods, is already heading off to the warmth of the skywalk to grab one. “Adam, sweetheart, we need you to wake up now.”
Adam just lets out a groan. And then he’s coughing, harsh and deep but with a wheeze that sends a shock of worry straight to Calla’s heart.
“Let’s sit up,” Calla says, grabs Adam’s hands and pulls him up. His eyes go glassy, but he doesn’t fight her maneuvering him so he’s leaning against the seat. He lets her put on the mask and the gloves, even though he can feel his face heat up as soon as the mask is on.
“Face is too hot,” Adam gets out. “Don’t want the mask.” He brings his hands to take it off, but then Calla’s hands are grabbing his own and pulling him out of the car and then he’s somehow sitting down again.
“I know you don’t, kiddo, but we need it to keep you safe,” Maura says, placing his bag in his lap so his hands have to hold it instead of going to his face. “Let’s get you to clinic.”
Calla can see the instant when Adam realizes he’s sitting and moving at the same time, when it’s pieced together. He just sags in the chair. Okay. He’s really feeling bad, if he’s not arguing about it. He’d rather grip the elevator rails with shaking hands and stumble his way through clinic than take a wheelchair ride. If he’s not arguing it, he must truly be feeling awful.
They’re barely in the clinic before a nurse is bringing him back. No one wants him to be in the waiting room long, not if he’s this sick and not with the amount of chronic infections he has just hanging around in his lungs.
“What d’I need t’do?” Adam asks, because he really can’t track that it’s a nurse that he’s known since the beginning. It’s Carla. He knows Carla, and Carla knows when he’s bullshitting.
“Let me help you up onto the scale,” Carla says. “How are you doing, kiddo?”
“Um, bad?” Adam answers. “Hi, Carla.” And then he’s coughing, but Carla pulls him upright and wraps his gloved hands around the railing on the scale.
“Hey, buddy,” Carla says, and she can get away with it like the moms do because she’s seen it all. “You look like you’re not feeling well.” She sits him back down in the chair, and then it’s into a room for vitals because she knows pulmonary function tests aren’t happening today.
“Not at all.” As soon as there’s an option to lie down on the exam table, Adam crawls up and is panting, laying on his side. “Dizzy.”
Carla is just doing what she needs to do, waits for Adam’s brain to equilibrate and takes the vitals. She can feel the heat radiating from his skin, backed up by the number on the thermometer. He’s not satting well, his blood pressure is down, and his heart rate is a little elevated.
It’s not great.
Calla is just holding his free hand, rubbing comforting circles between the space of his thumb and first finger.
“The pulmonologist is going to be in soon. It’s Dr. Priya,” Carla says. “But she’s probably already seen his vitals and might already be calling up to the pulm unit.”
“Yikes,” Adam says, unclips his mask and coughs hard. Calla just puts it back on his face.
“How’s his temp? He had Advil about an hour ago,” Calla asks.
“103.5,” Carla responds. “So the ibuprofen really isn’t making a dent.” Calla just squeezes Adam’s hand, which makes him open his eyes just a little bit more. “Any of the labs from this morning come in yet?”
“Not the cultures,” Carla responds. “We’ll get some more now to compare.” Again, Adam is too complacent. He forces himself to cough hard enough to get something up in the sanitary collection container, lets Carla steal his blood and just closes his eyes.
And then there’s a knock at the door, and the doctor is entering the room.
“This isn’t going to take long, is it?” Calla asks, because she knows Dr. Priya and knows that the look on her face means that someone is already on the way down to bring Adam up to the unit.
“Unfortunately, no,” Dr. Priya says, offers a small, sad smile to go with it. “He’s clearly feeling terrible, and he’s working too hard to get air to be comfortable. We need to keep an eye on him until we know what’s causing it.”
“Shit,” Adam gets out. “Was fine this morning. ‘M just tired or something.” Calla’s grip on Adam’s hand tightens.
“I already called up to pulmonology. They’ve got the space, and someone is on the way down,” she says.
“Who’s up there right now?” Calla asks, isn’t super surprised.
“Mostly young kids that caught the late fall germs,” Dr. Priya says. “The nurse will know what room he’s going to, but I’m sure it’s going to be close to the station.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Adam doesn’t even open his eyes to look. He can’t super tell up from down and person from person, but he knows where he’s going so he needs to just pull his brain cells together and get himself upright.
He knows how this works. Admission from clinic is just … an elevator ride. He can walk that shit. Adam always walks that shit.
Someone is trying to get him in the chair.
“No. I’m gonna walk.” Adam can’t keep the whine from his voice, can’t help the cough that follows. “S’just the elevator.”
“Not happening, Adam,” Calla says, as she helps the nurse get him into the chair. “You’re unsteady on your feet.”
