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Brendon

I ’m awoken a few hours later by a weird noise.

Is that groaning?

Is there a werewolf transforming in here?

What time is it?

I force my eyes open, and once my eyes adjust to the dark, I find Paul on his side, curled up into a ball, kind of rocking back and forth, and groaning. Not the sexy kind of sound either. Sitting up, I rub my eyes and reach for Paul.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“It hurts,” he moans. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He jerks upright and hustles toward the bathroom, moaning in pain the entire way. I get up and follow behind him, getting a washcloth wet and a cup of water while he throws up, and it sounds like he’s choking back tears.

“I think you should go to the hospital,” I say as I hand him the cup to wash his mouth out and wipe the back of his neck with the cloth.

“We have a game tomorrow,” he argues and tries to stand up but cries out and drops back down to the floor.

“And you think you’re going to play like this?” I cross my arms and lean against the sink. “You can’t even stand.”

Paul leans his head against his arms on the toilet. “It hurts so fucking bad.”

“What hurts? Like, your stomach or the muscles?” I’ve never seen him like this, and honestly, it’s scary. I don’t know how to help him, but he’s obviously in pain.

“I don’t know.” He breathes for a second. Panting, almost whimpering in pain. “It’s, like, inside.”

“Did you eat something weird?”

Paul tries to stand again, and this time I pull his arm around my shoulders to help him shuffle back to the bed. This isn’t normal. I’ve seen him get the flu, food poisoning, all kinds of shit, but this is so much worse.

“Maybe you should go to the ER?” I ask as he curls into a ball on the bed. Grabbing my phone, I google “stomach pain.” Sitting on the bed next to him, I scroll through the results and narrow my search down to “how to tell when stomach pain is serious.”

“How long has this been going on?” I ask him as I read. This is bad. He needs to go to the hospital, and he’s not going to like it.

“I don’t know,” he whines.

“You need to go in, dude.” My heart rate skyrockets as “emergency surgery” and “sepsis” hit my brain. I stand up and grab him some pajama pants and a zip-up hoodie. “Come on.”

“I don’t want to go to the hospital. I’m just going to sit in the waiting room for three hours and be told to take pain reliever.” He turns his face into his pillow and yells a pain-filled sound that solidifies my determination.

Without waiting for his agreement, I slide his feet into the pants and work the fabric up his legs as far as I can while he’s lying down.

“Come on, lean on me. We’re going.”

Paul doesn’t argue, but it takes him a bit to get up enough for me to finish getting him dressed. He’s gritting his teeth and breathing too hard; pain is etched into every line of his face.

The walk to the elevator takes so much longer than it usually does, inching our way with him leaning on me and the wall.

Worry eats at me the entire time. What’s wrong with him? Will he have to have surgery? Will he be able to play hockey? If he has surgery, how long will he be in the hospital? How long until he can play again?

He’s sweating, and a tear falls down his face by the time we get into the elevator. I brush the tear away and kiss his hair.

The ride is quick since it’s the middle of the night and no one else is awake at this hour. It’s cold outside, but he won’t be able to make it all the way to his car in the parking lot.

“Sit here,” I tell him and help him sit on the curb. “I’ll get the car and be right back.”

He doesn’t argue, just curls into himself and breathes.

I run to his car and get it unlocked. It’s been a while since it’s been driven, so I have to try twice before it starts, then hustle my way to him. It’s in park and I’m around the front of the car before Paul even looks up. I help him into the car, buckle his seat belt, then pull up the directions to the closest hospital on my phone.

Luckily, it’s not too far and there’s no traffic, but every bump in the road and turn has Paul groaning. I hate how helpless I feel right now. I’m not a doctor, I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but it’s bad. There’s a deep pang in my bones, vibrating through me with every beat of my heart. Paul takes care of me, not the other way around. I’m a fucking mess.

At the ER entrance, I stop and run inside for a wheelchair so he doesn’t have to walk, then help him from the car. Once he’s inside talking to the nurse, I hurry out to park. Of course, it’s a weird parking garage, and I end up going in the out driveway because it’s dark and I’m not paying attention.

I have to back out and hope not to hit anything, which I barely manage. Once I’m inside and find a parking spot, I run down the ramp toward the ER, but Paul isn’t in the waiting room anymore. There isn’t anyone in the waiting room, actually. That seems weird for a city like Denver, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Excuse me, did Paul Johnson get taken back? I just brought him in,” I ask the lady at the desk.

