Chapter Text
Harry didn't wake up abruptly. Consciousness came in waves. At first, there was only tightness. Then pressure. Then panic. I can't breathe. His body wanted to fight, but couldn't. Something was holding him down, something was forcing air into his lungs. His heart was racing.
"Harry." The voice cut through the fog. "Harry, listen to me."
Caitlin. His eyes opened slowly. The light was dim, blurry. He saw her face above him, tense, but calm.
"You're in the ICU," she said slowly, clearly. "You had a myasthenic crisis. You're on a ventilator. You're safe."
He tried to speak, but couldn't. The tube. Panic flared up again.
"No, no," she said immediately, placing her hand on his cheek. "Don't fight. Shhh... it's okay. I'm here with you." His eyes filled with tears. He felt them, but couldn't wipe them away. He was completely helpless.
Caitlin leaned closer. "It's okay," she said softly. "You'll be better soon." She smiled tentatively, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm here with you," she whispered. And for the first time in a long time, Harry let go.
The next few days were not linear. Harry's strength fluctuated cautiously, progressing, regressing, then standing still again. The breathing tube remained. Every time Harry was even remotely awake, he felt it. The alien presence in his body, the dependence. The utter powerlessness. His thoughts were clearer than his body, and that's precisely what made it so unbearable. He could think, calculate, understand, but not speak. Not even nod without his neck muscles aching. Caitlin was there. Almost always. She sat beside his bed, quietly reading aloud from medical articles, because she knew it helped him make sense of the world again. Sometimes she talked about trivial things: the coffee from the machine that tasted terrible. An argument between two junior doctors. A sunrise over the parking lot. Normality as an anchor.
On the fifth day, the inflammation markers dropped. Antibody titers showed a significant reduction under plasmapheresis. The ventilator was no longer working against him, but increasingly with him. The pressure support could be reduced step by step. His blood gases remained stable. Caitlin monitored every number, every curve. Vital capacity was increasing. Negative inspiratory force was sufficient. Protective reflexes were present. He was alert enough to understand instructions.
"We're going to try spontaneous breathing today," the intensivist explained calmly. "If he tolerates it well and the values remain stable, we can extubate."
Caitlin nodded, even though her stomach clenched. Harry was awake as she explained it to him. His eyes sought hers. She held his hand.
"You're breathing on your own," she said softly. "The machine is only providing minimal support. If you feel exhausted, tell us with your eyes."
He blinked once. Slowly. Concentratedly. The endotracheal tube was removed after he coughed forcefully enough on cue. The oxygen was now flowing through a mask with a gentle flow. His voice was initially nothing more than a hoarse rasp.
"Hi..." he managed to say with difficulty.
Caitlin laughed softly through her tears. "Hi."
"You look... tired..." He swallowed hard. "Were... you..."
She nodded and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I've been with you the whole time. I promised."
His eyes widened slightly. "No... I don't... deserve this..." Harry inhaled heavily. Speaking was becoming increasingly difficult for him.
"Shhh. Don't talk anymore. You need to rest." Caitlin gently placed her hand on his shoulder and softly wiped a tear from Harry's cheek. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'll stay with you. We'll talk when you're feeling better, okay? But for now, you need to rest some more."
Harry wanted to answer her, but he felt his eyelids grow heavier and he drifted off to sleep.
Harry didn't know what had woken him. Maybe it was the silence, or the faint burning deep in his chest, where breathing was usually second nature. He inhaled. Or tried to. The air only came halfway in. It got stuck.
Okay. Stay calm. Don't panic, because panicking makes everything worse.
"Harry?"
The voice was familiar. HR. Harry's gaze moved toward him. His brother sat slumped beside the bed, his shoulders hunched as if he were cold. Dark circles under his eyes. Guilt was etched on his face. Harry wanted to open his mouth. Wanted to say: I'm awake. Instead, there was a barely audible sound. An air leak.
HR froze. "Hey..." He leaned forward. "Are you okay?"
Harry wanted to nod. His head moved maybe a millimeter. His chest rose flat, frantically.
No. Not now.
He felt the weakness return - like an old enemy that had waited patiently. The muscles that had just been keeping him alive began to give way. Just like that. His fingers tried to close around the blanket. They couldn't.
HR saw it. His face changed instantly. "No," he said quietly. "Harry, no."
Harry swallowed. The gag reflex was delayed, weak. Saliva pooled, burning. His breathing quickened, became shallow.