“Usually am,” Adam shoots back, but the nurse is just already moving the chair and he’s not trying to get out of it. “M’sorry, I don’t know who the fuck you are.” There’s only one person that could be directed at.
“Language,” Calla reminds, but he gets a free pass when he’s feeling this bad. He’s not in any danger of getting in any real trouble at the moment. Or the foreseeable future.
“My name is Jessica. Let’s get you to your room and then I’ll start on your pulmonologist’s orders,” Jessica says as she wheels him into the elevator.
“Someone’s gotta tell Blue and Ronan,” Adam says. “That I got kidnapped again.” No one likes when he calls hospital admissions kidnappings, but it’s been a few years and he hasn’t stopped so Calla just guesses they’re going to have to live with it.
“I’ll call them when we get up to the unit, okay?” Calla says. “While Jessica gets you set up.”
“Okay,” Adam says. “What’s the room number?” His head is fully leaning back, eyes closed. He is pale, and his chest is moving with each breath.
“612,” Jessica says. “You have a high fever and you’re on almost four and a half liters per minute right now. We need to keep an eye on you.”
Adam really hates being right in front of the nurse’s station. There’s zero room for shenanigans. It means you’ve got a nurse who’s got less other patients (who are probably lower maintenance), so they’re checking in way more and there are more monitors, and it’s just a whole ass thing.
612 is right the fuck in front of the nurse’s station.
By the time his brain can get through three complete thoughts, Calla is branching off to update Blue and Ronan and Adam feels someone taking off his gloves and masks and helping him into bed.
He’s still so fucking dizzy.
Maura is probably talking to Jessica or him, but it’s not coming through his good ear correctly again. He’s too focused on trying to piece together what’s happening with his port, with his g tube, with the fucking pulse-ox tape that traps his finger before he can stop it. He hates that shit so much.
“You might want to have some extra tape around,” Maura says to Jessica, as Adam frowns the second the pulse ox tape is on. “He tends to pick it off when he’s feeling bad.”
“Noted,” Jessica says. “His pulmonologist wants to try some humidified air through a mask, to maybe help with the satting issues. She thinks it could just be from nasal congestion or whatever’s in his chest not loosening up, and strong humidified air can help.”
Adam is asleep before she switches out his cannula for a mask.
That’s what’s really worrying Maura. Adam Parrish is not listless, is not complacent, is not anything like he’s been all day. Even when he feels awful, he gets more stubborn, digs in his heels harder. But not today. He’s been so tired, so out of anything that could be considered energy. And it happened so fast.
She has no idea what this is.
Calla comes in, sits next to Maura on the couch.
“He’s asleep already?” Calla asks, intertwines her hand with Maura’s. It’s different, with the nitrile gloves, but it’s comforting all the same.
“Yeah. He was asleep before she even started accessing the port,” Maura says. “They switched him to five liters a min of humidified air. But he’s still satting about the same.”
“They get a chance to really look at the chest x-rays? He’s working hard to breathe, even with the mask,” Calla says, frowning.
“Something is building up. They don’t think it’s the flu or an exacerbation, but they don’t know what it is,” Maura says. “He’s … he’s really not himself.”
“No, he’s not,” Calla says, squeezes Maura’s hand. “Dr. Priya seems to think it’s obstruction and not constriction on his airways, too.”
“He’s doing his best to cough stuff up. It’s just not cooperating,” Maura says. “And whatever it is is really draining him. He probably is going to sleep until something wakes him up.”
“I don’t think he’s been this exhausted since he was six. Barring that flu in fourth grade, maybe,” Calla says. “This is really knocking him back hard.”
“He’s doubled his normal oxygen rate and is satting low still,” Maura says, leans her head on Calla’s shoulder. “I’m worried if it doesn’t start getting better they’re going to start going more invasive.”
“They just need the cultures to come back. Then they can put him on whatever medication he needs and it’ll help,” Calla says, tries to sound confident about it.
“What did Blue say?” Maura’s trying to change the subject. She can’t look at Adam, so small and miserable against the hospital sheets anymore and think about this. He just needs rest. Rest and medicine and some help to breathe. He’s got a fever, so his body is doing something to fight back. There’s still some Adam Parrish in there, buried amongst the struggling T Cells.
“She and Ronan are coming now,” Calla says. “They might spark some energy in him.”
Adam stays asleep, and Maura and Calla watch Jessica come in and out. Calla catches herself just watching Adam breathe, trying to reassure herself the labored motions are doing something.
:: ::
Waking up is like wading through mud. Every part of Adam’s body feels impossibly heavy, any motion met with resistance almost too strong to overcome. Opening his eyes is an effort.
