Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Erik Lensher’s day had stretched longer than he cared to measure. Meetings that bled into lunch, negotiations that dragged into late afternoon, the relentless hum of a city that never paused, all conspired to leave him hollow by the time he stepped into the lobby of his penthouse building. The security staff greeted him with the usual efficiency, the polite nods and clipped words that marked the rhythm of wealth and power, but Erik barely registered them. His thoughts were already at home — on Charles.

The elevator ride up was quiet, save for the subtle hum of the motors and the soft rustle of his tailored suit. Erik’s mind, normally a precise ledger of deals, projections, and acquisitions, was elsewhere. He pictured Charles’s study: the warm wood, the neatly stacked papers, the soft lamplight filtering across the bookshelves. He imagined Charles sitting at his desk, immersed in research, the gentle frown of concentration he wore when studying something particularly intricate. That image made Erik’s chest tighten with affection.

When he finally stepped into the apartment, the familiar scent of polished wood and faint lavender greeted him, but there was… something else. A subtle unease that tugged at the edges of his awareness. The apartment was quiet — too quiet. Normally, he’d hear the soft click of Charles’s slippers on the floorboards, or the low hum of a classical record drifting from the study. Tonight, there was nothing.

“Anna,” he called, his voice steady but carrying an edge of concern.

The maid appeared almost immediately, eyes wide at his tone. “Sir, you’re home earlier than usual,” she said, smoothing the creases of her apron. Erik ignored her comment.

“Have you seen Charles?” His gaze swept the room, sharp, assessing every shadow, every corner.

Anna hesitated, biting her lip. “I… haven’t seen him, sir. He was in the study earlier, but then… I don’t know where he went. I haven’t seen him since.”

Erik’s heart skipped a beat. “Show me.” He followed her down the hall, each step echoing in the polished floors. The study door stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open slowly, every sense alert.

And there he was.

Charles was sprawled awkwardly on the floor, half beneath the chair he had been seated in. His chest rose and fell in rapid, uneven gasps. His hands were flailing slightly, one clutching at the air as if trying to grasp something intangible. Erik’s sharp, precise mind cataloged everything at once: the pallor of Charles’s skin, the subtle blue tint to his lips, the tremor in his hands, the small beads of sweat forming along his temples.

The chair had toppled in the struggle. Papers and books were scattered across the floor. Beside Charles, the inhaler — the one device that could bring him relief — lay just out of reach. His fingers scrabbled toward it, trembling, and he fell forward onto the floor again, wheezing painfully with each breath.

Erik’s heart lurched. He moved with the efficiency of habit and the urgency of fear, crossing the room in two long strides. “Charles! Look at me!” His voice was sharp, commanding, grounding.

Charles’s head lifted slightly, eyes unfocused, panic flickering in them. “Can’t… breathe,” he rasped. His small, desperate motions betrayed the terror of suffocation, the raw, instinctive fight against a body betraying him.

Erik dropped to his knees, sliding one arm beneath Charles to support him, lifting him gently yet firmly. He grabbed the inhaler with his free hand, pressing it into Charles’s trembling fingers. “Here — this. Take it. In… slow… breaths. With me. One, two, three…”

Charles’s lips closed around the mouthpiece, but the first attempts were shallow and ragged. Erik pressed a hand gently against his back, murmuring soft encouragement, guiding him through each inhalation. The wheezing persisted, harsh and raw, echoing in the quiet study. Every sound made Erik’s chest tighten, a mirror of the panic Charles felt.

He noted the subtleties: the quick rise of Charles’s shoulders, the tiny quiver of his hands, the way his eyelids flickered with fatigue. Minutes passed, each stretched taut with tension. Erik adjusted Charles’s posture, eased his head back slightly, brushed damp hair from his forehead. “You’re okay,” he said, though he knew the statement was only partially true. “I’ve got you. Breathe with me.”

Charles managed a few more shaky breaths, the inhaler slowly bringing a fraction of relief, but Erik didn’t allow himself to relax. Not yet. Not until the color returned to Charles’s lips, until the panicked tremor in his chest softened, until he was truly stable again.

Outside, the city continued its indifferent rhythm, unaware of the crisis unfolding in the warm, book-filled study. For Erik, there was nothing else in the world but the fragile figure in his arms, the rapid, shallow breaths, the sharp, uneven wheeze that had set his heart pounding like a drum.

Hours could have passed, or only minutes. Time had become irrelevant in the quiet of the apartment. All that mattered was Charles, struggling yet still conscious, fighting against the flare that had come without warning. Erik’s hands remained steady, his voice calm and low, his presence a tether to life itself.

And in that moment, he understood fully, irrevocably, that no deal, no empire, no title could ever be as important as this: keeping the man he loved alive.

Erik’s mind moved faster than his body, but his body moved with purpose. He gathered Charles into his arms, careful to support the fragile weight of him, and felt the slight tremble that came from both fear and exhaustion. Charles’s head rested against his chest, and Erik could feel the rapid, uneven heartbeat beneath the fabric of his shirt, the shallow, rattling breaths that made his own pulse race in sympathetic panic. The inhaler had brought only minimal relief, and he knew he could not wait a second longer.

“Anna,” he called, his voice clipped yet edged with controlled urgency. “Call Dr. Grey immediately. Tell her I’m bringing him to the hospital. Prepare a car — the black executive car. Now.”

Anna hesitated for barely a heartbeat, clearly shaken herself, before nodding and moving swiftly. Erik didn’t have time to acknowledge her; his attention was entirely on Charles. He felt the warmth of sweat-soaked hair against his chest, the subtle shiver in Charles’s frame, and the faint scent of antiseptic soap mixed with anxiety and exertion. Every detail was magnified, every tiny sign a marker of urgency.

The path to the garage stretched interminably. Erik’s polished shoes made soft but rapid taps against the marble floor, his other hand cradling Charles’s back, keeping him steady. Each turn of the corridor, each flickering light above, seemed like an eternity. Charles’s wheezing grew sharper, more desperate, each breath a battle. Erik murmured under his breath, a soft litany of grounding words, urging him to inhale, to exhale, to stay conscious.

By the time they reached the garage, Erik’s chest burned from the strain of holding him, yet he didn’t falter. The black luxury sedan waited, sleek and gleaming under the warm garage lighting. The personal driver, Marcus, already at the ready, sprang into motion. “Sir, shall I drive?”

“Yes. Now. Hospital — the Eastside Medical Pavilion. Full emergency access,” Erik ordered, setting Charles gently into the rear seat. He fastened the seatbelt around him, hands shaking slightly as he checked that Charles’s head was supported, that the nasal passages were unobstructed, that the small rise and fall of his chest was at least somewhat stabilized.

The driver’s eyes flicked to Erik briefly, reading the tension radiating from him, before closing the door and slipping into the driver’s seat. Erik sat beside Charles, pressing a hand against his back, feeling the subtle rattling of each breath, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath the thin silk of his shirt. He whispered softly, encouragingly, into the ear closest to him.

“It’s okay, love. I’ve got you. Just hold on.”

Charles’s fingers twitched slightly against his chest. His lips parted, an attempt at words that barely emerged, rasping and fragile. “Erik… can’t…”

“Shhh,” Erik soothed, cutting him off gently but firmly. “Don’t speak. Just breathe. I’m right here.”

The car moved smoothly, silently, gliding along the city streets. But for Erik, each second stretched taut with panic. Every stoplight, every shadow passing under the tinted windows, felt like it would consume them both. The city seemed oblivious to the crisis inside the car, the luxury and calm of the sedan sharply contrasting with the chaos in his arms.

He monitored Charles constantly, adjusting his position slightly to ease the pressure on his chest, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead, noting the pallor creeping further into his skin. The wheezing had intensified again, subtle rattles echoing in the enclosed space of the vehicle. Erik’s mind cataloged every symptom, every faltering breath, calculating what measures might be necessary upon arrival.

Marcus drove with precision, each turn measured, each lane change executed flawlessly, but Erik hardly registered the movement of the car. His focus was entirely on Charles. He felt the tremor in his husband’s fingers, the faint pulse in his temple, the way his small body shivered under his hands. The nasal cannula was still in place, though Erik knew its oxygen flow was minimal. He considered the alternative — calling for an ambulance — but decided against it. The sedan was faster, more direct, and under his control.

Minutes passed, though it felt like hours. Erik whispered low encouragements, softly counting each breath with Charles, pressing gently against his back to steady the shallow rises and falls. He felt the subtle shift in Charles’s body when the wheezing spiked, and he instinctively leaned closer, murmuring grounding words, stroking damp hair, brushing lips against the temple in a fleeting kiss of reassurance.

The smell of antiseptic, mingled with Charles’s own subtle scent of lavender and faint perspiration, filled the car. Erik noted every detail, every trembling hand, every flinch. He felt helpless yet compelled to act, moving instinctively, adjusting Charles’s head, lightly rubbing his back, keeping close contact. His own chest ached, tight with fear, but he didn’t allow himself to falter. He had to stay calm for Charles, had to project strength.

At last, the hospital entrance loomed ahead, the white and glass façade glowing in the dim evening light. Marcus eased the car to a stop, and Erik practically flew out, cradling Charles with practiced urgency, moving him swiftly through the automatic doors. Nurses and attendants looked up as he passed, recognition of urgency in the set of his jaw and the tight hold on his husband.

“Emergency,” he barked, his voice carrying authority. “Asthma attack. Severe. Patient is struggling to breathe.”

A nurse rushed forward, and Erik gently but firmly handed Charles into her arms for assessment. He followed closely, speaking softly but rapidly, detailing the inhaler usage, the nasal cannula, the sequence of symptoms, the sudden onset, the severity of the flare. He stayed beside Charles at every step, holding his hand as they wheeled him toward the treatment area, whispering steady, grounding words into the chaos of the emergency room.

Minutes later, Erik watched as Charles was connected to monitoring equipment, the steady beeping of the heart monitor providing a tenuous reassurance. Oxygen was adjusted, nebulizers prepared, medications at the ready. Erik stayed close, refusing to leave, whispering encouragement, brushing damp hair from his husband’s forehead, gripping the small hand that trembled in his own.

For a man used to control, used to command, this was a landscape he could not dominate. His empire, his wealth, his influence — none of it mattered here. All that mattered was Charles, fragile and struggling, every shallow breath a battle. And Erik would not allow him to face it alone.

Hours seemed to stretch infinitely in the quiet, controlled chaos of the hospital room. Erik monitored, adjusted, comforted, whispered, held. He noted every subtle color shift, every tiny movement, every quiver. Each sound, each shallow gasp, tore at his chest. The luxury cars, the penthouse, the boardrooms — they were gone from his mind. There was only Charles, only the soft rise and fall of his chest, only the fragile pulse beneath his fingertips, only the urgent, desperate need to keep him alive.

And as he sat there, a silent sentinel at his husband’s side, Erik understood fully the depth of his devotion. Not in grand gestures, not in acquisitions, not in the public eye. But here, in quiet panic, in whispered encouragements, in the firm, unyielding hold of one man on the life of the man he loved — there was his world.

Charles had meant to take only a short break — just a few minutes to stretch his back, sip his tea, and return to the stack of papers waiting for him. Instead, he found himself gripping the edge of his desk, trying to steady the dizzy wave washing through him.

It had begun subtly, with that familiar, uneasy tightness in the center of his chest. A warning he had felt countless times since childhood. The sort of tightness that whispered rather than shouted, easily dismissed if he’d been thinking clearly. But today he’d been distracted, buried too deep in the text in front of him, pushing himself harder than usual, convinced he could finish this last section before Erik came home.

He exhaled slowly and tried to settle into his chair again, adjusting his glasses with a hand that trembled more than he wanted to admit. Just breathe. Just focus. It’ll ease.

But it didn’t.

The slight tightness sharpened, drawing inward like an invisible fist closing around his lungs. Charles paused mid-sentence, pen slipping from his fingers as he placed a hand against his chest. His breaths shortened, each one thinner than the last, as though the air had to fight its way in.

“No… not now,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

He reached automatically for his inhaler — it should have been in its usual place on the corner of his desk — but his fingers met only smooth wood and scattered papers. Charles blinked, the room tilting slightly. He leaned forward, searching the desk surface, then the drawer, his movements becoming increasingly frantic as his breaths grew high and tight. His lungs burned. His chest pulled inward sharply with each inhalation.

A faint wheeze escaped him; the sound startled him with how loud it seemed in the quiet study.

His heart thudded painfully. The inhaler. Where is it?

He pushed himself up from the chair — too fast, too unsteady — and the room blurred at the edges. His legs felt oddly distant, as if they belonged to someone else. He braced a hand on the desk, trying to stay upright, but his knees buckled and he sank back into the chair, gasping.

Every breath shrank further, thinner, as if he were inhaling through a straw. Panic bloomed sharply through him, tightening the very muscles that already strained for air. His hands began to shake violently. His mind fogged with fragmented thoughts — he needed the inhaler, he needed to slow down, he needed to stay calm — but none of these thoughts stayed still long enough for him to act on them.

He forced himself to stand again. The inhaler must have fallen earlier. Maybe it had rolled under the desk. Maybe it was on the floor. He took a stumbling step forward, reaching blindly toward the edge of the desk — and his foot caught on a fallen book.

He fell. Not a graceful collapse, not even a controlled slide — a sudden, helpless drop. His knee hit the hardwood first, sending a sharp jolt up his leg, followed by his shoulder hitting the lower part of the chair. Pain flared, but the greater pain was in his chest, crushing and raw, stealing what little breath he had.

Through blurred vision, he saw the inhaler — only inches beyond his fingertips. So close. So impossibly far. He dragged himself toward it, his fingertips brushing the cool plastic before slipping away.

A strangled sound rose from his throat — half sob, half wheeze.

Erik…

He desperately wanted to call for him, but no sound came out. His throat felt tight, constricted, his voice reduced to a fragile rasp that couldn’t push past the effort of breathing. Tears stung his eyes from the combination of pain, fear, and humiliation at being reduced to this helpless state on the study floor.

He stretched his fingers again, nails scraping the wood. A pathetic wheeze escaped him. His chest spasmed. His vision pulsed at the edges — dark, then light, then dark again.

Time blurred. Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes felt like drifting.

His body trembled violently as he reached once more for the inhaler, but this time his arms shook too hard, his muscles too weak, and he collapsed sideways onto the floor. His cheek pressed against the cool wood. His breath hitched sharply. His throat tightened. His lungs refused to expand fully.

The study ceiling swam above him, the overhead lights blurring into pale halos.

He was dimly aware of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears — rapid, frantic, struggling as hard as he was. His fingers clawed weakly at the floor, searching for the inhaler but finding nothing but scattered papers.

His vision flickered. He felt lightheaded, as if his mind were floating slightly away from his body. Sounds became muffled — distant rustles, the faint hum of the building’s central air, and the pounding of his own pulse turning into a hollow echo.

He didn’t know how long he lay there before he heard the soft, distant echo of a voice — Erik’s voice. It didn’t sound real at first, just another fragment drifting through his fading consciousness.

“Charles?”

Not a question. Almost a warning.

Charles wanted to answer. He tried to turn his head toward the sound, but his muscles failed him. All he managed was a fragile exhale, another wheeze.

He heard footsteps — fast, heavy, urgent. A door opening sharply. Something warm and firm slid under his back, lifting him. Charles gasped, partly from the change in position, partly from the sheer relief of contact.

He blinked up into Erik’s face — blurred but unmistakable. The furrowed brow. The tense jaw. The fear in his eyes poorly hidden beneath authority.

“Charles, breathe with me. Come on. Look at me,” Erik’s voice cut through the fog.

Charles tried to inhale. It came out as a shallow, ragged gasp. His fingers fumbled weakly as Erik pressed the inhaler into his hand. Erik steadied it for him when his grip faltered.

He felt Erik’s hand on his back, guiding him. Felt the warmth of his touch. Felt the determined steadiness that he desperately clung to. He tried to breathe with the medication, but panic made every breath stutter.

He felt the world tilt. Erik was lifting him — carrying him — and Charles let his head fall weakly against his shoulder.

The motion blurred into a haze. Hallway lights passing overhead. The distant sound of Anna’s voice, frantic and apologetic. The cooler air of the garage hitting his overheated skin. The subtle leather scent of the car.

He felt Erik slide in beside him, one hand never leaving his back, rubbing slow circles of comfort as Charles struggled to inhale shallow, trembling breaths.

“Stay with me,” Erik whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Charles’s vision pulsed again. He clung to Erik’s sleeve, fingers trembling. He tried to speak but only produced a rasp.

“Can’t…”

“Don’t speak,” Erik murmured, brushing the damp hair from Charles’s forehead. “Just breathe. You’re going to be okay.”

The car moved — he barely felt the motion. His chest felt heavy, unbearably tight. His breaths came in sharp, painful pulls. Each one was a battle. Each one threatened to be the last.

At some point Charles noticed the bright lights of the hospital entrance, but only barely. The world had tunneled to a series of sensations — Erik’s hand steady on his back, the cold rush of air from outside the car, the too-bright fluorescent lights above him.

He felt himself lifted again, cradled against Erik’s chest. Charles tried to open his eyes, tried to focus, but the lights flickered and dissolved into blurs. People were speaking — he couldn’t make out the words. He felt the rush of movement, the cool smoothness of the gurney beneath him.

Then the oxygen changed — colder, stronger — and a mask was placed over his nose and mouth. The new air flooded his lungs in a painful rush, like being submerged into cold water. His body instinctively fought, then relaxed into it as clarity flickered at the edges of his vision.

The beeping of a monitor. The soft whoosh of an oxygen line. Erik’s hand gripping his tightly.

Charles closed his eyes, letting the new air fill him, letting the panic slowly fade.

And somewhere in the space between fear and exhaustion, he felt Erik’s thumb brush against the back of his hand, steady and warm.

You’re safe now, he thought.
Or maybe Erik whispered it.
The sounds had begun to blur into one another.

All Charles knew was that he was no longer alone.

Chapter Text

The memory came to Erik not gently, not as something softened with time, but like a cold blade slicing clean through the haze of the hospital room’s fluorescent lighting.
He sat with Charles’s hand in his, thumb brushing the cool skin, listening to the oxygen hiss softly…and the past rose like a storm cloud.

It had been only three days before tonight. Three days — but it felt like a lifetime.

Three Days Earlier

The penthouse had been quiet, holding the soft evening light like a glass of amber. Charles had been in the living room, surrounded by his open books, grading papers, a soft blanket draped over his lap. He had that quiet, focused calm he always carried when working — the kind that made Erik’s heart ache with affection and guilt.

But Erik had come home tired that evening — tired, frustrated, raw from a day that had stretched him too thin. The door had barely clicked shut behind him when the tension he carried resonated like a struck chord.

Charles looked up with that gentle expression he always had when greeting him, something warm and softening in his eyes. “You’re home late.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Only concern.
But Erik heard it wrong.
Or maybe he wanted to hear it wrong.

He dropped his briefcase harder than necessary, the sharp thud startling even himself. “I told you I’d be late. I told you last night. I told you this morning.”

Charles blinked slowly, setting his pen down. “I wasn’t criticizing. I just—”

“Then don’t say it like that,” Erik snapped. The words were too loud, too sharp, slicing through the quiet of the room.

Charles’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly beneath the blanket. His fingers curled just slightly. He exhaled softly through his nose. “Erik, I’m only saying it because I worry about you.”

“Funny,” Erik huffed out a harsh laugh, tossing his suit jacket onto the sofa. “Because every time I come home, it feels like you’re keeping score of how often I’m not here.”

“I’m not,” Charles said quietly.
But his voice trembled ever so slightly — so slightly Erik didn’t notice then, not through the haze of irritation.

Erik continued pacing, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the wood floor. “Do you think I want to work like this? Do you think running a conglomerate is easy? Do you think I enjoy being pulled in five directions every hour?”

“I know your job is demanding,” Charles said softly, pushing himself to sit a little straighter. He cleared his throat — gently, too gently — and Erik didn’t think twice about it. “But you also promised that you’d try to come home earlier this week. You promised we’d have dinner together tonight.”

“And maybe I would have,” Erik shot back, “if the entire European division hadn’t decided to implode at lunchtime!” His voice rose again, sharp and cutting.

Charles flinched — the smallest wince, the faintest tightening around his eyes — and Erik, in his irritation, missed it.
He also missed the subtle pallor on Charles’s cheeks.
The slight glassiness in his eyes.
The way one hand pressed briefly to his sternum, as if testing a small ache.

“Erik,” Charles tried again, softer, “I’m not angry. I just…”
He paused, swallowing, and Erik — too wound up — only heard silence.
Charles rubbed his throat as if clearing it, and continued, voice a touch hoarser, “I just miss you. That’s all.”

“Well, I don’t have the luxury of missing anyone,” Erik snapped before he could stop himself. “I’m trying to keep this entire business afloat while you—”

He stopped.
But the damage had already been done.

Charles’s expression cracked — not dramatically, not with obvious tears or theatrics, but with something small, quiet, and devastating. A faint tightening around his mouth. A drop of his gaze. The soft collapse of his shoulders.

And still, Erik didn’t understand what he was seeing.

He only saw that Charles looked away.
And that somehow made his chest burn hotter with frustration.

“Fine,” Charles whispered, lifting the pen again, though his hand shook. “Then let’s drop it.”

His voice rasped slightly, the sound too soft to register as anything unusual.
He coughed — once, barely — and Erik, consumed by his own storm, didn’t notice the warning in that small sound.

He didn’t notice the way Charles’s breathing hitched just a little afterward.
Didn’t notice the way he pulled the blanket tighter around himself, as a chill crept through him.
Didn’t notice how he pressed fingers to his temple, swallowing a faint dizziness.

He only noticed his own anger.
His own exhaustion.
His own pride.

“Fine,” Erik repeated, snapping off his cufflinks too roughly. “We’ll drop it.”

Silence settled between them — heavy, cold, brittle.

Charles didn’t try again.
He simply sat quietly, finishing one of his papers with a trembling hand, coughing once more into the crook of his elbow when Erik had already stormed halfway down the hall.

Erik hadn’t noticed that either.

He shut himself in the study to “cool down,” though in reality, he only stewed deeper in his frustration, replaying the conversation in a loop that painted him as the injured party.
He never thought to check on Charles.
Never thought the cough meant anything.
Never wondered why Charles looked paler than usual.

Hours later, when he emerged, Charles was already asleep on the couch — curled tightly beneath the blanket, breathing a little too quietly, cheeks a little too flushed.

And Erik, still stubborn, still proud, kissed his forehead only lightly before going to bed alone.

He didn’t feel how warm Charles’s skin had been.
Didn’t hear the faint wheeze buried under his slow breaths.
Didn’t sense the fever already blooming beneath his skin.

He simply whispered, “We’ll talk tomorrow,” not knowing tomorrow would never come —
because three days later, Charles would be lying unconscious in a hospital room, breathing through a mask, while Erik replayed the argument again and again, every word like a knife he’d stabbed into his own chest.

And the worst part:
he couldn’t go back and change a single one.

Erik sat in the dimly lit private waiting suite, a room designed for wealthy clients who needed silence and privacy, yet all the polished marble and soft amber lamps in the world could not soothe the storm inside him. His hands were still trembling. He kept them clasped tightly, fingers locked together as though forcing them still might force his racing thoughts to calm as well. But nothing would settle. Not after the drive. Not after hearing Charles gasp for air in the backseat. Not after seeing the fear in his husband’s eyes — fear that Erik had put there, in part, through his own blindness, his own stubbornness, his own arrogance. He shut his eyes and pressed his hand to his forehead, trying to steady his breathing, but the moment he did, the memory of their fight slammed into him with cruel clarity.

It had been two days ago. Or was it three? Time had blurred in the haze of contracts, reports, crises, and endless corporate fires he had convinced himself only he could extinguish. Every night had ended the same way: Charles waiting for him, trying to speak gently, trying to reach him, and Erik brushing him off with a clipped answer or a raised voice. He barely remembered what the last fight was even about — but he vividly remembered the sound of his own voice, sharp and cold, echoing through their living room like a blade. Charles had stood there, expression soft and exhausted, wearing that loose sweater he always favored when he wasn’t feeling well, and Erik had not noticed. Never even looked closely enough to see the shallow breaths, the faint tremor in Charles’s hands, the tired pink around his eyes. He had been too wrapped in his anger, his frustration, his belief that if he didn’t hold his empire together, everything would collapse — forgetting that the true foundation of his life wasn’t the company at all. It was the man standing in front of him.

Erik remembered shouting something — something stupid, something about not needing interruptions when he was under pressure — and Charles flinching, as if the force of the words had hit him physically. But Charles had not yelled back. He rarely did. Instead he had taken a small step back, lowering his eyes, and simply whispered, “I wasn’t trying to fight, Erik. I was trying to tell you something important.” Erik had dismissed it with a frustrated wave of his hand, storming into his office, slamming the door, convincing himself Charles was just being dramatic about Erik’s schedule again. And now, sitting in this hospital suite, that moment replayed with unbearable clarity: Charles had been trying to tell him he was getting sick. He had been trying to say he wasn’t breathing well. He had been seeking comfort, support, reassurance — and Erik had given him the opposite.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight with guilt. How many signs had he missed? The quiet coughing Charles tried to hide. The way he had been sleeping more. The slightly hoarse voice during their last dinner together. And the study tonight — the inhaler on the floor, the overturned papers, the empty desk chair. Charles had been alone, unable to breathe, reaching for help that wasn’t there because Erik hadn’t been there. The thought twisted like a knife. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as though the polished stone could answer any of the questions tormenting him: When did I stop paying attention? When did work become more important than him? How could I not have seen how bad it was getting?

The worst part was that Charles had always been patient with him. Always. Even when Erik’s temper flared. Even when weeks passed in a blur of corporate obligations. Charles had loved him with a gentleness Erik had never deserved, offering comfort even when he should have demanded effort instead. And Erik — the man who commanded boardrooms, who bent markets to his will — had failed at the one thing that mattered most: simply being present. Simply noticing. Simply caring the way Charles cared for him. The memory of Charles collapsing, the sound of his breath choking into a thin desperate wheeze, replayed in Erik’s ears until he felt physically sick.

He pressed a hand over his mouth, forcing himself not to break down. He was a powerful man, but he felt powerless now. His wealth couldn’t buy back the last three days. His authority couldn’t rewind the moment he yelled at a man who had been quietly struggling to breathe. His influence couldn’t remove the pale blue tint from Charles’s lips, nor erase the terror he saw in his husband’s eyes while he cradled him on the study floor, whispering apologies against damp hair. He had spent years shaping himself into a titan, a figure people could rely on for stability, yet the person who needed him the most had been left to suffer in silence.

A soft knock at the door made him lift his head, but no one entered. Just a nurse passing by. Tears threatened to rise again — rare for him, alarming in their intensity — but he swallowed them back. He deserved the pain of guilt. He deserved every minute of this torment. If Charles woke up and turned away from him, Erik would not blame him. If he was angry, hurt, disappointed — Erik would accept it. But deeper than his guilt was a desperate, fragile hope: that Charles would wake, would breathe easier, would look at him with the same gentleness he always had, even if Erik no longer deserved it. He needed Charles to be safe. He needed him to recover. And he needed, more than anything, a chance to make this right.

Erik closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and made a silent vow — not dramatic, not performative, but deeply, painfully real. If Charles recovered, if he walked out of this hospital, Erik would change. He would slow down. He would listen. He would look. He would never, ever let Charles become invisible in the shadow of his responsibilities again. The world could demand everything from him, his company could shatter, the markets could collapse — but Erik would never allow his own neglect to endanger the man he loved. Not again. Not after tonight. Not after hearing the silence in the backseat between those choked breaths, realizing how close he had come to losing everything.

He sat there, hands trembling, heart raw, whispering into the quiet room as though Charles might somehow hear him through the walls:
“I’m so sorry, love. I’m so, so sorry.”

Charles drifted in and out of consciousness like a man floating underwater, unable to tell where the surface was or how far beneath it he had already sunk. Heat wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket, thick and relentless, pressing against his skin until he could no longer tell whether he was shaking or simply dissolving into the fever. The world outside his closed eyes felt distant — muffled voices, cool cloths, hands adjusting tubes, a gentle beeping rhythm that pulsed like a heartbeat not his own — but none of it seemed real. Not compared to the vivid storm inside his mind. The fever pulled him backwards, dragging him straight into the memory he least wanted to revisit, the one he tried to bury even as it replayed again and again with awful clarity: their fight.

In the fever-dream, the living room lights were too bright, almost blinding. Every sound echoed sharply, as though the walls themselves were made of mirrors bouncing their argument back at him. Erik stood before him, broad-shouldered, exhausted, burning with the dangerous frustration only he could hold — frustration that Charles had mistaken then as anger directed at him, but now in the fever he saw it magnified, distorted, terrifying. Erik’s voice boomed, each word a knife. “I don’t have time for this, Charles!” The words hit him harder now than when they were actually spoken. They rang against his skull, louder, crueler, echoing endlessly. Charles tried to speak, tried to explain that he wasn’t trying to fight, that he hadn’t been feeling well for days, that something was wrong with his breathing — but in the fever the air itself thickened. His throat tightened. His lungs felt swollen, heavy, shrinking with each attempted breath.

He coughed, doubling forward, but in the dream Erik didn’t move toward him. He only watched, eyes cold with exhaustion, lips pressed in a firm line of impatience. “You always do this when I’m stressed. You always—” Charles couldn’t hear the rest; his ears rang violently, a crushing pressure like someone was pressing their palms to both sides of his head. He tried to reach out, needing to steady himself, needing something, anything, but Erik’s figure blurred, warped by fever and fear, stretching into elongated shadows. Charles stumbled, the room spinning wildly, and for a moment he felt the exact sensation of falling from the study chair — the cold shock of the floor, the desperate gasp for air that wouldn’t come, the terror of reaching for an inhaler that wasn’t where he needed it to be.

His fever-drenched mind twisted reality and memory together until he no longer knew if he was reliving the past or slipping deeper into some nightmare crafted by pain. He tried to cry out for Erik, but his voice wouldn’t form. His chest burned. His breaths were small, shallow, frantic — the same pattern as before the collapse. And in the dream, Erik only backed away, swallowed by the glaring white light and the rising noise of Charles’s own wheezing.

Then suddenly—
A hand closed around his. Real. Warm. Trembling.

The fever-world flickered, as if someone had nudged a projector beam. The sharp brightness dimmed. The echoing voices softened. For a fraction of a moment, Charles felt something solid, something grounding, something familiar enough that his fevered mind clawed toward it like a drowning man lifting his head above water. He couldn’t see clearly, but he felt the warmth in that hand, the way fingers wrapped securely around his own, the way a thumb stroked the back of his knuckles in frantic, broken circles.

The world returned in fragments. The sterility of the hospital room. The cold sweat on his skin. The beeping monitors that seemed to rise and fall with the rhythm of his own struggling breaths. And Erik — Erik was here, not distant or cold or shouting, but kneeling beside the bed, shoulders shaking, forehead nearly touching their joined hands. His voice was low, cracked, choked — nothing like the booming anger of the dream. Nothing like the distant man from their fight. This voice was raw with fear.

“Charles… please… love, please wake up.”

Charles wanted to respond, to lift his head, to reassure him, but his body wasn’t fully his. The fever pinned him down like a weight. He moaned softly instead, his lips too dry, his throat too tight to form words. Erik heard the sound, and it broke him. A sob escaped him — a sound Charles had never heard from him, not even in their darkest arguments, not even in the moments when life had seemed impossibly fragile. Erik pressed his forehead to Charles’s hand, clinging to him as though anchoring himself to the only thing that mattered.

“I’m so sorry,” Erik whispered, words trembling. “I’m so sorry for everything I said. I should have listened. I should have seen it. I should have—” His voice cracked again, a quiet, painful fracture. “I never meant to hurt you. Not ever. I love you. Please, Charles… please wake up. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you again.”

The sound of Erik’s voice tugged Charles toward consciousness, but fever still held onto him, dragging him back into flashes of their fight — Erik’s raised voice, the slamming door, the feeling of struggling for air alone while trying to call out. Those memories twisted together with the present until Charles whimpered, a soft, broken sound of distress. Erik moved instantly, sitting up straighter, brushing damp hair from Charles’s forehead, his hand trembling so badly it barely stayed steady. Charles’s fever radiated like a furnace, and Erik recoiled slightly at the heat before forcing himself to cup Charles’s cheek anyway, desperate to soothe even if he had no idea how.

“You’re burning up,” Erik whispered hoarsely. “God, you’re so hot… Charles… please, open your eyes. Please.”

Charles managed a half-breath, shallow and weak, but with it came a flicker of awareness — not enough to see clearly, but enough to feel. Enough to know that Erik was touching him, that Erik’s voice wasn’t the angry thunder from his dream, but something softer, trembling, drenched in aching regret. He felt the bed dip as Erik leaned closer, felt the pressure of two hands now holding his own, felt a shaking inhale near his ear followed by a quiet plea: “Come back to me.”

Without fully waking, Charles turned his head slightly toward the sound, toward the warmth, toward the only constant he could reach through the haze. Erik gasped quietly, his breath hitching with relief so sharp it bordered on painful. He squeezed Charles’s hand tighter — too tight for a healthy man, but in his panic he couldn’t help it — and bowed his head over it.

“You moved… you heard me.” Erik’s voice wavered. “Thank God… thank God.”

A nurse entered briefly, checking monitors, adjusting the IV, giving Erik a sympathetic, gentle look that only made him cry harder. The fever spike had pushed Charles into delirium; the medical team warned it would be hours before he might fully wake. Erik didn’t care. He wasn’t leaving, not even for a second. His expensive suit jacket lay discarded over the chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie pulled loose as though anything touching his throat would choke him. His eyes were red, swollen, but he blinked through the pain, whispering apology after apology, confession after confession — not because Charles could reply, but because Erik needed him to know, even in delirium.

Charles drifted again — floating somewhere between fevered dream and faint awareness. Voices blurred together. The hospital lights glowed too brightly. The sheets felt too cold then too hot then too heavy. But through it all, one thing remained steady: the feeling of Erik’s thumb rubbing gentle circles against his hand, the trembling warmth of fingers intertwined with his, the soft sound of Erik murmuring something endless and desperate: “Wake up, love… I’m here… I’m so sorry… I love you… please don’t leave me…”

And though Charles could not yet open his eyes, a tear slipped from the corner of his fever-flushed face, trailing slowly across his skin. Erik saw it, inhaled sharply, and pressed their joined hands to his lips with a shaking breath.

“Come back to me,” he whispered.
“I’ll never forgive myself if you don’t come back.”

Erik had never felt so helpless in his life. Not during the worst market crash of his career, not during the hostile takeover attempt five years ago, not even during the night his company’s servers collapsed and the world seemed ready to devour him alive. None of those moments — none — compared to the sight of Charles lying on the hospital bed, small and flushed and trembling with a fever so intense that his skin burned beneath Erik’s fingertips. Erik sat in the chair tucked close to the bedside, though “sat” was too passive a word. He was collapsed there, hunched forward, elbows digging into his knees, both hands gripping Charles’s limp fingers like lifelines he couldn’t afford to lose. He squeezed gently — then harder — then caught himself, loosening his hold as if afraid he might hurt Charles again simply by existing. His breath shook on the exhale. He had never known fear like this, a kind that hollowed him out from the inside, carving a quiet space where guilt and panic echoed endlessly.

Charles moved in his delirium — a soft whimper, a slight turn of his head — and Erik straightened instantly, eyes locking on him with desperate attentiveness. Every small sound made Erik’s heart spike. Every flutter of Charles’s lashes felt like a miracle he wasn’t prepared to receive. But the fever held Charles in its merciless grip, dragging him back under as soon as he surfaced. Erik watched the rise and fall of his chest — shallow, too shallow — matching each breath with his own, terrified that if he stopped watching, if he let his gaze drift even a second, Charles might slip away. Every time the monitor beeped irregularly, Erik flinched. Every minute nurse footsteps echoed outside the door, he went rigid. And every time Charles whimpered or whispered incoherently, the memory of their fight stabbed into Erik with a violence that made him physically ill.

He kept replaying it — not the fever dream version Charles was trapped in, but the true, shameful version Erik remembered with perfect clarity. He saw himself standing tall, jaw tight, fists clenched, turning anger outward when the real target was his own exhaustion. He could still hear his own voice, sharp like broken glass, slicing into the quiet of their home: “I don’t have time for this, Charles!” Even thinking it now made bile rise in his throat. He had said those words. To Charles. His Charles. The man who had done nothing but love him, care for him, wait for him, forgive him. And Erik had thrown his stress at him like a weapon. He buried his face in Charles’s hand now, the memory burning him worse than any fever could.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Erik whispered into the still-warm palm he held. “Why didn’t I see it?” His voice cracked on the last word — the kind of crack he would never allow in a boardroom, a negotiation, or even in private life. But here, in this too-bright hospital room, everything inside him had come undone. His breath shook again as he pressed a trembling kiss against Charles’s fingers. “I should have known. I should have looked at you. I should have noticed something was wrong before you collapsed alone in that study.”