"Breathe with me," HR said, now very close. "Slowly. In... out..."
Harry tried. His chest trembled. The air came and slipped away. The monitor began beeping faster.
"I'm sorry," he managed. The words cost him everything he had left. His voice was fragile, almost nonexistent.
HR shook his head in despair. "No. No, stop." His hands trembled as he took Harry's. "You mustn't apologize. Not for this."
Harry's eyes burned. Tears welled up because even crying took energy he no longer had. His chest was visibly working. His breaths were now just gasps. The exhaustion was overwhelming.
"Nurse!" HR called, her voice cracking. "Please! Anyone!"
The door opened. Footsteps. Voices.
"Breathing rate high."
"He's getting tired."
"Harry, can you hear me?"
Harry heard everything, but he couldn't do anything. A mask was placed back on him. Cold oxygen rushed in. A brief moment of relief, then that emptiness again. He began to cough, weakly, unsuccessfully. The coughing robbed him of what little he had left.
"He's having another myasthenic crisis," someone said calmly.
Harry's eyes searched for HR. Panic was in his eyes.
"I didn't mean to say that," HR blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. "I didn't mean it like that. I was angry and I was scared and I..." His voice broke. "Please. You can't leave now."
Harry wanted to tell him that he had heard him. That those words from the argument still hurt, but less than the thought of leaving HR like this. His lips moved. Not a sound. His breath caught briefly.
"You're my brother," HR whispered desperately. "And I love you. I love you, okay?"
Harry's vision began to blur.
"We need to intubate," someone said. "He's too exhausted."
No, Harry thought. I can go on. I want to go on.
But his body no longer responded. HR held his hand tighter, as if trying to tie him down. "I'm here," he repeated, like a mantra. "I'm here. I won't leave you alone."
The medication arrived. Warmth in his arm. Heaviness in his head. The fight slipped through his fingers. As the world slowly tilted, the last thing Harry registered was HR's broken and desperate voice.
The room smelled of disinfectant and cold plastic. Too clean. Too tidy for the chaos that had just been there. Harry lay motionless in bed. The tube was secured, the ventilator working steadily, almost soothingly. Every breath now came from outside. Alien. Mechanical. Uncompromising. HR was still standing in the same spot where they had left him.
"We're intubating now."
"You can wait here."
Then they had all left. Just like that. As if it were all over. HR stared at his brother's chest. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. Not Harry, but the machine. His hands hung uselessly at his sides. He had no idea what to do with them. Every movement felt wrong. Every stillness even more wrong.
"I'm sorry..." he whispered. The word faded instantly. The room swallowed it. Just as it had swallowed Harry.
HR moved closer to the bed. Slowly, as if afraid of triggering something. His knees trembled. Only now did he realize how much. Harry's face was relaxed. His eyes closed, his forehead smooth. As if everything were alright. As if he were asleep. HR knew better.
"You promised you'd always be there for me," he said softly. A bitter smile flickered across his face. "Remember?" He laughed briefly. Dryly. Hollowly. Then his voice broke. "I didn't believe you," he whispered. He reached for the edge of the bed as if he needed to hold on. His fingers were white with pressure. "And then I say something like that." His voice became hoarse. "That I wish you weren't my brother."
The words hung heavy in the air. Unspoken, but indelible. HR closed his eyes. His breathing was now rapid. "I said that to hurt you," he forced out. He leaned forward. His forehead almost touched Harry's hand, but he didn't dare touch it. As if he'd lost the right to. The ventilator hissed softly. Raising. Lowering.
"And now you’re lying here, on a ventilator," HR whispered. "And I’m standing here, unable to do anything. Absolutely nothing." His hands were visibly trembling now. Tears dripped onto the blanket, dark stains on sterile white. "I thought if I yelled at you, if I was tough, then… then…" He swallowed. "But this…" He gestured helplessly at the tube. "This isn’t fair."
HR sank into the chair beside the bed. His shoulders slumped forward as if the weight of the world had suddenly been placed upon him.
“I looked at you,” he whispered. “And you couldn’t even be angry anymore. You were just… tired.”
Hesitantly, he raised his hand and placed it gently on Harry’s forearm. “This is my fault,” he said softly. “Not the illness. Not the doctors. I should have been different.” The machine continued to breathe. Steadily. Relentlessly. HR leaned closer, his voice barely more than a whisper. “When you wake up again…” he began, then trailed off. He hardly dared to finish the sentence. He tried again. “When you wake up again, I’ll never say that again. I swear. No matter how angry I am. No matter how scared I am.” His forehead sank to the edge of the bed. “You can go if you have to,” he whispered. “But please… please don’t think I didn’t want you.”