There’s something covering his face.
It takes so much effort for Adam to bring a hand up, and he can’t get it to cooperate to get it off. And then someone’s grabbing the hand, bringing it back to the mattress. Adam hears a low whine, and he just wants the mask off. It’s too hard to lift the same hand again. Why did they have to do that?
“Leave it on, sweetheart.” It sounds like Calla. It has to be Calla. Or Maura. But it’s probably Calla. It kind of sounds like her, through the mess.
Adam has to cough. He manages to get the mask off, but he can barely make his aching body turn to the side a little before he’s coughing. Something is coming up, finally. It coats his mouth, leaves a sour taste. Once it starts coming, it won’t stop.
“That’s not the right color, holy shit,” he hears Blue say. “Jesus did he cough or puke?”
“Didn’t puke,” Adam hears himself rasp out, doesn’t like how many breaths he hears in his own ears as he says it. “M’okay. Just coughed.”
“Let’s get you cleaned up and get a basin, okay?” Calla says, listens to how labored his breathing sounds. “You need a new sweatshirt.”
“Just coughin’,” Adam says. “Sweatshirt is fine.” Everything is so heavy, so sore, that the thought of lifting his arms to change sends tears to his eyes. He can’t do it.
Calla hits the call button.
“Can you lift your arms for me, sweetheart?” she asks, and Adam just shakes his head.
“Can’t.” It almost sounds like a whine leaving his mouth, and so Calla and Maura look at each other. Adam feels his limbs being moved, hears himself grunt at the deep soreness of moving but they change the sweatshirt and there’s a basin under his chin in case it happens again.
Jessica enters the room. “What’s going on?”
“He woke up and started coughing. He brought a lot of stuff up, but it’s… off,” Calla says, showing her the little bit they’ve got in the sterile collection bin for labs. “It’s a weird color, and it looks like it’s not the right texture.”
“I’m definitely seeing intercostal retractions. I’m paging the resident,” Jessica says. “Adam, honey, I need you to focus on breathing, okay?”
“M’fine,” Adam gets out, tries to roll over but he can’t manage it. The mask is suffocating him instead of helping, so he rips it off. Someone tries to put it back on, but he jerks his head, sees only grey, refuses to put it back on.
The mattress dips.
Someone’s holding his hands, and the mask is put back on his face. Adam tries to free his hands ,but the grip tightens.
“You’re okay, sweetheart.” It’s Calla’s voice. “But the mask needs to stay on right now, okay? It’s helping you.”
Adam shakes his head, curls into Calla and tries to breathe. It’s so much work to drag a breath into his lungs, and it feels like it’s getting stuck before the oxygen finds its way home.
The door swings open, and the resident is in the room before Adam can process that he was entering in the first place.
Adam can’t stop himself from coughing. He can’t free his hands to get the mask, so the mask fills until it’s finally off and something is under his chin again. Adam can’t tell if he’s getting enough air, but he’s exhausted and he can hear himself working to breathe and that is never good.
Oh shit this isn’t good.
It hits him all at once. He can’t really hear what the resident is saying, can’t really track what is happening, because he is focusing way too much on trying to force the air in and out. Without coughing. It’s not working. Holy shit why is it not working?
“Okay, I don’t like this,” the resident says. “He looks like he could go south quickly. Let’s get him on bipap and let him rest.”
“Go south quickly?” Adam hears Calla ask that clearly. She sounds scared. It’s the one thing that comes through his good ear with perfect clarity.
“He’s working too hard to breathe. We don’t want a crash and to risk an ICU transfer if we can avoid it. Let’s get him on bipap now,” he explains. “And then if it’s hurting, he can have whatever pain meds he needs to make it comfortable.”
There’s a lot of different noises then, but Adam can’t track them. He can’t beyond the pain in his chest. Beyond the room fucking spinning.
And then there’s something else right in front of his face.
“No.” It sounds like a wheeze, even to him. “Don’t.”
“Honey, you’re okay.” Calla’s voice is calm, but it’s the fake kind, the kind that Adam knows is just to try to keep him calm. “It needs to go on so it can help you breathe and you can rest.”
“Please.” Adam knows that he’s begging, that he’s whining, that he can’t help it. He can’t do it.
“I know you don’t want to, sweetheart, but it’s going to help,” Calla says, and the mask is put on him. Adam is immediately working against it, trying to fight the rhythm of the pressure. Calla’s hand is going through his hair, is holding his hand so he can’t pull at the mask, is trying to calm him down.
“I’m giving him something to calm down,” the resident says. “He cannot be fighting this right now.”