He tilted his head up, studying Charles’s face with reverent desperation. Charles’s skin glistened with fever sweat, lashes clumped at the edges, cheeks flushed a worrying shade of crimson. His breathing rasped faintly, almost like the faintest wheeze beneath a cracked whisper. Erik brushed a thumb along Charles’s cheekbone, wiping away the tear Charles had shed moments earlier — a tear Erik still wasn’t sure came from fever, pain, fear, or the cruel hallucinations that fever brought. The tear had nearly destroyed him the moment he saw it. Now, it lived burned into his memory, a reminder of everything he hadn’t protected Charles from.

A quiet, desperate thought echoed through Erik’s mind: This is my fault.
And it wasn’t entirely untrue.

The stress. The shouting. The long hours. The neglect. The unwillingness to pause for even a moment when Charles tried to speak to him. The signs had been there — Charles losing his breath when walking up the stairs, the slight cough at night, the way he leaned against the wall a little longer after long days teaching. Erik had dismissed it all with the arrogance of a man who believed his partner was invincible simply because he needed him to be. Because the idea of Charles being fragile, vulnerable, mortal — it was a reality Erik had not allowed himself to face.

Now he was drowning in it.

Erik leaned closer, brushing damp curls away from Charles’s forehead. His voice lowered to a whisper, fragile and breaking. “I should have been home. I should have listened. I’m so sorry, love. I swear — I swear — I will never put work before you again.” He swallowed, his throat burning. “Just open your eyes. Please. Wake up and yell at me if you want. Tell me I’m a terrible husband. Tell me I failed you. Just… please wake up.”

His vision blurred. He was crying again — quietly, helplessly — the tears slipping down his face before he could wipe them away. He rested his forehead against their intertwined hands again, grounding himself in the only part of the world that made sense. He listened to the monitors. He listened to Charles’s strained breathing. He listened to the nurses murmuring reassurances he couldn’t bring himself to believe yet. And every breath Charles took — whether shallow, uneven, or strained — Erik matched it, as though keeping pace with him might anchor Charles’s soul inside his body.

For a moment, Charles stirred again, his lips parting in a small, voiceless murmur. His eyes twitched beneath heavy lids. Erik lifted his head, breath catching. “Charles?” His voice was barely audible — a fractured plea. Charles didn’t wake, but he made another soft sound, a breathless little sigh of distress that made Erik’s heart twist painfully. He smoothed his thumb across Charles’s knuckles. “I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

He said it again. And again. And again. Quietly. Devotedly. As though willing it to be true with sheer repetition. Because if Erik had learned anything in the last hours, it was this:
He would rather lose entire companies, entire empires, entire futures — than lose the man lying fever-stricken before him.

And so he stayed. He didn’t move. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t look away.
He held Charles’s hand and whispered broken apologies and frightened promises into the quiet hospital room, praying to any power that existed that his husband would open his eyes again.

Chapter Text

The hours after midnight stretched long and torturous, the kind of hours that didn’t feel like time anymore, only an unbroken line of worry and the quiet hum of hospital machinery. Erik sat in the armchair pulled so close to the bedside that his knees brushed the frame of the mattress every time he shifted, though he barely moved. His body ached from the rigid posture he had forced himself into, but he ignored the tightness in his shoulders and spine. His entire being was focused on Charles — on the pale, flushed face sinking deeper into the pillow, on the faint crease between his eyebrows that hadn’t eased even once since they arrived, on the trembling breaths that came too fast, too shallow, too wrong. Erik reached forward again, running a cold cloth across Charles’s forehead, though the moment the coolness touched his fevered skin, it warmed too quickly, becoming useless. He wrung it out, dipped it again, repeated the motions with a desperation that bordered on ritual. It felt like the only thing he could do, the only action he had left in a situation that had stripped him of control.

The fever wasn’t breaking. If anything, it was rising—slowly, steadily, cruelly. Erik had watched Charles sweat through three sets of sheets, watched the nurses switch bags on the IV, watched the overhead monitor display numbers he didn’t understand and numbers he very much did, and all of it created a pressure inside his chest so intense he could barely breathe. Charles murmured occasionally, sounds that were more breaths than words — disjointed syllables, fractured images spoken aloud in delirium. Sometimes Erik heard his own name. Sometimes he heard nothing at all, just a soft moan of discomfort. But the worst was when Charles whispered fragments of their argument again, the words blurred and broken, but the pain unmistakable. Erik would hush him, tell him it wasn’t real, tell him he was safe, tell him everything was going to be all right — though he knew he had no authority to promise such a thing. He brushed a trembling hand through Charles’s damp hair, voice softening to something unrecognizably gentle. “It’s all right, love. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” He repeated it until the words seemed to weave themselves into the air, a quiet anchor in a room filled with fear.

The nurse had checked Charles half an hour ago, commenting with a frown that his fever was “still concerningly high.” Erik had swallowed the panic rising in his throat, nodding, offering gratitude he didn’t feel, because gratitude felt hollow when terror was consuming him. Now the room was quiet again, dimmed lights casting long shadows over Charles’s frail-looking body. Erik gently held Charles’s hand, thumbs stroking over warm knuckles, grounding himself in the shape and presence of the man he adored. He whispered another apology, another promise, another confession spilled into the silence. He wasn’t sure Charles could hear him — but he needed to say the words all the same.

Erik noticed the change before the machines did. A subtle stiffening of Charles’s fingers beneath his own. A sudden, unnatural stillness in the chest that had been rising and falling shallowly for hours. Erik leaned forward sharply, instinct tightening every muscle. “Charles?” he whispered, brushing his thumb along the back of Charles’s hand. No response. Not even the faint twitch he had come to recognize as part of the fever delirium. Charles’s breath hitched — a strange, clipped inhale — and Erik’s heart stopped for one terrifying second. Then came the tremor. It was small at first, barely more than a shiver, but Erik had lived long enough with Charles to know his body, to know this wasn’t normal.

He leaned closer. “Charles… love? Can you hear me?”
Another twitch — this time in the jaw. A slight jerk of the shoulder. A strange tightening around the eyes as though Charles were bracing for something. Erik felt the first pulse of cold dread spread through him. His breath faltered. “Nurse,” he whispered under his breath, too quiet to reach anyone. Then louder, panic cracking through his voice, “Nurse—someone—please—!”

But before he could stand, the tremor surged.

Charles’s entire body went rigid, muscles locking so suddenly that Erik froze in place, staring in horror as his husband’s back arched ever so slightly off the mattress. His head jerked to the side, jaw clenched tight, breath trapped somewhere between inhale and scream. Erik stood so fast his chair toppled behind him, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that felt too small compared to the terror exploding inside him. “Charles—Charles, no—” His voice broke violently as he reached forward without thinking, hands hovering helplessly above Charles’s shoulders, afraid to touch, afraid to hurt him, afraid to do nothing.

Then the seizure hit full force.

Charles’s body convulsed in sharp, violent waves, arms jerking, legs stiffening beneath the sheets, his chest struggling for breath between spasms. His eyes — half-lidded moments before — rolled back, only the whites visible beneath fluttering lashes. Erik felt the world tilt around him. He shouted for help again, voice raw, but the sound was swallowed by the violent beeping of the monitors that suddenly screamed warnings into the room. Panic seized Erik’s breath, choking him as he reached forward, trying to steady the bed, trying to steady Charles, trying to steady himself. “Charles! I’m here—I’m here, love—please—” His hands shook violently. Tears blurred his vision. He had never felt so terrified, so powerless, so utterly destroyed.

Nurses rushed in seconds later — though to Erik it felt like a lifetime — moving quickly, efficiently, guiding him back, though he resisted at first, unwilling to put even an inch more distance between them. But they needed space. They needed access. They needed to keep Charles safe. Erik stumbled back until his legs hit the chair he’d knocked over moments earlier. He caught himself on the edge of a counter, knuckles whitening as he gripped it to remain upright. He watched helplessly as they adjusted Charles’s position, cushioned his head, checked his airway, prepared medication. Their voices were calm, but their movements were fast — too fast — and the contrast shattered Erik’s composure entirely.

The seizure continued, a horrifying tremor that shook Charles’s entire body, the fever amplifying every violent surge of muscle. Erik wanted to look away but couldn’t. He wanted to reach forward but didn’t dare. His heart thrashed painfully in his chest, each beat a fractured plea: Please stop. Please breathe. Please stay with me. He covered his mouth with a trembling hand, biting back a sob that tore at his throat. He had never seen Charles like this — never imagined him so vulnerable, so fragile, so consumed by something Erik couldn’t fight for him.

Then — slowly, gradually, mercifully — the convulsions began to ease. The sharp rigidity softened first. The spasms weakened. Charles’s limbs grew slack, collapsing into stillness against the mattress. His breathing returned in shallow, uneven gasps. His eyelids fluttered weakly but didn’t open. The nurse pressed a cool cloth to his forehead again, checking his pulse, offering calm assurances that barely pierced the roaring in Erik’s ears.

Erik fell back into the chair, hands covering his face, shoulders shaking in silent shock. When he finally lowered his hands, his eyes went immediately to Charles, lying limp, pale, sweat-drenched, utterly exhausted. Erik reached out again, fingers trembling as they closed around Charles’s. He lifted the hand to his lips, pressing a trembling kiss against the knuckles.

“Please,” he whispered, voice raw and destroyed. “Please… don’t leave me. Not like this. Not now. Not ever.”

And as the nurses adjusted the monitors and dimmed the lights once more, Erik stayed planted at the bedside, holding the hand that felt too warm, watching the chest that rose too shallow, his entire world balanced precariously on each fragile breath his husband managed to take.

The room was still vibrating with the shock of what had just happened. Charles lay limp against the flattened pillow, breaths coming in uneven, fragile pulls that made Erik’s own lungs tighten in sympathy. The fever radiating off him felt almost unreal, as if Charles were a small furnace trying—failing—to burn something out of himself. The last remnants of the seizure left subtle residual tremors, the kind that might go unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know every contour of Charles’s body, every nuance of his health, every flicker of discomfort that crossed his face.

Erik knew them all. And he saw everything.

He pressed one shaking palm to Charles’s cheek, brushing away the sweat that kept collecting there. “Stay with me,” he whispered, voice cracking. Charles didn’t respond. His eyelids fluttered, but not in any purposeful way. It was the fever—gnawing, rising, pressing him deeper into delirium.

The door burst open with the suddenness of a small explosion. Dr. Jean Grey swept inside, flanked by two nurses. The harsh overhead fluorescent lights glinted against the metal of her stethoscope as she approached the bed with brisk, focused movements.

“What happened?” she asked.

“He—he seized,” Erik managed, stepping back but not fully letting go of Charles’s hand. “He was burning up, and then he just—he started shaking. I called immediately.” His voice trembled with the memory he could not erase.

Jean nodded once, already assessing, already listening to Charles’s lungs with the sort of rapt horror only a doctor’s trained ear could interpret. Even without her saying a word, Erik saw her expression harden. Not in coldness, but in recognition of gravity.

“His breathing sounds worse,” she murmured—mostly to herself, but Erik caught it, and the floor seemed to drop under him.

“Worse?” he echoed, swallowing as his voice strained on the word.

Jean didn’t look away from Charles as she answered, “He’s struggling significantly more than when we admitted him.” She checked the monitors, her fingers moving with clinical speed but her tone gentle. “And with this level of fever, seizures can happen. His body is overwhelmed.”

Erik forced himself not to crumble. “Tell me what’s happening. All of it.”

Jean nodded, straightening slowly as if preparing herself. “Charles has developed pneumonia. And it’s not a mild case.” Her gaze finally lifted to meet Erik’s. “He likely had the early stages of infection before he collapsed at home. The asthma, the fatigue he’s been pushing through… those were warning signs. But pneumonia can advance fast—especially when the lungs are already sensitive.”

Erik’s stomach twisted sharply with guilt. The memory of their recent fight—his raised voice, his impatience, the way Charles had looked pale and exhausted even then—stabbed him with renewed force. He’d chalked it up to stress. Overwork. Charles always pushed himself academically, always stayed up reading articles, writing lectures, reviewing genetics journals. Erik had assumed it was just that. He hadn’t stopped to look closer.

Jean continued, “His fever indicates the infection is severe. The seizure suggests his body is under significant systemic stress.”

A nurse laid cool packs around Charles’s neck and under his arms, murmuring gentle reassurances as if he could hear them. Charles remained eerily still, save for the occasional small, involuntary twitch of his fingers.

Erik reached forward, brushing a damp strand of hair away from Charles’s forehead. “Will he…” He couldn’t finish. The question was too heavy, too enormous to voice.

Jean softened. “We’re treating him aggressively. We’ve started the broader-spectrum antibiotics and adjusted his therapy based on the new chest imaging. But pneumonia this advanced takes time. He’s fighting hard. We just need to support his body while he does.”

“Support,” Erik whispered, tasting the word with a desperation he rarely allowed himself to feel. He lifted Charles’s limp hand and held it against his forehead, as if grounding himself in the faint warmth of his skin. “I’m right here, love… I’m right here.”

A soft sound broke the air—barely a whisper, but unmistakably human.

Erik jerked his head up. “Charles?”

The nurses paused. Jean looked at the bed.

Charles’s eyes fluttered once… twice… then cracked open with sluggish confusion. They were glazed, unfocused, drifting as though scanning a world that didn’t quite match reality. His breathing hitched, a faint whine slipping from the back of his throat—fear, disorientation, fever-induced fog.

“Hey… hey, sweetheart.” Erik leaned in close. “It’s me. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.”

Charles blinked, trying to process, trying to hold onto something that made sense. His dry lips parted with effort. “E…rik…?”

The name was so faint, so broken, Erik felt it like a blade sliding beneath his ribs. “Yes. Yes, I’m right here.”

Charles’s brow furrowed, distress appearing in soft tremors. “Cold… hurts… head…” His voice dissolved, then returned in a fragile rasp, “Di—I… did I…” His fragmented thoughts drifted, looping back into confusion. The fever was pulling him under, fragmenting everything he tried to express.

Jean stepped closer. “He’s disoriented, but that’s expected with his temperature this high. Keep talking to him. Your voice will help anchor him.”

Erik nodded and leaned even closer until his forehead touched Charles’s hairline. “You’re safe. I’m staying with you. I love you. You’re not alone.”

Charles’s fingers twitched, curling weakly toward Erik’s. Erik threaded their hands together, squeezing with all the love he had in him.

For a moment—just one—the fever seemed to loosen its hold. Charles’s gaze found Erik’s with soft, trembling recognition. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

“I’m… sorry…” he whispered.

Erik broke. His throat closed, and he pressed Charles’s hand to his lips. “No, love. No—don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong.”

But Charles’s fragile clarity crumbled almost instantly. His expression shifted—confusion returning, eyes rolling in vague panic as if losing the thread of the world again. His body tensed, first subtly, then with growing rigidity.

Jean reacted immediately. “He’s seizing again. Everyone move.”

Erik felt the world tilt. “No—no, Charles—”

Nurses caught Charles’s shoulders and legs to prevent injury. Jean grabbed supplies from her emergency kit, her movements swift and practiced.

Erik stood rooted in place, hand still clasped around Charles’s, whispering through tears he couldn’t stop, “Come back to me… please… just come back…”

Charles’s body jerked with involuntary tremors, his fever-bright eyes sliding shut as the seizure overtook him, dragging him back into unconsciousness.

Erik stayed right where he was—unmoving, unblinking, breaking quietly in the sterile hospital room as the man he loved fought for breath, for consciousness, for life itself.

The hospital room had fallen into that unnatural quiet that only medical spaces knew—something more than silence, something taut like a held breath. Machines murmured in soft electronic language around Charles, little blips and beeps and whirrs, each one marking a fragile thread of stability. The fever had eased by a fraction after the aggressive cooling and medications, but his breaths were shallow, ragged, uneven. Too uneven.

Erik hadn’t moved from his chair all night. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled together as if in prayer. His eyes were locked on Charles’s face—pale, still, faint sheen of sweat along his hairline. He looked impossibly fragile.

“Stay with me…” Erik murmured, thumb brushing along the back of Charles’s limp hand. “Just stay.”

He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping Charles’s fingers until a monitor chimed—a subtle shift in rhythm that made Erik’s heart jerk. He sat bolt upright. Jean Grey was already on her feet, frowning at the monitor.

“His oxygen saturation is dropping,” she said. Her voice was calm, but her posture wasn’t. She leaned closer, checking the readings, adjusting the mask on Charles’s face.

The machine beeped again. Faster. Louder. A warning.

Erik’s pulse skyrocketed.
“What’s happening?”

Jean didn’t answer immediately. She was listening. Watching. Making calculations only a physician could. Charles’s chest rose once… then again, but weaker… then—

The monitor went flat.

Erik froze.
The sound—one continuous, unbroken tone—felt like a blade through his skull.

For half a second, the world stopped.
Then everything exploded.

Jean slammed the emergency call button.
“Code blue! Room twelve! Now!”

Nurses stormed in with terrifying speed. The bed was lowered, the mask torn away, the crash cart shoved into place. Someone pulled Erik back, but he fought them—
“No—no, let me—let me stay—!”

“Sir, you must step back!” a nurse barked, guiding him away with firm hands.

The room flooded with motion.
Hands on Charles’s chest.
Pads being applied.
Jean calling out orders, sharp and relentless.
“Charging—clear!”

Charles’s body jerked once with the shock.
Nothing.

“Again—charging—clear!”

Another jolt.
Erik felt his knees weaken. His chest hurt. His breath shook.
“Please…” he whispered to no one and everyone.
“Please come back…”

Jean leaned over the bed, listening, feeling for a pulse.
Silence stretched.
The single tone still filled the room.

“Again!”

The shock hit.
The monitor flickered—
a blip—
another blip—
a shaky return of rhythm.

“He’s back,” Jean breathed. “Weak, but back.”

Erik sagged against the wall. The nurse holding him let go. His legs shook violently; he wasn’t sure if he could stand.

Jean stepped to him with the grave steadiness of someone who had delivered news like this many times and still hated every repetition. “Erik… he can’t breathe on his own anymore. His lungs are too inflamed. We need to intubate him and move him to the ICU.”

The words hit like cold water, like being plunged into a dark ocean he hadn’t prepared for.
“Do it,” Erik said, voice breaking. “Don’t ask me—just do whatever he needs.”

She nodded once and turned back to Charles.

Erik stood motionless as nurses lifted Charles’s chin, as the laryngoscope gleamed beneath the hospital light, as the tube slid past his lips and down his throat with practiced precision. He couldn’t watch, but he couldn’t look away either.

When the ventilator finally hissed to life, pushing steady, mechanical breaths into Charles’s lungs, the room felt quieter and louder all at once. The machine was breathing for him.
Breathing because he could not.

They wheeled Charles out minutes later, a flurry of motion surrounding the bed. Erik followed—helpless, wordless, barely holding himself together. The elevator ride felt endless; the hallway to the ICU even longer.

The ICU room was colder. Sterile. Dimmer.
Too quiet.

Charles was settled into the bed, surrounded by cables, drips, monitors that blinked like distant stars. The ventilator rose and fell, a steady artificial sigh. Each cycle felt like a knife twisting in Erik’s chest.

Jean approached him quietly. “His fever is still dangerously high. His brain and lungs need rest. We’ve placed him in a medically induced coma so his body can focus on surviving the infection.”

Coma.
A word Erik had never feared before.
Now it felt like a door slamming shut.

“How long?” he asked, barely audible.

“A few days… maybe longer. We won’t wake him until he’s strong enough.” Jean placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Go home, Erik. Sleep. Eat. Shower. You won’t be useful to him if you collapse.”

He shook his head instantly. “I’m not leaving him.”

Jean held his gaze a moment, reading the unyielding devotion carved into his grief-stricken face. She exhaled softly. “Then at least let someone bring you what you need.”

That, Erik didn’t argue with.

Within an hour, his assistant, Liam, arrived—flustered, anxious, pushing a rolling suitcase and carrying a laptop bag. “Sir—Mr. Lensher—my God, I came as soon as you called. Is he—?”

“He’s alive,” Erik said. “That’s all that matters.”

Liam set everything on the small sofa in the corner of the ICU room, then paused, eyes flicking to the bed. Charles, motionless. Intubated. Unrecognizable in stillness.
“I’ll stay outside,” Liam whispered. “Anything you need—anything—you call.”

But Erik shook his head.
“No. You’re staying here.”

Liam blinked, startled. “Sir?”

“I’m not leaving this room,” Erik said. “We’ll work from here.”

“Of course,” Liam said, adjusting immediately, because he knew Erik well enough to understand there was no arguing.

Within minutes, the small ICU room became an odd, quiet duality—
half sickroom,
half office.

Liam set up the laptop on the borrowed rolling tray.
Erik sat in the chair beside Charles, one hand wrapped around Charles’s motionless fingers, the other reviewing documents, approving decisions, dictating emails in a voice hoarse from hours of fear.

Every so often, a nurse would step in, checking vitals, adjusting the ventilator, documenting numbers.
Every so often, Erik’s eyes would stray from paperwork to Charles’s face, studying for any sign of movement.
There was none.

Time stretched. Hours blurred.
A strange rhythm settled into the room—
the soft clicking of laptop keys,
the steady hum of the ventilator,
Erik’s whispered reassurances to a man who could not hear him,
and the quiet, dutiful presence of Liam, who worked silently, occasionally glancing at the bed with respectful worry.

As night deepened outside the window, Erik slipped lower in his chair, exhaustion pulling at him, but his hand never loosened from Charles’s.

“I’ll run the company from here,” he whispered, thumb brushing over still knuckles.
“Just wake up, my love. I’ll give you every hour I have left. Just wake up…”

Charles did not stir.
The ventilator breathed for him— steady, mechanical, unwavering. In a room where one man slept, one man worked, and one man fought silently for his life.

The luxury ICU suite—an anomaly in a building full of sterile, uniform rooms—had been designed for high-profile patients who needed privacy, security, and dignity. It was larger than most penthouse bedrooms Erik had seen in lesser cities: a wide window with motorized blinds, recessed lighting softened into warm amber hues, a private bathroom, a sleeper sofa, and a small alcove that functioned almost as an office.

Yet all its quiet elegance meant nothing beside the still figure on the bed.

Charles lay beneath white hospital blankets, ventilator tubing arcing gently toward his mouth. His chest rose and fell in mechanical rhythm, each artificial breath a soft, steady hush that hummed through the room. The monitors cast faint glows across his skin, blinking numbers that Erik had begun memorizing without meaning to: heart rate, oxygen saturation, temperature, respiratory pressure.

He sat beside the bed with his laptop open, his suit jacket tossed carelessly on the sofa, sleeves rolled up. His eyes were red-rimmed and heavy from lack of sleep. He hadn’t shaved in days. His phone lay silent beside him, set permanently to vibrate so nothing would disturb the fragile quiet Charles depended on.

Liam stood near the alcove, adjusting the camera angle for the upcoming teleconference. “Sir, they’re ready to begin. All five board members have joined the call.”

Erik didn’t look away from Charles. He brushed his thumb along Charles’s knuckles in slow, deliberate passes—more for himself than for the man who couldn’t feel it. “Give me one minute.”

“Yes, sir.”

Erik inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and lifted his gaze toward the screen. When he finally spoke, his voice came out softer than usual, as though the ICU walls had stolen part of its power.

“Begin.”

Liam pressed the button, and faces appeared: sharp-suited executives sitting in spacious offices, unaware of the ventilator humming in the background. Or perhaps aware—but pretending not to hear it out of respect or discomfort.

“Mr. Lensher,” the chairman greeted, adjusting his glasses. “We hope everything is all right on your end.”

Erik gave the smallest nod, still holding Charles’s hand. “My husband is in critical condition. I’ll be brief.”

The board members straightened. Silence followed—not cold silence, but startled, respectful quiet.

Liam stepped forward, placing the prepared files in front of Erik. A thick stack of quarterly reports, projections, proposals. “We’ve prepared summaries if needed, sir.”

Erik nodded without looking up. “Let’s begin.”

For almost twenty minutes, the strange duality of Erik’s life played out with excruciating slowness—corporate power projected through screens while his world lay unconscious three feet away.

He discussed mergers, supply chain stabilization, the new tech initiative rolling out next quarter. His voice was even, almost detached, but beneath the surface, dread coiled around his ribs. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked sideways to Charles’s face, reading each small shift in coloration, each line of the machines. The ventilator’s steady rhythm became the anchor of his fractured attention.

But the meeting wore on.

Liam noticed the tension first—the subtle change in the monitor behind Charles. He straightened, alarm flickering across his features. Erik saw it immediately.

“What is it?” he whispered.

Liam hesitated. “His heart rate… it’s rising.”

Erik’s pulse thundered. He turned fully toward the bed. Charles’s limbs, so still for hours, twitched once. A small, subtle spasm. Then another.

“No…” Erik breathed.

On the screen, a board member cleared his throat uneasily. “Mr. Lensher? Is everything—?”

They didn’t get to finish.

Charles’s entire body tightened—sharply, violently—his back arching slightly off the bed. The ventilator alarm shrilled. The pulse monitor spiked. His fingers curled inward, stiffening. His head jerked. A faint, trapped sound caught in his throat around the tube.

“Charles—!” Erik shot out of his chair, knocking it over. “Liam, call for help now!”

Liam sprinted to the emergency button, slamming his palm against it.

Erik reached the bed in one stride, hands trembling as he pressed against Charles’s shoulder—not to restrain, but to keep him from injury. His voice broke open, raw. “It’s okay—love, I’m here, I’m here—just hold on—please—”

The teleconference erupted.
Several executives stood from their screens. One gasped.
The chairman shouted, “End the call! END THE CALL!”
Liam jabbed the laptop shut without hesitation.

The seizure intensified. Charles’s body shook with frightening, uncontrolled rhythm. The ventilator alarm grew louder, joined by the shrill cascade of multiple warning tones.

The door burst open.

Nurses rushed in first.
Jean Grey followed only moments later, pulling on gloves as she crossed the room with urgent precision.

“Move him to his side! Protect the airway tube! Erik—step back—”

“No!” Erik cried, voice cracking wide. “I’m not letting go of him!”

Jean grabbed his shoulders. Her voice was firm but not unkind. “Erik, you need to move—now.”

He froze—torn, shaking, unable to breathe. Liam guided him backward gently, firmly. “Sir, please… they need space.”

Erik stumbled away, hands trembling violently as he watched helplessly.

Nurses held Charles’s arms and legs securely, preventing harm. Jean checked his pupils, the line of the ventilator tubing, the tension in his muscles. Her expression tightened, and she barked an order for medication.

“We’re controlling it,” she said, loud enough for Erik to hear. “We’ve got him.”

Erik pressed a hand to his mouth, swallowing a sob. “Please… please…” His knees nearly gave out. Liam stayed close, steadying him but silent.

Another nurse checked Charles’s vitals. A third monitored the ventilator. The entire team moved like a single organism—directed, coordinated, urgent.

Gradually—agonizingly—the seizure slowed.
The tremors softened.
Charles went utterly still, body limp as though the violent storm had drained every last reserve from him.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Jean exhaled shakily and adjusted the ventilator settings. “He’s stable… but he’s more fragile than we expected. The infection is putting tremendous strain on his nervous system.”

Erik stumbled forward, gripping the bed railing. “Why? You said the coma would—would give him rest—”

“It should have,” Jean replied softly. “But sometimes the infection overwhelms even that protection.”

A nurse wiped Charles’s forehead with gentle care. Another adjusted the cooling blanket. The machines steadied into slow, solemn rhythms.

Jean turned to Erik. “We may need to deepen the coma medication. His fever is still dangerously high. His brain needs more protection.”

Erik nodded without hesitation. “Do it. Whatever he needs… do it.”

Her expression softened with quiet sorrow. “We’re doing everything we can.”

Erik leaned over the bed, brushing a shaking hand across Charles’s temple. The ventilator hissed softly, inflating his lungs with borrowed breath.

“I’m here,” Erik whispered, voice breaking. “Even if you can’t hear me… I’m here. I’m not leaving. Ever.”

He rested his forehead gently against Charles’s arm, tears finally spilling freely.

Behind him, Liam slowly closed the blinds, dimmed the lights, and gathered the scattered documents from the aborted teleconference. He placed them neatly on the table, silent and respectful.

The ventilator continued its steady mechanical breathing— the only sound anchoring the room as Charles drifted deeper into the protective dark and Erik clung to the hope that he would one day wake again.

Chapter Text

The ICU suite had taken on a kind of muted serenity in the hours after Charles’ second seizure. Machines whispered in steady, rhythmic intervals, the soft rise and fall of ventilator bellows forming a haunting counterpoint to the distant hush of hospital corridors beyond the closed door. It was the first time in nearly twenty-four hours that nothing catastrophic was happening—no alarms shrilling, no sudden crowd of clinicians rushing in—but the quiet only made the gravity of it all settle deeper into Erik’s chest.

Charles lay motionless, ventilated, sedated, surrounded by careful architecture of tubing and monitored lines. The stillness did not mean safety. Erik had learned that too quickly.

Stabilizing.
That was the word the pulmonologist used.
Not improving. Not recovering.
Just stabilizing.

Erik sat in the leather chair he had dragged close, elbows on knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His three assistants—Anna, Lowell, and Mira—occupied the small annex of the room, laptops open, documents spread, muted conversations flickering through wireless headsets as they kept the machinery of LENSher Industries running around him. They had learned to lower their voices instinctively, as if even sound might strain the fragile quiet surrounding the bed.

Every minute felt like Erik was living against time.

A gentle knock at the door broke the suspended silence. Jean Grey stepped inside with the calm, steady composure that Erik clung to like an anchor. She offered a small nod—professional, brief, reassuring by necessity.

“We need to drain some of the fluid that’s built up in his lungs,” she said softly as she approached the bedside. “It’s one of the complications of pneumonia at this stage. His body is struggling to clear it on its own.”

The words made Erik’s lungs tighten, as if they too were filling with water.

Jean continued, “The procedure should help his breathing ease and take some pressure off the ventilator settings. It’s not invasive in the way surgery is, but it’s delicate. I want to do it here, with him stable and sedated, rather than risk moving him.”

Erik nodded because she needed an answer, even if his mind felt like a shaken snow globe of dread.
“Do whatever he needs,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Please.”

Jean placed a hand on his shoulder—light, brief, grounding.
“We’ll take good care of him.”

The Procedure

The ICU shifted into a measured flurry of activity as respiratory therapists and ICU nurses entered. Erik rose instinctively, retreating just far enough to give space but refusing to leave the room entirely. He watched through the transparent veil of medical calm—the careful positioning of Charles onto his side, the preparatory cleansing of the insertion site, the quiet verbal confirmations passed between the team.

The monitors continued their soft, patient beeping.

Jean’s tone stayed gentle, her movements confident as she guided a thin drainage catheter where it needed to go. A nurse adjusted ventilator settings to accommodate the shift in pressure. Another monitored Charles’ vitals, calling out numbers in a calm cadence.

Erik watched everything.
Every breath the machine delivered.
Every slight shift in the lines.
Every faint change in oxygen saturation.

His hands were trembling. He forced them still.

The draining itself was controlled, slow, the fluid being coaxed away in a way that allowed Charles’ lungs to expand more freely. Jean’s brow remained smooth, focused; the nurses mirrored her steadiness.

After what felt like a lifetime wound tight into minutes, Jean finally exhaled.

“We got what we needed,” she murmured. “His lungs should be able to work with the ventilator more comfortably now.”

“How… how much difference will it make?” Erik asked quietly.

“A meaningful one,” she said. “Not a miracle. But meaningful.”

For the first time since Charles collapsed in the study, Erik felt a thin thread of air loosen inside him.

The ICU Becomes an Office Again

Once the medical team left, the ICU suite settled into quieter rhythms again. The tension remained—Erik could practically taste it in the sterile air—but there was a subtle shift, a softening of the dread that had clung to the room.

Charles looked the same, still deeply sedated, still frighteningly vulnerable. But the rise and fall of his chest—assisted as it was—seemed a little less strained. The ventilator didn’t push with quite the same urgency.

Erik returned to his chair, exhausted but unable to lean back. His assistants resumed work in hushed tones.

Anna approached him tentatively, holding a tablet. “There are some decisions that can’t wait, sir… but we can table anything that isn’t essential.”

Erik rubbed a hand across his face.
“What’s first?”

She hesitated before answering, aware of the gravity of intruding on his vigil.
“There’s a potential acquisition that needs your approval. And the board is asking about your absence from the quarterly address.”

A bitter, humorless smile touched his mouth.
“Tell them I’m busy keeping the person I love alive.”

Anna nodded and withdrew quietly, passing the update to Lowell, who began relaying messages to the board in a careful, diplomatic tone.

Work resumed like a muted orchestra.
Soft keyboard clicks.
Low murmurs.
The occasional chime of an incoming document.

Erik tried to lose himself in spreadsheets, projections, mergers—things he knew how to fix. Things he could control.

But his gaze kept drifting back to the bed, over and over, as if some instinct inside him couldn’t believe Charles was really there, unconscious, unreachable, drowning inside his own lungs.

Every time the monitors made the slightest shift in tone, Erik’s heart jumped.

Hours Pass

Twilight seeped through the panoramic window, turning the hospital lights into pale, watery reflections. Erik couldn’t remember if he’d eaten. His assistants had rotated meals and coffee into the room, but everything remained untouched.

His hand rested on Charles’ blanketed arm, thumb brushing lightly in slow, rhythmic strokes. It was a habit—one of the small touches Charles always unconsciously leaned into whenever they were curled together at home. Now the gesture felt like a desperate tether.

Mira approached. “Sir… your evening teleconference with the Tokyo branch is about to begin.”

Erik inhaled, then nodded.
“Start it. Just keep the volume low.”

The large monitor in the annex flickered to life, and the familiar faces of the Tokyo executive team appeared. They greeted him with deep bows, concern sharpening their expressions when they noticed the ICU background.

“Let’s be efficient,” Erik said, voice like brittle glass. “We’ll keep this brief.”

They dove into the agenda—market fluctuations, operational challenges, fiscal projections. Erik responded with his usual precision, even brilliance, but a strain pulled at his voice. Every few seconds his eyes slid toward Charles.

Then—
A sudden shift.
A tone from the monitor.

Not an alarm.
But a change.

Erik’s head snapped toward the bed before he even realized why.

The Tokyo team kept talking.
His assistants stilled, sensing something wrong.

The ventilator hissed in a slightly different rhythm.

A tremor passed through Charles’ body.
Small at first.
Then building—not violent, not as sudden as earlier, but unmistakably the beginning of another neurological storm.

Erik’s breath hitched.
“Not again… please, not again…”

He stood up so fast the chair scraped harshly against the floor.

“Sir—?” Mira murmured, eyes widening.

The Tokyo team fell silent on the screen as they watched him rush toward the bed.

Charles’ fingers twitched.
His jaw clenched faintly beneath the sedation.
The monitors began climbing, one number after another.

Erik pressed the call button with shaking hands.
“Jean—someone—he’s seizing again.”

The room filled with tension like a drawn bow.
Arctic fear flooded Erik’s chest.

And as the first tremor intensified—

the teleconference still open, the executives frozen, his assistants scrambling—

Erik whispered, voice cracking,

“Charles… I’m right here. Stay with me. Please, love… please hold on.”

The tremor traveling through Charles’ body intensified just as the room seemed to freeze around him—Erik half-standing, one hand gripping the rail of the ICU bed, the other hovering helplessly in the air as if afraid his touch might make things worse.

The ventilator hissed, adjusting with a faint mechanical sigh as sensors detected the irregular pattern in Charles’ chest. A soft tone pulsed from the monitor—a warning, not yet the piercing alarm of crisis, but a sound that made Erik’s heart clench like a fist inside his chest.

The seizure was building.
And this time, Erik could feel—somehow, instinctively—that Charles’ body was too tired for another one.

He pressed the call button again, harder this time. “Please—someone—he’s seizing again—!”

The door burst open before the sentence fully left his mouth. Two ICU nurses rushed in, followed seconds later by Jean Grey, who’d clearly sprinted from wherever she’d been. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her eyes alert and sharp.

“What’s his O2?” Jean demanded before she even reached the bed.

“Dropping—Ninety-two and falling—” one nurse replied.

Jean’s movements snapped into clinical precision as she approached the head of the bed, her calm presence radiating through the room like a stabilizing field. “Let’s deepen his sedation,” she said. “He’s too neurologically fragile to tolerate another full seizure.”

The ventilator gave another strained huff.
Charles’ fingers curled involuntarily.
A muscle near his jaw flickered beneath the tape holding the endotracheal tube in place.

Erik stepped back just enough to give them space, but he couldn’t move farther.
He couldn’t not see what was happening.

The Tokyo team was still visible on the muted screen across the room—wide-eyed, silent, witnessing their CEO’s world collapsing in real time. One of Erik’s assistants hurried over to disconnect the call, blurring the screen mercifully as the medical team took over.

The Rush of Intervention

Jean’s voice remained calm, steady, anchoring.
“Give him another dose of sedative—slow push. I want EEG suppression until we’re through the storm.”

A nurse handed over a small syringe, already prepped, and Jean checked the line before administering it through Charles’ IV. Another nurse adjusted ventilator parameters with swift, practiced motions, increasing support as Charles’ chest tightened with involuntary contractions.

“His respiratory drive is fighting the vent,” the respiratory therapist murmured, watching pressure curves fluctuate. “He’s triggering breaths too irregularly.”