The ventilator emitted a low alarm - harmless, routine. HR flinched, his heart in his throat. Then just the steady hiss again. Rise. Fall. He exhaled shakily. For the first time in a long time, he wept for his brother…
The alarm came without warning. A clinical, electronic tone that instantly changed everything in the room. HR jolted. His heart stumbled, as if it had made the same mistake as Harry's body.
"No," he murmured. "Please, no."
The monitor displayed shifting numbers. Oxygen saturation dropped. Slowly. Relentlessly. Rise. Fall. Then a more erratic hiss from the ventilator. The door opened. A nurse entered. Her gaze immediately swept over Harry's chest, the tubes, the endotracheal tube.
"He's collecting secretions," she said. "The muscle weakness makes coughing impossible."
HR took a step back as she prepared the suction catheter.
"Does this hurt him?" he asked hurriedly.
"He's sedated," she replied. "But it's stressful on his body."
Stressful. As if the word wasn't overused enough. The catheter disappeared into the endotracheal tube. The sound was disgusting - damp, deep, mechanical. HR's stomach clenched. He looked away. Then back again. Harry's chest jerked under the procedure. A reflex. No waking up. The oxygen saturation rose slightly. Not enough.
"We need an X-ray," the nurse said. "I'll get the doctor."
HR stayed behind. Again. He moved closer to the bed, speaking hurriedly, as if Harry could hear him. "Hey. Stay with me, okay? You've done this before."
But this time it didn't sound convincing. Not even to himself. The doctor came, looked at the monitors, the respiratory charts.
"Suspected aspiration pneumonia," he said finally. "He probably aspirated secretions or gastric juice before intubation."
HR swallowed hard. "Is this... serious?"
The doctor looked at him. "It's a serious complication. But treatable."
Treatable. Not harmless. Antibiotics kicked in. More oxygen. More settings. Harry's body reacted sluggishly, defiantly. His blood pressure dropped.
"He's sensitive," someone murmured. "People with myasthenia can react strongly to sedatives and infections."
HR heard the word infection and his stomach churned. "He's only been stable for a few days," he said quietly. Almost accusingly, but not directed at anyone in particular.
"Yes," the doctor replied. "And that's precisely why he's so exhausted now."
Harry's skin looked grayer than before. Sweat glistened on his forehead. HR reached for his hand. It was too warm.
"His fever is rising," the nurse said.
Of course, HR thought bitterly. Of course, one crisis isn't enough. He sat back down. His knees felt like jelly. "You promised you'd always stay with me," he whispered. "And I promised I'd stay. So... please."
Harry shifted slightly. Barely. His forehead creased, as if his body were fighting, even if his consciousness was stuck somewhere. The monitor beeped faster.
"He's getting restless," someone said. "Adjust the sedation."
HR shook his head. "No, please don't go any deeper," he blurted out. "He's afraid of..."
The doctor raised a hand reassuringly. "We're keeping him as flat as possible. But his body needs rest."
Rest. As if Harry ever needed anything else. The medication was working. The wrinkles on Harry's forehead smoothed out again. The room grew quieter. Heavier. HR sat there, staring at the tube, the tubes, the numbers, thinking about that one sentence he could never take back. I wish you weren't my brother. Now everything depended on Harry getting strong enough to breathe on his own again. To survive the infection. To wake up. And HR knew: if Harry didn't make it, that sentence would forever remain the last thing that had stood between them. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Harry's hand.
"You can hate me," he whispered. "But don't die thinking you were alone."
Something changed in the afternoon. The beeping of the monitors was deeper and more urgent. HR had dozed off when the monitor jolted him back from his dreamless sleep. His oxygen saturation was plummeting. 95. 96. 97.
"No," he whispered immediately, jumping to his feet. Harry's chest was still moving in time with the machine, but something was wrong. His skin looked gray, almost marbled. A fine, cold sweat beaded on his forehead. The door flew open and a handful of doctors rushed in, as if they had heard the change.
"Saturation is dropping."
"Blood pressure too."
"Temperature?"
"39.4."
HR's stomach clenched. "He's already on antibiotics."
"Yes," the doctor said tersely. "But his body isn't responding."
Harry's blood pressure continued to plummet. 90 systolic. 85.