“Stop,” Adam says. “Mom, let go.” He’s trying to squirm, is trying to do whatever he can to free his hands, to free himself. It feels like he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Taking an inhale is like opening his lungs around a pool of molasses—he can’t do it. It’s too much pressure, too much exertion, and he needs to do it.
“I can’t, honey. I need you to relax. Let the machine do the work, okay?” Calla’s using her most calming voice, and she looks up at the resident as he’s pushing something into the line heading to the port. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
She keeps up the mantra, swallows her own mounting terror until the drugs hit and Adam’s eyelids start drooping and she can feel his body go limp. One of his hands moves from holding her own weakly, and she feels him shift so he’s laying with his head on her shoulder, and then the eyes are fully shut.
“Looks like you’re trapped,” Blue says, even though her face is pale and there are deep lines forming on her forehead. “I don’t think you can move.”
“I might be able to slide out when he’s deeper asleep,” Calla says, but it’s uncertain. “I don’t want him to get … upset if he wakes up and I’m not here.”
Calla looks up from Adam, because she can feel every breath as it’s aided in and out of his chest, and that’s as much reassurance as she can get.
Ronan looks shell-shocked. The snake’s hands are shaking, his eyes glued on Adam. Calla has never been able to get a good read on his eyes, but now it’s obvious. Ronan is terrified. He’s been there for some bad shit, but this just feels different.
“I’m taking a walk,” Ronan says, bolts out of the room. Blue looks confused, frowns, and is following him out all within one second.
Calla stays.
“Blue has got it. They just need to process… that was a lot all at once,” Maura says. “Adam is resting now, and that’s what he needs.”
Calla adjusts the sheets, covers Adam a little more.
:: ::
Adam wakes up slowly. The first thing he feels is just … overwhelming bad. His chest feels sticky, full, and the air being forced in and out hurts. It really fucking hurts.
Adam’s coughing before he opens his eyes.
So much is coming up his throat, is scraping and rubbing his lungs raw. He doesn’t know where it’s going, isn’t awake until it’s over.
It feels like he’s not breathing.
“Oh, sweetheart.” That’s Calla’s voice, somewhere behind and above him. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
But Adam can’t focus on that. He’s too focused on trying to get the thing on his face off, because then he’ll be able to breathe.
The bed shifts, and whoever was there is gone.
He’s alone and he can’t breathe and he can’t call out or do anything about it. There’s no one there, and he can’t get the fucking thing over his nose off and he can’t breathe so he can’t tell anyone.
“Adam, honey, I’m right here. You need to leave that on. It’s helping you breathe.” It’s Calla, but she’s wrong. He can’t breathe.
He gets out a whine, manages to pull the awful thing off of his face before his hands are grabbed by someone else.
“Okay. He’s freaking out,” a voice he doesn’t recognize says. “Let’s move him to oxygen so he can calm down.”
Something else is on his face. They won’t let go of his hands. It’s hard to breathe, now, but he can feel something come in. Something is getting through. But it doesn’t feel like enough.
Adam coughs, a burning agony racing through his chest as the volcano erupts and mucus flows from his mouth without stopping.
“Shit,” he hears, and then there’s a lot of sensation because something is wiping at and maneuvering him out of his own mess.
“I think he’s wigging out because he’s alone.” Adam knows that voice, but everything is so scrambled that he can’t place it, but then someone’s shifting him and sliding into the bed with him, right behind him so Adam can feel their heartbeat and then there’s thick, warm fingers carding through his scalp.
“I’m right here, Parrish. You’re good. You’re okay.” It’s Ronan. It can only be Ronan.
Adam cannot stop himself from fisting his hands in Ronan’s sweatshirt, in clinging to Ronan because the only thing breaking through the terror and the pain of breathing is the thrum of Ronan, Ronan, Ronan. He needs the heartbeat, the thick fingers working through his sweaty and disgusting hair, to tether him to the fact that his own heart is beating. It’s still going.
It doesn’t feel like it at all.
There are fingers in his hair, and then he’s so incredibly heavy and tired. He looks up, sees the nurse cleaning off whatever the hell she just put into the line headed straight for his port.
Adam is asleep again.
:: ::
Here’s what Blue forgot until too late: Adam Parrish and steroids don’t mix well. He, to put it simply, hulks out. She doesn’t think anything of it when they start adding in steroids to reduce swelling as his throat is irritated from the constant suctioning, but she should have. She should have remembered.
He wakes up, and he panics. He hulks out.
“Adam, honey, what’s wrong?” Calla asks, because Adam’s clearly fighting as hard as he can against the bipap and he’s trying his hardest to get out of bed. And then he’s standing.
Adam rips the bipap off of his face. His hand is shaking so much Blue has no idea how he breaks the suction in the first place.
Blue hits the nurse button.