She flicks her gaze at me, then back at the computer screen. “Yes.”

I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“Can I go back there with him?” I ask, pointing to the door.

She sighs heavily but hits a button, and the door buzzes. I hustle to the door and push it open. I have no idea where I’m going, but I’ll figure it out.

A tall woman in blue scrubs and black cat-eye-shaped glasses stops me with a raised eyebrow.

“Can I help you?” Her no-nonsense tone has me swallowing my own damn tongue.

“Um. Uh.” I swallow and try again. “I’m looking for my friend who was just brought back here, Paul Johnson.”

“Brendon.” Paul’s voice comes from behind a curtain to my left, and the woman nods, letting me pass.

Paul is propped up in a hospital bed looking miserable. I grab the plastic chair and pull it up next to his bed and hold his hand.

“Hey, what are they saying?” I’m eager for information, to know he’s going to be okay.

“Nothing yet. Gotta talk to the doctor.” Paul turns on his side facing me and leans his forehead against the edge of the mattress. I lean in, my arm around his head, and press my lips to his forehead.

I fucking hate this. He’s clearly in pain, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. It’s just a bunch of hurry up and wait.

His skin is sticky with sweat, probably from being in pain, and he’s tapping his foot. It’s making me antsy. I want to fix it.

A woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, blue scrubs, and a white lab coat over the top comes in.

“Hi, my name is Dr. Nora Prow,” she says as she pulls up Paul’s chart.

He tells her about the pain and vomiting, how he woke up with it, all while not moving from the crook of my arm. She asks him some questions, then asks him to roll onto his back. He groans but does it, throwing his arm over his eyes and not letting go of my hand.

The doctor lifts his shirt and pushes on his stomach. His hand tightens around mine to a painful grip, and he yells. His legs try to come up like he’s going to curl into a ball, but he’s able to force them back down.

“Okay, let’s get some labs drawn and some pain meds on board.” She makes a note in the chart. “How would you rate your pain on a level from one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you could ever imagine?”

Paul thinks about it for a second, then says, “I don’t know, like five or six?”

He’s panting again and turns back toward me, this time pulling my hand wrapped around his into his chest to hold against him.

She asks some more questions about allergies, surgeries, diagnoses.

“Okay, I have a feeling we’re dealing with appendicitis. I’m also going to get some imaging done to see if we can see anything, okay?” Dr. Prow says. “Do you have any questions for me?”

Paul shakes his head, and the doctor pats Paul’s foot, says “Hang in there,” and leaves again.

I lean my forehead against his and watch his face as he deals with the pain.

“Is there anything I can do?” I whisper.

“Just don’t leave me,” he whispers back. I wish I could crawl onto the bed with him, but I don’t want to jostle him since moving seems to be making it worse. So I just hold him the best I can, kissing his forehead and running my fingers through his hair.

* * *

I don’t know how long it takes for a man in green scrubs to come in and talk to Paul about surgery and fill out paperwork, but it feels like hours yet only a few minutes. The surgeon and the anesthesiologist both have crap for him to sign and questions for him. Apparently, they are pretty sure he has appendicitis and will need surgery. Once the papers are signed, one of the ER nurses takes blood for labs and gives him morphine for pain before taking him to get imaging done.

He's high as fuck, which is amusing. I’m so relieved he’s feeling better, but this waiting shit sucks. I want definite answers. I want to know he’s going to be okay.

“Are there clouds in here?” Paul asks, staring intently at the ceiling. “Are we outside?”

I snort and shake my head. “No, that’s the morphine.”

“Morphine . . . what does it make you morph into?” He turns his head to stare at me.

“You’re adorable.” I lean my elbows on the mattress and smile at him. He’s so relaxed. For once there isn’t anything going on in his brain. His eyes are glassy, but his smile is easy. It’s sexy, that quick upturn of his lips. I want to kiss him.

“Why are you so fucking beautiful?” Paul blurts out much louder than necessary since my face is two feet from his.

“You’re high.”

“Does that change your bone structure?” Now he looks confused, which makes me laugh at him.

“Only you would be high as fuck and talking about bone structure.” I shake my head, but he reaches for my chin and pulls me into a kiss. I expect it to be a quick press of lips or sloppy from the drugs, but it’s neither. Paul makes love to my mouth, sucks on my tongue, and explores every corner of me.