“Sync him,” Jean ordered. “Switch to full assist-control for now. He needs the machine to take over completely.”

Erik swallowed hard, the words stabbing cold fear into his ribs.
Take over completely.
The thought of Charles’ lungs being too overwhelmed to initiate a breath on their own made him dizzy.

The ventilator beeped softly as the settings changed.
The machine took more authority over the rhythm of each breath, delivering controlled, measured cycles.

The seizure crested—subtle but unmistakable.
A wave of trembling passed through Charles’ limbs.
The oxygen levels dipped again.
Erik felt his own knees weaken.

Jean leaned closer to Charles, her tone soft even as her hands moved with purpose.
“Come on, Charles… this is too much for your body right now. Let the medication help you rest.”

Sedation flowed.
Monitors beeped.
The ventilator kept its steady cadence, guiding each breath.

And then—
Slowly, slowly—
The tremor began to ease.
The tension in Charles’ jaw loosened.
His fingers uncurled.
His vitals steadied, if only in small increments.

Jean exhaled. “He’s stabilizing.”

Erik’s eyes burned with sudden tears.

Aftermath

The silence that followed was different than before—no longer the ominous quiet before disaster, but the breathless stillness after a storm finally begins to pass. The nurses continued to monitor, checking reflexes, ensuring the sedation reached the level needed to protect Charles’ strained brain and lungs.

Jean looked to Erik then, her gaze softening with empathy beneath her professional focus.
“He’s safe right now,” she said. “This seizure was milder than the earlier ones, and we caught it early. The increased sedation will keep his body from overexerting itself.”

Erik nodded, though the motion felt slow, heavy, as if his entire body were moving through water.
“Is this… going to keep happening?”

“It’s possible,” Jean admitted gently. “High fevers and severe pneumonia can irritate the nervous system, especially when the body is this overwhelmed. But we’re managing it. Every hour he remains stable gives us more ground.”

Erik drew in a trembling breath. “He looked like he couldn’t breathe.”

Jean shook her head softly. “The ventilator is doing the work. Even during the seizure, it maintained oxygen delivery. The reason we increased support was to make sure the machine—not his body—regulated every breath.”

She stepped beside him, lowering her voice further.
“You did the right thing calling us immediately. That speed matters.”

His chest ached, but he nodded.

The Vent Takes Over

The ventilator now controlled the full respiratory cycle.
The machine’s inhale was firm but gentle—
a soft rise of Charles’ chest.
A measured pause.
A slow, careful exhale.

The regularity of it was eerie, heartbreaking.
Too precise.
Too mechanical.

Erik placed his hand over Charles’ again.
His husband’s fingers lay slack, warm but without response.

The rhythmic mechanical breaths filled the room.
Each one sounded like a promise.
Like a borrowed breath granted by technology until Charles could take his own again.

Erik shut his eyes briefly.
He wasn’t a man who prayed.
But he begged anyway.

Quiet Returns

When the medical team finally stepped back, Jean remained for a moment longer, checking the ventilator curves, his vitals, the depth of sedation.

“He’s stable,” she said again, softly but firmly. “The drain helped. The sedation helped. And the vent is fully supporting him for now. This is the most rest his body has had since he collapsed.”

Erik nodded slowly, his throat tight. “Thank you.”

“We’ll keep close watch,” Jean promised.

As she left, the room dimmed again, returning to the warm, low light Erik insisted on—soft enough not to feel like a surgical theatre, but bright enough to show Charles’ face clearly.

His assistants remained silent, respectful.

Erik pulled his chair closer again, until his knees touched the bedside.
He folded Charles’ hand gently between both of his.

The ventilator breathed for the man he loved.
The beeps marked the time Erik was terrified to lose.
And the stillness, for the first time, felt less like the edge of disaster
and more like the beginning of a fragile holding pattern.

Charles was still here.
Still fighting, even as machines carried the weight for him.
And Erik stayed beside him, whispering that he wasn’t going anywhere.

The room had quieted again—only the ventilator’s patient rhythm, the soft pulse of monitored lines, and the distant murmurs of Erik’s assistants filled the air. Erik sat motionless beside the bed, still holding Charles’ hand as if it were the only anchor keeping him from sinking beneath everything he’d been trying so hard to hold together.

Jean had stayed after her team stepped out, lingering in the soft light like someone reluctant to leave a friend alone in the aftermath. She watched Erik for a long moment, her expression gentle with an understanding that only someone who had seen too much suffering—and too much love—could possess.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft.
“Erik… can I sit with you for a moment?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice. His fingers tightened slightly around Charles’ limp hand as Jean pulled up the spare chair beside him.

For a few seconds they both simply watched the rise and fall of Charles’ chest—the mechanical precision of each breath supporting a body that had given up its fight for now.

“You’ve been so strong,” Jean murmured. “But you don’t have to be alone in this.”

Erik shook his head slightly. “I can’t break down. If I do, everything will fall apart.”

Jean hesitated, then gently reached for his shoulder. When her hand settled there, warm and steady, something inside him cracked. Not loudly, not visibly—just a small fracture in the armor he’d been forcing around himself ever since he found Charles unconscious in the study.

Jean saw it. And without speaking, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.

It wasn’t a dramatic embrace. It wasn’t meant to undo him or comfort him like a patient. It was the quiet hug of someone who once belonged to Charles’ academic world and now belonged to the small circle of people who truly cared about him.

Erik stiffened at first, unaccustomed to being held by anyone but his husband. Then, slowly, he exhaled a shaking breath and allowed himself to lean into the contact—not collapsing, not sobbing, but letting enough of the weight fall away to breathe for the first time in hours.

“He’s… he’s everything to me,” Erik whispered, barely audible. “I knew he was sick, but I didn’t know it was this bad. I wasn’t there. I was too busy—”

Jean shook her head firmly, her voice low but steady.
“No. Charles doesn’t tell people when he’s getting worse. It’s… a flaw of his kindness. He shields others from worry even when he shouldn’t.”

Erik closed his eyes. “But I should’ve noticed. I should’ve been the one he didn’t feel afraid to burden.”

Jean pulled back slightly but kept a supportive hand on his shoulder. Her expression softened with something deeply personal.

“When I was his student,” she began quietly, “I was struggling with everything—academics, family, financial pressure. Charles noticed before anyone else. He always noticed.” A gentle, wistful smile touched her lips. “He didn’t ask me what was wrong. He waited for me to come to him. Every day, he left the door open. Literally. He would sit in his office with the door slightly ajar, pretending to be reading, just so any of us could walk in if we needed someone to talk to.”

Erik’s gaze drifted to Charles’ peaceful, sedated face.

“He’s always been like that,” Jean continued. “Selfless to the point of stubbornness. He’s the kind of professor who would stay an extra hour after class to help a student understand a concept, even if it meant missing lunch. The kind who would write recommendation letters overnight because someone panicked and asked last minute.”

She looked at Erik with eyes full of quiet affection for the man lying unconscious in the bed.
“He gives and gives. Even when he shouldn’t. Even when it costs him.”

Erik swallowed hard. “He hid his asthma attacks from me before. But this time… he must’ve been terrified and still didn’t say anything.”

Jean nodded sadly. “He didn’t want to distract you. He always talks about how important your work is. I think he thought he could handle this one by himself.”

A low, painful sound escaped Erik’s throat—half guilt, half heartbreak.

“I would’ve thrown every contract out the window,” he murmured. “If he had just told me… I would’ve come home. Immediately.”

“I know,” Jean said gently.

The ventilator exhaled for Charles again, steady and even.

Erik looked at the machine as if it were keeping his own heart beating. “I’m afraid,” he admitted in a trembling whisper. “Not just that I could lose him… but that he spent his worst moment alone. That he called out for me and I wasn’t there.”

Jean squeezed his shoulder with warm firmness.
“Charles knows you love him. He knows it in a way that doesn’t depend on where you are or what meeting you’re stuck in. He’ll know you’re here now. Even unconscious—patients feel their people.”

Erik leaned closer to the bed, pressing Charles’ hand gently between his palms.
“I’m here, love… You don’t have to fight anything alone anymore.”

Jean watched them both quietly, and her voice softened to a whisper.
“He’s not in pain now. The sedation is deep. The vent is doing the work. His fever is slightly down. The fluid drainage helped. This is the first moment his body has truly rested.”

Erik brushed his thumb slowly along the back of Charles’ hand.

“Will he wake up?”
Somber, small, afraid.

Jean inhaled deeply. “Not yet. Not soon. But yes—if things continue like this, his chances will grow. His body is stabilizing. His lungs are showing early signs of responding to the treatment. And his fever is no longer spiraling.”

She hesitated, choosing her words with care.
“He is very sick. But he is not slipping away. He is fighting.”

Erik closed his eyes and lowered his forehead to Charles’ knuckles.

Jean rose quietly to leave, giving him space but keeping her hand briefly above his shoulder in a gentle, hovering gesture.

“He’d hate to see you falling apart,” she murmured softly. “Rest when you can. Even he would say that.”

Then she slipped out, leaving Erik alone again in the warm dimness of the ICU suite, with machines breathing for the man he loved and hope—fragile, trembling, but real—finally beginning to take root.

Two days passed in a kind of suspended twilight inside the luxury ICU suite—days that bled together under the soft hum of machines and the gentle rise and fall of the ventilator. Morning and night had stopped having meaning. There was only before Charles became stable enough to rest, and after, where the world narrowed to the slow rhythm of borrowed breaths.

The ventilator remained fully in control.
Assist-control mode.
Every inhale pressed gently into Charles’ lungs.
Every exhale eased out with soft mechanical patience.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and fresh flowers—the new bouquet that someone had delivered that afternoon. Erik hadn’t expected it, and when he opened the card, his throat tightened.

“Get well soon, Professor Xavier.
We miss you already.
— Your genetics class”

The handwriting varied wildly, some neat and careful, some large and enthusiastic, but every line carried earnest warmth. Jean had known before he even asked—of course the students would send something. Charles was the professor who never returned tests without a personal note, who remembered every student’s name by the second week, who once arrived to class sick enough to whisper but refused to cancel because “midterms are close, and they’re stressed enough already.”

Now he was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, breathing through a machine.

Erik sat close, legs drawn beneath him, his laptop resting on a fold-out tray beside the bed. Behind him, muted lights cast a soft gold around the room, trying to offset the sterile steel and white walls.

He worked—if “work” could still describe the slow, half-completed responses to emails and the distracted reading of reports. Every decision required twice the time; every sentence he typed drifted as his eyes continually returned to Charles’ still face.

His assistants had gone for the night. Jean had left after evening rounds. It was just him.
And Charles.
And the machines that breathed for him.

A small vase on the bedside table held the new bouquet—a burst of gentle color in a world of white and silver. Soft pinks, pale yellow, light blue from dyed baby’s breath. Someone had clearly arranged it carefully.

Erik reached for the card again, fingertips brushing the embossed letters.

“Students love you,” he murmured softly, glancing at Charles. “Look at this. Half the department probably signed it. You’d scold them for spending money on flowers instead of textbooks.”

He smiled faintly—thin but real.

“They also sent a stack of cards. Mira helped bring them in.” He reached into a paper bag and pulled out several handwritten notes. “I thought… maybe I’d read some of them to you.”

He set the laptop aside, turning fully toward the bed.

“You always say your students motivate you more than any publication ever could.”
His voice grew quieter. “I wonder if you know how much they care.”

Charles didn’t move. The ventilator breathed for him.

Erik picked up the first card, written in round, determined handwriting.

“Professor, you promised to look over my graduate school essay. Get well soon because no one can give feedback like you. — L”

Erik let out a shaky breath. “You’d like this one. You’d make a joke about the essay being terrible so he better hurry up and help you recover or else.”

He picked another.

“Thank you for the recommendation letter. I wouldn’t have gotten the internship without you. Get well soon. We’re all rooting for you.”

Erik brushed his thumb across Charles’ wrist.

“This is you, love. Always thinking of everyone else. Even when you’re drowning, you worry about whether someone else gets a recommendation letter on time.”

He paused, glancing at the steady green lines on the monitor.

“You’re loved more than you realize.”

The room felt warm in a fragile, delicate way.

Erik reached for his laptop again, flipping it open. Notifications blinked across the screen—messages from the board, urgent memos, reminders for meetings. But he ignored all of it, opening instead the browser tab containing a half-written speech for an upcoming investor event.

He typed slowly, absentmindedly, pausing between keystrokes to glance at Charles.

His voice remained soft, conversational. “Jean says your fever’s down again. And your lungs sound clearer. The vent settings haven’t needed adjustment in twelve hours. That’s a first.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, fatigue pulling at the corners of his eyes.

“I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. She said improvement will be slow. Maybe painfully slow.” He swallowed. “But slow is fine. I’ll take slow.”

He reached out again, brushing a stray lock of hair from Charles’ forehead. The sedation kept his husband still, peaceful in an unnatural way, but no longer feverish or trembling. The worst of the storm had passed.

As Erik typed another line on the laptop, the ventilator continued its soft cadence—
inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale…
steady and unwavering.

He continued reading aloud from the cards, one by one.
It felt like filling the room with the voices of everyone who cared for Charles.

“You remember this student? The one with the nervous stutter. She wrote— ‘You always made space for me. I hope the world makes space for you to heal.’”

Erik’s voice cracked faintly on the last words.

A long moment passed.

Finally, he settled back in his chair, rubbing his thumb along Charles’ knuckles. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. When you wake up, the first thing you’ll see is me. And I’ll tell you how proud your students are. How proud I am.”

He turned back to the laptop, beginning to type again.

He didn’t notice—
not at first—
the tiny flutter beneath the ventilator tubing.

A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of Charles’ mouth.

He didn’t notice the slight shift of Charles’ fingers, the small curl as if trying to grasp something that wasn’t there.

He didn’t see the minute change in the eyelids—
the soft, trembling flicker beneath them
like the ghost of a dream turning into awareness.

But the monitors noticed—
a subtle change in heart rhythm, a slight elevation in respiratory drive even though the vent was fully in control.

And after another moment—
so small Erik almost missed it—

Charles’ fingers twitched again.

This time against Erik’s palm.

Erik froze.
His breath stopped.
His heart thudded painfully once.

He slowly turned his head, eyes wide, disbelieving.

And then—
with a fragile slowness
like dawn creeping over the horizon—

Charles’ eyelids fluttered.

Just barely.
But enough.
Enough to undo Erik completely.

Erik whispered, voice trembling,

“Charles…? Love… can you hear me?”

The ventilator breathed for him.
The monitor hummed steadily.
The world held still.

And Charles, after two long, terrifying days, began to wake.

He woke to the sound of Erik’s voice long before he could piece together words.

The voice reached him like a dim thread in a dark ocean—warm, familiar, drifting somewhere above the weight on his chest. He didn’t know where he was, or why he felt so impossovingly heavy, but the sound of Erik reading something… that he knew. His husband always read too fast, even when he tried to slow down. Charles clung to it as if it were the only thing preventing him from sinking back into the suffocating dark.

“…they wrote this one together,” Erik was saying softly. “Apparently your morning genetics class made a little poster board. And the twins in your afternoon seminar chose the yellow lilies—they said they were ‘the brightest ones, like Professor Xavier.’”

His voice cracked on that line.

Charles tried to open his eyes.

The world did not obey. His lashes barely fluttered, weighed down by exhaustion and medication. His throat throbbed—dry, tight, obstructed by something he didn’t understand yet. He tried to swallow and a faint ache traveled down into his sternum, where the ventilation tubing tugged with each automatic breath the machine gave him.

A machine?

He tried again to open his eyes.

A thin slice of light seeped in, blurred and swimming. He could just make out Erik sitting at the edge of the bed, laptop balanced on one knee, a stack of papers on the table beside him, and a vase of flowers so bright it hurt to look at.

Erik wasn’t looking at the laptop.

He looked at him—and yet did not see him, not the flicker of consciousness trying to crawl upward. Erik’s gaze was lost somewhere far away, dense with exhaustion, with fear still clinging to the corners of his mouth. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His tie was off, his sleeves rolled up, hair in disarray. His hand rested on Charles’s, thumb tracing automatic little circles against the back of his wrist.

Every circle made Charles want to cry.

He tried to squeeze Erik’s hand.

His fingers didn’t move.

His body felt distant, like it belonged to someone he was only renting for the moment.

“…the ICU nurses said the students have been calling every few hours,” Erik murmured. “I didn’t know they cared about you this much.” He gave a weak breath that was meant to be a laugh. “Or maybe I just didn’t let myself notice it. You give everything to them. Everything to everyone. Even when you’re exhausted.”

Charles wanted to comfort him, to tell him he loved him, he always had, he always would. He wanted to remind him that his devotion to his students wasn’t a burden—it was the part of him that Erik used to admire most. But all he could do was breathe with the rhythm of the ventilator—inhale, pause, exhale—its soft hiss the only reply he was capable of.

He felt the shape of the tube in his mouth, down his throat. He couldn’t panic—not yet—but his body trembled faintly, muscles weak and uncoordinated.

Erik noticed immediately.

“Hey… shh, love… I’m right here.” His hand wrapped fully around Charles’s, warm and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Jean said you’d start to wake in the next day or so… I just didn’t expect…” His voice broke again, quieter this time. “…I didn’t expect you to be awake while I was babbling about flower arrangements.”

Charles hurt.

Not physically—though the ache in his lungs was deep and raw—but emotionally. To see Erik trying so hard to hold himself together, to hear the ragged edges in his words, to know that he had put this man through terror… it cut deeper than any fever or seizure ever could.

He blinked slowly—once, twice—hoping Erik would see.

He did.

“Oh god. Charles? Charles—love—can you hear me?”

His heart rate monitor fluttered, a faint spike of awareness.

Erik leaned closer, cupping Charles’s cheek with one hand. His thumb brushed along his cheekbone, and Charles tried—futilely—to lean into it. Erik’s scent—coffee, cologne, stress, sleeplessness—washed over him and steadied the awful disorientation in his mind.

“That’s it. Stay with me…” Erik whispered, forehead almost touching his. “You’re okay. You’re on the ventilator, but it’s helping you breathe. You don’t have to do anything. Just let it work. You’re safe.”

Charles wished he could answer.

He tried forming a sound around the tube, a faint breath of a hum, but it came out broken and pained. The ventilator triggered a slightly larger breath to compensate, and his chest lifted too sharply, making him cough around the tube. Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes involuntarily.

Erik wiped them immediately with shaking fingers.

“Hey—hey—no, don’t cry, love. You’re doing so well. Jean’s going to be thrilled to know you’re awake.” His voice trembled, a mix of relief and fear. “I—I didn’t know if I’d get to see your eyes again.”

Charles blinked heavily in reply, every motion costing him oxygen and focus. But he kept his gaze on Erik, refusing to slip back under. He needed Erik to know he wasn’t leaving him. Not now. Not after everything.

Erik swallowed hard, squeezing his hand again before speaking more quietly.

“…I’m sorry.”

Charles almost stopped breathing.

Erik didn’t say sorry easily. Not even when he was wrong. Not even when he knew he’d gone too far.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” Erik said, voice cracking as the memory of their fight bled back into his expression. “You were already sick. I should have seen it. I should have—” He broke off, pushing a hand over his face, shoulders trembling. “I should have been home. With you. Not buried in meetings that didn’t matter, not—”

Charles wished desperately he could reach out, brush his thumb over Erik’s lips like he used to whenever Erik spiraled into guilt. But his body refused to obey.

He blinked again, slowly—once—for “I forgive you.”

Erik exhaled a shuddering breath.

“You always forgive me,” he whispered. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”

The flowers rustled faintly as the ventilator sighed its next breath. Charles felt his chest fill with air again—steady, controlled, mechanical. It frightened him, but not enough to pull him from the moment. Not when Erik looked like a man who had been carrying the weight of the world alone for too long.

Erik lowered his head, pressing his forehead gently against Charles’s temple.

“The doctors say you’re not out of danger yet,” he murmured, voice trembling. “But you’re waking up. That’s something. That’s everything.”

Charles let his eyes close—just a moment, just enough to rest—but his hand twitched weakly beneath Erik’s, a deliberate attempt to reassure him.

Erik froze.

Then he began to cry very quietly—silent tears slipping down, falling onto Charles’s pillow.

“I’m right here,” he whispered into Charles’s hair. “And I’m not leaving. Not again. Not ever.”

And for the first time since the fever, since the seizure, since the darkness had swallowed him whole, Charles believed him.

Chapter Text

The door to the ICU suite swung open so quickly that the air stirred the flowers on the bedside table. Jean Grey stepped in with her tablet held tightly to her chest, her hair pulled back in a hurried knot, her expression tense with focus. She was followed by two respiratory therapists and a nurse rolling a cart of monitoring equipment.

Erik straightened instantly, wiping the last trace of tears from his cheeks, though his hand never left Charles’s.

Jean took one look at the monitor beside the bed, then at the faintly open eyes struggling to stay awake, and her breath escaped in a relieved whisper.

“Well,” she said softly, “I see we have a stubborn professor returning to us.”

Charles could not smile—not with the tube still taped securely at the corner of his mouth—but his lids flickered faintly in greeting.

Jean approached the bedside, touching the back of his hand with the gentle confidence of someone who knew him long before she became his physician. “Hey, Professor. You scared the entire department.”

Erik’s fingers tightened minutely around Charles’s.
Jean caught the movement and her expression softened, then snapped back to clinical mode.

“Okay,” she said, straightening. “He’s awake, but he’s not out of the woods. His lungs are still inflamed, sats are touch-and-go, and we need to see how much spontaneous breathing he can handle.”

Erik felt his stomach twist.
“Jean… is he strong enough?”

“We’ll find out,” she answered honestly. “Whatever we do next, we go slowly. Step by step.”

The respiratory therapists moved closer, checking the ventilator’s settings, adjusting tubing, watching the waveform on the monitor. The soft mechanical hiss continued its steady pattern—inhale, pause, exhale—an artificial rhythm keeping Charles tied to the world.

Jean leaned over him again.
“Charles, listen carefully. We’re going to start a small weaning trial. Very small. You don’t need to do anything—just let your body attempt to take a little more of the work. If it’s too much, the machine will take over again.”

His lashes trembled.
Erik leaned closer, whispering, “I’m here, love. Don’t force yourself. You just breathe however you can.”

The therapists began adjusting the ventilator thresholds. The hiss softened into lighter breaths, giving Charles a fraction more responsibility. His chest rose—not as high, not as effortlessly—as a shaky, trembling inhale dragged through his lungs.

His brows pinched.
Pain.
Effort.

Alarm flickered through Erik.

Jean raised a calming hand. “Let’s give him a moment. He hasn’t breathed on his own in days.”

Another breath.
Wobbly.
Weak.
Charles’s fingers clenched—not quite around Erik’s hand, but a faint twitch of distress.

Erik swallowed a surge of panic.

Jean watched the monitors, waiting… waiting…
And slowly, the waveform steadied. Fragile, but present.

“That’s good,” she murmured. “That’s very good. Let’s try a few more.”

Charles forced a tiny exhale, then inhaled again—this time slightly easier, though every rise of his chest looked like climbing a mountain. Sweat beaded faintly along his hairline.

Erik wiped it away carefully.

After several long minutes, Jean nodded to the therapists. “Okay. That’s enough. He’s tolerating minimal support. We’ll rest him now.”

The machine resumed its fuller breaths, rescuing his exhausted lungs.

Charles sagged into the pillow, eyelids fluttering shut in sheer relief.

Erik brushed his knuckles across Charles’s cheek. “You did so well.”

Jean stepped back, reviewing the readings.
“His pneumonia is still severe. The infection markers are high. Fever is lingering. But he’s showing responsiveness and neurological recovery. That’s… honestly more progress than I expected today.”

Erik exhaled shakily.

“But,” she continued gently, “he’s not ready to be extubated yet.”

Erik nodded.
Charles didn’t react—he was already drifting from exhaustion.

“Tomorrow,” Jean said, “if this trend holds, we can try switching him to a mask trial. Very low flow at first. The tiniest step. But every step counts.”

Erik stared at her, quietly hopeful. “You think he’ll tolerate it?”

“I think he might,” she said honestly. “But we don’t rush. His lungs are fighting hard. Pneumonia this aggressive doesn’t loosen its grip quickly.”

The respiratory team finished their checks and left quietly.
Jean lingered.

She placed a hand on Erik’s shoulder—gentle, steadying.
“You’re doing everything right,” she said softly. “Just keep talking to him. He hears you. It helps.”

Erik nodded, though his eyes were bright with restrained fear.
“If he starts struggling again—”

“We’ll step in immediately,” Jean reassured. “But tonight, let him rest. Let him feel you here.”

As Jean left the room, Erik sat back down, letting the silence settle—broken only by the gentle rhythmic breath of the ventilator.

He leaned close to Charles’s ear, brushing a thumb along the back of his hand.

“When it’s time for the mask, I’ll be here,” he whispered. “When you breathe on your own again, I’ll be here. When we go home, when you teach again… I’ll be here.”

Charles didn’t open his eyes.

But Erik felt, unmistakably, the faintest squeeze of his fingers.

And for the first time in days, the room didn’t feel quite so cold.

The room had barely settled after Jean’s departure when the first tremor passed through Charles’s body—small, almost invisible beneath the blankets, but enough to make Erik look up from the laptop he had reluctantly opened.

Another tremor.
Then another, stronger.

Erik immediately set the laptop aside and reached for Charles’s forehead.

It burned.

Not warm.
Not feverish.
Scorching.

A pulse of dread surged through Erik’s chest. “No, no, no… not again…”

The monitor chimed as Charles’s heart rate climbed in jagged steps. His breathing—though still paced by the ventilator—grew shallow, every mechanical breath meeting the tight resistance of inflamed lungs.

Erik pressed the call button with trembling fingers.

Two nurses rushed in, followed by a resident doctor. They scanned the monitor, the chart, then Charles himself, whose lashes fluttered without fully opening—lost between wakefulness and delirium.

“Temperature’s climbing fast,” one nurse murmured.
“Looks like a fever spike,” the resident confirmed. “We need to cool him down before it triggers another seizure.”

Erik felt the blood drain from his face.

“Do whatever you have to do,” he managed.

The team moved quickly—professional, efficient, but heavy with urgency. One nurse began removing extra blankets while another lowered the bedrail and rolled in a cooling trolley.

“Let’s start with cold compresses,” the resident ordered. “If that doesn’t stabilize him, we’ll switch to a tepid bath.”

But it wasn’t enough.

Charles’s temperature climbed even higher—his skin flushing red, chest rising too fast, a soft whimper escaping around the tube. His fingers twitched against the sheets, not in consciousness, but in the early signs of neurological agitation.

Erik stepped closer, brushing a hand along his forehead, trying to cool him with touch alone.
“Charles… love… stay with me. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

But Charles didn’t settle.

His body shook harder.

The resident inhaled sharply. “Prep the bath.”

They lowered the side rails and carefully disconnected unnecessary monitors, keeping the ventilator attached as they transferred him onto a narrow rolling stretcher lined with waterproof padding. Erik had to step back against the wall to give them room, but his eyes never left Charles.

He looks so small, Erik thought, chest twisting painfully. The ventilator tubing, the flushed skin, the sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples—everything about him looked breakable.

The team rolled him toward the large ICU bathing alcove built for emergencies like this. Erik followed, helpless but unable to leave.

The alcove was stark—sterile tiles, bright lighting, a specialized basin designed to cool patients without destabilizing their airways. Nurses attached a waterproof seal around the ventilator tubing before gently lowering Charles into the shallow tepid water.

His body jerked once at the temperature change.

“Easy,” one nurse murmured, keeping his head steady. “Let the water work. It’ll bring the fever down.”

They used soft cloths to trickle cooler water across his overheated skin—forehead, shoulders, arms, chest—careful around the adhesive securing the endotracheal tube.

Erik stood just behind them, hands gripping the metal railing so tightly his knuckles blanched.
Every tremor from Charles tore through him like a blade.

His mind replayed everything:

The fight.
His screaming.
The way Charles had already been coughing that night.
How he had ignored it.

A breath shuddered out of him.

“Please…” Erik whispered. “Please cool down, Charles. Please.”

The nurses continued their gentle, methodical work. Cool water flowed in from one side of the basin as the warmer overflow drained out. Charles’s flushed skin gradually lost its angry red hue, his temperature dropping degree by degree.

The trembling eased.
His heart rate slowly, painfully, steadied.

The resident checked his chart again, then nodded. “He’s responding. Let’s keep him in the bath another five minutes.”

Erik blinked rapidly against the sting in his eyes. He swallowed hard and leaned in, brushing damp strands of hair off Charles’s forehead.

“You’re fighting so hard,” he whispered. “Harder than I ever have. And I’m… I’m so sorry you had to do it alone.”

Charles didn’t respond, but his breathing eased in the slightest way—not conscious, but calmer, steadier.

After several minutes, the team lifted him out, patting him dry carefully, wrapping him in warm blankets to prevent rebound chills. They rolled him back to the ICU suite and reconnected the full monitors, checking vitals in a practiced sequence.

His temperature had dropped to a safer range.
The tremors stopped.
His fever curve stabilized—but still dangerously high.

“Better,” the resident said quietly, “but not out of danger. Pneumonia fevers can spike like this until the infection turns.”

Erik nodded numbly.

Another nurse adjusted the ventilator, ensuring his breathing remained supported.

Charles lay limp, utterly exhausted, sweat still clinging to his eyelashes, lips pale around the ventilation tube.

Jean re-entered the room moments later, breathless—clearly having run the moment she received the fever alert.

She scanned the monitors, then Charles, then Erik.

“You did the right thing calling us immediately,” she said softly.

Erik’s voice came out strained. “How many more spikes like this can he take?”

Jean hesitated—not cruelly, but with the weight of honesty.

“Not many,” she murmured. “But he’s fighting. And he responded to cooling, which is a good sign.”

Erik let out a slow, fragile breath.

Jean placed a hand on his arm.
“He’s still with us. Keeping him stable tonight is critical. But he’s not giving up.”

Erik looked at Charles—his fragile husband, flushed and breathing through a machine—and leaned close, pressing a kiss to his damp temple.

“I’m not giving up either,” he whispered. “I’ll stay right here. All night. All day. Whatever it takes.”

Charles did not wake.

But his fingers twitched faintly—seeking, reaching.

And Erik took his hand, lacing their fingers together with a tenderness that felt like prayer.

Morning in the luxury ICU arrived not with sunlight, but with the quiet shuffle of nurses changing shifts and the soft beep of monitors resetting their hourly logs. Erik had slept in the armchair again—if the half-conscious, spine-twisting doze he kept falling into even counted as sleep.

He lifted his head when he felt movement.

Charles was restless.

Not awake—not fully—but writhing beneath the sheets in small, frantic motions, his brow furrowed, breath shallow even with the ventilator assisting him. His hands tugged weakly at nothing, as if reaching for air he still could not take on his own.

Erik stood immediately, his heart squeezing painfully.

“Charles… shh, love… I’m here. I’m right here.”

Jean entered moments later with two respiratory therapists, a cart of equipment, and an expression that balanced hope with clinical caution.

“All right,” she said gently. “His numbers improved overnight. We’re going to try a controlled attempt to extubate. Slow, careful. No promises. If it doesn’t work, we’ll support him and try again later.”

Erik had known this moment was coming.
He wasn’t ready.

Charles’s eyelids fluttered—half-conscious, trembling—and he moaned around the tube, a raw, muffled sound that broke Erik’s heart.

Jean placed a soothing hand on Charles’s shoulder. “Charles, you might feel discomfort. But we’re here. Just breathe as steadily as you can.”

The therapists adjusted the settings, reducing ventilator support, letting Charles try to breathe more independently.

His chest hitched.

Once.
Twice.

Then a cough—wet, choking, painful.
The tube rattled in his throat.

Erik leaned over him, panic rising. “Easy, love—don’t fight it—breathe with them…”

The therapists watched the waveform.

Shallow.
Jagged.
Not sustainable.

Jean frowned. “Let’s try a mask trial. See if he can tolerate spontaneous breathing for just a few seconds.”

They began the extubation sequence, suctioning gently, preparing to slide the tube free—

—but Charles woke abruptly, eyes flying open in terror.

He gagged.

A desperate, panicked choke tore through him.

And then he sobbed—a broken, shuddering cry around the invasive tubing.

The sound didn’t even resemble his voice.
It was animal, desperate, drowning in fear.

Erik’s breath shattered.

“Jean—stop. Please stop—he’s terrified!”

Jean raised a hand. “We’re stopping. He’s not ready.”

Charles sobbed again, tears spilling down his temples. His hands lifted weakly, shaking violently as they tried to claw toward the tube, toward his throat, toward anything that would let him breathe on his own.

Erik grabbed both hands gently but firmly, cradling them against his chest.
“No, my love—don’t pull it. Don’t hurt yourself. I’m here. I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

Charles cried harder—or tried to. His body shook with the effort, his chest heaving as his overworked lungs failed to keep pace. His eyes, though glazed with fever and exhaustion, locked onto Erik with unmistakable fear.

He was drowning.
Not in water—
in his own lungs.

Erik wiped his tears with trembling thumbs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—shh—don’t be afraid, Charles, please—”

The ventilator resumed full control as the therapists quickly re-secured the tube and stabilized the settings.

Jean checked the monitor. “He’s in distress, but stabilizing. Erik, keep talking to him. He responds to your voice more than any medication.”

Erik sat on the edge of the bed and gathered Charles—gently, carefully—into his arms as far as the tubing allowed. Charles’s quiet sobs continued, small and broken, his fingers curling weakly into Erik’s shirt.

Erik kissed his damp hair.
“You are not failing,” he whispered fiercely. “Your lungs are hurt. That’s all. You did nothing wrong. You hear me? Nothing.”

Charles’s breaths came in stuttering, irregular pulls that triggered the ventilator again and again. His tears soaked into Erik’s sleeve.

Jean spoke quietly to the respiratory team. “Mark it as a failed extubation attempt. We’ll give him another 24–48 hours of mechanical support before trying again.”

Erik swallowed the pain those words brought.
He didn’t show it.
Not in front of Charles.

He just held him.

Minutes passed.
Charles’s sobs faded to exhausted whimpers.
His body sagged into Erik’s arms, utterly drained.

The door opened softly.

Erik looked up, expecting a nurse.

Instead, his mother stepped inside.

Elegant suit.
Perfect hair.
Pearls.
And an expression that cracked the moment she saw her son holding a trembling, intubated Charles against his chest.

“Oh… Erik,” she breathed, her hand flying to her mouth.

Erik stiffened—old reflex, old armor—but only for a heartbeat.
He couldn’t maintain it. Not today.

“Mother,” he said quietly.

She approached slowly, reverently, as though afraid a sudden movement might shatter the fragile figure in the bed.

“Is this…” Her voice broke. “Is this what you’ve been going through?”

Erik’s jaw tightened. “He had a bad reaction to the extubation attempt. He’s still fighting pneumonia. And—” His voice thickened. “He’s scared.”

His mother moved to the opposite side of the bed, tears filling her eyes as she saw Charles’s pale skin, the ventilator tube, the trembling fingers clutching Erik.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she whispered, gently brushing a hand through Charles’s hair. “You poor thing.”

Charles flinched faintly at the new touch, eyelids struggling to open.

Erik leaned closer. “It’s all right, love. It’s Mother. She’s here.”

When Charles finally managed to see her through fever-heavy eyes, his expression softened in a way that made Erik’s own chest ache. Exhaustion, fear, and gratitude all flickered across his face.

His mother’s voice shook. “I’m here, dear. I’m here for both of you.”

She looked at Erik then—really looked—and saw the sleepless nights, the unshaven jaw, the responsibility weighing him down like iron.

“Erik,” she whispered, laying a hand on his arm, “you don’t have to do this alone.”

Something inside him broke.
He didn’t cry—but the relief, the vulnerability, the fear—
it showed.

Just for a moment.

Then he tightened his hold on Charles and kissed his forehead again.

“He’s my husband,” Erik said quietly. “I won’t leave him.”

His mother smiled through her tears.

“And neither will I.”

Together, the three of them stayed like that—
Erik holding Charles,
his mother gently stroking his hair,
and Charles slowly calming within their warmth.

Even with the ventilator humming and the monitors glowing, the room felt a little less cold.

A little less terrifying.

A little more like hope.

The room had quieted after the failed extubation attempt, but the memory of Charles’s trembling hands, his frightened tears, and the way his chest hitched around the tube lingered like a bruise in the air. Even sedated again, he didn’t truly rest. His brow pulled into fragile knots, his fingers twitched toward where Erik held them earlier, and every shallow breath under the ventilator’s rhythm felt like a silent apology he would give if he could speak.

Erik remained at the bedside even after the nurses dimmed the lights and repositioned Charles. He sat there long after the respiratory therapist left the room, long after Jean stepped out to update the night team, long after the monitors settled into their steady, blue-green glow. His mother’s presence beside him—gentle, dignified, quietly worried—seemed to wrap the room in a different kind of warmth.

She had always carried her strength like light through glass, never harsh, never demanding. Now, as she took the chair across from him, her eyes softened at the sight of Charles’s restless sleep.

“Poor boy,” she whispered, almost not wanting the air to hear it. “He’s fighting so hard even now.”