“Mom, he’s hulking out,” she says, hears her voice tremble. He doesn’t have the energy to hulk out. She’s not scared because he’s ever, ever violent, but because he has no idea what energy he doesn’t have until he crashes.
Adam cannot afford a crash right now.
“Adam, I need you to listen, sweetheart,” Calla says, gets in front of him, gets with the program. “We need you to get back in bed.”
Adam tries to take a step forward, stumbles. Stumbling means he’s dizzy. Dizzy means they’re running out of time to fix it. Adam shakes his head. Blue can hear his breathing fail. She’s never going to forget that sound.
Claire is there in just enough time to see Adam’s eyes roll back in his head, to see him go limp and fall straight into Calla’s arms.
Claire goes straight for the big blue button. A kid on the floor of the pulm unit is never a good sign.
“Okay, lay him down on the floor and then I need you all out of the room,” Claire says, leaves no room for argument. Calla does as she asks. People are flooding in and ushering them out and Blue hears the word intubation before the door shuts.
Blue doesn’t let herself cry. Not until Dr. Priya is out in the hall, not until they’re being told that he’s tubed and going to be ventilated and moved to the ICU.
This is pretty close to her worst nightmare. All of her nightmares revolve around people she loves stopping breathing. Bees and Gansey and throats swelling up. Adam and tired lungs giving up.
He is so close to new lungs. This cannot be happening.
And then they’re wheeling Adam past, and it’s not just the machines and the horde of people talking around him that catches Blue’s breath in her throat.
Adam Parrish is still.
Even at his most exhausted, his worst, he is not still. He fidgets in his sleep, rolls around as much as his CPAP allows, is never like how he is now. He’s pale, his thin face dominated by the thick tube, by the straps holding it in place.
Blue doesn’t realize she’s sobbing until Maura’s arms are around her, are turning her away from it and holding her close.
:: ::
It takes Blue three days before she can work up the courage to see Adam again. It’s been three days of him sedated, of him ventilated. His throat has swollen around the tube, and it’s taken three days for his lungs to build up the strength to start weaning him off the ventilator. She can’t sit there with all of the machines and her moms and just watch as he lays there. What’s worse is when physical therapy comes to just move his lifeless limbs around. She can’t be there for that.
The first step is weaning down the sedation. Blue can be there for that, because she needs to see him awake. She needs to know he’s okay.
“Okay, he should be waking up soon,” Priya says, and there’s a lot of people in a very small room that’s filled with a lot of equipment. Maura and Calla each have one of his hands, so that he can’t try to extubate himself.
And then Adam’s eyes are blinking, and he tries to scrunch his nose against the bright light. Blue sees one of his hands twitch in Calla’s.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she says, tries and fails to keep the tears from sliding down her face.
She hasn’t left him once.
“It’s good to see you awake,” Dr. Priya says. “Can you squeeze one of your mom’s hands if you’re in pain?”
Calla’s heart drops into her stomach when Adam squeezes her hand. After all of this, he’s in pain. It’s not fair. “He squeezed my hand,” Calla says, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“Okay. Let’s get some more pain meds on board. It’s common, following the sedation, for some pain. The medication might make him sleepy, though,” Priya says, and the people in the room make quick work of putting some into the port or into the extra IV that’s appeared since then. He’s got a lot more monitors, a lot more lines—Adam glances down at the arterial line in his wrist and tries to make a face.
His hand twitches in Maura’s, like he wants to move it but his limbs are too heavy.
“He hates having things on his face. It’s probably driving him crazy,” Blue says, because she really doesn’t know a lot about what’s going on but she knows Adam.
But his eyelids are already drooping.
“Get some more rest, honey,” Calla says, squeezes his hand as he falls back asleep. Today already feels so different. It’s been three nights and three days of the same—Adam absolutely still to the world, with people coming in to move his limbs and suction the crap out of his lungs and give him feeds through the tube and reposition him so he doesn’t get bed sores. They now know the crap is fungus, that he’s got a bad Blastomycosis infection that’s going to take months of IV antifungals to get out of his system fully.
His recovery is already looking long as it is. Dr. Priya has always said that every day in bed is another week of recovery, and he’s losing muscle mass the longer he’s stuck in the bed.
But his recovery starts now. It’s going to get better.
:: ::
Because Adam falls asleep pretty much the second the tube is out of his throat, after two days of weaning, him waking up after is the first real adventure. They’re back to bipap to bridge until he’s ready to go back to high flow oxygen, which might be a while.
It’s a nasty infection. They know that now, now that he’s breathing on his own and coughing. They’re still suctioning to help, because he’s not ready for full respiratory therapy and airway clearance, but he’s coughing a lot and it’s clear that it hurts. Even in his sleep.