Would he still be demanding and bossy, or would he want me to take the lead? The kiss is deep but slow. There’s no rush, no fire lit in my blood demanding I fuck until I can’t stand. It’s love and comfort and a slow burn kind of heat. The kind of languid kiss you can get lost in and forget about time.

The screech of the curtain sectioning off the bed sounds, and I jump back from Paul, my face immediately flushing hot. I hate that I have to hide him. It was his decision to keep us quiet, but it still sucks. I want to show everyone how proud I am that he’s mine.

“Okay, Mr. Johnson, it looks like your appendix is very infected and swollen. We’re going to give you some antibiotics through your IV, then get you moved to the OR for surgery. With as enlarged as it is, it needs to be removed.” Dr. Prow stands with her hands in her pockets as she delivers the news.

Anxiety has my knee bouncing, and there’s a boulder in my stomach. Fuck. My head buzzes with what ifs and what happens next. Even though he filled out the paperwork, I was hoping he wouldn’t have to have the surgery, that some antibiotics and pain meds would be enough. Surgery is scary as fuck.

“How long is that going to take? When will he be discharged?” I ask the doctor.

“We’ll give the antibiotics a bit to get into his system, then the surgery should be quick, as long as there aren’t any complications. The surgeon will have more information on discharge.”

A nurse comes in, tells us she’s putting broad spectrum antibiotics in Paul’s IV, uses a syringe to add it to the line, then leaves again.

“Any other questions for me?” Dr. Prow looks between us expectantly.

“Can I play hockey tomorrow?” Paul asks.

She laughs and shakes her head. “Uh, no. You won’t be playing hockey for a few weeks.”

“Ah man. That sucks.” Paul groans and lifts his hands, only to drop them back to the bed.

Right. Hockey. I have to call Coach.

“Thank you.” I nod to her, and she leaves the room. “I’m going to call Coach. It’s time for gym anyway.” Somehow, we’ve been here for three hours already.

Digging my phone from my pocket, I find our head coach’s number, suck in a deep breath, then hit call.

My knee is still bouncing, and I lean my forehead against the mattress while I wait for the grumpy man to answer.

“Oiler, where the hell are you and Johnson?” he barks.

“The ER, sir. Johnson has appendicitis.” Paul’s fingers run through my hair and to my neck, making me shudder.

“How long have you been there? Is he okay? Is he having surgery?” The tone change is immediate, and he’s in problem-solving mode.

“A few hours, I think we got here about three a.m.?” I glance up at my husband and find him dosing off. “He’s high on pain meds, but he’s okay. They’re going to take him back for surgery in a little while. They just gave him antibiotics.”

“Are you going to be able to play tonight?” he asks, and I can hear the scratch of a pen on paper as he probably takes notes.

“Yeah, I’m fine to play.” I’m always fine. Even when I’m not.

“Are you still at the hospital?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sighs, and I swear I can see him pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Listen, son, I know you guys are close. I’m not going to tell you to leave him there alone, but if you’re playing tonight, you gotta have your head in the game. You hear me?”

I take a deep breath and sit back in my chair, staring at the man that has taken my heart and run away with it. He’s my life, my air, the reason my heart beats.

“Once I know he’s okay, I’ll be good, Coach. I promise.”

“Good. Get some rest and eat.” He ends the call, and I’m left mentally drained while anxious at the same time. I want to pace, demand an update that doesn’t exist, yell, and crawl into bed with the man who anchors me. I don’t know how to do this. How to be an adult. Paul is the adult, the comfort, the level-headed one. I’m a fuckup. A clown. No one takes me seriously.

Needing to move, I stand and pace next to his bed. It’s only a few feet, but it’s better than nothing. It gets my body moving, gives the nervous energy an outlet, and makes me feel like I’m doing something.

I don’t know how long I do it, lost in my head, and the worry. Is he going to be okay? Will there be complications? How long will he be in the hospital? Will I be able to sleep without him in our room? How long will he be down? Will he be able to play hockey next season?

A different nurse comes in with some kind of fabric hat on and looks at me. “Hi, I’m Allison.” She smiles at me. “I’m here to take Mr. Johnson upstairs. You are welcome to follow us up. I’ll point out where the waiting room is.”

My stomach clenches, but I nod.

Paul has already changed into a gown, so I grab his bag of stuff and follow along behind the wheelchair they transfer him into.

“Do you do this surgery a lot?” I find myself needing reassurance as we move through this.