"He's going into septic shock," someone said.
The word hit HR like a ton of bricks. "What does that mean?" he asked hoarsely.
The doctor glanced at him. "That the infection is overwhelming his circulatory system." IVs were hung up. Fluid flowed into Harry's body, which he could barely contain. His veins were visible darkly beneath his skin. "Prepare the vasopressors."
HR clutched the edge of the bed. "Those are the... the medications that..."
"...support blood pressure," the doctor finished calmly. "Yes."
Harry's heart rate shot up. 120. 130. The monitor beeped faster now, more nervously.
"Lactate rising," someone said. "He's not perfused well."
HR didn't understand everything. But enough. "Harry," he whispered. His voice trembled. "Please. Please stop."
His brother didn't respond. Not with a flinch. Not with a sound. The machine kept breathing. His body didn't.
"He needs more oxygen," the nurse said. "We're losing him."
We're losing him. HR's knees buckled. He sank into the chair, clutching Harry's hand. It was cold now. Unnaturally cold. "You can't," he gasped. "You can't leave. Don't leave me alone."
Harry's face remained motionless. The tube held his mouth open - a silent scream no one could hear.
"Blood pressure 70," someone called. "Noradrenaline up."
The drugs were flowing. Strong. Aggressive. Harry's body barely responded. His skin became mottled. Pale. Gray. As if life were slowly retreating. HR leaned close to him, ignoring the people working around the bed.
“I’m scared,” he whispered. “I’m so damn scared without you.” Tears streamed down his face, dripping onto Harry’s hand. He didn’t wipe them away. “I should have told you sooner,” he said. “That I need you. That you’re the only one who always brings me back.”
The monitor suddenly made a different sound. A shrill, piercing alarm.
“Arrhythmia! Prepare!”
Harry’s heart stumbled. One beat too early. One too late. HR’s world shrank to that line on the screen.
“No,” he said aloud. “No, no, no…”
“Please step back,” someone said firmly, pulling him back gently but firmly.
HR released Harry’s hand. “Harry!” he cried. His voice broke completely. “Please! I take it all back. Everything. I take it back.”
Medication was injected. Commands flew across the room. Harry’s heart caught. Just barely. The alarm fell silent. But nothing felt saved. The doctor took a deep breath.
"He's extremely unstable," he said quietly. "The next few hours are critical."
HR stood there. "And what if he doesn't make it?"
The doctor hesitated. Just a moment. But HR saw it.
"Then," the doctor said honestly, "he's given everything he had."
The room fell silent again. HR sank back into the chair. His whole body was trembling now. Not from the cold, but from the knowledge that sometimes love wasn't enough. He looked at his brother. He lay so still and so vulnerable before him.
"I'm here," he whispered tonelessly. "Even if you can't hear me anymore."
The machine breathed. The monitor flickered. And somewhere amidst all the cables and numbers, a single question hung in the air: How much could a body lose before there was nothing left of it?
Hours passed, and HR sat motionless beside the bed. His eyes burned as if he hadn't blinked in days. Perhaps that was true. He didn't know anymore. Time had lost its meaning, dissolved into the monitor's beeping and the mechanical breathing that went on for Harry. Rise. Fall. His blood pressure remained low. 72. 74. Not good. But not zero either. The doctor stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded, eyes fixed on the graphs. No one said it, but everyone was thinking the same thing: One more drop, and we're back on the brink.
"Lactate?" he finally asked.
"Still high," the nurse replied. "But..." She hesitated.
HR lifted his head. His heart skipped a beat. "But what?"
The nurse looked at the monitor again. "It's not rising any further."
The doctor stepped closer. Studied the numbers. "Okay," he said finally. "That's... a good sign."
HR hardly dared to breathe. "Does that mean…?"
"It means," the doctor interrupted calmly, "that his body might be starting to fight back."
Perhaps. Harry lay there, unchanged. Gray. Still. But the monitor showed something new. His blood pressure fluctuated. 75. 78.
"Noradrenaline is working," someone murmured.
HR's fingers gripped the bedsheets. His knees went weak. "He... he's fighting?" he asked hoarsely.
The doctor nodded almost imperceptibly. "As much as he can."
The saturation stabilized at 91. Low. But steady. No further drop. The alarm remained silent.
"He's synchronizing better with the ventilator," the nurse said quietly.
The doctor nodded. "That's good."
Good. A word that now meant so much more than ever before. HR let out a shaky breath, one he might have been holding for hours. Tears streamed down his face again.