“Hey sweetheart,” Calla says, smooths his hair back and grabs onto his hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore.” Adam’s voice isn’t more than a rasp, after the intubation and constant suctions. Maura just holds out a cup of water with a straw.
“Slowly,” she reminds him, pulls the cup back when he tries to gulp. “Small sips, hon.” Adam slows down. His head relaxes back against his pillows when he’s all done.
“Thanks, mom,” Adam says, blinks a little at how bright the room is. He can feel a cough bubbling in his chest, and he can barely turn on his side before he’s coughing up gunk onto the floor. Someone is rubbing his back.
“Okay, sweetheart, you’re okay,” Calla says. There’s an alarm going off, because of course something has come loose. There’s too many monitors for that not to have happened.
Adam’s nurse is there in a second, is fixing the monitors and readjusting Adam to be on his back.
Adam doesn’t fight it.
He’s already falling back asleep.
:: ::
“I’m totally fine. I don’t need to bring the bed,” Adam says, tries to claw himself upright to argue with Claire.
“Lay back down, Adam.” Claire’s voice is firm. “If you want a bed in your room on the pulmonology unit, it’s going to be that one.”
“I’m good like this,” Adam says, even though his core is burning just from the seconds of being upright. Claire gives him a look until he sinks back down. “At least ditch some of the lines and monitors. I really don’t need a second IV. Or an art line.”
“I don’t have orders to discontinue anything yet,” Claire says. “We’re just waiting on another nurse to come help move stuff and then we’ll get going.”
“For real? They’re drawing the line at taking the tube out of my dick and that’s it?” Adam says, and then he’s coughing again.
“They want to have a way to monitor your blood gases and vitals while we transition you back down to oxygen,” Claire explains. “And right now you’re on enough medication that we don’t want to put it all through your port.”
“It’ll be fine,” Adam says. He feels another cough coming, and he just grabs the basin next to him to cough up fungus into.
“Thank you, Dr. Parrish,” Claire says, and then the glass door is sliding open and the nurse who’s there to help is in the room. “Alright let’s get moving. Stay laying down, Adam, okay? Save your energy for PT.”
“When do I have PT?” Adam asks, even though he’s trying to not focus too hard on the fact that the bed is now moving and Calla is walking with him.
“I think an hour or two from now,” Claire says, and Adam looks over to Calla. He’s focusing hard on staying awake, because he wants to actually be awake. Maybe. It’s been a while since he’s been awake, it feels like. And he wants to witness leaving the ICU, because it sucks. It’s never quite dark enough to sleep well, and there’s a lot of in and out and in and out by the nurses and doctors.
“Are you doing okay?” Calla asks. She’s carrying what can only be The Hospital Bag, is wearing Adam’s backpack, too.
“M’okay, mom,” Adam replies, manages a smile with it.
Calla’s eyes start watering. Shit.
“Mom?” Adam hears himself say. “I’m okay. Promise.”
Calla just nods. “I’m happy, bud.” She gives him a watery smile. “It’s good to see you’re starting to get better.”
Adam tries to sit up as soon as the bed is situated in his room, which is right the fuck next to the nurse’s station. He immediately sinks back down.
“What’s up, Adam?” Claire asks, as she’s adjusting things and overriding the blood pressure cuff to start a cycle now.
“Just tryin’ to sit up. I’m sick of laying down,” Adam says.
“You still need a lot of rest to heal. Save your energy for treatment and physical therapy,” Claire says.
“If PT goes well do I get to have bathroom privileges back?” Adam asks, but he’s curled up on his side.
“I don’t know what PT has planned today,” Claire says. “But I promise as soon as they clear you, you’ll get them.”
“Do you want to talk to Maura?” Calla asks, because she wants to do anything she can to distract Adam. Instead, Adam starts coughing and as soon as he’s done hacking up chunks of fungus and mucus he drifts back to sleep.
:: ::
“Good morning,” Maura says, as she quietly slips into Adam’s room. “Tough night?”
“Yeah. He slept for most of it, but he woke up exhausted and coughed up more fungus than I thought possible a few times,” Calla says. “They still have him on the bipap for resting, which is most of the time. His arterial gases get off if he’s not.”
“I talked to the nurse about his morning labs and stuff on my way in,” Maura says. “They’re worried because he’s down… a lot of weight. During rounds they’re going to talk about changing up the formula, or switching up the rate until he’s eating by mouth again.”
“He’s already running high on blood sugar,” Calla says. “Upping the rate is just going to skyrocket that.” She fidgets for a second, her hand pausing the soothing circles it’s been running on Adam’s back for the past few hours, now. “Can you switch out with me? I need to walk or my legs are going to permanently fall asleep.”