“Yeah, it’s pretty straightforward. With the laparoscope, it only takes fifteen to twenty minutes once he’s out. Healing is much faster too.” She smiles at me, and I breathe a little sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” I mumble to her, trying to keep my emotions in check. I don’t know how to do this. How to handle this. I should call his grandma.

Allison points out the waiting room for me to sit in and lets me kiss Paul’s head before pushing him down the hallway and through the doors that say No Entrance.

With a knot in my throat, I type in Paul’s password and call his grandma.

“Good morning, Pauly.” Her warm voice fills my ear, and I break into tears. “Pauly? Paul, what’s wrong?”

All the fear and stress that’s been forced into the back of my mind for hours escapes my grasp and floods my brain. Suddenly I have no control over myself or my emotions. I’m sitting in this fucking waiting room, sobbing, rocking back and forth while folded in half.

I can’t lose him. I just can’t. I need him so badly it hurts.

“Brendon,” I barely manage to get out.

“Brendon? Where’s Paul? What’s going on?” She’s so worried, and I know I’m not helping, but I can’t get a hold of myself. I’m so fucking worried about him. I’m so far outside of my element. At twenty-one years old. I’m still a fucking child. I can’t take care of myself, much less anyone else. What the fuck does he even see in me?

“Brendon, breathe.” Her command cuts through the fear and gives me something to focus on. What I wouldn’t give to have her here with me, to hug me and tell me what I’m supposed to do. I don’t want this fucking responsibility anymore. It’s too much. This is all too much.

It takes me a minute, but I manage to pull it back enough to get the words out.

Through my sniffling and tears, I tell her he’s in surgery for appendicitis.

“Oh, thank Christ.” She breathes a sigh of relief. “He’s going to be okay.” It’s a statement not a question. What does she know that I don’t? How is she so confident?

Tears are still trickling down my face and dripping onto the floor as I lean on my knees.

“Brendon, take a deep breath. Why are you so panicked? Baby, why are you so upset?” Her voice is soft like she already knows the answer or at least expects it, but I’m an idiot for calling her. I doubt Paul has told her that we’re even dating, much less that we’re married. Hell, I don’t even know if she knows he’s into guys. Fuck. I’m fucking up everything by not thinking things through, again.

“Sorry, I’m just tired, I guess. I’m sorry to bother you. He’s gonna be fine. I’ll make sure he calls you when he’s awake. Bye.” I hang up quickly before any more words can fall from my lips and fuck up Paul’s life. I don’t know if his grandparents are homophobic, but I really hope they aren’t. After being all but abandoned by his dad, he needs his grandparents.

The surgeon comes in not long after the disastrous phone call, and I hop up out of my chair so fast I get light-headed.

“Are you Paul’s family?”

“Yeah,” I say it quickly, but my face heats, and I hope against hope he doesn’t think I’m lying and refuses to tell me anything.

“He’s out of surgery; it went as expected. He’s in recovery and will be until he’s awake, warm, and the pain is managed. It could be half an hour, could be multiple hours.” The doctor shrugs. “It all depends on how his body responds. Once he’s out of recovery, he can have a visitor or two, but he’ll likely be very tired still. We’ll keep him for twenty-four hours or so, make sure he’s on the mend, then discharge him.”

I’m nodding along but none of the words are really sinking in. My brain is noisy, but there’s no distinct thoughts, just enough background noise to stop me from being able to process what he’s saying.

“So just wait here or . . .” I trail off, not really sure what other options there are.

“You can wait here or go home and wait for him to call you from his room. Get something to eat, take a nap, something like that. You’ve been here a while.” The doctor puts his hand on my shoulder in a comforting gesture, and it’s all I can do not to break down again.

“But he’s going to be okay?” My voice is tiny, like the fucking child I am.

He smiles warmly at me before nodding. “Yes, he’s going to be just fine.”

The tension and fear that’s been keeping me going breaks just long enough for a sob to escape my mouth. I slap a hand over my mouth like I can keep it in or take it back. The doctor squeezes my shoulder and pats my back.

“He’s all right. Take a deep breath.”

I force myself to close my eyes and focus on breathing. Long, slow inhales that fill my chest and belly, then slow exhales. I don’t know how long we stand there, but he doesn’t leave my side, for which I’m appreciative.

Once my heart rate slows and I feel like I can handle life for a second, I open my eyes and look at the man in front of me. He’s not much older than me, maybe ten years with clear gray eyes, and a PAW Patrol fabric head covering.

“Thank you,” I manage to choke out. He pats my shoulder and heads back to save more lives.