"You're doing this," he whispered. "Typical you. Always one more step when everyone else has given up."
The blood pressure held. 80. More stable than before. The doctor turned to HR. "This isn't a breakthrough," he said frankly. "But it's a start. The next few hours will remain critical." HR nodded immediately. "I know."
The nurse covered Harry a little, an almost tender movement amidst all the technology. "We'll leave everything as it is," she said. "No further escalation as long as he holds up."
HR sat back down. He took Harry's hand, this time without hesitation. It was still cool. "I'll stay," he whispered. "No matter how long. No matter how small the step."
The first thing Harry felt was resistance. Not pain. Not shortness of breath. But something alien that prevented him from closing his mouth. His body reflexively wanted to swallow, but he couldn't. A sharp impulse shot through his throat. Panic, raw and instinctive, exploded before a thought could even form. I can't… His hands twitched. Instantly, voices were there.
"Harry. No, don't touch me."
"He's waking up."
"Steady."
Harry's eyes snapped open. Light. Too bright. Meaningless shapes. Ceiling panels. Tubes. A feeling of tightness in his chest, even as it rose - externally controlled, unnatural. He tried to inhale. The machine got there first. Panic coursed through his body. His heart raced. His fingers gripped the mattress.
I'm suffocating. I can't breathe.
A hand grabbed his. "Harry. Hey. Look at me."
The voice was close. He knew that voice. HR. Harry's vision blurred. His brother looked different. Older. More broken. His eyes red, his skin pale. But it was definitely him. Why… Why am I… Harry tried to speak. The tube wouldn't let him. His breathing quickened, the machine adjusted, hissing louder.
"You're still in intensive care," HR said calmly, though his hand was trembling. "You have a tube in your throat. It's helping you breathe. You're not suffocating. Okay?"
Harry's eyes widened. He shook his head slightly. No. No, that's not right. He wanted to pull the tube out. His hand rose a few centimeters. Instantly, a nurse was there.
"Dr. Wells, listen to me." Her voice was clear, firm. "You're still too weak to breathe on your own. If you pull the tube out, it will be dangerous."
Dangerous. The word barely registered. Tears welled in his eyes. His body trembled, exhausted by panic. HR leaned closer, his forehead almost touching Harry's temple. "I'm here," he said softly. "You're not alone. You made it. You're back."
Back from where? Harry's thoughts came in fragments. He remembered not being able to breathe. Being tired. Being afraid. HR's voice, sounding desperate. His gaze was glued to the monitor. Lines. Numbers. Beeping. Alive. The nurse held up a card. It read, in large letters: YOU CAN'T SPEAK. BLINDING MEANS YES. Harry stared at it. Then he blinked once.
"Good," she said immediately. "Very good." Good. A word that felt surreal. "Are you in any pain?" she asked. Harry didn't blink. Pain was secondary. "Are you scared?" Harry blinked. Once. Vigorously.
HR's hand tightened around his. "I know," he said hoarsely. "I know. But listen to me: your body is fighting again. Very slowly. But it's fighting."
Harry's chest rose beneath the machine. For the first time, he was consciously aware of air coming in. Regularly. Reliably. Not from him. But for him. His heartbeat slowed slightly. The panic subsided, not entirely, but enough to see more clearly. HR smiled weakly. Tears welled up in his eyes again.
"You gave me quite a fright," he whispered. "Don't ever do that again."
Harry wanted to reply. Instead, he looked at HR. He blinked once. Then again. HR understood anyway. He leaned forward and gently placed his forehead against Harry's hand.
"I'm here," he said softly. "And I'm not going anywhere."
After a few days, when the doctors were sure Harry could breathe on his own, they extubated him. Harry knew he should be ready. His vital signs were better. More stable. And yet, it still felt like jumping without a net. His brother stood close by, as close as the tubes allowed. His hand was firmly on Harry's forearm.
"I'm here," he said softly.
Harry nodded slightly, or tried to. The nurse suctioned again. The sound made Harry gag. His eyes immediately watered, a reflex he couldn't control.
"I'm sorry," she said calmly. "It has to be done."
His gaze drifted to the doctor, who had gently wrapped his hand around the tube. "Dr. Wells, I'll count to three, then I'll remove the tube. Cough as best you can, even if it hurts."
Harry's eyes were glued to HR. His brother gently squeezed his arm. "I'm with you."