“Of course,” Maura says, and then she’s in the bed with Adam’s head in her lap and Calla is standing and stretching all of her limbs. Luckily, Adam is still fast asleep. She still runs her hand through his hair, clumped together with sweat and grease from days without washing, to make sure he stays asleep and resting. “We really need to clean his hair.”
“Yeah, I think Blue brought some dry shampoo yesterday. We can see if he’s feeling up to it,” Calla says. “Hopefully he has some energy today.”
“I really hope so,” Maura says.
:: ::
Adam wakes up coughing. Despite the days of this, he goes from completely out to coughing with no warning, and so Maura can’t get a bin beneath him in time and both of their gowns take the hit.
“You’re okay, sweetheart, take some breaths,” Maura says, reaches for a clean gown and is just grateful they’ve avoided the sweatpants. They don’t have any more clean sweatpants or pyjamas. They need to do laundry, need to go home to do laundry so Adam has more clean sweatshirts. “Let the bipap help you out.”
Adam just lets out a strangled breath. Maura can feel his spine quaking, rubs comforting and firm circles over it to try and ground him firmly, to shake him out of the half-daze he’s in, because he either needs to go back to sleep or wake up fully. If he remains somewhere in the chasm between, that’s where he panics.
Maura can see his chest working, but it’s not fighting the bipap. Adam shifts a little, but he doesn’t move off of Maura’s lap.
“I’m sorry. You should change,” Adam gets out, and his voice is shredded and torn and he mumbles more than says it.
“It’s just the gown. Let’s get you out of your top,” Maura says. “Can you sit up a little?”
That’s when Claire enters the room.
“Oh, I’ll get you a new gown,” Claire says. “How are we doing today?”
Adam just shrugs a little. He’s trying to get his aching limbs to cooperate, to move enough to take off his fungus-covered gown without disturbing the shitton of lines or monitors or his aching limbs.
He manages it, but it feels bad.
At this point, Adam’s baseline is just a little bit below “feeling bad”, and where he’s at now … well, it’s well below that. Feeling bad is his limbs aching enough that it’s enough for him to not be able to move, chest so congested and lungs so tired from having to breathe through it all day after day that he’s exhausted from it.
Breathing is exhausting.
Even with the bipap, which feels like never-ending pressure pushing and pulling on his ribs and lungs, it’s so much work.
Adam shivers, without his blankets pulled up around him.
“Cold,” Adam gets out, tries to burrow just a little deeper but it feels like he’s been dunked in ice water.
“You have a lot of blankets, bud,” Claire says. “And your fever is still high.”
Adam glares at her. He can feel his shoulders trembling, amongst the ache and scraping in his chest and everything else.
“I’m cold,” he says again, tries to make them understand.
“Your body will adjust,” Claire says, as Maura’s hands move up and down his quaking back. “It’s time for a suction.”
Adam looks like he’s going to cry.
“Please, no,” Adam gets out. “I just coughed up stuff.” He hates the suction, even if it’s not keep it goes down his throat and makes him feel like he’s suffocating.
And they do it over and over and over again.
“I know it’s not fun, but you need some help trying to clear out this fungus,” Claire says, and she makes very quick work of doing the suction.
Adam gags a little as the suction tube comes back out.
“Did dietetics and GI come to a conclusion with the formula?” Calla asks as she rubs Adam’s back gently. “Are we changing anything?”
“They don’t want to play around with the rate,” Claire says. “We have a few options for denser formulas that shouldn’t mess with his blood sugar.”
“He has a tough time with formula changes,” Calla says. “I really don’t want him feeling worse.”
“I know, but they’re concerned with how quickly he’s been dropping. Transplant really isn’t happy.” Claire’s voice is measured, even. “They know his stomach and digestive tract has a rough time with changes so the plan is to make the change gradually. They want to do a gradient transition over from the current one.”
“Okay. They should maybe integrate some anti-nausea drugs into the transition, at least until he’s used to it,” Calla says. Her hand is carding through Adam’s hair, and he just shivers.
“Please don’t change it,” Adam mumbles. “Makes my stomach hurt every time.”
“We need to give you some more support with your nutrition. Healing takes a lot of energy,” Claire says.
“Can I be done with bipap?” Adam asks. “It feels bad.”
“We’ll see how you do today, okay? We don’t want to tire you out too prematurely,” Claire explains. “We really want you to be feeling a little better before we remove the support.”
“Hopefully, if you’re feeling up to it, we can dry shampoo your hair today.” Calla’s voice is soft, soothing.
“Oh. Yeah.” Adam pauses, coughs a little and curls tighter into Calla. “My hair is gross.”
“You’ve been sick,” Calla says, makes it a point to continue to card through his hair so he doesn’t feel worse about it.