Erik let out a breath he had been holding since the moment the extubation failed. “He was terrified,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He tried so hard to cooperate. He always tries so hard.”

His mother touched his shoulder. “And you stay by him even when you don’t sleep at all.”

He didn’t answer. The truth was too big to hold with both hands, let alone say aloud. Fatigue clung to him, yes—but the deeper exhaustion was watching Charles suffer through something he couldn’t protect him from.

The ventilator hummed softly, pushing another measured breath into Charles’s lungs. His lips parted slightly around the endotracheal tube, the faintest crease showing on his forehead. Even sedated, he looked like he was struggling toward Erik—like some small instinct kept trying to reach for safety.

Erik’s mother followed his gaze. “He’s dreaming,” she murmured. “Look at his fingers.”

Charles’s fingertips had curled into the blanket, tiny movements, weak but persistent. As if he was looking for something… or someone.

Erik reached out, gently smoothing Charles’s hand open so the muscles wouldn’t cramp. “He panicked so badly when they tried,” he said quietly. “He couldn’t breathe, or thought he couldn’t. He started crying. I don’t think I’ve ever—” He stopped, swallowing. “Seeing him cry with that tube in… I almost broke.”

His mother’s expression softened with grief and pride both.

“You love him fiercely,” she said. “You always have. Even when you were too stubborn to admit it.”

Erik gave a short, tired laugh. “He was the only man who ever challenged me without trying to impress me. He made me want to be better.”

“And you make him feel safe. I can see that even now.”

He looked at Charles again. His husband’s restless sleep had deepened into tiny, frustrated breaths. The sedation kept pulling him down, but his distressed dreams made him toss lightly beneath the blankets, head shifting against the pillow like he was searching for someone’s voice.

Erik brushed a curl from Charles’s temple—gentle, slow, barely a touch so as not to disturb the ventilator tubing.

“He thinks he’s burdening everyone,” Erik whispered. “Even unconscious, he looks apologetic.”

His mother sighed. “He never learned how to let people take care of him, did he?”

“No,” Erik said. “He always takes care of everyone else. Even now—just before he sedated again—he kept mouthing ‘sorry’ around the tube.”

His mother’s eyes widened with heartbreak. “Oh, sweetheart…”

“He’s scared,” Erik said simply. “Terrified. And I can’t do anything except sit here and hope he hears me.”

She leaned back in her chair, watching her son with a tenderness that made the harsh ICU lighting feel softer somehow. “You’re doing more than you think.”

“How?” Erik asked, voice low, defeated. “He’s sedated. He’s in pain. He’s exhausted. He’s—” His voice cracked, the words fracturing. “He’s drowning in fear. And I can’t pull him out.”

His mother reached across and gently took his hand.

“You’re the anchor he keeps reaching for, even when he’s unconscious,” she said. “Look at him now.”

Erik looked. Charles’s restless movements eased the moment Erik leaned closer. His hand loosened. His breathing aligned, just slightly, with the rhythm of Erik’s strokes across his knuckles.

“He feels you,” his mother said softly. “Whether he’s awake or not.”

Silence filled the room—quiet, reverent, fragile.

A nurse stepped in briefly to check the leads and adjust the sedation drip. She smiled politely at Erik’s mother and then at Erik, who nodded in acknowledgment. When she left, the door closing with a soft click, the room returned to its bubble of calm.

But in Charles, the disturbance still lingered. His brows pinched again. A faint whimper buzzed through the ventilator tubing—not a sound exactly, just the ghost of one. His head turned slightly toward the sound of Erik’s voice earlier, as though searching for reassurance.

Erik shifted his chair right beside the bed, lowering his voice. “Hey, my love… I’m here.”

Charles’s legs shifted weakly beneath the blankets—some instinctive reaction to hearing him.

“He hears you,” his mother said.

“I hope so.”

“Talk to me a little,” his mother said gently. “Tell me what the doctors said. I want to understand.”

Erik leaned back, pulling his hands through his hair. “They’re keeping him on the ventilator for at least another twenty-four hours. His oxygen dropped too fast when they attempted to remove the tube. His lungs are still too fragile. Too inflamed.”

His mother nodded slowly. “And the fever? The spiking?”

“They’re managing it,” Erik said. “Cool baths. Ice packs. Antipyretics. But the pneumonia is stubborn. Jean says he’s improving, but… it’s slow.”

His mother reached out to touch Charles’s foot under the blanket, a gesture light enough to avoid disturbing him. “He looks so small like this.”

“He’s lost weight,” Erik admitted. “He wasn’t eating well even before the collapse. Too stubborn to show how breathless he was. And now with the tube… it’s all IV nutrition.”

She shook her head. “He always puts others first. Even at his own expense.”

“He does.” Erik’s voice softened. “And it nearly killed him this time.”

His mother looked at him. “You’re angry.”

Erik hesitated. “I’m… yes. Angry. Scared. And I hate myself for even feeling it.”

She moved her chair closer. “Erik. It is human to fear losing the person you love—especially when they hide that they’re hurting.”

He stared at Charles’s pale, restless face, at the way his eyelashes fluttered in uneasy sleep. “I would have taken him to the hospital days earlier if I had known. He didn’t give me the chance.”

“And he didn’t do it to hurt you,” she reminded gently.

“I know,” Erik said. “He thought he was preventing me from worrying while I travelled. He thought it was noble.”

His mother smiled sadly. “Charles always did have that heroic streak.”

“And I love him for it,” Erik said, leaning forward again, elbows on his knees. “But it nearly cost him everything. And now—this.” He gestured helplessly to the ventilator, the monitors, the fragile body on the bed. “I keep thinking—what if he had collapsed alone? What if I hadn’t been reachable? What if he—” He couldn’t finish.

His mother squeezed his arm. “Then thank God he wasn’t alone.”

They sat in quiet again, listening to the mechanical breaths the machine collected and offered to Charles like borrowed lungs.

Then Erik’s mother spoke again, softer.

“When he wakes up,” she said, “I want him to see you looking like this.”

Erik blinked. “Like what?”

“Like someone who never once gave up on him.”

Erik’s throat tightened. “I haven’t.”

“No.” She reached up, touching his cheek gently. “You haven’t.”

Her eyes warmed. “And Charles will know that when he opens those beautiful eyes of his.”

Erik let out a breath that trembled. He turned back toward the bed, brushing his fingers gently over Charles’s wrist. His husband’s pulse fluttered under his touch—weak, irregular from sedation, but steadying slightly at the contact.

His mother watched the interaction and her expression softened with something bright and proud.

“You know,” she murmured, “when you first brought him home for dinner years ago—do you remember what I told you?”

Erik smiled faintly. “You told me he looked at me like he already loved me.”

“And I was right.”

Erik’s smile faltered into something a little more fragile. “He still does.”

“And he will continue to.”

She rose slowly, stepping closer to Erik’s chair, resting a hand on his shoulder again. “Let me make you some tea from the family lounge. Just something warm. You look like you need it.”

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I’ll be right back.”

She left the room quietly.

Erik stayed.

Charles stirred again, a small sound catching deep in his throat—a frightened, wounded hum muffled by the ventilator.

Erik stood instantly, leaning over him.

“Shh, love… I’m here.” He brushed a hand along Charles’s cheek. “You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

Charles’s eyelids fluttered behind sedation. His breathing synchronized again with the touch, the agitation dissolving into something softer.

When Erik sat again, he didn’t look away from him for even a second.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll stay. I’ll stay until you can open your eyes and tell me off for hovering.”

The ventilator sighed. The monitors pulsed.

Charles relaxed just a fraction more, as if the sound of Erik’s voice had finally smoothed the edges of the nightmare he was trapped in.

Erik reached for his hand again.

And waited.

And loved him through the restless darkness.

Chapter Text

Morning in the ICU arrived gently—thin, pale light slipping through the filtered blinds, settling over the quiet monitors and the steady hum of the ventilator. But this morning felt different. Something about the air held a fragile brightness, a hush of anticipation, like the hospital itself felt the shift in Charles’s condition.

Erik had barely slept, his head resting on crossed arms at the side of the bed. The ventilator had kept working through the night, its rhythmic sighs filling the room like tired ocean waves. Every so often, Charles’s eyelids fluttered weakly. Every shift of his fingers made Erik’s heart stop and start again.

Around six in the morning, Jean stepped inside, flipping through the latest readings, her expression more hopeful than the day before. “His gases look better,” she said softly. “His lungs are still irritated, but not collapsing under stress. If this continues—” She paused, fingers grazing the tubing gently. “We can attempt extubation again around mid-morning.”

Erik had straightened instantly, exhaustion forgotten. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as anyone can be with lungs this inflamed,” Jean replied. “But he’s stronger than he was yesterday. Much stronger.”

Erik looked at Charles—paler now, thinner, fragile in a way that hurt to witness—but breathing more smoothly under the ventilator’s guidance. Even sedated, his body seemed to cling to life with a quiet ferocity.

“Stay with him,” Jean said. “Talk to him. Keep his mind anchored.”

“I planned to,” Erik whispered.

And he did. For hours.

He held Charles’s hand. Brushed his hair. Told him about the sunrise, about the tea his mother brought, about how brave he had been throughout all of this. He apologized softly for their argument days before, for not seeing how badly Charles was deteriorating.

“Please,” he murmured against Charles’s knuckles, “come back to me.”

When nine-thirty rolled around, the room began to fill with activity. The respiratory therapist entered with supplies. Two nurses followed. Jean returned, tying her hair back, her expression focused and steady.

Erik stood beside the bed, his mother quietly behind him, the air in the room thick with tension.

“Charles,” Jean said gently, even though he was sedated, “we’re going to help you breathe on your own now.”

Erik squeezed Charles’s hand.

The sedation was dialed down first. Slowly. Carefully. Charles’s breathing changed—more effort, more unstable, but his chest still rose on its own beneath the blankets. His eyelashes trembled. His brow twitched.

“Charles,” Jean murmured, “try to wake up for us.”

Erik leaned close. “I’m right here, love.”

A faint sound escaped around the tube, a soft distressed hum. His chest tightened with effort. His fingers curled toward Erik’s instinctively.

Jean placed a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, Charles… deep breath. You can do this.”

The respiratory therapist deflated the cuff. Jean kept one hand steady on Charles’s jaw.

“We’re going to remove the tube on the exhale,” she instructed calmly. “Don’t fight it. Just breathe.”

Erik’s pulse hammered.

Charles’s eyes opened halfway—a glazed, frightened, fever-shadowed blue barely focused on anything. But the moment he sensed Erik, his gaze dragged toward him, pleading.

“Shh,” Erik whispered, brushing his forehead. “I’m here.”

Jean nodded sharply. “Now.”

The tube slid out.

Charles gagged once—hard—but Jean guided his jaw, keeping his airway aligned, the therapist ready with suction, the nurse stabilizing his shoulders. Charles gasped—one thin, shaky, terrified breath—and his chest tightened as though he couldn’t pull enough air.

Erik felt panic lance through him. “He can’t breathe—”

“He can,” Jean said firmly. “Give him a second.”

Charles struggled—breath hitching, wheezing, shallow—but the suction cleared the worst of the secretions. The mask came over his face immediately, cool oxygen pouring against his skin as his trembling breaths slowly evened out.

After two agonizing minutes, Charles took a fuller inhale. Then another.

His muscles sagged back into the bed.

The monitor stabilized.

Jean finally exhaled. “He’s breathing.”

Erik leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Charles’s damp temple. Relief poured through him like water through cracked stone.

“You did it,” he whispered, voice breaking. “God, you did it.”

Charles blinked weakly beneath the mask, eyes barely slits, but awareness flickered there. His fingers brushed Erik’s wrist—tiny, trembling, but deliberate.

Erik brought that hand to his lips.

Jean smiled gently. “Let him rest. He’ll drift in and out for a while.”

They cleaned Charles carefully. Adjusted the mask. Repositioned him. Fresh pillows. Fresh blankets. Cool cloth for his brow.

When they were done, Jean looked at Erik. “He’s not out of danger—not yet. His lungs are still fragile. His fever is still unpredictable. But this…” Her voice warmed. “This is a very good step.”

Erik nodded. “Thank you.”

“Go shower,” Jean urged. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I haven’t.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Your mother will stay with him. Just… breathe, Erik. He’s safe for now.”

He hesitated, looking at Charles—breathing through the mask, chest rising in small, uneven movements, but breathing on his own.

His mother approached him gently. “Go, querido. I’m staying right here with him.”

Erik kissed Charles’s forehead once more, reluctant, but finally allowed himself to step out.

He couldn’t stay away long. Two hours later, freshly showered and dressed in a crisp suit for the emergency board meeting he couldn’t avoid, he returned to the ICU room. His mother had pulled her chair right beside the bed, knitting something soft and blue while watching Charles with unwavering attention.

Erik kissed her cheek. “Thank you for staying.”

“Of course,” she whispered.

Erik touched Charles’s hand gently. “I’ll be gone for three hours. Four at most. I’ll have my phone on.”

Charles didn’t wake, but a faint tension in his fingers eased under the sound of Erik’s voice.

His mother smiled wistfully. “He always relaxes when he hears you.”

Erik brushed his thumb along the back of Charles’s hand, then forced himself to let go.

“I love you,” he whispered to him, then stepped out.

The door closed softly behind him.

His mother listened to the quiet for a moment, then leaned closer to Charles, adjusting the blankets around his thin shoulders.

“You two had a fight,” she murmured—not accusing, just understanding. “Erik thinks he hid it from me, but he forgets I raised him.”

Charles stirred faintly beneath the mask.

Her voice gentled further. “He was hurt, you know. Scared. He didn’t understand why you pushed yourself so hard. Why you hid how sick you were.”

One of Charles’s fingers twitched.

“But I know why,” she continued softly. “Because you are selfless to the point of breaking. Because you would rather carry the weight than let him worry.”

She brushed a stray curl from his damp forehead, maternal and tender.

“He adores you,” she whispered. “So much that it frightens him sometimes.”

Charles made a faint, weary sound at the back of his throat—a tiny whimper muffled by the mask.

She took his hand, warm and steady. “You must rest now. Heal. You two can talk about all the hurt once your breath isn’t a battle.”

Outside, a distant overhead announcement echoed down the hallway. The ICU hummed softly with machines and low conversations. But inside this room, everything slowed around the gentle rise and fall of Charles’s unsteady breathing.

She continued speaking to him in warm, comforting tones—stories of Erik’s childhood, of stubbornness and victories, of the way Erik had always loved people more fiercely than he knew how to show.

Every few sentences, Charles’s lashes fluttered, as if he were drifting toward consciousness but unable to stay there for long.

When she paused, his brow tightened again—just slightly—and she reached out instinctively, smoothing her thumb across his cheek as she had done for her son years ago.

“Shh. Rest,” she whispered. “Erik will be back soon. And he will be so proud of you.”

Charles relaxed again.

The oxygen mask hissed softly.

The monitors held steady.

And Erik’s mother kept vigil over her son-in-law with the same unwavering devotion she had once given the frightened young boy who grew up to love him.

Two days passed in a strange, suspended quiet—long hours stitched together by soft footsteps in hallways, the hum of machines, and Charles’s fragile breaths under the oxygen mask. The worst had been survived, but the aftermath lingered heavily around them, like smoke after a fire.

The ICU staff had lowered his oxygen gradually, replacing the heavy mask with a lighter, softer one that curved gently across his face. He looked less trapped now, though still thin, still pale, still burdened by exhaustion that seemed to seep into his bones. His fevers no longer spiked dangerously, but tiny waves of heat still flushed his cheeks randomly, like embers stubbornly refusing to die.

Charles finally woke that second afternoon—truly woke, eyes open, aware, lucid.

“Erik?” he whispered hoarsely, voice barely a breath.

Erik nearly dropped his tablet in shock.

He had been sitting beside the bed working through the latest crisis at the company—shareholder unrest, legal documents, decisions piling up—but everything fell silent the instant he heard Charles’s voice.

In an instant, he was out of his chair and leaning close.

“I’m here.”
He touched Charles’s cheek gently, afraid to startle him. “I’m right here, love.”

Charles blinked slowly, as though adjusting to the weight of the world pressing back onto his shoulders. His eyes were clearer than they had been in days—still tired, still shimmering with fever remnants—but finally present.

“How… long…?” His voice faded, too weak.

“Don’t worry about that,” Erik murmured. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

Charles swallowed, grimacing, hand drifting to his stomach. “Nauseous…”

“I know,” Erik said, already reaching for the basin and a cool cloth. “It’s okay. You haven’t kept much down. The doctors are adjusting your medication.”

Charles turned his face slightly, exhausted just by the effort of speaking.

His mother-in-law—Erik’s elegant, composed, unshakably warm mother—stood up from the window seat, where she had been knitting quietly. Her smile softened the room.

“Well, well,” she said gently, “look who’s finally awake.”

Charles managed a faint, apologetic smile. “Sorry… for the trouble.”

She tutted softly. “You, young man, are allowed to be as troublesome as you need. Now—” she held up something soft and blue “—your head looked cold yesterday, so I knitted you this.”

Erik blinked. “Mother, you knitted that? Last night?”

“I might have started before that,” she said with a shrug.

It was a soft, delicate, sky-blue hat made of the gentlest yarn. The kind that wouldn’t irritate fever-warmed skin. The kind that carried the warmth of being made by hand.

She slipped it over Charles’s head with careful fingers.

He closed his eyes at the warmth, the softness, the simple comfort of something handmade. Something loving.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She kissed his forehead lightly. “You’re very welcome.”

Erik’s chest tightened—not with fear this time, but something gentler, harder to admit.

Something like gratitude.

The doctors came in soon after, checking vitals, reviewing scans. Charles listened quietly, eyes half-open, each breath small.

“Your lungs are improving,” Jean said warmly. “But you’re still not getting enough nutrition. We need to increase your intake, even if only in small sips.”

Charles made a face under the mask. “Everything tastes wrong… feels wrong.”

“Nausea after pneumonia is extremely common,” Jean reassured. “But you need strength. Let’s try a little juice. Just a few milliliters.”

Erik nodded immediately. “I’ll help.”

He didn’t wait for permission.
He just lifted the small cup of diluted apple juice, sliding one arm gently around Charles’s shoulders to raise him slightly. Charles leaned into the support instinctively—weak, trembling, but trusting.

Erik removed the oxygen mask carefully, cradling him with steady hands. “Just a sip. Nice and slow.”

The smell alone made Charles’s stomach twist, but he tried. Lips parted, breath trembling, he let Erik tip the cup.

A tiny sip. Barely a taste.

He swallowed—and gagged instantly.

His body lurched forward.

Erik moved fast, pulling the cup away and steadying him, but not quite fast enough.

The juice splashed from Charles’s lips and down the front of Erik’s impossibly expensive, perfectly tailored Italian suit.

For a second, everyone froze.

Charles’s eyes widened in horror.
He pulled back weakly, shaking his head, tears swelling.

“S-sorry—Erik—I’m so—sorry—”

His voice broke on the last word, raw with humiliation.

Erik didn’t even look at the suit.
He only cupped Charles’s cheeks gently.

“Hey. No. Look at me,” he whispered, bending close. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a suit. I can buy a million more.”

Charles whimpered, turning his face away, shame washing over his already exhausted body. “I ruined it…”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”
Erik tilted his chin back toward him. “You’re trying. That’s all that matters.”

His mother stepped in with a soft chuckle. “Erik has ruined far more expensive things for far stupider reasons, dear. Do not give it another thought.”

That drew the faintest, fragile smile from Charles.

Erik reached for the tissues, gently wiping Charles’s chin like something sacred. “You okay?”

“Just… dizzy…” Charles murmured, eyes sliding shut again.

“We’re done for now,” Jean said firmly. “He’s too nauseous to continue.”

The oxygen mask was replaced. Charles sank into the pillows, utterly spent, breath trembling but steady.

Erik’s beautiful, tailored suit was blotched with sticky juice stains down the front—dark streaks marring pristine fabric.

His mother raised an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t expect me to hand-wash that.”

Erik snorted softly. “It’s gone. Completely ruined.”

Charles winced, guilt tightening his small, weak frame.

Erik sat down immediately, helping him settle. “Charles,” he said softly, “listen to me. Clothes can be replaced. You can’t.”

Charles’s eyes filled again—not with fear, but something gentler, aching.

“You’re… too kind,” he whispered.

“I’m barely kind enough.”

Charles’s fingers found Erik’s sleeve weakly, gripping it like an anchor. “Stay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Erik promised.

His mother stepped to the side, giving them a moment. She pretended to be busy with her knitting bag, but her eyes shimmered warmly, witnessing something tender and raw.

Charles drifted again, eyelids heavy, breath soft under the oxygen flow. Nausea tugged at him occasionally, small flinches rippling through his body. Erik held his hand each time, rubbing slow circles into his skin until the tension eased.

Hours passed like that.

Slow. Quiet. Gentle.

At one point, Charles whispered under his breath, “Cold…”

Immediately, Erik reached for the knitted hat, adjusting it snugly over his head. His mother handed him another blanket. Between them, they crafted a cocoon of warmth around Charles’s fragile frame.

The feverish flush on his cheeks eased.

His breathing steadied.

And for the first time in days, his sleep looked peaceful.

Erik brushed a kiss to his forehead. “Rest. I’ll be right here.”

His mother folded the blue yarn into her lap and whispered, “You’re doing beautifully, both of you.”

And the room, once filled with fear and machinery and crisis, settled into a soft, quiet promise:

Healing had begun. Slow, fragile, and gentle. But real.

Chapter Text

The ICU suite dimmed into its late-evening hush, lights softened automatically to keep the room in a state of perpetual twilight. Machines glowed quietly, casting pale blue patterns across the polished floor tiles and the curved glass of the panoramic window overlooking the city. Even the monitors seemed to hum more gently in this part of the hospital — as though the wealth poured into the place had softened every edge, every noise, every intruding harshness of clinical life.

Charles lay asleep at last — though even in sleep, he looked strained. His brows twitched faintly from fever dreams, breath shallow through the oxygen mask that fogged minimally with each unsteady exhale. His fingers still rested curled in the fabric of Erik’s sleeve, even though sedation had loosened their grip.

Erik had not moved for a long time.
Only when he was certain Charles was finally drifting deeper into rest — not fully peaceful, but no longer trembling — did he slowly disentangle himself and stand.

He took only a few steps before stopping at the wide window.
The city glittered beneath him like molten gold, skyscrapers piercing the night sky, cars streaming in slow glowing trails across the avenues. A luxury penthouse view — except this one came with ventilators and nurses passing by in muffled footsteps.

Erik pressed a palm to the glass.

The cold surface burned.

Work had always been first.
Not intentionally. Not maliciously.
But instinctively — the reflex of a man building an empire, a man who believed that providing for someone was the same as caring for them.

Now, that belief felt laughably thin.

His reflection in the window looked harsher than he expected — jaw set too tight, eyes rimmed in exhaustion, hair disheveled from hours of bending over Charles’s trembling body. A billionaire in a tailored shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, standing powerless in an ICU room more luxurious than most apartments.

He let out a shaky breath.

How many nights had he returned home long after Charles went to bed, promising “just one more week,” “just one more project,” “just one more trip,” without noticing the subtle signs — the quiet cough, the soft wheeze after long lectures, the slightly slower steps up the stairs?

Signs Charles probably tried to hide, because Charles hid everything if it meant making others feel at ease. Even his own pain.

Erik’s throat tightened.

How long had he been absent, really?
How deeply had he trusted that Charles could take care of himself alone while Erik ran an empire?
How many times had he missed the chance to say something gentle?

Now his husband lay behind him, fragile and gaunt, his breath making the softest rasp behind the shield of the oxygen mask, and Erik felt the merciless weight of every hour he’d spent away.

Jean slipped into the room quietly, reading something off a patient tablet. Her footsteps were soft as she approached.

“He’s resting more deeply,” she said, glancing at Charles. “The sedative helped.”

Erik nodded without tearing his gaze from the window. “He panicked because he was terrified. Because he didn’t understand. Because he’s… he’s so sick.” His voice cracked, and he closed his eyes. “And he was alone when it got this bad.”

Jean stepped beside him, her expression gentle but unwavering.

“You didn’t abandon him,” she said softly. “Charles hides things. He always has. You know he’d rather collapse quietly than make anyone worry.”

“And I let him,” Erik whispered. “Because I was too busy signing contracts and flying across continents.”

Jean said nothing — which somehow hurt more than disagreement would have. Silence meant truth. Erik pressed his thumb to the glass, as if the city lights might offer an answer.

After a few moments, Jean inhaled carefully. “We’ll have to revisit the nutrition issue tomorrow. The NG tube can’t be placed safely right now.” She hesitated before adding, “If multiple attempts fail, we might need to consider a G-tube.”

Erik turned sharply, the word hitting him like cold water. “G-tube? Surgery?”

“Not major surgery,” Jean reassured quickly. “But a procedure, yes. It would let us feed him directly into the stomach without distressing him. He’s extremely weak, and his body can’t keep fighting without nutrition.”

Erik looked back at Charles instantly — as if the word itself could harm him.
The mask obscured half his face, but the part Erik could see was already too pale, too sunken, too tired.

“He’s already suffered enough,” Erik murmured.

Jean nodded. “I know. And we’ll avoid it unless absolutely necessary. But we also need to be honest about how limited his intake is. He simply can’t sustain himself on sips of juice and the occasional broth.”

Erik’s jaw tightened. He ran his hands through his hair, pacing one slow stride backward until he was at the foot of the bed again.

Charles shifted faintly in sleep, a small breath catching in his throat. The monitor responded with a gentle beep, nothing dangerous, just a reminder of how unstable he still was.

Erik returned to his side immediately, sitting once more in the chair he’d barely left all day. He reached for Charles’s hand, brushing his thumb over the knuckles that felt far too delicate.

“I should have been here,” he whispered, not caring that Jean was still in the room. “I should have seen something was wrong. I should have asked. I should have listened.”

Jean stood silent again.
There was no comfort she could give that would soften the truth he was forcing himself to face.

Outside, distant car lights drifted down the boulevard.
Inside, the monitor pulsed steadily in green and gold.

Charles breathed — thin, weak, but present.

Erik bowed his head, bringing Charles’s hand to his lips.

“I won’t fail you again,” he murmured, voice raw. “Not ever. Even if you forget everything we’ve survived together… I won’t forget. I won’t leave. Not for work, not for the world, not for anything.”

Charles didn’t wake.
But his fingers twitched faintly — barely there, but unmistakably a response.

Jean spoke softly from behind them. “We’ll take the next steps one at a time. Tonight, he rests. Tomorrow, we reassess. The G-tube is only a discussion, not a decision.”

Erik nodded, eyes locked on Charles.

But inside, he knew:
if the choice was between another moment of Charles’s fear or a controlled, safe procedure —
he would choose whatever spared his husband pain.

He would choose whatever kept him breathing.

Charles surfaced from sleep slowly, like rising through layers of warm water. The world around him felt strange, muffled, and distant — familiar in outline but blurred around the edges. Soft light filtered through the curtains of the ICU suite, pale gold against the walls. The hum of machines breathed gently beside him, steady and patient.

His eyelids fluttered open.

The ceiling swayed slightly in his vision, then steadied. He turned his head — too fast — and a wave of dizziness rolled through him, forcing his eyes shut again.

A warm hand was wrapped around his.

“Charles?”
Erik’s voice was soft, low, threaded with a kind of fear that had long since become familiar to him. “Are you with me, mon amour?”

Charles opened his eyes again, slower this time.
Erik’s face came into view — tired, unshaven, but so heartbreakingly tender. His eyes softened the instant they met Charles’s.

Charles tried to speak.

Only a small sound escaped — a faint breath, shaped almost like a word but too weak to carry meaning. His throat ached. His chest felt tight, raw from strain.

He swallowed, winced.

Erik immediately lifted a hand to cup his cheek. “Shh… don’t try to talk yet. You’re still recovering. You’ve been through a lot.”

Charles blinked, confusion drifting across his features. His brows pinched slightly as the memory tried to surface — something about a tube, a cold touch against his nose, panic, breathlessness—

His breath hitched.

Erik saw it.
He leaned closer instantly, thumb brushing Charles’s cheekbone. “It’s all right. You’re safe. Nothing is happening right now.”

Charles’s voice rasped out, only a whisper of a word, fragile and broken:

“Hurts.”

Erik’s exhale shuddered. “I know, my love. I know it does.” He stroked Charles’s hair with trembling fingers. “But we’re here. We’re not doing anything painful. Nothing like before.”

Charles’s eyes closed briefly, exhausted by the effort of that one word. His breathing hitched in uneven little tremors, the oxygen mask misting faintly with each breath. The sedative had mostly worn off, but the fever had left him drained, weak, and dazed.

Jean entered quietly, checking the monitor, her face softening at the sight of Charles awake but clearly overwhelmed.

“Hi, Charles,” she said gently. “You scared us yesterday.” She kept her voice warm, light, letting the words settle without pressure. “You did so well. It wasn’t your fault. Your body reacted before you could understand.”

Charles blinked slowly, breath trembling. Erik squeezed his hand, grounding him.

Jean exchanged a look with Erik — the kind of look that said we need to talk now.

Erik nodded. “Go ahead.”

Jean stepped closer to Charles, speaking with calm clarity. “Charles, sweetheart, we won’t try the nasal tube again right now. Your body is too sensitive, and it’s causing you distress.”

Charles’s eyes shifted to her weakly, unfocused but listening.

“So…” Jean continued gently, “we’re going to help you eat a safer way. It’s called a G-tube — a small feeding tube placed directly into the stomach. It will help you heal faster without hurting you. The procedure is controlled and gentle. You’ll sleep through it.”

Charles’s lips trembled. His eyelids fluttered. He managed barely half a word, air threading into the shape of it:

“Why…?”

Erik leaned close, holding his hand with both of his. “Because you’re not strong enough to eat yet, my love. You’re losing weight too fast, and you need nutrition to fight the pneumonia.”

Jean added softly, “It’s the safest option now. And we won’t do anything without your consent.”

Charles exhaled shakily, eyes unfocused as he processed. Fear flickered faintly in his expression — not panic like yesterday, but the fear of a man too weak to protect himself.

Erik’s thumb brushed across the back of his hand again and again, a slow rhythm. “I’ll be right there. Every second. I won’t leave you.”

Charles’s lips moved.
A faint whisper emerged — barely sound.

“Stay.”

Erik’s control broke. His eyes glazed, breath catching, but he forced his voice to remain steady as he leaned closer. “Yes. I’m staying. Always.”

Jean gave them a moment before clearing her throat gently. “The surgical team can take him in about an hour. It’s not full surgery — more like a guided placement. Very safe. Very quick.”

Erik nodded, turning back to Charles. “We’ll prepare you, mon coeur. Nothing frightening. Just small steps.”

He smoothed Charles’s hair, moving slowly so as not to startle him. Charles blinked heavily, the effort already wearing him down. His breathing wavered, fatigue pulling him downward again, but he fought sleep long enough to squeeze Erik’s fingers — the touch weak, almost imperceptible, but deliberate.

Erik stood a moment later, adjusting the blankets gently around Charles, making sure the oxygen mask sat comfortably, smoothing every wrinkle and edge. His hands lingered on Charles’s shoulders, memorizing the rise and fall of each breath.

Nurses entered quietly with warm cloths, wipes, and gentle preparation supplies. Erik helped them, watching over every movement, approving every step with protective precision.

He cleaned Charles’s forehead with a warm cloth, brushing sweat from his brow with careful swipes. “You’re doing so well, my love,” he whispered. “Just rest. Let me take care of you.”

Charles tried to speak again — a faint breath, shaped like:

“Sorry…”

Erik froze.

His voice broke as he leaned closer, forehead touching Charles’s. “No. No apologizing. You’ve done nothing wrong. I should be the one apologizing for not being here sooner.”

Charles blinked weakly, confusion and emotion blurring together.

Erik kissed his knuckles. “You focus on breathing. I’ll handle the world.”

Jean stepped forward gently. “We’ll take him down soon. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes to prepare him.”

Erik nodded, brushing a final stroke through Charles’s hair.

Charles’s eyes drifted shut — exhausted, trembling, trusting.

Erik whispered into his ear, soft as a vow:

“I’ll walk with you to the door. I’ll be here the moment you wake. Nothing happens without me beside you.”

Charles didn’t answer — not with words — but his fingers curled faintly in Erik’s hand again, anchoring themselves to the only steady thing in the room.

And Erik held on just as tightly.

They took Charles gently, carefully — a small team of nurses guiding his bed through the corridor, Jean walking beside him while Erik kept hold of Charles’s hand until the automatic doors of the procedure suite forced him to stop. Charles drifted in and out, eyelids fluttering weakly, too sedated to stay awake but too anxious to fully let go.

“Erik…” he whispered as they began rolling him away, voice barely air.

“I’m here,” Erik answered immediately, leaning down so Charles could see him even half-conscious. “I’m right behind you. Just breathe. I’ll be here when you wake.”

Charles’s fingers curled for a brief moment around his wrist, a last weak anchor before the slow movement of the bed pulled them apart.

Then the doors slid closed.

And Erik was alone in the corridor.

The silence struck him like cold water — too sudden, too vast. He sank onto the bench outside the operating suite, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tightly together until his knuckles whitened. The air smelled of antiseptic and filtered oxygen. Bright hospital lights hummed faintly above him.

He bowed his head.

For a long moment, he simply breathed.

Then, in a voice so soft he barely recognized it as his own, Erik whispered:

“Please… please keep him safe.”

He wasn’t a man who prayed. Not to anything, not since boyhood. His empire had been built on resolve, force, sharp decisions and sharper instincts. But here — outside the room where his husband’s frail body lay on a table, doctors tending to him because Erik hadn’t tended to him enough — that armor felt useless.

He pressed his palms together, fingertips against his forehead.

“I don’t care about deals, or projects, or anything else,” he murmured into the empty corridor. “Just bring him back to me. I’ll do anything right. I’ll change everything. Just let him come back.”

He inhaled shakily.

“This is my fault. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see. I didn’t listen.”

Another breath, more broken than the first.

“But I will now. I swear it. I will now.”

Time softened into a blur — minutes stretching, folding, looping. Nurses passed in muted shadows. Overhead announcements murmured distant codes. Someone wheeled a cart past with soft wheels squeaking. Erik barely noticed any of it.

He rose once, paced the length of the wall, then sat again — hands clasped, breaths shallow. He checked his watch. Four minutes had passed. Then seven. Then twelve. He stood again. Sat again.

Every second felt loud.

Then at last —
the door opened with a soft hydraulic whisper.

Jean stepped out first.

And Erik swore his heart stopped.

But Jean offered a small, warm smile — tired, but reassuring. “He’s all right. The placement was successful.”

Erik exhaled in a rush, the tension leaving him all at once. His hands trembled. “Can I—?”

“You can see him once we bring him back upstairs,” Jean said gently. “He’ll be drowsy, uncomfortable, but safe.”

Relief hit him so strongly he almost had to sit again.

They rolled Charles in quietly, dim lights already lowered as though the room itself wanted to soothe him. He lay on his side, slightly curled, fresh blankets tucked around him. His breath was soft but uneven, as if every inhale tugged at something tender.

His eyelids fluttered as the motion settled.

Erik moved to the bedside immediately, brushing his knuckles along Charles’s temple. “Charles…? I’m right here.”

Charles’s lips parted in a small, weak exhale. His eyes cracked open halfway — unfocused, glassy with lingering sedation. He looked disoriented, as though waking in a place he no longer recognized.

“Mm…”
It wasn’t a word — just a soft sound of discomfort.

Erik leaned closer. “You’re safe. You’re back in your room. I’m with you.”

Charles’s brows drew together faintly. A tremor ran through him — not fear like before, but discomfort deeper than he could localize. He shifted slightly under the blankets, breathing more quickly for a moment.

Jean stepped to the opposite side of the bed, her voice gentle. “Hi, sweetheart. You’re okay. The procedure went very smoothly. You might feel sore or strange — that’s normal.”

Charles blinked slowly, confusion swimming in his gaze. His lips moved as if he wanted to shape a question, but only a thin, breathy whisper emerged:

“H…hurts.”

Erik swallowed. “I know,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over Charles’s cheek. “I know, love. Just breathe. We’re here.”

Jean nodded sympathetically. “Your stomach will feel strange for a bit. Heavy, tight. It’s expected. But you’re safe. Nothing is wrong.”

Charles closed his eyes, a pained breath leaving him. His hand searched weakly across the sheets. Erik caught it instantly, enclosing it in both of his.

Jean glanced at the monitors, then at Erik. “Let me explain the tube for both of you — it’ll help you understand what to expect.”

Erik nodded, tightening his grip on Charles’s hand.

Jean kept her tone soft, calm. “This tube will let us give him nutrition directly, without forcing him to swallow or risk panicking like before. It bypasses everything that was frightening for him. We’ll start very slow — small amounts for now.”

Charles’s eyelashes lifted at her voice, barely, as though listening through fog.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Jean continued gently, addressing Charles now. “You don’t have to swallow, you don’t have to fight. You get to rest.”

A tiny shiver passed through him.

Erik brushed his thumb along his knuckles again. “Did you hear that? You get to rest now.”

Charles’s eyes fluttered shut again, a single tear slipping from the corner. Not fear — exhaustion, relief, overwhelm. Erik wiped it away with a soft touch.