"One." Harry reflexively gasped for air - the machine gave him another push. "Two." His throat tensed. Every muscle in him wanted to flee. "Three." The train was fast. Decisive. And then came the pain. A burning, sharp tear through his throat, as if something living were being ripped out. Harry gagged, his whole body doubled forward.
"Cough!" someone said.
He coughed. Vigorously. Uncontrollably. Tears welled in his eyes. His throat felt raw, open, sore. Air met mucus, met pain. He gasped for breath. One. Two. His chest rose. Without a machine. His breathing was shallow. Trembling. But it was there.
"Good," the doctor said immediately. "Very good. Keep going."
Harry coughed again. His throat burned as if he'd swallowed glass. His voice - if you could call it that - came out as a hoarse croak.
"What…"
HR was with him immediately. "Don't talk," he said gently. "You don't have to talk."
Harry gasped, clutching the bedclothes as if they were holding him down. Every breath felt incredibly labored.
"Add oxygen," someone said. Nasal cannulas were placed on him. A stream of cool air. Relief. Not much, but noticeable. Harry let his head fall back. His whole body trembled, empty, drained. His throat throbbed painfully with every swallow. HR gently wiped the tears from his face with his thumb.
"You did it," he whispered. His voice broke. "You're breathing."
Harry closed his eyes briefly. One breath. Another. He opened them again and looked at HR. His brother had been with him the whole time. But why? HR seemed to see the question in his eyes.
"You need to rest. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"
Harry wanted to reply, but he felt the weariness pulling at him. He had only been awake for two hours, and now his body wanted rest again.
In the middle of the night, Harry suddenly opened his eyes, and darkness was his only witness. The dim light of the monitors. The faint beeping of them could be heard.
I'm not breathing. His chest barely rose. Or did it? He didn't know. Panic shot through his body. His heart began to race, drawing in air faster than his muscles could move it. Nothing. Another try. His breath remained shallow, breaking into small gasps. Each one felt wrong.
"HR…" he croaked. The voice was barely more than air. "HR…"
He heard something move, and then he could make out his brother's face in the dim light. "I'm here."
He placed his hand gently on his forearm. Harry reached for his hand. His fingers closed weakly, desperately. "I can't…" he managed. His breathing was now rapid, uncoordinated. His chest began to tremble. HR remained calm, even though his heart was pounding in his chest.
"Okay. Look at me."
Harry shook his head. Tears welled in his eyes. "It's going away," he whispered. "The air..."
HR placed one hand firmly on Harry's chest, the other on his stomach. "You're breathing," he said calmly. "Here. Can you feel it?"
Harry felt nothing but fear. The monitor began beeping faster. HR pressed the call button. "I'll get help," he said. "It will be here any minute."
Seconds stretched. Harry's breathing quickened even more. His lips began to tingle. His hands grew cold. I'm passing out.
"Hey," HR said urgently. "Slow down. Don't fight it. Let the air come."
The door opened. A nurse entered, instantly focused. "What's wrong?"
"He's panicking," HR said quickly. "He can't feel his breathing."
The nurse approached the bed and looked at the monitor. Oxygen saturation: 92. Heart rate: 118. "Dr. Wells," she said calmly. "Your readings are fine. This is anxiety." She took Harry's hand. "Listen to me. We'll breathe together." She counted. Calmly. Steadily. "In... two... out…"
HR counted along. His voice was deeper, more familiar. "I'm here. You're safe."
Slowly - agonizingly slowly - Harry’s breathing began to adjust. Not perfectly. But less chaotic. The pressure in his chest eased slightly. The world stopped shrinking.
"Good," the nurse said softly. "Very good."
Harry slumped back onto the mattress, exhausted. His whole body was trembling. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely.
HR immediately shook her head. "No. Don't apologize."
The nurse nodded. "That was a brief panic attack. It's common after ventilation." Common. That didn't make it any easier, but it did make it less threatening. She readjusted the nasal cannula, checked the readings. Everything was stable. "Press down immediately if it happens again," she told HR. "You reacted correctly."
With that, the woman left the room. The door closed quietly, and silence returned. Harry was breathing. Slowly. Tiredly.
"You thought…" he began, faltering, coughing softly. "…it's happening again?" HR looked at him.
"Yes." Harry's eyes filled with tears once more.
"But this time," HR continued, his voice firm, "we were faster."
Harry nodded weakly. He closed his eyes. His breath was still shaky, but there. HR sat down again, took his hand, and didn't let go.