“I should shower,” Adam says, but it’s clear from his voice that he knows it’s not happening today.
“Not in the cards today,” Claire says. “You know you need physical therapy to okay bathroom privileges.”
Adam just shrugs.
“What’s on the schedule today?” Adam asks. Claire is hooking up the new formula bag, is setting up to start switching his tube feeds over.
“RT every four hours, PT every four hours during the day,” Claire says. “Welcome to rehab.”
“If y’all won’t even let me out of bed to piss yet you can’t call it rehab.” But then Adam coughs, and he can barely roll on his side before more fungus is coming up and his shoulders are trembling.
“The goal is to get you as steady on your feet and give you back bathroom privileges as soon as possible,” Claire says. “Now that you seem to be feeling a little better, it’s more likely to happen and we can start working on building your strength back.”
:: ::
“Claire, I am begging you for a shower.” Adam has finally shaken the bipap when he’s not resting, and though the high flow cannula irritates the shit out of his sinuses, it is oh so worth it at this point. He doesn’t even know how many days it’s been since he’s been out of the ICU.
It’s the first day both Calla and Maura aren’t here—Adam convinced them to go home and sleep and do shit they need to do, under the condition that Blue and Claire keep an eye on him.
“Your moms haven’t even been gone for fifteen minutes, bud,” Claire says, shaking her head. “And it’s a hard no on the shower. You’re still unsteady with the walker.”
“I have dry shampoo,” Blue says. “If you’re feeling up to it I can clean and cut your hair.” She’s looking at her hands as she says it.
“Yeah, sure,” Adam says, and then Blue looks up. He looks so… bad, but it’s so much better than it was in the ICU. He’s slowly shaking monitors, slowly getting steadier, getting stronger. It’s the getting there that’s hard.
It feels like he’s getting there to nowhere. Blue doesn’t know when they’re going to break the news to Adam, but both transplant and pulmonology agree that he’s not leaving the hospital until he has the lung transplant. She knows it’s important for him to be as strong as he can be going into the transplant, but it’s probably at least two months away.
Two more months of trying to get her moms or Ronan to take her with to visit.
They all forget that she needs to see him too. She knows that if the situation was reversed Adam could probably focus on school and college and all the shit he needed to because he’s a fucking machine. That’s probably not fair, he would be worried and concerned, but he could shove it all down and sit through a chemistry lecture and actually focus through it.
Blue can’t.
Not when their moms are this stressed out and this terrified and are clinging to the hope of a transplant coming sooner rather than later. Dinner at home is silent, just her and whatever mom is there and the sound of forks on plates. She misses Adam and even the stupid fights he picks, always at the table. She misses the house not feeling so empty, so lonely, like he’s already died and they’re in mourning even though he’s right here.
“Hey, fuckhead,” Adam says. “Zoning out is my job.”
“Oh, you have a job now?” Blue responds, because Adam is here, and he’s annoying as fuck when he’s cranky. Things not moving as fast as he wants (which is spoiler alert: sonic speed) makes him really cranky. “Sit up if you want me to cut your hair.”
It’s a double-win, really. She’s essentially giving him another PT session, because sitting up for periods of time is rough on his core, on his lungs, and she gets to deal with the greasy mop on his head. She focuses on washing his hair, and then cutting it how she knows he and ronan prefer it—short sides, curly on top.
“Thanks, Blue,” Adam says, and he’s already sinking back to laying down and a nap before Blue can even take a picture.
She settles for one of him asleep, because it’s still proof that it happened.
It’s enough to blow up the group chat. Not as badly as when he first made it outside of his room with the help of two physical therapists and a walker, but it’s a big step.
If he keeps taking leaps like these, maybe they’ll let him come home. Even for just a day or two.
Just a day or two of it being normal. Fuck, Ronan could even come over and even though he and Adam are unbearable together nothing is more unbearable than this. Normal with noise in the house, normal with Adam’s coughing waking her up.
Now she wakes up because she can’t hear it.
She’s wide awake before Calla or Maura is coming to wake her up for school. Adam always set his alarm early, before he started homebound. She wakes up to it, too, even though she hasn’t heard it in months.
Adam coughs a little in his sleep, scrunches his nose. Blue knows the high flow irritates his sinuses, so she quietly switches him over to the mask like he taught her how to when they were eight.
He’ll get through this. He has to. He’s always hated the hospital but he’s so okay, now, with being woken up and stuck with needles and examined so often that it doesn’t faze him. It would drive her insane. It annoys him, but his tolerance for pain and for bullshit is so much higher than hers.
Blue will just keep visiting, will try to make it more bearable. She’ll sneak him homework and books like she did when they were kids.
She’ll make it through, too.