Jean leaned back slightly. “He may drift in and out for the next few hours. Sedation, fatigue, and the soreness will make everything feel heavier for him.”

Erik nodded, his voice low. “I’ll stay.”

Jean offered him a knowing smile. “I assumed you would.”

Charles stirred, breath shaky, and whispered one barely-formed, fragile word:

“Erik…”

And Erik leaned in at once, kissing his forehead softly.

“I’m here, mon coeur. I’m right here. You did so well.”

Charles exhaled — a trembling, tiny sigh — and let the weight of sleep pull him back under, still holding onto Erik’s hand as though letting go wasn’t an option.

Erik didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

Not until his own tears fell silently onto the back of Charles’s hand.

Charles had been settled on his side, the dim light of the ICU suite folded gently around him like a curtain. The medical team had explained that this position would keep him more comfortable after the procedure, and Jean had triple-checked every setting, every line, every soft beeping rhythm before finally stepping out to give them space.

But even with the reassurance, Erik could not stop hovering. His hand lay atop Charles’s shoulder, warm but trembling. Charles’s hair—thinner from weeks of illness—was flattened on one side, and the knitted hat Erik’s mother had made sat folded neatly on the bedside table like a quiet promise of gentler days.

Charles blinked slowly, his eyes glassy with exhaustion. The sedatives had faded only partially, leaving him drifting in and out of awareness like a man caught between tides.

“Hey,” Erik whispered, brushing his thumb across Charles’s shoulder. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Charles’s lashes fluttered at the sound of his voice. “Erik…” The word rasped out of him as little more than breath, strained but unmistakably his.

Erik swallowed hard—too hard—because even that single syllable, spoken so weakly, cut straight into the part of his heart he had spent years hiding beneath ambition and work.

“You don’t have to talk,” he murmured. “Just rest. Let me take care of you.”

Charles’s brow furrowed faintly, as if trying to understand the meaning behind the words, the shift in Erik’s voice—the softness that had always been there underneath but had rarely been heard.

The nurse had left instructions for the first small trial feeding, and Erik had insisted—perhaps recklessly, perhaps desperately—that he could do it himself. That after everything, after all the missed dinners, all the unanswered texts, all the quiet nights Charles had spent alone on the couch waiting for him…
…he could finally show up.

He moved carefully, nervously, the way a man might handle something precious that he feared he didn’t deserve. Every step was slow, deliberate, the faint tremor in his hands impossible to hide.

Charles watched him blearily, breath shallow beneath his oxygen support. His eyes flickered with worry—not for himself, never for himself, but for Erik, who had not slept more than a few hours in far too many days.

“You don’t have to,” Charles whispered.

“I do.” Erik’s voice cracked. “I have to.”

The words escaped before he could stop them.

His throat tightened. His vision blurred. And suddenly the polished, controlled façade—the CEO who negotiated billion-dollar contracts and commanded boardrooms—began to crumble at the edges.

“I missed everything,” Erik whispered as he prepared the feeding line with shaking fingers. “Every sign. Every cough. Every time you waited for me. I wasn’t here, Charles. I wasn’t—”

His voice failed.
He pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, breathing hard, fighting to maintain control in a room filled with soft monitors and the gentle hiss of oxygen.

Charles tried to lift his hand toward him—weak, unsteady, a tremor running through the motion. Erik saw it and immediately caught it, holding it with both of his.

“Don’t,” Charles rasped. “Don’t blame… yourself.”

Erik laughed—a broken, cracked sound. “How can I not? Look at you. Look at what you’ve been through. And I was in a board meeting.”

His shoulders shook.
Tears slipped past his defenses, hot and unrestrained. He bowed his head, forehead gently pressing against the back of Charles’s hand.

“I should’ve been home. I should’ve known. I should’ve—God, Charles, I should’ve chosen you.”

Charles’s fingers tightened weakly, barely a squeeze, but enough to make Erik inhale sharply. Enough to remind him that even now, even in pain, Charles was reaching for him.

“You… did come,” Charles whispered. “You’re here… now.”

Erik lifted his head, eyes red, breath trembling. “I’m not leaving again. Not for anything. Not ever.”

He said it like a vow.
A promise sealed in the quiet hum of machines and the fading glow of late evening.

Slowly, carefully, he began the feeding process just as Jean had shown him. His movements were steady now—not because he was calm, but because he loved this man more than he loved his own fear.

Charles’s breathing deepened, his eyelids growing heavier. The exhaustion of the past hours pulled him gently downward, lulling him toward sleep. But even drifting, he kept their hands linked.

Erik watched him for a long moment—watched every slow breath, every slight shift of his brow, every tiny sign of what Charles was feeling. The monitors steadied. The room’s atmosphere softened.

And Erik—who had always held himself rigid, who had always buried emotion under schedules and obligations—finally let the last of his walls fall.

He rested his forehead lightly against Charles’s temple, letting his tears fall silently onto the pillow.

“I love you,” he whispered—broken, honest, raw. “And I am so, so sorry.”

The only answer was Charles’s quiet breathing.
But Erik held him anyway, held him like a man holding the center of his world, terrified of the day he almost lost it.

And in that quiet ICU suite—bright with monitors but dim with evening—something inside Erik truly, finally changed.

Charles slept only in brief stretches now—not the deep, fever-drenched unconsciousness of the earlier days, but a lighter, more aware drifting that allowed his eyes to open more often. And each time he surfaced, he seemed a little clearer, a little more present, a little more him.

Jean had passed through twice already that morning, a faint smile tugging at her lips when she saw that the fever curve had finally dipped. Not gone—no, not that easily—but softened, losing its brutal edge. Enough for Charles to stay awake longer, to watch Erik with those pale, tired blue eyes that always seemed to see more of him than Erik could hide.

Erik stood beside the bed now, sleeves rolled up, an oversized plastic basin and warm water towels on the bedside table. The nurse had brought them, assuming she would be the one to handle it—but Erik had gently asked if he could do it instead. He needed to. The last few days had carved something sharp and tender into him, some deep ache that could only be eased by caring for Charles with his own hands.

Charles looked at the basin, then back at Erik, puzzled but soft-eyed.
“What… doing?” he whispered, voice still hoarse from days of strain.

Erik pulled the rolling table closer, his movements slow so as not to startle him. “A wash,” he said gently. “Just your hair. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

Charles blinked as if trying to imagine how that would even work from a hospital bed. His lips parted in faint confusion, then curved—just barely—into something shy and almost embarrassed.

“You don’t… have to.”

Erik smiled, a broken little thing that came from somewhere deep in his chest. “I want to.”

He sat on the edge of the mattress, careful to avoid the lines and monitoring wires, then stroked Charles’s temple with his thumb. His hair was damp with sweat from the last remnants of the fever, flattened and tangled. It hurt Erik to see it—because Charles had always kept his hair neat, always smoothed it before classes, always made himself presentable even on days he was exhausted. He’d once joked that messy hair made him look like a nervous first-year student again.

Now it told the story of too many difficult hours.

Erik brought a warm towel gently to Charles’s forehead, letting the heat soak into the skin. Charles inhaled softly, his eyes fluttering shut—no pain in the sound, just a fragile sort of relief. Erik worked slowly, tenderly, brushing damp strands back, wiping away the lingering sweat, letting warmth soothe the tension in Charles’s brow.

“You’re getting better,” Erik murmured, more to reassure himself than anything. “A little bit every hour.”

Charles made a faint hum, like he wanted to agree but lacked the strength for words. His breathing was still shallow, but steadier than before. The oxygen support remained, but no longer felt like an ominous reminder—it was simply part of the room now, part of healing.

Erik reached for the small, gentle hospital shampoo packet, pouring a bit into the warm basin water. He mixed it slowly, watching the suds dissolve, then wrung out a washcloth before lifting Charles’s head just slightly.

“Lean into me,” Erik whispered. “It’s okay.”

Charles did—trustingly, heavily—letting his head rest against Erik’s palm. Erik supported him with the care of someone holding the most delicate thing he had ever loved. With slow, rhythmic motions, he dampened Charles’s hair, fingers combing through softly, untangling without pulling. Charles sighed—not in pain, but in something like comfort, his eyes slipping half-shut.

“You’re good at this,” Charles whispered faintly.

Erik let out a soft laugh. “I’ve never done it before.”

“You… seem like you have.”

“That’s because I’m terrified,” Erik admitted, rinsing the cloth. “I’m concentrating harder than I ever have in my life.”

Charles’s lips twitched—almost a smile.
“Workaholic,” he murmured, voice fading with exhaustion but carrying the ghost of teasing he used to wield so effortlessly.

Erik’s chest tightened painfully at that—because it was both a reminder and a forgiveness, wrapped into a single, fragile joke.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Charles’s temple. “Not anymore. Not like before.”

He continued washing, massaging the warm water through soft, dark strands, brushing back the hair that had grown unruly during weeks of illness. When he finished rinsing, he wrapped a dry towel around Charles’s head, gently rubbing warmth into his scalp.

Charles opened his eyes again—clearer than they had been in days.
“You’re… here,” he whispered, gaze steady and full of quiet wonder. “You promised.”

“I keep my promises,” Erik whispered back. “I just… forgot how much they mattered. I won’t forget again.”

Charles’s hand lifted—slow, trembling, but purposeful. Erik caught it immediately, threading their fingers together.

“Thank you,” Charles breathed.

“For what?” Erik asked, his voice cracking.

“For staying.”

The words hit him harder than anything else had—the sincerity, the simplicity, the softness of it. A single tear slid down Erik’s cheek before he could stop it, falling onto the towel still wrapped loosely around Charles’s hair.

He squeezed Charles’s hand, bowing his head.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “Not ever again.”

Charles drifted toward sleep again, eyelids lowering, but his fingers stayed linked with Erik’s. Even half-conscious, he didn’t let go.

And Erik stayed where he was—sitting at the bedside, one hand holding Charles’s, the other resting over the towel on his hair—watching the steady rhythm of his breathing and letting a fragile, stubborn kind of hope settle into his heart.

Chapter Text

The ICU suite felt impossibly still without Erik in it—too large, too quiet, too full of soft machine hums and the sterile whisper of a ventilation system that never stopped. Charles lay propped gently against the adjustable hospital bed, the pillows arranged with Erik’s meticulous care before he’d left, everything shaped around the slope of Charles’s body as though Erik believed comfort was something he could construct with his own hands.

The fresh towel Erik had used during the hair wash earlier remained draped across Charles’s shoulders, its faint warmth fading but its meaning lingering like a touch. The air in the room still carried a subtle scent of mild hospital shampoo—clean, faintly floral, and soothing in its simplicity. It mingled with the crisp medicinal scent of the ICU, softening it, turning the clinical space into something closer to a sanctuary.

Erik had been reluctant to leave—hesitant in a way Charles had never seen him. He’d hovered at the doorway, casting worried glances back at the bed as though the moment he stepped into the hall the entire world might tilt off its axis without him present to hold it steady.
But Charles had insisted.

In a voice still breathless and fragile, he’d whispered, “You can’t miss another meeting. Go. I’ll be okay. I promise.”

So Erik had finally gone—with one last trembling kiss to Charles’s forehead, one last touch of his hair, one last whispered “I’ll be back as soon as it ends… don’t move without calling the nurse.”

Now the room held only Charles, the monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen through the mask resting gently over his face.

He stared up at the ceiling tiles—the softly glowing panel lights that mimicked daylight, the subtle shadows cast by the overhead fixtures—and let himself breathe with the rhythm of the machines. The ICU always felt suspended outside normal time; the world outside continued its sharp pace, but in here everything slowed into careful breaths and patient waiting.

He shifted slightly, the bed rising with a soft mechanical hum as he tried to find a better angle. Even that small effort pulled faint exhaustion through his muscles, reminding him how quickly strength slipped away when illness stayed too long.

Being awake like this—lucid, aware, and fully present—was new.
And heavier than he expected.

He rested a hand over his chest, feeling the slight tremble of his own breath as he tried processing just how far things had gone. The memories were disjointed, blurred by fever and sedation, but enough remained to remind him that he had been dangerously close to losing everything.

His thoughts drifted to campus—his abandoned lectures, the unfinished research on his desk, the students who must now wonder where their professor had disappeared to. He imagined the soft hum of the university hallways, the echo of footsteps on tile floors, the smell of old books and chalk dust.

He missed it.
More than he’d allowed himself to feel until now.

But the truth was unavoidable: he couldn’t return to any of that yet.
Maybe not for weeks.
Maybe longer.

His condition wasn’t a temporary flare this time.
It was something deeper. More consuming.
He could see it in the drained pallor of his own hands against the sheets, in the thinness of his arms, in the weakness that tugged at him even after hours of rest.

He was still very much a patient in critical care.

He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, swallowing back the hint of fear creeping in around the edges of his thoughts. He didn’t want to crumble now—not when Erik had finally begun to rest, both physically and emotionally, after weeks of constant vigilance.

But when he opened his eyes again, the room’s emptiness felt heavier.

He turned his head toward the glass wall that overlooked the ICU corridor. Curtains were drawn for privacy, but faint shapes passed behind them—nurses on rounds, carts being moved, the muted rhythm of a hospital in perpetual motion. He wasn’t isolated; he was surrounded by professionals, by people who cared.

And yet he felt alone.

He let his gaze settle on the chair beside the bed—the one Erik had practically lived in these past nights. His jacket still hung from the back of it, one sleeve twisted from where Erik often pulled it on and off in restless motions. A half-finished bottle of water sat on the adjoining table next to a mess of paperwork Erik had insisted on reviewing between checking on Charles.

Erik had traded his corner office for a rolling hospital tray.
He had shifted boardrooms to bedside monitors.
He had placed all his priorities in the shape of Charles’s fragile breaths.

A wave of emotion surged through Charles—gratitude, guilt, love, sorrow—all weaving together into something far too complicated for words.

He hadn’t meant for any of this.

He hadn’t wanted Erik to see him so helpless, so diminished. He hadn’t wanted the man who built empires to lose sleep over him, to hold his trembling hand through fevered nights, to cry when he thought Charles couldn’t hear.

A soft strain bloomed in his chest—not pain, but an ache of vulnerability.
What would recovery look like?
Would he ever be able to stand without help?
Manage stairs?
Teach?
Walk through the garden behind their house without a cane or support?

His breath hitched.

What if I never become myself again?
What if he stays out of guilt?
What if I become a burden?

He pressed the heel of his palm gently against his eyes, trying to quiet the doubts. The oxygen mask shifted with the motion, and he stilled, letting his breathing settle again.

A soft beep from one of the monitors punctuated the silence—steady, calm, reassuring. And slowly, the panic ebbed, replaced by a gentler, steadier resolve.

He was still here.
He was still fighting.
And Erik—despite everything—was still choosing him, every single day.

He turned his head toward the door again, imagining Erik walking back in. The way he always paused just inside the threshold, scanning the monitors before looking at Charles, as though verifying the world hadn’t betrayed him while he was gone.

Charles smiled faintly, exhaustion softening the curve of his lips.

“Come back soon,” he whispered into the empty room, voice muffled by the oxygen mask but filled with quiet longing.

He let his eyes drift closed again—not in despair, but in trust.
He would rest.
He would heal.
And when Erik returned, Charles would be ready to tell him the truth weighing on his heart:

that love like this was worth fighting for—worth surviving for.

And he would.

The first thing Charles becomes aware of is the mattress underneath him—firm, supportive, but not meant for such a sustained position. His entire body lies tipped onto his left side, carefully supported by pillows that Jean and the night nurses had arranged to protect the new G-tube site from any pressure. At first, when they positioned him like this after the early-morning assessment, he hadn’t minded. It was uncomfortable but tolerable. But now, hours later, the angle is beginning to gnaw at him.

He tries to breathe quietly through the oxygen mask strapped over his face, the soft hiss of humidified flow the only constant companion in the room. The problem is that lying on his side makes each breath feel slightly shallower, as if his right lung—still irritated from weeks of collapse, infection, and ventilation—refuses to fill properly. It’s not painful, just… strained. Tight. Like someone is pressing a warm, steady palm into his ribs.

But he doesn’t move.
He doesn’t call a nurse.
He doesn’t press the call button.

Because Erik had been so reluctant to leave.

Charles can still hear his husband’s voice from earlier—trembling, guilty, anxious—as he stood beside the bed with one hand cupping Charles’ cheek, tracing the strap of the oxygen mask with a tenderness that almost hurt.

“You’re sure you’ll be alright? I can cancel. They can run the meeting without me—”

And Charles, exhausted and fever-damp and fragile from the morning round of feeds, had forced himself to nod. Forced himself to squeeze Erik’s hand, though his fingers barely had strength.

“Go,” he’d mouthed—because speaking more than a whisper still scraped painfully.
“It’s important.”

And Erik had stood there, torn apart, wanting so clearly to stay. Wanting so clearly to bury himself next to Charles' small, shivering frame and never move again. But Charles insisted, and eventually Erik left with that look—wide, watery, terrified—as if he feared the very act of walking away would unravel Charles entirely.

So now Charles refuses to so much as grimace.

If he presses the call button, the nurses will try to help him sit up or roll slightly, and if the nurses do that, then when Erik calls to check in—and he will; he always does—one of them might mention that “Charles was struggling, but we helped him reposition.”
And Erik will blame himself.
Again.

So Charles keeps still.

The monitors glow in the low afternoon light drifting through the tall, clouded windows of the suite. The room is quiet in that expensive, insulated way only private ICU rooms can be. Even the hallway noise is distant. Charles watches the green line of his heart tracing its slow, steady rhythm. Watches the little white rectangle of the oxygen saturation hover near 92—lower than Jean wants. Higher than it was last week. A fragile, trembling middle ground.

A reminder that he is better—but only in degrees.

His neck aches from the angle. The mask feels heavy against his cheekbone. The pillow under his head is too warm. His right hand—resting against the smooth sheet—tingles with intermittent numbness.

But he doesn’t move.

He tests a deeper breath.
The air flows in, cool and dry, but halfway through the inhale, the familiar tight catch grabs at him—like a cold band sliding around the inside of his chest. He forces the air out slowly, careful not to trigger a cough. A cough would be agony. A cough would summon the nurses. A cough might even drag Erik from the meeting entirely.

So he holds still and lets the discomfort simmer.

A soft beep breaks the silence—one of the pumps adjusting the rate of his maintenance fluids. The G-tube site aches, a deep, tugging soreness that pulses in time with his heartbeat. They’ve been rising the feeding rate in tiny increments, but his gut still protests every step. Even with Jean’s careful schedule, the nausea has been constant, hovering at the back of his throat like a threat.

He hates the tube.
He hates the weakness.
He hates how small he feels.

And yet… he is grateful to be alive.

He closes his eyes, letting the muffled hiss of oxygen wash over him. If he were stronger—if he could turn even halfway onto his back—he could breathe deeper, pull more air into the portions of his lungs that still feel reluctant to open. But shifting now would tug at the fresh incision on his abdomen, and he’s too afraid of causing the pain spike that comes with sudden movement. He’s too afraid that if he cries out, someone will come rushing, and Erik will hear about it.

He doesn’t want Erik to feel that familiar guilt. Not today.

A faint shiver runs through him. The fever is mostly down now, but his body still struggles to regulate temperature. Sweat collects along the back of his neck under the mask strap. He tries to adjust his hand to wipe it away—but the tiny motion sends a sharp pull through his abdominal muscles, right where the tube disappears into him.

His breath stutters.
The monitor beeps once—sharp.
Then steadies.

Charles freezes again.
Careful. Slow.

He waits until the discomfort recedes. It does, eventually, fading into a dull, persistent throb. When he opens his eyes, he lets them rest on the window ahead of him—the long, sweeping glass that overlooks the city skyline. He can’t see much from this angle, just the blurred shimmer of sunlight reflecting off distant high-rise windows. But he imagines Erik out there somewhere, in one of those tall boardroom towers, sitting stiffly in a leather chair, pretending to be composed while his heart is here in this room.

And Charles wishes—achingly—that he was strong enough to tell him to come home.
Even though he was the one who told him to go.

He blinks, vision swimming slightly. Everything feels unreal at the edges. The low oxygen? The fever residue? Or simply exhaustion that sits in his bones like lead?

Probably all three.

The intercom speaker gives a soft tone—someone opening the door to the suite. Charles’ heartbeat jumps reflexively, but when the footsteps approach the bedside, they’re light, measured.

A nurse.
Not Erik.

“Professor Xavier?” the nurse whispers softly. “Just checking on you. You’re due for vitals.”

Charles gives the smallest nod he can manage without shifting his torso. The nurse works quietly, respectful of how exhausted he still looks—taking his temperature from the ear, scanning the monitors, adjusting the blanket that has slipped around his shoulders.

“You look a little tense,” she murmurs, noticing the tightening near his eyes. “Are you uncomfortable? Do you need repositioning?”

Charles hesitates.

He wants to nod.
He wants desperately to say yes, please, please help me breathe a little easier.

But then he thinks of Erik.
And the board meeting.
And the way Erik’s voice had cracked as he kissed Charles’ forehead.

Charles gives a weak, tiny shake of his head.

The nurse watches him knowingly. A soft sigh escapes her—but she doesn’t push. Instead, she checks the feeding pump, makes sure the tube line isn’t tugging, and gently straightens the oxygen mask where it has shifted slightly against his cheek.

“If you need me,” she says quietly, “just press the call button. Even the smallest thing.”

Charles nods, even though they both know he won’t press it.

When she leaves, the room sinks back into its soft, sterile quiet. Afternoon sun drifts across the floor in pale squares. The oxygen hisses. The IV pump clicks. His breathe stays shallow and slightly uneven.

He closes his eyes again—slowly, as if the act itself costs energy—and listens to the faint hum of the city outside.

Erik… please finish soon, he thinks helplessly.
Please come back.

His lungs give a sluggish, resistant ache.
His abdomen throbs.
His throat feels scraped raw under the mask.

But he holds himself still.

Waiting.
Enduring.
Saving every fragment of strength for when his husband finally walks back through that door.

The sound of the suite door sliding open is so soft that Charles almost doesn’t notice it. He has been drifting in that fragile space between wakefulness and light dozing, his breaths shallow and uneven against the oxygen mask, his body curled carefully on its side to protect the new G-tube site. The ache in his ribs has grown steadily worse over the last hour—deep, dragging, like something inside him is slowly tightening. He barely has energy to lift his eyelids.

But then he hears it—
that familiar, uneven exhale.

Erik.

Even without looking, Charles can sense the way the room changes around his husband’s presence—the air thickens with warmth, tension, guilt, devotion. Charles forces his eyes open just enough to see Erik standing a few steps from the bed, still in his expensive suit jacket, shoulders slightly hunched as if he sprinted all the way through the building.

His hair is mussed from stress.
His tie pulled loose.
His eyes—God—his eyes look like he hasn’t breathed since leaving.

“Love… I’m here,” Erik whispers, voice breaking on the last word.

Charles tries to respond, but the mask prevents speech from forming properly. His throat is too raw for more than a rasp anyway. He lifts trembling fingers a centimeter off the blanket—an invitation, weak but unmistakable.

Erik is beside him in a heartbeat.

He sits on the edge of the bed, one large, warm hand curling around Charles’ fragile, cold one. His thumb strokes the knuckles slowly, reverently, as if reassuring himself that Charles is still real, still warm, still here.

“You should have called me,” Erik murmurs. “You look… sweetheart, you look exhausted.”

Charles closes his eyes in quiet embarrassment.
He didn’t want to worry him.
He didn’t want to drag Erik away from responsibilities that genuinely required his presence.

But Erik sees the truth anyway.

The monitor shows his oxygen dipping into the lower 90s.
His breathing is shallow.
The mask fogs slightly with each uneven exhale.

And Erik’s heart visibly cracks.

Before either of them can speak further, a gentle knock comes from the open doorway.

It’s Dr. Jean Grey, holding a portable respiratory therapy trolley—small, compact, far too clinical in their soft, quiet suite. Two nurses accompany her, rolling a tray of equipment: incentive spirometer, handheld nebulizer, chest physiotherapy device, warm towels, and a foldable wedge pillow.

“Good evening,” Jean says softly, stepping inside. “We need to start his respiratory therapy session. His right lung is still partially collapsed, and his oxygen levels have been dipping with the side-lying position.”

Charles stiffens.

Respiration therapy.
That means effort.
That means pain.
That means coughing.

And coughing means agony.

Erik immediately senses the fear tightening through Charles’ limbs. He squeezes his husband’s hand gently, leaning close so his forehead almost touches Charles’.

“I’m right here,” Erik whispers. “I’m not leaving again tonight. I promise.”

Charles blinks rapidly, eyes growing glassy.

Jean nods with sympathetic understanding. “We’ll go slowly. But we do need to do this. The more secretions we can loosen, the easier he’ll breathe.”

They begin by helping Charles shift from his side to a propped-up reclined position. The movement is slow, careful—but the moment they slide an arm behind him and lift, Charles lets out a sharp, involuntary gasp.

His abdominal muscles pull.
The G-tube stretches.
And his ribs—his poor, overworked ribs—spasm with the effort.

Erik is instantly there—half hovering over him, half supporting his back with one hand, whispering soft, steady words: “It’s alright… I’ve got you… breathe with me… slowly, my love, slowly…”

Once Charles is seated against the wedge pillow, his breathing is already coming in short, frightened bursts. Jean adjusts the oxygen mask onto a temporary nasal cannula so they can do the exercises.

“First,” she says gently, “we’re going to try some deep breathing to open the lower lobes of your lungs.”

Charles’s lips tremble.
Deep breaths.
He’s barely managing shallow ones.

Erik cups his cheek.

“Look at me,” he pleads quietly. “Just me. Follow my breath.”

He exaggeratedly inhales—slow, deep, steady. Then he exhales even slower.

Charles tries.

He truly does.

He draws air in through the cannula, throat burning, chest tightening halfway through the inhale. The pain shoots under his ribs like a dull blade. His right lung refuses to open fully, and the tightness turns into panic.

He whimpers.

Jean steps closer. “Good. That was good, Charles. Let’s try again. Even a few centimeters more expansion helps.”

Tears prick Charles’ eyes before he can stop them.

The second attempt hurts worse.
The third makes his spine arch involuntarily with the effort.

By the fourth attempt, tears spill freely down his flushed cheeks.

Erik wipes them gently as fast as they fall.

“Shh… I know, sweetheart. I know it hurts. I know. You’re doing so well.”

Charles shakes his head weakly, trying to breathe and sob at the same time, unable to express the full panic clawing up his throat.

He can’t get enough air.
It feels like drowning while upright.

Jean steps in again. “We’ll pause. Let’s try the nebulizer—relax the airways a bit.”

The nurse fits the mouthpiece, and Charles tries to hold it steady despite his trembling. The medication mist begins to flow—cool, chemical-smelling vapors swirling into his lungs. It should help. It always helps.

But to get the mist deep enough, he has to inhale.

And inhaling hurts.

He lets out a small, broken cry.

Erik’s thumb sweeps slowly across his cheek. His voice dips into something raw, steady, almost prayer-like.

“I’m here, Charles. I’m here, I’m not leaving. You’re safe. Breathe for me. Just a little. That’s it… that’s it.”

Charles tries again.

The mist fills his throat, his chest, his stubborn right lung. He coughs once—sharp, sudden—pain knifing through his entire torso. He cries out, the sound muffled and strangled.

The monitors beep.
Erik flinches.
But he never lets go.

Jean nods approvingly. “That cough was productive. Good. Now let’s help loosen the rest.”

Charles immediately tenses.

Because he knows what’s next.
Chest physiotherapy.
Percussion.
The rhythmic tapping that forces mucus from deep inside inflamed airways.

It always hurts.
It always makes him cry.

The nurse begins gently—soft cupped-hand taps along the left side first. It’s uncomfortable but tolerable.

But when they move to the right side—
the injured side—
the side that has been collapsing for weeks—
the side that still burns beneath every breath—

He breaks.

The pressure sends a shock of pain so intense it steals his voice for a moment. Then a guttural sob bursts out of him—raw, helpless, childlike.

He tries to curl away, instinctively protecting his chest, but that movement strains the G-tube incision and another bolt of pain tears through him. He cries harder, panicking, overwhelmed.

Erik grabs him—carefully, tenderly—pulling him against his chest as much as the equipment allows.

“Stop—stop for a moment,” Erik says urgently, voice thick with pain of his own.

The nurse pauses.
Jean watches, assessing, but gentle.

Charles buries his face against Erik’s shirt, sobbing into fine fabric, gripping his husband’s sleeve with shaking fingers. The sounds spilling from him aren’t articulate—they’re gasps, choked breaths, trembling whimpers.

Erik strokes the back of his head, his shoulders, whispering soothing nonsense words—every syllable thick with love.

“It’s alright… It’s alright, I promise… you’re not alone… breathe, my heart… breathe…”

His tears soak through Erik’s collar.

His body heaves with each sob.

Every breath hurts, but stopping hurts worse.

Jean waits until Charles’s sobs soften into quiet, shuddering whimpers. Then she steps forward again, voice gentle enough to soften steel.

“We’ll go slower. Just a little more, Charles. It’s important. But we’ll stop at the first sign you can’t handle it.”

Charles nods weakly against Erik’s chest.

And so they continue—
in tiny intervals,
pausing whenever Charles cries too hard,
with Erik wiping every tear,
supporting every breath.

By the end, Charles is trembling, drenched in sweat, barely upright against the pillows. His chest feels like it has been hollowed out and filled with fire. His ribs ache. His throat burns. But his breathing—slowly, painfully—becomes a fraction deeper.

Erik presses a trembling kiss to his temple.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You’re so strong.”

Charles is too exhausted to respond.
His eyelids droop.
Tears still cling to his lashes.

Jean replaces the oxygen mask, adjusts the straps gently, and checks his newly improved oxygen saturation.

“Good work,” she says to both of them. “Rest now. We’ll do another session later—but for now, he needs to recover.”

When the medical team leaves, the room is quiet again.
Only the oxygen hiss remains.

Erik slides into the bed beside him—careful of the tubes, careful of the wires—and wraps an arm around Charles’ trembling shoulders.

Charles leans into him, exhausted, throat too raw to speak, but his hand finds Erik’s and squeezes weakly.

Erik rests his forehead against his husband’s.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes.
“I’ll stay right here.”
“I promise.”

And for the first time all day, Charles allows himself to fall asleep—not out of weakness, but because he feels safe.

Erik does not allow himself to move, not even to adjust the stiffness settling into his shoulders. Charles is finally asleep—exhausted beyond measure, breaths slow and fluttery beneath the oxygen mask, face slack with the kind of fatigue that frightens more than it reassures. Erik keeps his arm wrapped firmly around his husband, palm splayed across Charles’ upper back as if his touch alone could keep the next wave of pain away.

The room is dim except for the warm halo from the wall sconces above the bed, their soft glow tracing gentle gold lines against Charles’ cheekbones, hollowed now from weeks of illness. Erik feels each rise and fall of his fragile breaths against his ribs. Every inhale feels like a miracle. Every exhale feels like a debt he must repay.

He leans down and presses a silent kiss to Charles’ damp hair.

The sweat cooling at the roots worries him—every small detail does now. Ever since the seizure. Ever since the ventilator. Ever since the moment the monitors had screamed and Charles’ heart had faltered and Erik had stood frozen, powerless, watching the team shock life back into him.

He still wakes up at night hearing the beeping.

A chill creeps through him and he holds Charles tighter—not tightly enough to disturb the equipment, but enough to feel heat through the gown. Enough to make his own breath settle.

Only when he is certain Charles is deeply asleep does Erik shift a little, letting his free hand brush over the oxygen mask strap to ensure it isn’t pulling too tight against Charles’ ears. His thumb trails down the edge of the mask before retreating, unwilling to risk waking him.

He whispers into the quiet room,

“You did so well, my love… God, you’re so brave.”

The words scrape out of him like something torn from the deepest part of his chest.

His own throat is raw.
His eyes stinging.
His heart aching so fiercely he has to swallow against the pressure.

He looks at the monitors again.
93% oxygen saturation.
Heart rate stabilizing.
Respiratory rate still high, but not dangerously so.

Not like before.

Not like the moment Charles had clutched at his chest and gasped like a man drowning on air.

Erik shuts his eyes. The memory flashes violently—Charles trembling in his arms, sobbing against his shirt, the percussion therapy sending shockwaves of pain through his ribs, every cry cutting straight into Erik’s bones. He can still feel the way Charles had curled toward him, desperate, overwhelmed. The way his fingers had clawed weakly at Erik’s sleeve.

Erik presses the heel of his hand to his forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into the dark. “I should have been here sooner.”

The guilt is a living thing now, coiled around his lungs, tightening every time he thinks about how Charles had endured that first terrible coughing fit alone in the study—gasping, searching for his inhaler, falling from his chair, unable to call for help.

And Erik had been in a boardroom.

Smiling.
Negotiating.
Acting as though he wasn’t leaving the person he loved most drifting toward disaster.

He bends forward, forehead resting lightly against Charles’ shoulder. His breath trembles.

If anything had happened…
If he had been minutes later…
If Charles had lost consciousness before the maid found him…

He doesn’t allow the thought to finish.

Instead, Erik lifts his head and focuses on Charles’ face—soft in sleep, slightly flushed from the earlier struggle. A single tear still clings to the edge of his lashes, dried in a thin line on his cheek.

Erik wipes it away with the gentlest touch he can manage.

“I swear to you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “I won’t take my eyes off you tonight.”

He pulls the blanket up to Charles’ shoulder, smoothing the fabric where it wrinkles near the G-tube site. His movement is careful—too careful, maybe—but he refuses to risk discomfort after everything Charles has endured in the last hour.

His hand hovers over the G-tube dressing.
He still isn’t used to seeing it.
The knowledge that Charles needed it—that things had progressed so far—makes his stomach twist.

And yet Charles had apologized for being “difficult.”
As if nearly dying were an inconvenience.

Erik’s jaw tightens.

No.
No more of that.
No more guilt for being sick.
No more hiding symptoms.
No more pretending he’s fine while suffering in silence.

Erik gently threads his fingers with Charles’ limp ones.

“You’re allowed to be weak,” he whispers. “You’re allowed to need me. I need you too much for you to ever think otherwise.”

The suite is quiet—opulently, expensively quiet. A ridiculous contrast to the fear that has settled into Erik’s bones.

The faint hiss of oxygen is the only reply.

After several minutes, a nurse slips quietly into the room to check the IV pump. Erik nods to her in gratitude, keeping his other hand firmly around Charles’.

“How is he doing?” the nurse murmurs.

“Sleeping now,” Erik answers, but even he hears the tension under his voice.

“He did very well for someone with lungs as compromised as his,” she says kindly. “The therapy is painful, but it will help him breathe easier tomorrow.”

Erik nods again, throat tightening.

When she leaves, he lets out a slow, tired exhale.

Hours pass—softly, quietly.
Erik doesn’t sleep.
Every time Charles shifts or inhales too sharply, Erik’s eyes snap back open.
He adjusts blankets.
He smooths hair from Charles’ forehead.
He whispers promises he hopes Charles can hear in his dreams.

Around midnight, Charles stirs—just slightly—leaning closer without waking. His head nudges weakly against Erik’s shoulder, seeking warmth.

Erik freezes.

Then his heart breaks a little more.

He slides down carefully, letting Charles rest his head against his chest. He feels the soft, rhythmic hum of the oxygen machine vibrating through the bed frame.

He wraps both arms around his husband, holding him as if the entire world has narrowed to this moment.

And in many ways, it has.

He thinks of the board meeting.
Of the shareholders.
Of the projects waiting for signatures.
Of the millions of dollars shifting with or without him.

Then he looks at Charles—pale, fragile, breathing because machines and medicine bought him the chance to breathe.

None of it matters.
Not compared to this.

Not compared to him.

Erik kisses the crown of Charles’ head once more, a vow breathing through the gesture.

“I choose you,” he whispers. “Always.”

Charles’s fingers twitch faintly against his chest—reflex or acknowledgment, Erik doesn’t know. But it makes his throat tighten, a thick and painful swell of emotion he can’t swallow down.

He holds him closer.

He breathes with him.

And in the quiet, he finally lets himself cry—silent, careful tears slipping down into Charles’ hair, hidden in the dark, where no one but the man he loves will ever know they existed.

Chapter Text

Three days passed in a slow, uneven rhythm—hours marked not by clocks but by the quiet hiss of oxygen, the soft footsteps of nurses checking vitals, and the gentle murmur of Erik’s mother seated beside the bed, her knitting needles clicking softly in the corner like a patient metronome for healing.

Charles had been slowly, cautiously improving. Not dramatically—his body was far too exhausted for sudden leaps—but each day brought a small victory: a steadier breath, a longer period awake, one less spike of fever, one fewer moment of confusion. His lungs were still fragile, still clouded and inflamed, but they were beginning to respond to treatment.

Enough, at least, that the doctors approved his move from the ICU suite to a private VIP recovery suite—still high-level, still fully monitored, but less overwhelmed with machines. The room was quieter, warmer, less intimidating. A place meant for healing instead of crisis.

Yet Charles still wore the oxygen mask, the clear plastic cup-shaped device gently fogging with each breath he pulled through. His chest still rose unevenly. His voice remained hoarse, fragile, barely above a whisper. His body was so thin he could feel the bones of his ribs when he pressed a hand to his chest. The feeding machine beside him continued delivering nutrition through the G-tube, its steady mechanical hum becoming a familiar presence.

He was exhausted—but he was awake.
And that alone felt miraculous.

Today, he sat propped up on fresh pillows, his hair still damp from a morning wash, his face pale but clearer. His breathing was steadier thanks to the humidified oxygen flowing through the mask. He held a small blanket over his lap, smoothing it absently with trembling fingers.

Erik’s mother sat close, her gentle presence comforting in a way Charles had never expected. She was elegant even here, in a hospital suite—wearing a soft cardigan, her silver hair pinned neatly, eyes bright with intelligence and warmth. She watched him with the same attentiveness she once used for Erik as a child.

“How are you feeling, dear?” she asked softly, leaning forward so her voice didn’t carry too far.

Charles blinked behind the mask, then lifted a shaky hand to sign a small, simple gesture they’d adopted these last days: a slight wave followed by a pinched thumb and finger.

So-so.

Erik’s mother smiled kindly. “Better than three days ago, though.”

He nodded slowly.
That much was true.

She reached out and brushed a stray curl from his forehead—an act so gentle it made Charles swallow hard. He wasn’t used to being taken care of. Not like this. Not by someone who’d watched him nearly die and still looked at him with nothing but love.

“You gave us quite the scare,” she murmured, her voice softening with emotion she tried to hide. “Even Erik—he wouldn’t say it, but he’s been terrified.”

Charles’s fingers tightened weakly on the blanket.

He knew.
He saw it in Erik’s eyes every time he woke up.
Saw the exhaustion, the fear, the love.

“He blames himself,” she continued. “Even if he doesn’t say the words.”

Charles looked down, breath misting the mask.
He knew that too.

Erik’s guilt filled the room even when Erik wasn’t there.

He tried to speak, a soft mumble pushing against the mask, muffled and faint.

“…not…his…fault…”

Erik’s mother leaned closer.
“What was that, dear?”

He forced more air through his throat despite the ache.

“N…not…his f-fault…”

Her heart softened visibly. She reached for his hand, squeezing lightly so she wouldn’t disturb the IV.

“I know you believe that,” she whispered. “But he’s a man who measures his worth by what he can protect. And he nearly lost you.”

Charles closed his eyes briefly, overwhelmed.

A gentle knock on the door interrupted them, and a respiratory therapist entered, pushing a small cart. Charles tensed slightly—therapy was still painful, still exhausting. But necessary.

“Well, Professor Xavier,” the therapist said softly, aware of his fragility, “time for today’s session. We’ll take it at your pace.”

Erik’s mother squeezed Charles’s hand again. “I’ll stay with you.”

Charles nodded, grateful.

The therapist began with the warm-up breathing: slow inhalations through the humidified mask, longer exhalations. Charles’s chest trembled, the effort sending small spasms of pain through his ribs, but he fought through it—breathing shallowly at first, then a little deeper.

His oxygen saturation steadied.
His shoulders relaxed.
The tightness eased slightly.

Then came the incentive spirometer.

Charles hated it.

He drew in a breath, slow and strained, the blue marker barely rising to the first line. His vision blurred. Tears stung his eyes. He tried again, breath hitching painfully, mask fogging faster with each attempt.

“It’s alright,” Erik’s mother whispered, resting a soothing hand on his forearm. “You’re doing beautifully.”

He tried again.

This time a soft cry escaped him—barely audible but unmistakable.

The therapist immediately eased off.
“You’re okay. Rest a moment.”

Charles sagged back into the pillows, chest heaving.
His tears slipped from the corners of his eyes.

Erik’s mother wiped them gently.
“No embarrassment. No shame. Just courage.”

When the session ended, Charles lay exhausted, trembling slightly, oxygen mask humming quietly beside him. His body felt drained, but his breathing—painful though it was—felt a tiny bit deeper.

The feeding pump clicked gently, signaling the next portion of formula beginning its slow journey through the tube. Charles’s stomach churned at the sensation—it always felt strange, unnatural—but he had no strength to complain aloud. Erik’s mother watched the machine thoughtfully.

“Always working,” she murmured. “Just like Erik.”

Charles smiled faintly behind the mask.

“Speaking of him,” she added gently, “he left for the office this morning. A board meeting he couldn’t avoid.”

Charles’s eyes lowered.

He had insisted.
Erik needed to go.
The company was drowning in delays without him.

“Don’t worry,” she reassured, cupping his cheek lightly. “He promised he would come back as soon as he could.”

Charles nodded, though a small ache settled under his ribs—not physical this time, but quiet longing. He missed Erik more deeply than he could explain.

Hours passed slowly.

Charles drifted in and out of light sleep, nurses checking vitals gently, adjusting pillows, replacing IV fluids. Erik’s mother sat beside him, knitting something soft and warm—he wasn’t sure if it was a scarf, or another hat, or simply her way to keep her hands busy while watching over him.

It was evening when the door finally clicked open again—soft footsteps, purposeful, familiar.

Charles stirred weakly, lifting heavy eyelids.

Erik stood there, framed in the doorway, exhaustion written across every line of his face. His tie was undone, his shirt slightly wrinkled, his hair mussed. He looked like a man who had sprinted through warzones to get here.

His eyes found Charles instantly.

In one breath, everything softened—his shoulders, his jaw, his tight expression. The exhaustion didn’t vanish, but it transformed into something tender, relieved, aching with love.

“Hi,” Erik whispered, stepping into the room as if approaching something sacred.

Charles lifted a trembling hand.

Erik was beside him in seconds, taking that hand in both of his.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmured. “I wanted to come back sooner.”

Charles shook his head faintly, mask fogging.

“…you c-came,” he whispered through it.

Erik closed his eyes for a moment, forehead brushing Charles’ hand.

“I’ll always come.”

Erik’s mother rose quietly, touching Erik’s arm.
“He did well today,” she said softly. “He’s stronger than he feels.”

Erik nodded, then sank into the chair beside the bed, thumb brushing lightly along Charles’ wrist, as if confirming the pulse himself.

The oxygen machine hummed softly.
The room grew warm with quiet reunion.

And Charles—exhausted but grateful—closed his eyes again, knowing Erik was there, his hand held safely in warm fingers.

For the first time in days, Charles drifted into sleep without fear.

Twenty-five days.

That was how long Charles Xavier had lived beneath the soft glow of hospital sconces, how long he’d breathed filtered air instead of the autumn breeze he used to open his study windows for. Twenty-five days since Erik had carried him into an ambulance, terrified and white-knuckled, his entire world collapsing around the sound of Charles’s uneven breaths.

Now, Charles was no longer in the ICU. The quiet hum of machines had softened; the lights were warmer here, the walls pale cream instead of sterile white, the bed wider, the couch softer. It was still a VIP suite, of course — expensive, discreet, designed for comfort — but as Charles sat propped up, an oxygen mask still covering the lower half of his face, he felt its luxury only as an echo. Most of his world was still inward-focused: the work of healing, the ache of a body that had forgotten things it used to do effortlessly.

His legs trembled beneath the blanket even before he tried moving them.

Today was the start of physical therapy. Real physical therapy. Not just assisted turns in the ICU, not just lifting his arm an inch or two with a therapist guiding every motion. Today, they wanted him upright. Sitting without support. Drawing strength from muscles that had slowly wasted under the careful, constant watch of machines.

Jean entered with the physical therapist, her expression gentle but firm.
“Charles,” she said softly, “we’ll go slow. You tell us when to pause.”

Charles nodded, though the oxygen mask fogged lightly with each breath. Speaking was still an effort. His breathing had improved, but the simple act carried weight — sometimes shallow, sometimes tight, sometimes enough to frighten him when no one was watching.

Erik’s mother sat beside him on the couch, her knitting needles quiet for once. She had been a constant presence, gentle and patient, filling the room with the kind of motherly warmth Charles never quite had growing up.

When the therapist began raising the bed, Charles’s fingers clenched at the sheets. The angle shifted, pressure slid downward along his spine, and his breath hitched at the unfamiliar strain. His legs felt like hollow reeds, fragile and foreign. When they finally coaxed him to sit fully upright, without the back support for the first time, his whole torso shook from the effort.

“Good, Charles… you’re doing well,” Jean murmured, though he could tell she was worried about the tightness in his breathing.

He kept going anyway. He wanted to do this. For himself. For Erik. For the life waiting outside these walls.

But the truth was — it was hard.

Not dramatized hard, not heroic struggle hard — but quietly, unbearably human. His muscles were thin and confused. His lungs protested. Sweat gathered along his brow from the mere act of staying upright. The therapist’s hands hovered close, ready to steady him, but not touching unless absolutely necessary. This was Charles’s movement. His effort.

He lasted eleven minutes. Eleven long minutes of sitting upright, shaking, breathing unevenly behind his oxygen mask. Then a wave of dizziness crested over him, and Jean stepped in at once.

“That’s enough for today.”

He was eased back onto the pillows. His chest rose too fast. He covered his eyes with his forearm, ashamed of how close he was to tears.

Erik’s mother rubbed his shoulder. “Twenty-five days in a bed, my dear… you are doing beautifully.”

Charles swallowed, the oxygen mask shifting slightly with the motion.
But he couldn’t stop thinking: This is what I am now. A man who can barely sit up. A man whose own body defeated him.

When the therapist left, Jean lowered the bed slightly and checked the feeding machine humming quietly beside him. The soft clicking sound of the pump had become part of the room’s rhythm — steady, reliable, entirely unlike his body’s unpredictable struggle.

“You’re being fed slower today,” she said gently. “Your stomach still needs more time to adjust.”

Charles nodded faintly. He wasn’t nauseous now, but fatigue settled into his bones like fog. Every day since the G-tube surgery had been a negotiation between necessity and discomfort.

Then Jean hesitated — only a heartbeat, but enough for Charles to feel the shift in the air.

“We’ll need to discuss the next step soon. About when we’ll remove the tube surgically, once you’re stable enough.”

Charles exhaled shakily, eyes drifting toward the window. Surgery. Again. Even if small, even if planned, even if safe — the word alone tightened something deep in him.

He nodded. It was all he could do.

Late evening arrived, the sky behind the tinted window turning the shade of deep navy Charles loved in winter. He’d spent the day resting, occasionally adjusting the oxygen mask when it made his face itch, drifting in and out of sleep. Erik’s mother refilled his water, brushed his hair, and sat beside him with quiet stories about Erik as a child.

But Erik was not there.

He had gone to the office — a long, heavy meeting that couldn’t be delayed any further, even with his husband in the hospital. And though Charles told himself he understood — that this was Erik’s world, his responsibility — a faint knot of loneliness sat under his ribs.

It was nearly midnight when the door finally opened.

Erik slipped inside quietly, expecting Charles asleep. His shoulders were tight, his tie loosened, the weight of twelve hours of negotiation clinging to him.

But when he saw Charles awake — oxygen mask on, eyes heavy but alert — his whole face softened, crumpled, melted with relief.

“Charles…” he whispered, moving to the bedside at once.

Charles managed a small sound in return, something like a greeting. He lifted a hand weakly, and Erik took it as if it were the most fragile priceless thing he owned.

“How was therapy?” Erik whispered into his hair, kissing his temple.

Charles hesitated, shame and exhaustion flickering through him.

Erik noticed immediately.

“Hey…” he whispered, cupping his cheek carefully around the oxygen mask. “Whatever happened… I’m proud of you.”

Charles’s breath quickened. Not dangerously — just emotionally.

Erik sat on the edge of the bed and coaxed his head gently onto his chest. The feeding machine clicked softly beside them, oxygen hissing in a steady, reassuring rhythm.

“You’re here,” Charles whispered faintly, one slow syllable at a time.

“I’m here,” Erik answered. “I won’t be leaving again tonight.”

Charles let his eyes close at last.

And in the quiet of the VIP suite — with moonlight brushing the floor, with machines humming gently, with two hands intertwined — the long, slow work of healing continued, one fragile breath at a time.

The morning Charles’s G-tube was scheduled to be removed arrived with a strange mix of tension and relief. It wasn’t a dramatic procedure — not compared to everything he had survived — but the emotional weight of it pressed on him like an invisible hand. The tube had fed him when he couldn’t lift a spoon, had kept him alive when his body refused food and breath, had been a symbol of how far he had fallen. Losing it meant progress… but facing the scar it left behind brought a hollow ache he didn’t quite know how to name.

Erik stayed beside him the entire time, fingers laced with his. Erik’s mother remained seated close, watching with the same steady, protective aura she’d offered since the moment Charles woke in the ICU. The team worked with careful, gentle movements, speaking softly, reassuring at every step. Charles kept his eyes closed through most of it, trying to breathe evenly through the discomfort — not the physical sensation, but the internal vulnerability of being handled, of being reminded again that his body had become a battlefield.

When it was finished, Jean placed a warm hand on his shoulder.
“All done,” she said softly. “You’re healing well, Charles. I’m proud of you.”

He nodded, drained but grateful.

The rest of the morning passed in quiet recovery. Though the G-tube was gone, a tenderness lingered. His body felt simultaneously lighter and more fragile, as if removing one burden had illuminated the others. The oxygen mask stayed on; his breaths still carried faint unevenness when he grew tired. But he was eating small amounts now, with careful supervision, and every bite felt like reclaiming a part of himself.

By early afternoon, the physical therapist returned — a session planned in advance, one Charles had been quietly dreading since waking.

“Today,” she said gently, “we’ll try standing. Only if your body allows. You decide the pace.”

Erik moved to Charles’s side at once, bracing a hand behind his back, the other ready to steady his waist. His mother hovered behind the therapist, knitting abandoned once again as worry took precedence.

Charles wasn’t sure what frightened him more: the possibility of standing or the possibility of failing.

They began slowly. The therapist raised the bed, inch by inch. Charles felt the shift ripple through him — the strain in his abdomen, the heaviness in his legs, the faint pull of gravity reminding him how long it had been since he’d used them.

“Ready?” Erik whispered into his ear, voice soft as wind.

Charles nodded.

The world narrowed.

Charles placed his hands on Erik’s shoulders. Erik’s grip tightened around his waist. The therapist guided his knees forward, coaxing motion from limbs that felt like someone else’s.

It was time.

Charles inhaled — shallow but determined — and pushed himself upward.

For a heartbeat, there was lift.

His legs trembled violently.

His breath hitched.

Then something inside him simply… didn’t respond.

No strength. No balance. No upward force. His knees buckled before he even had the chance to straighten them, his legs folding with the soft, sudden collapse of a structure missing its foundation.

Erik caught him before he could fall, arms wrapping around him, holding him tight to his chest. Charles’s heart pounded painfully against his ribs. His face flushed with frustration, shame, fear — everything he had tried to hide behind small smiles and quiet nods for weeks.

“I’ve got you,” Erik whispered, lowering him back to the bed with infinite care.

But the moment Charles’s body hit the sheets, something inside him cracked.

“Why—” Charles gasped, throat tightening behind the oxygen mask. “My legs…”

Jean stepped forward gently, her expression soft but honest.
“Charles… the neurological stress your body endured — the seizures — they may have affected the pathways your legs rely on. It doesn’t mean forever. It means we need time. More therapy. More patience.”

The words washed over him like cold water.

His legs didn’t work.

Not just weak. Not just trembling.
Not working.

Charles stared at his motionless limbs beneath the blanket as if they belonged to someone else.

Erik immediately knelt beside him.
“Charles, look at me. Please.”

When Charles didn’t respond, Erik cupped the sides of his face, guiding his gaze upward.
“We’ll face this together. Whatever it is, whatever it becomes — you are not alone.”

Charles’s breath trembled. His eyes burned. But no tears fell yet. There was only shock, heavy and numbing.

The therapist cleared her throat softly.
“Let’s try something gentler today. The wheelchair.”

Charles blinked, the word settling over him with unfamiliar weight.

He wasn’t ready.

But refusing wouldn’t change reality.

The process of transferring him into the wheelchair took patience, coordination, and quiet instructions. Charles felt every shift of his body — the weakness in his arms as he tried to help, the uselessness in his legs, the strange sensation of being again dependent on others to navigate his world.

Once settled, he felt the chair beneath him — broad, cushioned, supportive. A tool. A bridge. Not a punishment.

But the symbolism made his breath falter.

Erik’s mother stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his cheek.
“My dear,” she whispered, “this is not the end. This is the middle of your story. Look how far you’ve come.”

Charles closed his eyes. For a moment, stillness enveloped him. The wheelchair didn’t hurt. It didn’t confine him. But it reminded him of how fragile he still was — and how much farther he had to go.

Erik crouched in front of him, hands on Charles’s knees, even though Charles couldn’t feel the pressure properly.
“This is temporary,” he said firmly. “And even if it isn’t — you are still the man I love. All of you. Always.”

Those words finally undid him.

A soft sob escaped Charles’s throat, muffled by the oxygen mask. His shoulders shook as he bowed forward, and Erik rose to hold him, gathering him close without overwhelming him. Charles pressed his face against Erik’s collarbone, clinging tightly though his fingers trembled.

The therapist quietly stepped back.
Jean adjusted the machine’s settings to allow for a calmer oxygen flow.
Erik’s mother stroked Charles’s hair, humming a soft melody that had soothed him more times than she knew.

For the first time since he woke from the coma, Charles allowed himself to break — quietly, safely, in the arms of the man who had waited every day for him to return.

The wheelchair would be part of his future.
His legs no longer obeyed him.
His path had changed.

But surrounded by Erik, by family, by the soft hum of breathing machines and the warmth of hands holding his…

Charles realized he wasn’t facing this new chapter alone.

Chapter Text

The room grew quiet after the therapist left, leaving Charles in the wheelchair for a few minutes longer so he could “acclimate,” as she called it. The soft hum of the feeding machine had ceased for the moment; the oxygen mask fogged faintly with each delicate breath he drew. His body felt light in the wrong ways — thin, fragile, as if the illness had carved him down to essentials and taken more than it should have.

Erik stayed crouched at his side, his hands resting on Charles’s unmoving knees.
“Tell me if you feel dizzy,” he whispered.

Charles shook his head, though not from confidence — but because he didn’t want Erik to worry more than he already did. His limbs felt foreign, paper-light, unmoored from him. His legs remained still, no spark, no twitch, no attempt at cooperation.

Erik’s mother stood nearby, smoothing her handbag strap with gentle, deliberate motions — the same way she had smoothed Charles’s hair for weeks. She had stayed longer than planned, longer than she had ever expected, her knitting projects half-finished, her quiet songs filling countless restless nights.

Now, she approached Charles with tenderness woven into every step.
“I will go home for a bit,” she said softly, kneeling slightly so she could meet his eyes without towering over him. “Just a few days. I need to rest… and you two need quiet time together.”

Charles’s chest tightened. He wished he could tell her not to go — or tell her how much her presence had soothed him, how it kept the shadows from crowding his mind. But wearing the oxygen mask made speaking difficult, and the lump in his throat made it impossible.

She cupped his cheek with a warm, soft palm.
“I’ll be back,” she promised gently. “And you are in very good hands.”

Charles managed to touch her hand with thin, trembling fingers. She kissed his forehead, then pressed one last kiss to Erik’s cheek before leaving with a quiet, heavy sigh.

The suite door closed behind her.

Erik exhaled, a long breath that tried and failed to hide how tired he was.

The room grew still.

And then — Jean returned with a nurse, carrying new tubing and a small machine.

“Charles,” she said with gentle cheerfulness, “your breathing is much better today. We’re switching you from the mask to a nasal cannula.”

Charles blinked, surprised. The mask had been part of him for so long it felt like removing a layer of protection.

Jean’s hands were steady, warm. She eased the mask away from his face. Cool air brushed his cheeks. His skin tingled — not painfully, but strangely exposed.

The nasal cannula settled softly under his nose, its tubes looping behind his ears. The oxygen flow was quieter now, gentler, less rigid. Charles sucked in a careful breath and felt the difference immediately — lighter, less encumbering, though still work.

“Perfect,” Jean murmured. “You’re doing beautifully.”

When she left, the silence returned, soft and deep.

Erik leaned close and touched the side of Charles’s face where the mask had pressed for days.
“Your face looks like you again,” he whispered.

Charles lowered his gaze, ashamed of his thin cheeks, the way his bones showed more than he wanted them to. But Erik’s fingers were reverent, brushing his jaw as if he were something delicate and precious.

Eventually, Erik helped him back onto the bed, lifting with slow, practiced movements. Charles hated how light he felt — how little effort it took for Erik to shift him. His legs dangled uselessly during the transfer, and Charles looked away sharply, pretending not to notice.

But Erik noticed everything.

He slid the blanket over Charles’s legs, tucking it gently around them as if they were still a part of Charles he knew how to protect.

“Are you in pain?” Erik asked, brushing Charles’s hair aside.

Charles shook his head again. No pain. Just absence. A hollow where motion used to be.

Erik sat on the edge of the bed and took Charles’s hand.
“We should try the gentle exercises the therapist taught me,” he said softly. “Only if you want to. Just the basics.”

Charles swallowed carefully — an echo of strength.
He nodded.

Erik smiled, small and soft, and slid down to sit on the floor at the foot of the bed. He uncovered Charles’s thin legs and lifted one gently in both hands, supporting it under the calf and heel so there was no strain.

Charles watched silently, breath shallow beneath the nasal cannula.

Erik moved slowly, carefully bending and extending Charles’s knee, mimicking the therapist’s demonstration but with a tenderness no therapist could match. His hands were steady, warm, respectful of every fragile inch. He kept his movements controlled, pausing every few moments to ask if Charles was okay.

Charles was more than okay.

He was overwhelmed.

The motion didn’t hurt — there was simply no response from his muscles. No resistance. No attempt. No flicker of life.

Erik raised the leg, stabilized it, lowered it again, all while murmuring quiet encouragement.

“You’re doing so well.”
“We’ll take this one day at a time.”
“Whatever the future looks like, it doesn’t change what we are.”

Charles closed his eyes, fighting the pressure behind them.

When Erik finished the first leg, he covered it and moved to the next, repeating the motions with the same care. He did not rush. He did not show disappointment. His hands were steady as devotion.

Charles finally whispered, voice rough, “I can’t feel… much.”

Erik paused only long enough to lean forward and kiss Charles’s knee through the blanket.
“Then I will feel it for both of us,” he murmured. “Until your body remembers. And even if it never does… I will never leave your side.”

The words unraveled Charles like silk coming loose from a spool.

He reached out weakly, tugging Erik’s sleeve. Erik rose at once, leaning over him, and Charles pulled him close until their foreheads touched.

“I’m here,” Erik whispered again. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Charles’s breath trembled softly beneath the nasal cannula.

For the first time since learning his legs were permanently affected, he felt something close to acceptance — not because he was ready, not because the loss hurt less, but because Erik’s arms made the darkness less terrifying.

They stayed like that a long time.

Two men.
One hospital room.
One future changed forever.
But still theirs.

The high-ceilinged VIP suite was quiet enough that Erik could hear the distant hum of the central HVAC system—soft, constant, a gentle mechanical rhythm that somehow mirrored the shallow breaths of the man resting in the bed. For twenty-five days the ICU had been their universe, and now this suite—expensive, immaculate, a strange blend of hotel luxury and medical sterility—had become the new orbit where their lives continued to rearrange themselves.

Erik sat on the small sofa near the window, his laptop dark on his knees. He wasn’t working. He hadn’t truly worked in days, even if his staff insisted on forwarding documents, summaries, projected losses, reminders about deadlines. His eyes were fixed, as if magnetized, on Charles.

The nasal cannula curved gently around Charles’s cheeks, thin tubes disappearing behind his ears. The soft hiss of oxygen was quieter than the ventilator’s mechanical breaths, but it still marked every moment. Each inhale Charles took was assisted—just enough to keep his body from tiring, just enough to keep his chest from sinking into exhaustion. The doctors had said it plainly, without dressing it up:

“His lungs will never recover completely. He will need supplemental oxygen for the rest of his life.”

Erik heard the sentence over and over, as though it had been tattooed into the silence.

Charles lay slightly upright, propped on pillows, the feeding machine whirring quietly at his bedside. He had lost so much weight that the collarbones stood out like fragile lines beneath his skin, the hospital gown hanging loosely over him. His legs, covered to mid-thigh with the warm blanket, looked smaller—still not responding the way they once had. Erik let his eyes drift to them and then away, guilt tightening up his spine. The seizures had damaged more than anyone expected. Physical therapy would be a slow, uncertain climb… and the wheelchair waiting against the wall served as a constant reminder.

Charles stirred weakly. The movement was tiny—just a shift of his hand against the blanket—but Erik immediately rose from the sofa.

“Charles?” he whispered.

The blue-green eyes fluttered open under heavy lids. The oxygen tubing dipped slightly each time he inhaled, a faint tremble to the movement. Charles blinked slowly, as if his mind was returning from somewhere far and heavy.

“…Erik?” The voice was faint, barely there, like a whisper brushed across dry leaves.

He moved closer, taking Charles’s fragile hand in both of his. His thumb ran over the back of Charles’s knuckles—cool, thin, bones more pronounced than before. “I’m here. Right here.”

Charles tried to swallow, but even that small motion seemed to cost him effort. “S…s’ry…”

Erik froze. “Sorry? For what?”

Charles let his gaze drift away, toward the ceiling, breath shaking. “…for… being like this…”

The words were like knives.

Erik dropped his head for a moment, his breath leaving him shakily before he looked back up. “No,” he whispered hoarsely. “Charles, you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing.” His thumb brushed a tear that had escaped down Charles’s temple. “You’re alive. That’s all I care about.”

Charles’s face twisted slightly, the emotion too much for his weak body. He tried to lift his hand to wipe his eyes but couldn’t manage more than a trembling inch. Erik caught it gently and held it in place.

“You don’t have to be strong,” Erik murmured. “Not for me. Not right now.”

Another breath, shaky and uneven, rattled through Charles’s chest. Even on oxygen, he fatigued quickly; Erik could see it in the way the muscles around his ribs worked harder than they should. The side-lying position earlier in the day had exhausted him, leaving him pale and sweating, fighting subtle shortness of breath he kept trying to hide.

“Do you want a sip?” Erik asked quietly.

Charles hesitated, then nodded faintly, though nausea had plagued him on and off all afternoon.

Erik reached for the small cup of diluted juice on the bedside table. His hand hovered for a moment, remembering the last time—how Charles had gagged, how the juice had spilled down the front of Erik’s suit jacket, how Charles had cried in humiliation and Erik had insisted none of it mattered.

This time, Erik positioned the straw with meticulous care, bracing one hand behind Charles’s head so his neck wouldn’t strain.

“Just a tiny sip,” he whispered.

Charles parted his lips shakily, his breath fogging the straw. He sucked in the smallest bit of liquid, swallowed, then squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of nausea rolled through him. His fingertips tightened against Erik’s arm.

“Easy, love… breathe,” Erik soothed, rubbing slow circles on his shoulder. “In through your nose. Slow…”

Charles obeyed, wheezing just slightly around the oxygen flow. After a moment, the nausea ebbed. His head sagged back against the pillow, sweat dampening the fine hair at his temples.

Erik set the cup aside and carefully wiped the corner of Charles’s mouth with a tissue. “That’s enough for now.”

Charles blinked faintly. “…th-thank… you.”

The gratitude broke him a little each time. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Charles’s forehead—feeling the still-slightly-warm skin, but not feverish anymore. Charles exhaled shakily at the touch, as if reassured by the familiarity.

Erik let his fingers trail along Charles’s cheek, gently lifting the oxygen tubing to avoid disturbing the tender skin beneath it. How small Charles seemed. How fragile. And yet how fiercely he fought just to breathe, to stay awake, to speak.

He sat back down, refusing to let go of Charles’s hand. The wheelchair in the corner caught the corner of his vision again, and for a moment the weight of everything threatened to crush him.

The seizures.
The ventilator.
The coma.
The lung damage.
The lost mobility.
The feeding tube.
The lifelong oxygen dependency.

Every medical term came with its own memory, each memory its own knife.

Erik took a slow breath, grounding himself.

“This,” he whispered softly, looking at Charles, “is not the end of our life. We will build a new one. Slower. Softer. Together.”

Charles looked at him with glossy eyes, chest rising and falling shallowly beneath the gown.

“…scared,” he breathed.

Erik swallowed hard. “I know.” He leaned closer, resting his forehead against Charles’s hand. “I am too. But I’m not going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

The machine continued its soft rhythmic hum, the oxygen tubing hissed gently, and outside the window the city lights blinked softly in the evening haze.

In that small, quiet room, Erik held his weakened husband—thin, trembling, breath unsteady—and vowed silently that no matter what the future held, Charles would never walk—or wheel—through it alone.

The ride home from the hospital felt unreal.

Charles watched the world pass by through the tinted car window—trees, storefronts, clouds drifting lazily across the afternoon sky—all of it strangely brighter after weeks inside clinical white walls and humming machines. The soft nasal cannula tubing rested along his cheeks, the portable oxygen tank secured between Erik’s feet as he sat close beside him in the back seat. Every few minutes, Erik’s hand moved from Charles’s thigh to adjust the blanket, or lightly brush over his knuckles to make sure he was warm enough, steady enough, breathing comfortably enough.

It was all familiar. It was all foreign.

When they arrived home, the mansion seemed almost too large, too quiet, too alive compared to the hospital suite. Charles blinked up at the high ceilings, as though seeing the place for the first time.

Erik wheeled him inside with infinite care, the soft whir of the oxygen tank cart behind them. Charles’s breath trembled from effort and overwhelm, though he tried to hide it.

“You’re home,” Erik whispered behind him, voice warm and aching.

Charles nodded faintly. “H-home…”

They made it to the master bedroom slowly, the room already prepared—pillows arranged, extra blankets folded, the oxygen concentrator installed beside the nightstand. Everything smelled of lavender and clean sheets instead of antiseptic.

Erik helped him into bed with practiced gentleness, lifting Charles’s legs from the wheelchair and easing him into soft pillows. His touch was cautious but not distant, steady but not clinical.

Charles exhaled shakily once he was settled. “Feels… strange,” he murmured.

“What does?” Erik asked softly, pulling the blanket up.

“Being here,” Charles whispered. “Breathing air that isn’t filtered through machines… hearing silence instead of monitors… lying next to you instead of a row of nurses.”

Erik sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle him. “You’re safe,” he murmured. “You’re here. With me.”

Charles’s hand searched weakly under the blanket until Erik took it. Even with all he had lost—his strength, his mobility, the freedom of breathing without tubes—that simple contact still brought warmth to his chest.

For a long stretch of minutes, they lay together quietly. The oxygen tubing hissed softly, rising and falling with Charles’s shallow breaths. His hair, newly washed and soft against the pillow, brushed Erik’s shoulder whenever he turned his head.

After a while, Charles broke the silence.

“Erik…?” His voice was soft but clearer now that the fever and withdrawal from ICU sedation had eased.

“Yes, my love?”

“Does… any of this frighten you?”

Erik stilled, thumb brushing Charles’s knuckles. “All the time.”

Charles blinked, surprised. He had expected reassurance, a soft lie meant to soothe him. “All the time?” he echoed.

Erik leaned closer, voice low and raw. “I was terrified while you were unconscious. Terrified when you seized in my arms. Terrified when they told me you’d never breathe fully on your own again.” His throat tightened. “And I’m terrified even now, seeing you like this. Not because of you—never because of you—but because I can’t stand the thought of you suffering.”

Charles’s lips parted, his breath catching. “…Erik…”

“But I’m not going anywhere,” Erik whispered. “Not for a second. Not for a breath.”

Charles’s eyes shimmered. He squeezed Erik’s hand weakly, though the effort left his fingers trembling.

“I’m still me,” Charles whispered. “Just… slower. Fragile. And I hate that part, but… I’m still me.”

“You are,” Erik breathed, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “And you’re still the man I fell in love with. The man I love.”

Charles swallowed, eyes closing for a moment under the weight of emotion.

“Come here,” he whispered.

Erik hesitated. “Are you sure you’re comfortable?”

“Please,” Charles murmured.

Erik slid closer, lying gently beside him on the bed, careful of the oxygen tubing and Charles’s weakened body. Their faces were inches apart. When Charles lifted a trembling hand to touch Erik’s jaw, Erik caught it and kissed the palm tenderly.

The intimacy wasn’t physical—it wasn’t the old kind, the kind filled with heat and unspoken want. It was slow and gentle and almost sacred, built on breath and touch and presence.

Charles rested his head against Erik’s shoulder, breathing soft and shallow against his collarbone. “I thought,” he murmured, “that you’d look at me differently. That you’d see the wheelchair first. Or the oxygen. Or the broken parts.”

Erik’s heart cracked.

“I see you,” he whispered fiercely. “I see my husband.”

Charles’s breathing hitched—part emotion, part fatigue. Erik adjusted the cannula so it wasn’t tugging against his cheek, then wrapped an arm around him, supporting him without weight or pressure.

“Tell me something hopeful,” Charles whispered, voice shaking.

Erik kissed the top of his hair. “You’re home. That’s hopeful enough for me.”

Charles let out a faint, breathy laugh, barely there but beautiful.

“And tomorrow,” Erik continued softly, “we start our new routine. Physical therapy here at home. Breathing exercises. A slower life. A gentler one.”

Charles hesitated. “…Do you mind slower?”

“I think,” Erik whispered, “that I need slower. Maybe as much as you do.”

Charles turned his face into Erik’s chest. His trembling eased, his breathing beginning to slow—not from fatigue this time, but comfort.

“Stay with me tonight?” Charles whispered, although he already knew the answer.

Erik pulled the blanket higher around them both. “Always.”

And in the soft glow of their bedroom lamps, their breaths mingled—one shallow and oxygen-assisted, one steady and grounding—as they lay together for the first time in nearly a month, rebuilding a life that would be different, yes… but still theirs.

Still filled with love.

Still home.

Chapter Text

A month had passed since the night they fell asleep together for the first time outside the hospital walls. The mornings that followed had been quiet, gentle things—sunlight streaming through half-open curtains, Erik waking first to check the oxygen concentrator, Charles blinking awake with slow breaths and an apologetic smile for existing so delicately in Erik’s arms.

Some days were easier. Some days were harder. All of them were theirs.

Charles had regained a sliver more strength—enough to sit upright without wobbling, enough to wheel himself across the bedroom for a few minutes before tiring, enough to hold a pen for short periods and return to the slow, careful rhythms of reading student papers. But his limbs were still thin, his cheeks still hollow, and the nasal cannula looked like a small, permanent reminder of everything he had survived.

Erik had returned to work in the softest possible sense—morning meetings from home, short visits to the office only when unavoidable, leaving his laptop open on the bedside table so he could feel Charles’s presence even while answering emails. The company had learned to function without his constant grip, and Erik discovered he preferred it that way.

His priority had reoriented itself with frightening clarity.

Charles was first.
Everything else followed.

This morning was no different.

Erik adjusted the blanket around Charles’s legs once more before leaving for a short board call downstairs. Charles smiled faintly in protest. “You fuss too much.”

“Impossible,” Erik replied, kissing his forehead. “I will be in the next room. I will hear if you need me.”

Charles rolled his eyes with gentle affection. “Go. Before your assistant sends a search party.”

Erik reluctantly stepped out, and for a few quiet minutes, the bedroom was still.

Charles took the moment to breathe—slow, thin breaths through the cannula, the soft hum of oxygen a comforting undertone rather than a burden. His laptop sat on the tray table in front of him, screen filled with half-written notes for next semester. He could only work in ten-minute bursts before fatigue crept in, but he cherished every bit of it.

The familiar rhythm of thinking again, contributing, being useful—it gave him a sense of self he’d feared losing.

A knock echoed from downstairs, followed by the faint rise of voices.

Charles straightened the best he could, fingers tugging the blanket into place. He recognized the voices almost immediately—bright, energetic, eager.

Hank.
Raven.
And two of his teaching assistants—Lila and Micah.

His heart fluttered with something warm and aching.

Moments later, they appeared at the doorway, hesitant but smiling.

“Professor?” Raven was the first to speak, her voice soft but full of relief. “We—we hope it’s okay that we’re here.”

Charles felt himself smiling before he could think. “Of course it’s okay. Come in, please. I’ve missed you all terribly.”

They entered cautiously, as though stepping into a sacred space. Hank carried a basket overflowing with fruit and books (“mostly books, let’s be honest,” he admitted sheepishly). Raven held a bouquet of wildflowers she’d clearly arranged herself. Lila and Micah had brought a stack of student cards and drawings—some funny, some sweet, one particularly endearing rendition of Charles teaching with tiny cartoon lungs floating around him like confused sidekicks.

Charles laughed—a thin, breathy sound, but genuine. “My goodness… you’ve all outdone yourselves.”

Raven perched carefully on the bed’s edge, eyes scanning him with protective intensity. “You look… better,” she said softly. “Still… still recovering, but better.”

Charles touched her hand with a frail squeeze. “I’m getting there.”

Hank nodded enthusiastically. “We know. The entire department has been cheering for you. You should hear Jean trying to stop people from sending more care packages.”

“Trust me,” Micah added, “there were… many attempts at casseroles. We saved you.”

Charles laughed again, and the room warmed with the sound.

For nearly an hour, they talked—slowly, because Charles tired quickly, but with the easy affection of found family. They updated him on campus life, their research projects, small departmental dramas, student gossip, and the latest academic catastrophes.

Charles listened with a soft glow in his eyes. For the first time since the illness began, he felt—not fully himself, but connected to the version of himself he missed most.

Eventually, fatigue began to pull at him. His breaths grew shallower, and he lowered the laptop tray as Raven caught the cue.

“We should let you rest,” she said gently.

Charles nodded. “I’m so glad you came. Truly.”

Hank leaned in, hugging him carefully. “We’ll visit again soon. Only if you want us to.”

“I do.”

Raven brushed the side of his cheek. “Take care of yourself. We’ll take care of the rest of the chaos.”

When they finally left the room, Charles closed his eyes and let the warmth linger.

He loved them—his students, his assistants, his little academic family. And he realized with quiet gratitude that even with all he had lost, he still had so much.

A soft click sounded as the door opened again.

Erik entered, laptop under his arm, eyes soft with concern the moment he saw Charles’s flushed cheeks and tired breaths.

“Was it too much?” he murmured, sitting at the bedside.

Charles shook his head. “No. It… it felt wonderful.”

Erik kissed the top of his hair. “Then I’m glad.”

Charles leaned into him, letting his head rest against Erik’s shoulder. The oxygen cannula hissed softly between them, but they didn’t mind it anymore. It was part of him. Part of their life.

“I like this routine,” Charles whispered.

“Our routine,” Erik corrected gently.

Charles nodded.

He lifted a trembling hand to touch Erik’s cheek. “Thank you for letting me have this life back—slowly, safely.”

Erik’s breath hitched. “Thank you for fighting to stay in it.”

And with the late afternoon sun warming their room, Erik wrapped an arm around his fragile husband’s shoulders, the two of them settling into their new chapter—one breath at a time, one day at a time, one love steady enough to hold them both.

The house grew quieter after the students departed, a soft hush settling into the corners of the room. Charles rested for nearly an hour, his breaths steadying, the weight of fatigue lifting just enough for him to feel present again. When Erik finally nudged the bedroom door open once more, he carried the familiar warmth of evening with him—the scent of roasted vegetables, simmered broth, and a cautious kind of hope.

“Dinner?” he asked softly, leaning his head in.

Charles blinked awake, offering a tired but genuine smile. “At the table?”

“At the table,” Erik confirmed, his voice warm with pride.

It had been weeks since Charles had sat anywhere that wasn’t a bed or a therapy chair. The idea of the dining room felt almost too grand, too distant, but also quietly thrilling.

“I’d like that,” Charles whispered.

Erik moved with practiced grace, positioning the wheelchair beside the bed, offering his arms to lift Charles gently into it. Charles steadied himself with a thin breath, his hands gripping the armrests until the world settled. The cannula tubing brushed his jaw as Erik tucked it safely aside.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Erik murmured.

“I’m doing slowly,” Charles corrected with a tired little laugh.

“Slowly is allowed.”

They made their way through the hallway, the wheels gliding softly across polished floors. The dining room had been subtly transformed—candles lit, plates already arranged, soft instrumental music playing from hidden speakers. Erik had tried to make the space feel familiar but not overwhelming, romantic but not dramatic.

Charles’s breath caught—not from effort, but emotion.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he murmured.

“Yes, I did.”

Erik wheeled him up to the table, adjusting the height and locking the brakes. Charles’s hands trembled slightly as he lifted the spoon, dipping it into the gentle broth Erik had made. The scent was warm, soothing.

He brought the first spoonful to his lips, exhaling shakily afterward—not because of the taste, but because of the effort. Eating itself had become an act of endurance.

After the third spoonful, his hand paused mid-air. He lowered the spoon slowly, chest rising with a thin breath through the cannula.

“Rest?” Erik asked immediately.

Charles nodded.

Erik didn’t rush him. He sat quietly beside him, elbows on the table, chin resting in his hand as he watched Charles breathe. Not with fear, not with pity—only with a kind of calm devotion Charles still wasn’t entirely used to.

After a minute, Charles lifted the spoon again, and Erik pretended not to notice the faint tremor in his husband’s fingers. Charles ate in small intervals—two sips, then rest; one bite, then rest again—until, after nearly half an hour, he had finished enough to feel satiated.

“I’m sorry it takes so long,” Charles murmured.

Erik shook his head. “Dinner is not about speed. Dinner is about us sitting together at a table again.”

Charles’s eyes softened. He leaned his head slightly toward Erik’s shoulder, a gesture more intimate than any embrace.

When the meal was over, Erik cleared the plates, insisting Charles remain where he was. Then he wheeled him to the living room, the fireplace flickering with a soft, warm glow. The couch had been prepared with pillows, blankets, and enough room for both of them.

They transitioned slowly, Erik lifting him with careful hands, settling him into the cushions before lifting Charles’s legs and placing them gently across his own lap.

The sensation made Charles sigh—comfort, safety, normalcy.

“Is this alright?” Erik asked.

Charles nodded. “More than alright.”

He opened a folder on the cushion beside him—a printout of a research paper one of his graduate students had emailed that morning. “I want to at least try to review this.”

“And I want to finish two reports.” Erik tapped the tablet balanced on his thigh.

They leaned into a shared quiet, the kind that belonged only to couples who had survived something immense and had learned to savor small moments with reverence.

The room filled with the soft rustle of pages, the faint tapping of Erik’s fingers on the tablet, and the steady, rhythmic flow of Charles’s oxygen. Occasionally, Charles paused—not from difficulty breathing this time, but to rest his head back, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment before continuing.

Erik would glance down at the thin legs resting across his lap—legs that once carried Charles across lecture halls with confident strides—and rub gentle circles into his calves with both hands. Not out of pity, but out of love. Out of habit. Out of the deep-rooted need to comfort him.

“This is nice,” Charles murmured after a long stretch of silence.

“It is,” Erik agreed softly.

“The quiet. The closeness. The… normalness of it.”

Erik leaned down and kissed his ankle through the blanket. “We will build a new normal,” he promised. “One where you never have to face anything alone again.”

Charles’s breath trembled—not with fear, not with illness, but with emotion.

He closed his eyes and let the moment hold him. The warmth of the fire. The feel of Erik’s hands on his legs. The weight of his research paper resting gently on his lap. The soft hum of oxygen that kept him here—alive, breathing, present.

“And tomorrow,” Charles whispered, “I’d like to try sitting outside. Just for a few minutes.”

Erik stroked his leg, nodding. “Then tomorrow, we’ll sit outside.”

Charles exhaled shakily, a tiny smile forming.

He felt safe.
He felt loved.
He felt home.

And for the first time since collapsing in his study all those weeks ago, Charles believed—quietly, tremulously—that the life ahead of them, even with all its limits, could still be full of grace.

Erik lingered beside Charles only long enough to watch the slow drift of his eyelids slide fully closed, the faint rise and fall of his chest settling into that fragile, whisper-soft sleep that had become the rhythm of their household. Once he was certain Charles was comfortable—blanket tucked around his narrow shoulders, cannula secure, the quiet hum of the oxygen concentrator steady—Erik slipped from the room with a final brush of his thumb across Charles’ cheek. He felt the familiar tug in his chest as he walked down the hallway toward the home office, knowing he needed to catch up on reports and contracts he had delayed for weeks, yet reluctant to let the physical distance grow even for a short while. Still, duty pulled him forward, and soon he was seated at his desk, tablet glowing gently in the dim space, filled with spreadsheets and messages demanding his attention.

Time blurred quickly. The quiet of the office, broken only by the soft tapping of Erik’s fingers against the screen, made it too easy to sink into focus. His mind narrowed to lines of figures and projections, the weight of decisions waiting for signatures and approvals. He kept telling himself he would only work for a little while—an hour, maybe—but each problem solved revealed another, each email answered brought two more. He barely noticed the shift in the room’s light as late afternoon crept in, casting a pale golden wash across the floor. He didn’t notice how long his coffee had gone cold, or how stiff his shoulders had grown. What he definitely didn’t notice was how the quiet of the apartment had changed—how the soft sounds from the bedroom had faded, replaced by a different silence entirely. He was too deep in the numbers, too far in his own determined momentum, to hear the faint creak of the hallway floor or the hesitant rustle of blankets.

It wasn’t until a gentle knock touched the frame of his office door—a delicate tapping, polite but urgent—that his attention snapped back to the present. Erik blinked, realizing with a jolt how many hours must have slipped by unnoticed. One of the maids stepped inside, hands folded nervously in front of her apron, her voice kept carefully low as though afraid to disturb him too much.

“Sir… I’m sorry to interrupt,” she began softly, “but Professor Charles has been asking for you. He woke a little while ago and… he’s been looking around the suite for you. He seemed a bit anxious.”

The words struck Erik like a clean, sharp breath. He immediately straightened, the tablet forgotten as he pushed back from his desk with sudden urgency. The idea of Charles waking alone—disoriented, tired, maybe struggling to catch his breath after the shower—sent a pulse of guilt racing through him. He hadn’t meant to lose track of time. He hadn’t meant to leave his fragile, recovering husband in solitude. He simply hadn’t realized how long he’d been gone. He offered the maid a grateful nod before striding past her, heart tight, steps quickening as he made his way back toward their bedroom suite. Each stride echoed with the same silent thought: I should have been there.

Charles had woken slowly, the way he often did now—surfacing through layers of fogged exhaustion, his body still heavy and unfamiliar, his breath soft but shallow around the quiet whisper of oxygen in his nose. For a few moments he simply lay there curled on his side, blanket drawn up to his chest, listening to the soft hum of the concentrator and the faint distant sounds of the household carrying on somewhere beyond the walls. He blinked, letting the haze clear, expecting to find Erik sitting nearby as he usually did, reading or organizing files or simply watching him with that gentle, steady presence that made the room feel safe. But the chair beside the bed was empty, the lamp off, the space quiet in a way that felt a little too hollow.

He told himself not to worry. Erik was probably working somewhere close by. Still, the emptiness tugged at him. He shifted slightly, wincing at the ache in his legs, the lingering weakness that clung to him no matter how much therapy he attempted. His breathing hitched a little from the movement—nothing dangerous, just a reminder of how fragile his lungs still were—but even that made him instinctively glance to the doorway as though reassurance would step through any moment. When nothing happened, he exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. You’re fine, he murmured inwardly. Just breathe.

But the quiet pressed on him, and the longer he lay there, the more a faint, irrational anxiety bloomed. He didn’t like waking alone. Not anymore. Not after everything. After the seizures, the coma, the ventilation. After all those nights he had drifted in and out of fever dreams with Erik’s hand holding his, anchoring him in the haze. Being alone now—awake and aware—made the room feel colder, larger, too open. He shifted again, trying to find Erik’s voice somewhere in the apartment, but only silence answered.

Finally, unable to ignore the uneasy ache in his chest, he pushed himself up onto one elbow. Even that small effort made his breath tremble, a soft rasp at the edges, but he steadied himself and reached for the bedrail. He hated how weak he felt. Hated that even sitting up made the world tilt faintly. But he needed to find Erik. Needed to know he wasn’t far. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the familiar dull heaviness of muscles that no longer truly responded, the weight of his own body something he had to maneuver rather than command. One of the maids must have heard him shifting, because she appeared quickly at the door, concern written clear across her face as she approached.

“Professor Charles? Do you need help?”

Charles opened his mouth to answer but paused when a faint wave of dizziness brushed behind his eyes. He gave a small nod instead, letting her steady him. The wheelchair was already nearby—Erik always made sure of that—but humiliation prickled faintly in his chest as she carefully helped him settle into it. He hated depending on others for even this small thing. But once he was seated and breathing evenly again, he folded his hands in his lap and murmured softly, “I… I’m looking for Erik.”

The maid’s expression softened immediately. She adjusted the blanket across his thighs and offered a small, reassuring smile. “He’s here, sir. He’s in the home office. I’ll go get him.”

But as she stepped away, Charles felt a small pang of embarrassment. He didn’t want to need Erik this much. He didn’t want the household staff to see how unsettled he still became when left alone. Yet the feeling was there—tight, undeniable. He nodded quietly, voice too thin to speak further as the maid slipped out of the room.

While she went, Charles sat in the soft stillness of the suite, fingers curling slightly into the blanket. The oxygen cannula brushed lightly against his cheeks, its gentle hiss the only sound filling the air. A moment ago, the quiet had felt daunting, empty—but now, knowing that someone was fetching Erik, the silence felt different. He let his breath settle, though each inhale still carried that faint tug of weakness. He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly, waiting.

And as he waited, he felt the tension in his body shift—not disappearing, but easing just enough for him to breathe a touch deeper. Because Erik was coming. Because he wasn’t alone. Because he could already imagine the hurried footsteps he knew so well, the warmth of Erik’s hand closing over his, the soft apology his husband always carried in his voice even when he didn’t speak it aloud.

Charles let out a slow breath, thin and delicate, and whispered to himself, “He’ll be here.”

Chapter Text

Morning arrived gently in their penthouse, the pale gold light slipping through the curtains of their bedroom like something hesitant to disturb the quiet. Charles was already awake—he’d been awake for a while, actually—lying in the half-reclined position Erik left him in after the night routine. His breathing had been calm for once, soft through the nasal cannula, each inhale a little thin but steady enough to make him feel safe in his own body.

When he heard the door open, Charles didn’t have to look. Erik's footsteps had a rhythm Charles knew as intimately as his own pulse—measured, soft, a man trying not to wake the person he adored.

“Good morning, love,” Erik whispered as he came closer, his voice thick with sleep but warm.

Charles turned his head slightly, offering a small but genuine smile. “Morning.”

Erik brushed a hand through Charles’s hair, pushing back the strands that had fallen loose overnight. The gesture was tender, almost reverent. “How’s your breathing?”

“Manageable,” Charles murmured, knowing Erik would hear the truth beneath the modest answer—that he was tired, that his lungs felt heavy, but that he was trying.

Erik adjusted the oxygen flow by a tiny fraction, the way the respiratory therapist had taught him. His touch was confident now, practiced. He had learned everything—every machine, every aid, every detail—because caring for Charles had become the center of his world.

“Ready to start the morning routine?” Erik asked softly.

Charles nodded.

Erik moved with the calm efficiency of someone who had done this every day for months, yet still approached it as though it were an act of devotion. He eased Charles into a more upright position with slow, careful movements, supporting his back so his breathing wouldn’t catch. The wheelchair waited beside the bed, polished and adjusted perfectly to Charles’s frame, but Erik didn’t rush.

He helped Charles wash his face, guiding his hands when fatigue made his movements slow. He brushed Charles’s hair, gently untangling the soft brown strands. He helped him change into a light sweater, buttoning it with the same attention one gives to something fragile and precious.

Then came the medications.

Charles always dreaded this part—not because of pain but because of the simple, humbling exhaustion of it. Dozens of tablets, capsules, and measured syrups arranged neatly on the bedside table: for his lungs, for inflammation, for seizure control, for nausea, for muscle support.

Erik sat on the edge of the bed, a glass of water in hand. “We’ll go slowly,” he promised, as he did every morning.

Charles tried to swallow them one at a time, but his fatigue slowed him, and the mild nausea that still shadowed him made everything feel heavier than it should. Erik coaxed him with soft reassurances, steadying his trembling fingers, guiding the glass to his lips when Charles’s hands began to shake.

“You’re doing perfectly,” Erik murmured whenever Charles’s breath hitched. “We’re not rushed. Take your time.”

It took a long while, but eventually the last tablet was gone.

Charles leaned back, exhaling through parted lips. Erik stroked his cheek with the back of his fingers. “Proud of you.”

When Charles was ready, Erik helped him transfer into the wheelchair—slowly, supporting his back and hips, making sure his breathing didn’t strain. Even with weeks of practice, every transfer remained delicate work, requiring patience from both of them. Once Charles was settled and covered with a soft blanket, Erik adjusted the cannula tubing, ensuring nothing tugged or pinched.

“I was thinking,” Erik said as he reached for a scarf from the closet—one of Charles’s favorites, a pale blue knit chosen mostly because it matched his eyes, “that maybe today you’d like a little time in the garden.”

Charles looked up, surprised. “Outside?”

“Just the private garden terrace,” Erik clarified gently, afraid of overwhelming him. “Only if you feel up to it.”

Charles hesitated, but the idea warmed him. The air, the sunlight, the green—he missed all of it.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’d like that.”

Erik wrapped the scarf around his neck with careful hands, adjusting it so nothing restricted his breathing. “There. Perfect.”

Two maids entered quietly with the items they knew Erik would need—his tablet, Charles’s tablet, a small stack of documents for Erik’s afternoon meeting, and a thermos of warm herbal tea Charles tolerated better than anything else.

“We’ll leave these on the terrace table, sir,” one said politely.

“Thank you,” Erik replied, soft but authoritative.

The maids arranged everything neatly, making sure the area was prepared before stepping aside so Erik could wheel Charles out himself.

The hallway felt long, but Charles stayed relaxed, his hands resting loosely on his blanket, trusting Erik entirely. When they reached the glass doors leading to their garden terrace, Erik paused.

“Ready?”

Charles nodded.

Erik pushed open the door, and warm sunlight streamed in, touching Charles’s face like a gentle hand.

The garden was quiet—lush, carefully maintained, filled with soft rustling leaves and the faint scent of jasmine. Charles inhaled slowly, the air cool but refreshing. His breath wavered a little, but not dangerously.

Erik rolled him to the center of the terrace, where a comfortable chair and small table waited. But Charles stayed in the wheelchair, wanting to feel the warmth on his skin without moving too much.

“This is… lovely,” Charles whispered.

Erik lowered beside him on a bench. “You deserve more than lovely.”

They stayed like that for a long stretch of peaceful minutes—Erik reviewing the documents the maids brought, tapping notes into his tablet, while Charles simply breathed in the gentle breeze, eyelids fluttering with each slow inhale. Every now and then, Erik would glance at him, checking the rising and falling of his chest, adjusting the blanket, or smoothing a hand over his knee.

It was domestic. Quiet. Tender.

Exactly what Charles needed.

Eventually Charles turned slightly to Erik, voice soft and breathy. “Thank you… for bringing me out.”

Erik set his tablet aside immediately, giving him undivided attention. “Thank you for being well enough to enjoy it.”

Charles smiled, thin but genuine. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Erik whispered, leaning forward to kiss the back of Charles’s hand. “And I’m with you through everything.”

For the first time in months, Charles believed it completely—not because the words were said, but because they were felt in the warm sunlight, in the scarf around his neck, in the quiet companionship of a garden morning shared between two people who had nearly lost each other.

And in that still moment, breathing the soft air of their terrace, Charles allowed himself to hope—carefully, tenderly, but truly.

Erik stayed beside Charles for a long while, simply watching the way his husband’s eyes softened in the sunlight. But after a few minutes, Charles’s gaze drifted toward the lower flowerbed—the one closest to the terrace railing where pale roses and dwarf hydrangeas bloomed in soft clusters. It was the part of the garden he used to tend himself before his health faltered.

“Closer?” Erik asked gently.

Charles nodded, almost shyly. “Just… for a moment.”

Erik rose, moved slowly behind the wheelchair, and steered him toward the curved stone edging of the flowerbed. But Charles kept glancing at the blooms as though wishing he could reach farther, touch the petals like he used to. Erik understood immediately.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, “we’ll lift you a little.”

With practiced caution, he slid one arm beneath Charles’s back, the other beneath his legs, and eased him upward. Charles’s arms instinctively looped around Erik’s shoulders, not out of necessity but out of trust. Erik adjusted him onto a cushioned outdoor recliner positioned closer to the flowers, where Charles could lean comfortably without strain.

The moment he settled, Charles breathed in the scent of the roses—soft, fresh, comforting. His eyelids fluttered. The warmth of the sun, the fragrance, Erik’s closeness—all of it lulled him with surprising gentleness.

“You can sleep,” Erik whispered, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “I’ll be right here.”

Charles didn’t fight it. His head tilted slightly to the side, breath easing into a steady rhythm, the oxygen tubing resting lightly along his scarf. Within moments, he was asleep—peaceful, relaxed in a way he hadn’t been for weeks.

Erik exhaled softly, relieved to see him resting without distress. He settled onto the bench beside him, opened his tablet, and quietly resumed work. He reviewed contracts, approved statements, drafted emails with surprising efficiency. But every few minutes, he’d glance toward the recliner—checking the rise and fall of Charles’s chest, tucking the blanket around him when the breeze shifted, brushing a leaf off his husband’s shoulder as if each tiny gesture could protect him.

He was in the middle of reviewing an investor memorandum when he heard the garden door slide open.

“Erik?” Raven’s voice called softly.

He turned. Raven, Hank, and one of Charles’s TAs—Lydia—stepped out carefully, each holding something: flowers, a stack of notes from the lab, and a small box of pastries they knew Charles liked before the illness.

Erik smiled and gestured them closer. “He’s asleep, but you’re welcome. He’ll be happy to see you.”

Raven approached first, her expression softening immediately when she saw him. “God… he looks so peaceful.”

“He is,” Erik murmured. “First real nap outside in months.”

Hank knelt beside the recliner, adjusting his glasses. “This is good. Fresh air, light… it’s part of recovery.”

Lydia placed the stack of brightly colored cards on the table. “These are from his students. They insisted.”

Charles stirred at the sound of familiar voices. His brows knit slightly before his eyelids fluttered open. The sunlight hit his eyes gently, and when he saw his friends, a slow, surprised smile formed—small but bright in its own quiet way.

“Raven… Hank,” he whispered. “You’re here.”

Raven knelt beside him, squeezing his hand carefully. “Of course we’re here, dummy. You scared the life out of all of us.”

He gave a breathy laugh—thin but real. Lydia stepped forward shyly and waved. “We missed you. The classes feel so empty without you.”

Charles’s smile grew, eyes softening with something like gratitude. For the next hour, they kept conversation light—stories about campus chaos, harmless gossip, updates on projects Charles cared about. Erik watched as warmth returned to Charles’s expression piece by piece, as though each friend carved out a little more space for joy.

Seeing him smile—a true, bright, unguarded smile—made every sleepless night worth it.

Eventually his energy waned, as it always did, and Erik gently touched his shoulder. “We should get you back inside soon.”

His friends understood. They said their goodbyes with promises to visit again, leaving Charles calmer, a little tired, but undeniably lifted. Erik wheeled him inside, helped with the evening routine, and slowly settled him into bed.

For a few hours, the night felt serene.

But as dawn crept close, everything shifted.

Charles jerked awake with a sharp inhale, his breath catching, eyes wide with pain. His legs tightened involuntarily—muscles spasming, stiff and trembling beneath the blankets. The sensation rippled upward, tense and sudden, making his body curl slightly despite the weakness.

“Erik—” he whispered, voice thin with distress.

Erik was at his side immediately, fully alert the instant he heard the strain in Charles’s breathing.

“What is it? Tell me.” His voice was steady but urgent.

Charles tried to speak, but another spasm hit, stronger this time, pulling at muscles that had already weakened from weeks of inactivity. His breath shuddered, and he gripped the blanket with trembling fingers.

“Legs… they’re—” He swallowed, wincing. “Hurting.”

Erik’s expression tightened—worried, calculating. He lifted the blanket and placed his hands gently on Charles’s lower legs, feeling the rigid contraction beneath the skin. The muscles trembled against his palms.

“Alright, love,” he murmured softly, “I’ve got you. Breathe for me.”

He massaged carefully—slow circles, light pressure, guiding the muscles toward release rather than forcing them. Charles’s breathing hitched in discomfort, but Erik stayed close, murmuring reassurance with each stroke.

“You’re safe. I’m here. Just breathe through it.”

The spasms came in waves. When they peaked, Charles shut his eyes, jaw tight, trying not to let panic rise. Erik continued working gently, alternating warmth and pressure, helping the muscles unlock bit by bit. After several long minutes, the tension began to loosen. Charles’s breathing steadied to soft, shaky exhalations.

When the worst had passed, Erik pressed his forehead to Charles’s temple. “I’m so sorry you’re hurting.”

Charles leaned into him, exhausted, fingers clutching weakly at Erik’s sleeve. “Not your fault,” he whispered.

“It feels like it,” Erik murmured. “Everything I didn’t see… everything I didn’t do in time… nights like this remind me.”

Charles shook his head faintly, barely enough movement to notice. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Erik kissed his hair and pulled the blanket higher around him. “I’m not leaving your side tonight.”

Charles exhaled shakily, the last tremor fading from his legs. “Good… stay.”

“I will,” Erik whispered, settling beside him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders while the moonlight stretched pale across the room. “I always will.”

And slowly, painfully tired but no longer afraid, Charles drifted back to sleep in his husband’s arms.

Erik remained exactly where he had been when Charles finally drifted into a shaky, exhausted sleep—half-sitting on the edge of the mattress, one hand resting lightly over his husband’s thigh, as though his palm alone could quiet the spasms that had tormented Charles through most of the night. The storm of pain had come in unpredictable waves: Charles’s calves knotting into tense cords, his toes curling involuntarily, his breath catching in small, startled gasps each time another tight coil of muscle seized and trembled. Erik had done everything he could think of—gentle stretches, warm compresses, soft rubbing in slow, methodical circles—but he could only ease, not erase, the ache.

Now, in the deep quiet before dawn, Charles slept in that fragile way the severely exhausted do: shallow, uneven breaths, body limp but not peaceful, brow faintly furrowed even in rest. Erik studied him, his own chest tight. There was adoration there, yes—there always was—but tonight it was threaded with a helpless, aching sorrow.

He brushed a loose strand of hair from Charles’s forehead. Months of illness had left Charles’s face changed: thinner, sharper in places where softness once lived, his cheekbones more prominent, the shadows beneath his eyes darker. He had gained a little weight back—Jean had said so last week—but the recovery was slow, delicate, easily undone by a night like this. Erik hated that. Hated the unfairness of how one bad evening of spasms could steal back so much progress.

Charles stirred faintly under his touch, then relaxed again. Erik exhaled, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. He lay beside his husband carefully, not wanting to jostle him, one arm draped lightly over Charles’s waist. They stayed like that until the faintest gray of morning seeped through the curtains.

By the time the household began to wake—soft footsteps in hallways, gentle rattles from the kitchen—Erik was already up again, covering Charles with an extra blanket, ensuring his legs were supported by pillows in precisely the angles Jean had recommended. He ordered warm water, prepared the adaptive clothing Charles used in the mornings, and laid out the first set of medications they always tackled after breakfast. When he glanced at the bedside clock, he realized with a faint, sad smile that he had done it all before even brushing his own hair.

A quiet knock came at the bedroom door.

“Mr. Lensher?” a maid whispered. “Dr. Grey has arrived.”

Erik nodded, voice low. “Send her in.”

The door opened a moment later, and Jean Grey stepped inside with the practiced calm of someone who has walked into countless bedrooms like this. Her medical bag was slung over her shoulder, her expression composed but kind. She greeted Erik with a gentle smile before her gaze softened further at the sight of Charles sleeping in the morning light.

“Oof,” she whispered sympathetically. “You two look like you had a rough night.”

“His legs… they seized over and over,” Erik murmured. “He tried to pretend it wasn’t as bad as it was, but… you know him.”

Jean nodded, stepping beside the bed and examining Charles visually before even touching him—observing breathing pattern, chest movement, color, tension in the jaw, all with the trained precision she was known for.

“He’s resting okay now,” she said after a moment. “Not comfortably, but okay. Let’s let him wake on his own.”

Erik nodded, though his hand hovered protectively near Charles’s shoulder.

Jean pulled out her stethoscope and checked vital signs once Charles began to stir gently awake: heart rate, breath sounds, reflex responses. He blinked groggily at first, then gave her a small, polite smile, still thick with exhaustion.

“Morning, Jean,” he rasped.

“Good morning, professor.” She squeezed his hand lightly. “I hear you gave your legs quite a workout last night. Next time, let’s pick a nicer activity, hmm?”

Charles huffed a tiny laugh, but the sound was edged with fatigue. “I wish they consulted me before staging a rebellion.”

Jean spent nearly an hour with him, assessing his progress. She inspected the muscles of his legs, the range of motion in his ankles and knees, the responsiveness of nerves still recovering from weeks of immobility. She asked him to perform small, gentle movements while she supported his limbs, monitoring tremors and endurance. She checked the fit of his wheelchair, his posture, the way his back muscles compensated for his weakened core.

Finally, she leaned back with a satisfied nod.

“You’ve put on a bit more weight,” she said warmly. “Not a lot, but it’s noticeable. And your breathing… still shallow, but more stable than last week. That’s good news.”

Charles smiled shyly, always a little bashful under praise.

“But,” Jean added, turning slightly stern in that affectionate way she used with patients she cared for, “you are not to overexert yourself during good days. I know you want independence back. I know sitting out in the garden felt freeing. But your body is rebuilding itself slowly. Too much too soon, and nights like last night will keep happening.”

Charles lowered his gaze. “I understand.”

Erik rested a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll take things slow.”

Jean nodded approvingly. She reviewed his medication list, adjusted one dosage slightly, and added a note for increased hydration. Before leaving, she gave Charles a reassuring smile.

“You’re progressing. Really. It may feel like you’re crawling through mud, but you are moving forward. Let your body heal at the pace it needs.”

When she left the room, Erik and Charles were quiet for a long moment.

Eventually, Charles exhaled—a long, tired breath that seemed to carry weeks of frustration with it. “Still wheelchair-bound,” he murmured. “Still needing help with everything. Still—”

“Alive,” Erik cut in softly. “Healing. Breathing easier than last week. Let’s not ignore the victories.”

Charles’s gaze softened. “You always find a way to sound wiser than you claim to be.”

“Only when it concerns you,” Erik whispered.

He kissed the top of Charles’s head before helping him through the familiar morning routine: slow transitions from bed to bathroom, supported sitting while Charles brushed his teeth, warm cloth for his face when his arms grew tired. Erik guided him gently, patiently, steadying his husband with practiced hands. Charles swallowed his medications—far too many for his liking—with water, sometimes grimacing at taste or size. Erik rubbed his back when the swallowing motion triggered small coughs.

They moved through each step together, unhurried, synchronized like they had practiced it a hundred times—because they had.

By the time Charles was settled into his wheelchair, dressed warmly and comfortably, the faint morning sun was beginning to warm the garden paths outside. Birds chirped in the treetops. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains.

“Would you like to try sitting out there again?” Erik asked gently.

Charles hesitated. Last night’s pain clearly still shadowed him. But the garden had brought him peace yesterday, and the memory tugged at him.

“…Yes,” he finally whispered. “But only if you’re beside me.”

Erik smiled. “Always.”

He wrapped a scarf around Charles’s neck, brushed a tender kiss to his temple, and wheeled him carefully toward the doors that led to the garden. The air outside was cool and fragrant, filled with the scents of damp soil and morning blooms. Charles closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, grateful for the simplicity of it.

They moved toward the flowerbeds—Jean’s caution ringing in Erik’s mind—but this time Erik kept Charles in the chair rather than lifting him. Charles didn’t complain; he seemed content simply being outdoors.

Maids brought the tablet, the day’s documents, and warm tea. Erik arranged everything neatly on Charles’s lap, ensuring the angle didn’t strain his arms. Charles reached for a stylus, already scanning through a research draft with the faint spark of academic curiosity.

Erik sat beside him, watching the way sunlight softened the exhaustion still etched into Charles’s features. He rested one hand lightly on Charles’s arm.

“Stay here as long as you like,” he murmured.

Charles leaned subtly into him. “I plan to.”

And though the night had been painful, and the morning exhausting, there was a shy but real smile on Charles’s face—one that made Erik believe, even for a moment, that better days truly were inching closer.

Chapter Text

It had been three full months since the worst of Charles’s illness—three long, careful, uneven months marked by tiny victories, stubborn setbacks, and a quiet kind of perseverance that made Erik’s chest ache with awe. Morning sunlight spilled through the wide bedroom windows in soft, honey-gold streaks, catching the thin curve of the nasal cannula resting beneath Charles’s nose. Its clear tubing trailed gently along his cheeks and disappeared behind his ears, then down toward the small portable oxygen unit resting on the bedside table. The soft hiss of airflow had become as familiar as breath itself—constant, steady, reassuring.

Charles stood near the foot of the bed now, fingers curled lightly around the carved bedpost for balance. His breaths came slow but even, each one gently supported by the subtle rise and fall created by the oxygen flow. A few months ago, even standing had been dangerous. Now he took his first carefully rehearsed steps across the room—measured, cautious, determined. His right leg responded well. His left, still marked by nerve damage from those terrifying ICU seizures, dragged just a beat behind, giving his gait a noticeable limp.

Yet he walked.

His steps sounded soft against the rug, accompanied by the quiet whisper of oxygen tubing sliding along his shirt. The limp, Jean had explained, was permanent; the nerve damage too deep to fully reverse. The severity would ease over time, but his left leg would never move with the natural fluidity it once had. Charles had accepted the news with that quiet, dignified composure he wore like armor—only the brief tightening around his eyes had betrayed the weight of it.

Now he paused mid-step, breath hitching slightly. Erik moved from the doorway immediately, tie loose around his neck, book forgotten at his side.

“That’s enough for this morning,” he murmured, voice soft with concern.

Charles straightened, unwilling to surrender so quickly. “I’m only doing what Jean approved.”

“Yes,” Erik said, stepping closer, “but you’re doing it twice as long as she asked.”

Charles offered a faint, teasing exhale. “Consider it… enthusiastic compliance.”

Erik slipped an arm around Charles’s waist before he could argue. “Consider it paused.” His hand brushed the oxygen tubing lightly, ensuring it hadn’t caught on anything. “Breakfast first. You can negotiate afterward.”

Charles sighed in theatrical defeat and allowed himself to be guided to the small sofa by the window. As he sat, the cannula shifted slightly, cool air brushing his upper lip. He adjusted it with practiced fingers; even after months, he still sometimes noticed it too much. Erik kneeled before him, massaging gently along the tense length of Charles’s left calf.

“Too tight?” Erik asked.

“Only a bit,” Charles murmured. “It always feels like this leg belongs to someone else.”

Erik lifted the limb carefully, kissed the knee just above the oxygen tubing’s resting line across Charles’s thigh. “Then I’ll keep reminding it where it belongs.”

Warmth bloomed behind Charles’s ribs—deeper than breath, deeper than oxygen could reach.

Breakfast arrived: warm porridge, soft fruits, and Earl Grey. Charles’s medications had shrunk to a manageable cluster—two inhalers, vitamins, nerve stabilizers, nighttime muscle relaxants. Yet the ritual still felt heavy, a quiet reminder of everything his body had survived. He swallowed them with slow sips of tea, oxygen tubing rising gently with every breath.

Later, in the sunroom, he read through dissertation drafts perched on his lap. The cannula was so much a part of him now that he barely noticed the steady hiss of support; Erik, on the other hand, noticed every shift, every tiny pause in breath, every moment when Charles touched his chest reflexively to check for tightness.

“You’re staring,” Charles murmured without lifting his eyes.

“I’m memorizing,” Erik replied.

Charles blinked up. “Memorizing?”

“The way you look when you’re concentrating,” Erik said softly. “You haven’t been able to read like this for months.”

“That’s because I kept passing out,” Charles teased, but his eyes softened. He set the papers down. “You’re worried about the trip.”

“It’s not the trip,” Erik whispered. “It’s leaving you.”

Charles reached up, resting trembling fingers against Erik’s cheek. The oxygen tubing brushed the back of his hand. “I’m stronger now. I can walk. I can breathe. I can call for help if I need it. You’ve stayed by my side every day for three months. You deserve three days to tend to your company.”

Erik kissed his palm. “I’m still not sure I deserve you.”

“You do,” Charles whispered.

The next morning, Erik packed carefully—tablets, documents, suits, and a photograph of Charles wearing his nasal cannula but smiling so radiantly that the tubing might as well have been a strand of light.

Charles walked him to the foyer, oxygen unit humming quietly behind him. Stairs were still difficult, but he descended slowly, one hand on the banister and one on Erik’s arm.

When they reached the door, Erik adjusted the cannula gently behind Charles’s ear. “You’ll call me if anything feels strange?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll rest?”

“Yes.”

“And the maids know how to check your oxygen levels—”

“Erik.” Charles cupped his face with both hands. “I promise.”

Erik finally kissed him—deep, lingering, almost desperate.

Charles watched from the doorway as Erik’s private jet waited beyond the drive, engines low and ready. When Erik stepped through the mansion gates, Charles lifted a hand in farewell, the tubing of his cannula glinting softly in the morning light.

The moment Erik’s silhouette disappeared, the mansion felt too large, too quiet.

But Charles inhaled slowly through his cannula—a soft, supported breath—and squared his shoulders.

Three days.

He could endure three days.

The house settled into an unusual hush after Erik’s departure—too quiet, too still, as though it were holding its breath with Charles. He remained near the doorway for a long moment after Erik’s form vanished from view, one hand resting over the soft tubing of his nasal cannula as if to ground himself. Only when the sound of the car engines faded into silence did he finally turn back inside.

He returned to the sunroom slowly, leaning into the deliberate rhythm of his breathing. Being alone was no longer frightening, but it wasn’t yet comfortable either. Three months ago, solitude had been unthinkable. He couldn’t sit upright for more than minutes; couldn’t breathe without oxygen masks and monitors; couldn’t move his legs at all. Standing felt like rebirth. Walking felt like defiance. But the cannula always reminded him: he was better, but not whole.

The staff greeted him gently as he passed—some with smiles, some with subtle worry—but Charles waved them off with reassuring ease. His portable oxygen unit hummed softly against the floor as he set it beside his desk and opened his laptop for his first Zoom meeting of the day.

By the time his research team appeared on the screen, Charles had settled into his professor persona—calm, articulate, soft-spoken yet steady. Raven, his teaching assistant, beamed when she saw him.

“Professor, you look so much better!” she gasped. “And working again too soon, aren’t you?”

Charles smiled faintly, the cannula shifting slightly with the motion. “Only part-time. Don’t worry—Jean has already scolded me for trying too much.”

Hank leaned in from another window. “We’ve missed your guidance. The genetics conference is approaching, and… well, everything feels a little strange without you.”

“It feels strange not being with all of you,” Charles admitted softly. “But I’m catching up. Slowly.”

They discussed research updates, project deadlines, shifts in student presentations. Charles guided them with gentle precision, occasionally pausing to catch his breath when his chest tightened too subtly to ignore. No one commented; they all saw the tubing, the faint fog on his lenses when he exhaled too deeply. They knew. Yet they followed his pace with patience and care.

After the call ended, Charles leaned back in his chair, massaging the inside of his left leg. The nerve ache flared off and on—an echo of the seizures that had ravaged him in the ICU. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t alarming. But it was something he tried to hide from Erik, to spare him more worry than he already carried.

A soft alarm chimed on the oxygen unit, reminding him to take a short rest. He transferred from the desk to the long sofa, lying on his side so he could stretch without straining his lungs. His breaths remained steady, though he could feel an exhaustion he hadn’t expected pressing into his limbs.

The rest of the day passed in quiet cycles—reading student submissions, adjusting syllabi, watering the small indoor plants the staff kept near the windows. He managed a short video call with Erik later that evening, their screens lighting up like small stars in the dim room. Erik looked tired but determined, suit immaculate, hair slightly out of place in a way Charles adored.

“Hello, my heart,” Erik greeted softly.

Charles felt warmth bloom purely from the sound of his voice. “How’s Singapore?”

“Hot,” Erik chuckled. “Let me see you properly.”

Charles tilted his camera slightly, revealing his seated position, the smooth line of his cannula resting under his nose. Erik’s expression softened instantly.

“You look… beautiful,” he whispered.

Charles flushed. “You’re biased.”

“Always,” Erik replied. “Did you rest today?”

“Most of it,” Charles lied gently.

Erik’s eyes narrowed—the kind of loving suspicion Charles could never fully dodge—but he let it pass. “I’ll call you again later. Sleep well for me.”

“I will,” Charles said. “And you too.”

Ond ay two, the morning sun warmed the pale curtains and painted a delicate glow across the bedroom floor. Charles rose slowly, stretching his left leg with deliberate care before transferring to his feet. The limp was more noticeable today, but manageable. He cleaned up, adjusted the cannula, then made his way downstairs with the help of the handrail.

He spent the morning reviewing lesson plans and answering emails. A second Zoom meeting filled the late morning, his team animatedly discussing an upcoming publication deadline. Charles responded thoughtfully, though his fingers tapped the edge of his desk nervously, something he didn’t usually do. It wasn’t until after lunch that he noticed it.

A faint tremor in his left hand.

Barely visible at first—just a small quiver when he lifted his teacup. Charles frowned, thinking he’d imagined it. He set the cup down, took a slow inhale through the cannula, then tried again.

There it was.

A subtle, rhythmic shaking. Not violent. Not painful. Not even alarming-just unexpected. His heart fluttered. He made himself breathe, slow, steady, counting the seconds as he’d been taught during respiratory therapy.

This isn’t a relapse, he told himself. Muscles tremble. Nerves misfire. Fatigue accumulates.

Still… he picked up his phone.

He didn’t want to frighten Erik. He didn’t want to distract him from his responsibilities or plant fear where there should be trust. But Jean—calm, grounded, medical Jean—would know if it meant anything.

He dialed her number.

“Charles?” Jean answered immediately, voice warm and alert.

“I—just noticed something I’d like you to check,” Charles murmured. “My left hand is trembling slightly.”

“What kind of tremor?” she asked gently.

“Fine. Rhythmic. No pain.”

“Are you short of breath?”

“No. Oxygen flow is steady.” He inhaled to show her, the cannula pressing lightly into his skin. “Just the tremor.”

Jean exhaled, thinking. “It could be fatigue from rehabilitation, or residual nerve involvement. I’ll drop by this evening.”

“Thank you,” Charles whispered.

“Have you told Erik?”

Charles closed his eyes. “No. Not yet. He’s in the middle of crucial meetings, and I don’t want to worry him unless it becomes something… meaningful.”

Jean hesitated. “…Alright. I’ll evaluate you first. If it’s nothing, no need to alarm him.”

Charles nodded gently, even though she couldn’t see him. “Yes. That seems best.”

When he hung up, Charles sat quietly on the sofa, hands folded in his lap, watching the sunlight glint faintly off the oxygen tubing. The sheen of daylight wavered slightly with the tremor in his hand. It wasn’t severe. It wasn’t dangerous.

But it was new.

And it made him feel suddenly, achingly fragile again.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Erik would be home tomorrow evening. Just one more day. One more night. One more stretch of time to navigate alone.

Charles rested his hand over the cannula, feeling the gentle flow of air beneath his fingers—his reminder, his anchor, his tether.

He would be alright.

He would.

Chapter Text

Jean left the mansion just as the sky was shifting into a muted violet, her expression still carrying that tightness she tried to hide whenever her concern for Charles grew heavier than her optimism. Charles remained in the living room, the soft hum of the oxygen concentrator filling the quiet between him and the fading evening. The nasal cannula rested gently across his cheeks, prongs steady in place, delivering each small flow of air he seemed to need more and more whenever fatigue began to creep along his limbs.

He watched the door close behind her, fingers trembling slightly against the blanket draped over his lap. Tremor—Jean had said the word carefully, clinically, yet it echoed in his mind with an edge he couldn’t quite ignore. She had mentioned the possibility of seizure activity, suggested—politely but firmly—that he allow her to arrange immediate admission for monitoring. He had nodded, promised to consider it, and accepted the newly added medication she had prescribed. The pill still seemed to sit like a heavy thought on his tongue even though he had swallowed it an hour earlier.

But he didn’t want to go in without telling Erik first. Not after everything. Not after how hard Erik had worked to trust that things were finally stabilizing.

“Just wait,” Charles murmured to himself, rubbing his hands together as if warmth could calm the tiny, involuntary fluttering in his fingers. “Just until he’s home.”

The maids hovered discreetly nearby, each one trying not to look as worried as they felt. The night-duty nurse stood by with the quiet authority that only years of calm crises could teach, occasionally glancing at Charles’s oxygen saturation monitor. The numbers were acceptable—but only just. And all of them could see the exhaustion settling into his shoulders, the paleness beneath his already soft complexion.

When dinner was served—a mild vegetable broth and a small serving of soft fish—it felt more like a ritual of reassurance than a meal. Charles ate slowly, partly from fatigue and partly because he was waiting for his phone to ring with that familiar chime.

It finally did.

Erik’s face filled the screen, slightly backlit by the airport terminal around him. The background flickered with movement—passengers passing by, announcements muffled by distance, the faint sleek shape of his private jet visible through the window. He looked tired in the way only travel could make him, yet there was warmth in his eyes the moment he saw his husband.

“There you are,” Erik said, his voice rich, grounding. “I was about to call again. Did you rest this afternoon?”

Charles smiled, small but real. “I did. A little too long, perhaps. I woke to find half the household arguing about whether to wake me.”

“They did the right thing not waking you,” Erik teased gently. “You always look like a dragon when someone disturbs your sleep.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” Erik insisted, leaning closer to the camera. “A very regal dragon, of course.”

Charles laughed—soft, warm—and the maids visibly relaxed at the sound. Even the nurse allowed herself a tiny smile before stepping discreetly aside to give them space.

“Are you boarding soon?” Charles asked, lifting another spoonful of broth.

“In a few minutes,” Erik said. “Weather’s clear, so it should be a smooth flight. And I’ll be home by morning.” His voice lowered into that more intimate, protective timbre. “How are you feeling? Breathing alright?”

Charles inhaled carefully, letting the oxygen flow cool and steady through the cannula. “A little tired. But alright. Just a long day.”

Erik studied his face through the screen with that quiet, precise attention that always made Charles feel exposed and loved at once. “You promise to tell me if anything feels off?”

“I promise,” Charles said, even though he was still holding the tremor close like a secret he wasn’t ready to unwrap.

He took another small sip of his broth—and suddenly paused as a tiny cough escaped him, gentle but persistent. He tried to wave it off, but the second cough was harsher, catching in his throat and forcing him to set his spoon down.

Erik’s face sharpened immediately. “Charles?”

“It’s alright,” Charles managed, but the third cough disrupted his breath enough that he leaned back slightly, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

The maids were instantly at his side, one steadying his shoulder, another reaching for the tissue box. The nurse moved swiftly, adjusting the oxygen flow with practiced hands, gently repositioning the cannula to ensure optimal airflow.

Erik’s voice came through the speaker, tense and low. “Breathe through it, love. Slow. Are they adjusting your oxygen?”

“Yes, sir,” the nurse answered from offscreen, raising her voice just enough for him to hear. “He’s okay. Just a brief spasm.”

Charles blinked until the air steadied again, until his breaths found their rhythm with the help of the soft, cool oxygen. When he finally opened his eyes, Erik was watching him with open worry, jaw tight, expression straining between the instinct to run to him and the reality of being thousands of miles away.

Charles lifted a hand to the camera, smiling faintly. “See? Already better.”

Erik let out a breath he had been holding. “You are testing my heart, Professor.”

“And yet,” Charles whispered with fondness, “you still love me.”

“More than anything,” Erik said quietly. “More than I can say from an airport terminal.”

The nurse finished her adjustments and stepped back, satisfied. The coughing subsided. The oxygen hissed gently. The moment passed, leaving a fragile calm in its wake.

“Eat a little more if you can,” Erik said softly. “And then rest. I’ll call you again once I’m on the jet.”

Charles nodded, though the tremor in his hand reminded him he had one more truth to share—tomorrow, when Erik was home, when he could say it face to face.

Erik remained sitting in the quiet corner of the terminal long after the call ended, the screen of his phone now dark but still cradled in his hand as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile connection he had just shared with Charles. The lingering image of his husband—the slight pallor to his skin, the way his shoulders had curled inward during that brief coughing spell, the nurse leaning into view to adjust the oxygen—kept replaying in his mind with a weight that settled straight into his chest.

He exhaled slowly, fingers pressing against his forehead. Two days. He had only been gone two days. And Charles had looked stable this morning, tired but bright, even teasing him about forgetting his cufflinks. Yet now… that subtle strain in his breathing, the way his smile wavered around the edges, the quiet exhaustion that couldn’t be hidden no matter how gracefully Charles tried—it all gnawed at him.

He tucked the phone away and stood, his posture straightening automatically as a few executives at nearby seats recognized him. A polite nod was all he could muster. His mind was already half back at the mansion, calculating how long it would take to cut the trip short, considering if he could justify turning the plane around even before takeoff.

But he forced himself to breathe, slow and measured. Jean had said Charles was stable enough. The nurse had answered calmly. And Charles—sweet, stubborn Charles—had given him that small, reassuring smile even while struggling to catch his breath.

The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal, but Erik didn’t move immediately. Instead, he stared out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sleek metallic curve of his private jet. The engines were already warming, a faint shimmer rising from the tarmac. He should be thinking about the contracts waiting for him, the meetings scheduled for the morning. Instead, all he could think of was the tremor he had glimpsed earlier in Charles’s fingers—too subtle for anyone else to catch, but not for him. Not for the man who had memorized the smallest nuances of his husband’s body and breath.

He clenched his jaw and started toward the gate.

As the flight attendant greeted him at the jet’s steps, Erik paused once more, pulling out his phone and opening the security feed connected to the mansion’s medical wing. It gave him a muted view: Charles finishing his dinner, the maids tidying up, the nurse checking the oxygen concentrator once more. Charles rubbed his forehead, tired but trying not to show it, letting them fuss around him with a gentle patience that always broke Erik’s heart.

He wasn’t supposed to watch the feeds like this. Charles didn’t mind—had even encouraged it when Erik traveled—but it still felt like crossing some invisible boundary. Yet Erik couldn’t bring himself to look away.

Not tonight.

He boarded the jet, the door sealing shut behind him with a soft pressurized thump. The cabin lights dimmed, and he sank into the leather seat. The hum of the engines deepened as the jet prepared to taxi.

Almost home, he told himself. Just one more night. One more.

But his chest tightened again as he remembered the moment Charles had coughed. The way his entire body had seemed to jolt forward, caught unprepared. The anxiety in the maids’ eyes as they reached for him. The nurse’s clinical alertness as she adjusted the oxygen, her movements calm but just brisk enough to betray her concern.

Erik inhaled through his nose, grounding himself. Charles had smiled afterward. He had lifted his hand and teased him gently, warm as always. He had even taken another tiny sip of broth, fragile but attempting normalcy. That counted for something. Charles was fighting. Healing slowly. Stronger than he looked.

Still, Erik hated that he hadn’t been there.

The jet began to move, and Erik leaned back, closing his eyes as he replayed the last image of Charles before the screen went black—eyes tired but shining, breathing steady but shallow through the nasal cannula, whispering, “See? Already better.”

Better wasn’t good enough. Not anymore.

A vibration from his phone. A message from the nurse:
“He’s resting now. Vitals stable. Oxygen increased slightly per protocol. Will update if anything changes.”

Erik typed back:
“Thank you. Keep me informed immediately.”

As the jet prepared for takeoff, Erik stared out into the night. He would finish this trip—barely—but the moment he landed tomorrow, he would go straight home. Straight to Charles. Straight to the truth behind that tremor and whatever else his husband had been hiding behind brave smiles and gentle assurances.

No more distance. No more waiting.

By the time the jet touched down at the private strip near the mansion, dawn was still only a suggestion on the horizon—thin, gray, reluctant. Erik barely waited for the steps to lock in place before descending; his driver scrambled to keep up. The world outside smelled faintly of wet soil and early morning air, but Erik hardly noticed anything beyond the singular pull dragging him home.

Inside the mansion, the staff were already awake, lights low and soft in deference to the hour. A maid bowed deeply, whispering a greeting, but Erik’s voice was quiet, clipped.

“Where is he?”

“In the east lounge, sir. He fell asleep waiting for you.”

That small, simple sentence carved something deep and painful inside him—the image of Charles staying awake far longer than his body could tolerate, eyes searching for him even while fighting tremors and nausea.

Erik walked through the hallway with controlled urgency, every step echoing louder in his chest than on the marble floor. When he reached the lounge, he stopped in the doorway, breath catching at the sight before him.

Charles was asleep on the long sofa, curled slightly to one side. His glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose, threatening to fall off entirely. The iPad was still on his lap, half tilted, displaying a student’s paper filled with annotations—Charles’s soft, meticulous handwriting and highlighted lines. A stylus rested loosely in his fingers, as if he had fallen asleep mid-comment.

The nasal cannula framed his face, the thin tubing catching the gentle glow of the lamp beside him. His breathing was light, shallow but steady, the faint rise and fall of his chest almost too subtle for Erik’s anxious eyes.

Erik approached quietly, lowering himself onto the edge of the sofa. For a moment, he simply looked. At the slight shadows beneath Charles’s eyes. At the hollowed cheeks that were beginning—barely—to regain a hint of fullness. At the way his hand twitched faintly with residual tremors even in sleep.

He reached out, brushing fingertips across Charles’s forehead. Warm, but not feverish. Exhausted, clearly—Erik could see that before touching him at all.

“Charles,” he whispered.

His husband stirred, lashes fluttering. When his eyes opened, they were hazy at first, then brightening with recognition and something so soft that Erik felt his heart twist painfully.

“You’re… back,” Charles breathed, voice a whisper carved from sleep and fatigue.

“I’m here,” Erik murmured, cupping his cheek. “I came straight home.”

Instead of replying, Charles lifted one hand, the movement slow and slightly shaky, letting his fingers rest on Erik’s shirt as if confirming he was real. Erik leaned down and pressed their foreheads together, breathing in the faint scent of Charles’s shampoo, the sterile undertone of oxygen, and the quiet warmth of home finally restored.

They sat like that for several minutes—no words, just closeness. Eventually, Erik eased the iPad from Charles’s lap, pushed his glasses up properly, and helped him sit up.

“Have you eaten this morning?” Erik asked quietly.

“Not yet.” Charles smiled weakly. “Was waiting for you.”

The maids moved silently to prepare lunch—a simple meal, physician-approved and gentle enough for Charles’s unpredictable stomach. They ate together at the small breakfast table, sunlight now creeping through the tall windows. Charles took tiny bites, pausing often, sometimes closing his eyes as if bracing against waves of nausea. Erik watched him closely but didn’t push—only offering encouragement and adjusting the pillows behind Charles’s back when he slumped from fatigue.

Halfway through, Charles coughed lightly, hand moving automatically to steady the cannula. Erik’s chair scraped back immediately, but Charles touched his arm.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, though his lips trembled faintly. “Just tired.”

Erik didn’t sit down until he was sure the coughing had passed.

When they finished, Erik slid an arm carefully beneath Charles’s knees and another around his back. Charles didn’t protest; he simply rested his head against Erik’s shoulder, breath warming the side of his neck in soft, uneven puffs.

“You don’t have to carry me,” he murmured sleepily.

“I want to,” Erik whispered back.

He carried Charles through the quiet halls to their bedroom—the large, sunlit room that had once felt like a sanctuary but now carried memories of fevers, panic, and whispered prayers. Today, though, the light seemed gentler, as if acknowledging Charles’s slow climb back from the edge.

Erik lowered him carefully onto the bed, adjusting the pillows, smoothing the blanket, and ensuring the nasal cannula tubing didn’t tangle. Charles sank into the mattress with a soft sigh, his eyes already heavy with fatigue.

Just as Erik was pulling the blanket up, he noticed a small white paper bag on the bedside table—Jean’s handwriting scrawled across the front.

New prescriptions.

Erik picked up one of the bottles, reading the label: seizure prophylaxis. Then another—anti-nausea medication. Another—something to regulate neurological tremors. The words blurred for a moment, and he had to blink hard to steady himself.

Jean hadn’t mentioned all of this. Not the full list. Not the weight of it.

Erik swallowed, placing the bottles back with deliberate care.

Charles watched him through half-open eyes. “Jean… adjusted things,” he murmured. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?” Erik asked softly, though he already knew the answer.

Charles hesitated, then whispered, “Another… episode.”

Erik sat beside him, brushing a hand through his hair. “I won’t let that happen,” he said, but his voice wavered, because he knew some things were beyond even his power.

Charles gave a tired smile—loving, understanding, unbearably gentle. “You always try.”

Erik leaned down, kissing his forehead, breathing in the warm, fragile presence of the man he adored. When he pulled back, Charles had already drifted back into sleep, his features soft, peaceful for now.

Chapter Text

Night had settled thickly over the mansion, a velvet quiet filling every hallway and corner. The world outside the tall windows was dark and still, save for the occasional rustle of wind brushing the trees. Inside the bedroom, only the soft glow of the bedside lamp remained, casting a halo of warm light across the sheets, the pillows, and the fragile figure resting within them.

Charles lay on his side, curled slightly, his breathing steady but faint beneath the constant whisper of the oxygen flow. The nasal cannula gleamed pale against his skin, rising and falling in rhythm with each shallow inhale. Erik had arranged him this way after lunch, fussing with pillows until Charles murmured that he was comfortable. The new medication had made him drowsy, but in a way that had seemed peaceful, not troubling. And after the long, draining day, even Erik admitted he needed rest.

Now he slept beside his husband, one arm draped protectively across the space between them, his hand resting near Charles’s hip as if even in slumber he refused to drift far. After two nights away, exhaustion had collapsed over him in a single heavy wave. By the time the clock passed midnight, he was silent, breathing deep, utterly unaware of the storm about to break.

It began so quietly he didn’t stir. Charles’s fingers twitched once—small, almost imperceptible. Then his foot jerked, not violently but unnaturally. His breathing hitched, then quickened. The sheet shifted as his legs drew tight, his body tensing as though reacting to pain he couldn’t voice.

And then, without warning, his back began to arch.

At first only slightly, his shoulders lifting off the mattress, a faint strain tightening the muscles across his spine. A soft, strangled sound escaped his lips—less a cry, more a breath caught on the edge of panic. The nasal cannula tugged a little as his head tilted back, jaw tightening. His hands clenched at the sheets, fingers curling, knuckles turning pale.

Erik didn’t wake. Not yet. His sleep was heavy, dragging him down like stone.

Charles’s body tightened further, the arch deepening, his breath coming fast and uneven. His limbs shook in small, stuttering tremors, the kind that hinted at something building—something frightening and unstoppable. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and vacant, as if he were seeing something far beyond the room.

For a moment he tried to breathe through it, chest heaving, but the seizure pulled him deeper, bending him in an unnatural bow. His lips parted soundlessly, a silent plea that never formed into words.

The shaking intensified.

And finally, the sound he made—barely a gasp—was enough.

Erik woke instantly.

His eyes snapped open, the instinct of someone who had learned to sleep lightly around fragility. It took a single heartbeat for confusion to clear, replaced with fear so sharp it almost winded him.

“Charles—?”

Then he saw.

His husband’s body was taut, trembling, back arched off the bed, head tilted awkwardly. The tremors rippled down his arms, his legs stiffening, toes straining against the sheets. His breathing faltered—quick, uneven, panicked.

“Charles! Charles, I’m here—”

Erik scrambled upright, reaching immediately but carefully. His hands hovered for a second—fear battling instinct—before he moved with the fragile precision he had been taught over and over again these past months. He eased a pillow away, freed the space around Charles, shifted him gently so he wouldn’t strain his neck. He whispered reassurances even though Charles couldn’t hear them, voice breaking with each word.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you… you’re safe… stay with me, love…”

He slid one hand beneath Charles’s shoulder, using the other to tilt his head just enough to help him breathe easier. The tremors continued—sharp, frightening—but Erik positioned him slowly, carefully, making sure he didn’t roll too far or strain against the bedding. His own heart hammered so fast he felt dizzy, but he forced steady breaths into his lungs.

The seizure pulsed through Charles like a wave that refused to recede. His back arched again, hard enough for Erik to flinch at the tension beneath his fingertips. His breathing stuttered. A soft cry escaped him, broken and frightened, and that sound nearly shattered Erik entirely.

“Shh, I’m here—just hold on—just hold on for me,” Erik murmured.

Minutes stretched like hours. The tremors began to slow, then spike again, unpredictable and cruel. Erik lifted Charles a little, adjusting him into a safer, softer position, his hands trembling as he tried to steady the man he loved more than anything in the world.

When the worst of it finally began to ebb, Charles sagged against the pillow, his body still twitching faintly in residual aftershocks. His breath was uneven, sharp pulls of air that made the cannula shift with each inhale. His eyes opened halfway—dazed, glassy, completely lost.

“E… rik…?” The whisper was barely a sound, ghostlike.

“Yes. Yes, I’m here.” Erik’s voice cracked. “I’m right here.”

Charles blinked slowly, confusion clouding every line of his face. His lips quivered, and for a moment he seemed on the verge of tears without fully understanding why. His fingers twitched toward Erik weakly, as if reaching for a familiar anchor in a world he couldn’t fully grasp.

Erik caught that trembling hand immediately, pressing it against his chest.

“You’re safe,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re alright. Just breathe, Charles. I’ve got you.”

Charles made a small, pained sound and closed his eyes. Not unconscious—just overwhelmed, exhausted, drifting somewhere between awareness and fog. His breath hitched again, but the shaking gradually lessened.

Erik stayed close—so close their foreheads almost touched. He brushed sweat-damp hair from Charles’s cheek with shaking fingers. His own throat burned; tears pricked his eyes but didn’t fall. Not yet. He needed to be steady. For Charles.

After several long minutes, Charles’s breathing settled into something soft, fragile, but no longer panicked. His body slackened fully, the tension easing at last.

Erik exhaled shakily for the first time.

He adjusted the blanket over Charles’s shoulders, checked the oxygen tubing with trembling hands, and whispered over and over:

“I’m here. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

When Charles finally drifted into an exhausted, hazy sleep, Erik didn’t move from his side. He stayed awake the rest of the night, watching every breath, every faint twitch, terrified to close his eyes again.

And in the pale wash of dawn, he brushed his thumb over Charles’s knuckles and whispered the words he never allowed himself to say out loud:

“I’m so scared of losing you.”

Morning arrived as a gentle gray hush, the kind that eased slowly through the tall bedroom windows rather than bursting in with light. The sky outside looked muted, washed in pale colors that softened the edges of the world. Erik had not slept—his eyes were red-rimmed, shoulders tight, movements sharp and careful as he adjusted the blanket around Charles for the fifth time.

He remained seated at the edge of the bed, one hand always resting somewhere on Charles: a shoulder, a wrist, a forearm. Something he could touch, something that told him he’s here, he’s breathing, he’s with me.

Charles stirred only once in the early hours, a faint tremor traveling through him, not the violent spike of the night but a tired echo of it. Erik leaned in instantly, whispering his name until the tension faded again. Only when he was sure the aftershocks had quieted did he let himself breathe again.

It wasn’t until nearly nine that Charles’s eyes finally opened, slow, unfocused, blinking as though trying to find his way back into his own body.

“Charles?” Erik murmured immediately, leaning forward. “Hey. I’m right here.”

Charles blinked again, pupils adjusting to the light. There was a moment—a terrifying, endless heartbeat—where he seemed lost. Then his gaze found Erik, hazy but present.

“Morning…” Charles breathed, voice thin and raspy.

His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. The seizure had drained him completely; it showed in every line of his face, the paleness of his skin, the slight tremble in his fingers. Even his breathing seemed softer than usual, more delicate as the oxygen tubing curved across his cheeks.

Erik cupped his cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath the eye that still carried shadows of the night.

“How do you feel?” he asked softly.

Charles tried to answer, but only a small exhale came out before he shook his head in a tiny, defeated motion. Even that seemed to cost him energy.

“That’s alright,” Erik whispered. “You don’t have to talk.”

He helped Charles shift upward, slowly, carefully, adjusting pillows behind him until he was sitting reclined but supported. Charles made a faint sound—half-effort, half discomfort—but didn’t resist. Weak as he was, he leaned into Erik’s touch with absolute trust.

A maid knocked quietly and entered with a small tray: oatmeal softened almost to liquid, warm tea, and a glass of water. Erik dismissed her with a nod, then settled back onto the bed beside his husband.

Charles looked at the tray with a mixture of exhaustion and resignation. “I… don’t think… I can…”

“You don’t have to lift anything,” Erik said gently, taking the spoon. “Just open your mouth when you’re ready.”

The first spoonful was tiny, carefully cooled. Charles hesitated, then parted his lips slightly. Erik fed him slowly, pausing whenever Charles stopped breathing evenly or drifted into brief spells of foggy confusion. Between bites, Charles leaned against the pillows as though the effort of swallowing alone drained him.

The cannula tubing fluttered lightly each time he exhaled. His hands shook faintly under the blanket. His voice, when he managed a quiet “thank you,” was barely audible.

Erik forced a soft smile, even though his chest ached. “You don’t thank me for feeding you,” he whispered, brushing a stray curl off Charles’s forehead. “You never have to.”

They moved slowly through the meal. Halfway through, Charles’s eyes drooped heavily, and Erik touched his arm.

“Do you need to rest?”

“No…” Charles murmured, though the word slurred slightly. “Jean… coming?”

“She will,” Erik said, trying to hide the worry tightening his throat. “I called her the moment the sun came up. She’s on her way.”

Charles exhaled softly, a mix of relief and dread passing through him. His breathing hitched once before settling again into the shallow rhythm he had lived with for months now. When the oatmeal was finished—half of it, at least—Erik wiped the corner of his lips gently with a warm cloth.

“You did well,” he murmured.

But Charles didn’t answer; he simply leaned sideways until his forehead rested lightly against Erik’s shoulder. Erik wrapped an arm around him protectively, hand resting over Charles’s heart, counting each fragile beat.

The hours crept by quietly. Erik stayed beside him, checking his breathing, smoothing his hair, whispering reassurances whenever Charles’s face tightened with discomfort or tremors flickered across his legs. The mansion was unusually still, as though the building itself sensed the fragility in the room and dared not disturb it.

The knock on the door came late morning—firm, urgent, unmistakable.

Jean.

Erik stood immediately, careful not to jostle Charles as he slipped from the bed. He opened the door before the maid could reach it. Jean stepped in without waiting for permission, still in her loose black sweater and jeans from the early emergency call, stethoscope around her neck, medical bag over one shoulder.

Her expression was already tight.

“Where is he?” she asked.

Erik gestured toward the bed.

Jean’s face softened with worry the moment she saw Charles. She approached slowly, sitting on the opposite side from Erik so she wouldn’t startle him. Her voice lowered into the tone she used only with patients she loved as family.

“Charles… sweetheart, can you look at me?”

Charles lifted his gaze with clear effort. His eyelids trembled, but he managed a faint nod.

“Rough night?” Jean asked, though her eyes already tracked the clues: the exhaustion, the tremors, the way Charles leaned heavily into the pillows as though every muscle in his body ached.

“He had a seizure around three,” Erik said quietly. “A full one. It lasted longer than any previous episode.”

Jean inhaled slowly, steadying herself. “Did he hit anything? Lose consciousness? Was his breathing obstructed?”

“He… arched,” Erik said, voice tightening at the memory. “I positioned him carefully. He didn’t fall. But he was terrified. And afterward he could barely speak.”

Jean reached out, placing a gentle hand on Charles’s forearm. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”

Charles’s lips moved faintly, but no sound followed.

Jean began her assessment with tender precision. No harsh lights, no abrupt motions. She checked his pulse, his breathing pattern, the tension in his muscles, the lingering tremors in his fingers. She examined his eyes slowly, tilting his chin with a soft touch.

“Well,” she murmured gently after a long moment, “I am relieved about one thing.”

Erik’s heart seized. “What?”

Jean looked between them—first at Charles with a small, encouraging smile, then at Erik.

“He’s gained weight. Not much, but enough to make a difference. His cheeks are less hollow. His arms have slightly more tone. It’s slow, but it’s happening.”

Erik exhaled shakily, part relief, part fear.

“But the seizure?” he asked quietly.

Jean’s expression turned serious again. “The medication helps, but the brain takes time to recalibrate after such a long illness. It’s not unexpected, given his history in the ICU. But…”

She brushed her thumb comfortingly against Charles’s wrist.

“I need to adjust his doses again. And I want him resting for the next several days. No stress. No overexertion. He’s still very weak, Erik.”

Charles lowered his gaze, accepting the truth even as it dimmed something inside him.

Jean leaned closer, softening her tone. “But you’re recovering. It’s just a slow climb. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Charles blinked as if fighting tears, then whispered the smallest, rasped “okay.”

Erik took his hand immediately, squeezing it with a tenderness that made Jean briefly look away to give them privacy.

When she stood, she placed the new prescription bottle on the bedside table, then rested a hand lightly on Erik’s shoulder.

“Call me if anything scares you,” she said quietly. “Any time. Day or night.”

Erik nodded, his throat too tight for words.

Jean gave Charles one last gentle smile, then left the room as quietly as she had arrived, closing the door softly behind her.

The moment she was gone, Erik sat back down beside his husband, taking Charles carefully into his arms. The morning sun warmed the blankets but not the ache in his chest.

Charles leaned against him with a soft, weary sigh, his fingers curling weakly into Erik’s shirt.

“I’m here,” Erik whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He pressed a kiss into Charles’s hair as the man he loved drifted back into fragile sleep, the oxygen tubing rising and falling with each delicate breath.

And Erik held him as though the world would crumble if he let go.

The nightmare gripped Charles with such startling force that it ripped him out of sleep like a drowning man breaking the surface. In the dream he was submerged—water closing over him, cold and heavy, pulling him downward in a panic he couldn’t fight. His hands clawed at nothing, lungs burning, the world dimming. Somewhere above the surface he could hear Erik calling his name, but in the dream the voice sounded distant and warped, like a memory slipping away.

“Erik—Erik—help—” Charles’ voice escaped as a strangled gasp, and his hands reached blindly for someone who wasn’t there.

Beside him, Erik jolted awake instantly. He’d learned to read even the smallest sound from Charles, but this—this broken plea—made his heart lurch painfully. He reached for his husband, palms sliding gently along Charles’ trembling shoulders.

“Charles, love—hey, hey, I’m here,” Erik murmured urgently, trying to guide Charles back into the room, back into reality, back into safety.

But Charles was still lost somewhere underwater, breath hitching in uneven pulls, his chest rising fast, too fast. His fingers clung to Erik’s wrist with startling strength, as if afraid Erik might disappear if he blinked.

“Please—don’t let me—” Charles choked, words dissolving into a sob as he finally wrenched his eyes open. For a moment he didn’t recognize the bedroom, or Erik, or even himself. Only fear.

Erik cupped his face gently. “It’s a nightmare, my heart. Just a nightmare. You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

Charles blinked rapidly, eyes glassy with confusion before they flooded. Reality returned in fragments—the warmth of the lamp, the soft weight of blankets, the quiet hum of the oxygen concentrator in the corner. His breathing stayed frantic, too shallow, too tight.

“I c-c-couldn’t breathe,” Charles whispered, voice trembling as tears dripped over Erik’s fingers. “I was sinking. I kept trying to get back up. I couldn’t—” His words dissolved into a sob so raw it made Erik’s throat tighten.

“I’ve got you,” Erik whispered, pulling Charles close until the professor leaned heavily against his chest. “You’re here. You’re not sinking. I won’t let anything take you from me.”

For a few moments Charles let himself cry openly—quiet, shaking sobs he didn’t have the strength to suppress. Erik held him carefully, stroking slow circles between his shoulder blades, mindful of every vulnerable place on his husband’s fragile frame.

The crying only made his breathing worse. Charles was inhaling in short, tight gasps, his chest straining, every muscle taut. Erik felt it immediately—the familiar rise of an asthma flare, triggered by panic and exhaustion.

“Alright, love, slow breaths,” he coaxed softly. “In through your nose—no rush.”

But Charles shook his head, breath wheezing faintly, eyes wide as the tightness climbed higher.

Erik reached over to the bedside table with one hand, keeping the other firm around his trembling husband. He grabbed the ready oxygen mask—set aside precisely for moments like this—and slid it gently over Charles’ nose and mouth.

“There we go,” he murmured, adjusting the strap so it sat comfortably. “Just breathe with it. Don’t fight it.”

A soft hiss filled the room as the oxygen flowed, and Charles clung to Erik’s shirt with both hands, pressing himself into the solid warmth of his husband as if anchoring himself there. His breaths were still uneven, but with the mask they stopped spiralling so wildly out of control.

Erik switched his hand to the back of Charles’ head, stroking damp strands of hair. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Charles closed his eyes tightly, trying to steady himself. He leaned his forehead against Erik’s chest, letting the rhythmic rise and fall guide him back to calmer breathing. The mask fogged lightly with each exhale. His body was still trembling, but the sharp edge of panic had begun to soften.

“Sorry,” Charles whispered after a long moment, voice muffled behind the mask.

Erik shook his head immediately. “No apologizing. Not for having nightmares. Not for breathing hard. Not for needing me.”

Charles looked up at him with eyes still rimmed red, but warmer now. He lifted a shaking hand and rested it on Erik’s chest. “I was afraid,” he whispered. “That when I called… you wouldn’t be there.”

The words pierced Erik more deeply than Charles could ever know.

He tightened his arms around him—not too tight, just enough to remind Charles he wasn’t alone. “I promised you,” he said softly, brushing his lips to Charles’ temple. “You call, and I come. Every time.”

Slowly, carefully, Charles settled against him, letting his breathing sync with the steady pulse beneath his ear. The oxygen mask kept its quiet rhythm, the machine humming softly like a heartbeat in the corner. Erik leaned back against the headboard, holding his husband securely as the last of the tremors faded.

Minutes passed. Maybe thirty. Maybe more. Erik didn’t care. Charles’ fingers loosened their grip on his shirt, hands relaxing at last, and his breathing steadied into a gentler pace—still thin, still fragile, but no longer desperate.

“Sleep, love,” Erik whispered when Charles’ eyes began to flutter again.

Charles attempted a faint shake of his head, lifting the mask slightly to murmur, “Don’t… leave.”

Erik guided the mask back gently. “I won’t. I’ll be right here. You sleep. I’ll watch.”

Only then did Charles let his eyes close fully, drifting back to sleep in the safety of his husband’s arms. Erik stayed awake long after, one hand stroking Charles’ forearm, the other gently holding the oxygen mask in place so it didn’t tug.

He watched the rise and fall of his husband’s chest, memorizing each breath, each soft exhale—as if by watching he could ward off every nightmare, every flare, every fear that dared follow Charles into the dark.

And for the rest of the night, Erik kept his promise.