mitsubishievo | (no subject)

Kavinsky startled awake. That wasn't new. He'd been doing it for weeks, and he was getting increasingly good at doing it without waking up Newt--if he was sleeping--or letting on that he'd just woken up from a nightmare of some variety or another. For a moment, he laid there, trying to figure out what had woken him this time. The surreal dreams had a tendency to linger with him, these days, particularly the ones that manifested corrupted things into reality, sludgy things or bits and pieces of a boy he'd loved once or indeterminate, indescribable bits of horror.

There was nothing this time. Kavinsky glanced at the clock. It read 6:21. He stared for a moment.

His hand hurt.

He sat up, fumbling in the dark to turn on the light, because maybe he had dreamt something and he just hadn't realized it. It hurt quite a lot, he realized, a sharp pain now that he was aware of it. And he knew what the pain was, suddenly, because he'd experienced it before: it was a burn. He had a burn on his hand, and it was bad enough to hurt, but also bad enough that it had taken a moment for him to realize that he was even in pain at all.

He flicked the light on and looked at his hand. Beyond, the clock read 3:45. Hadn't it just read 6:21?

His wedding band was gone. Or, rather, it was there, but it was melted into his skin.

"Newt?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It started without warning. His stomach roils and churns, his temperature spikes and, when he looks down at his hands, he can see blueish veins standing out against pale skin. This shouldn't be happening; he's kept up with his treatment, had a course on the first day on month, every three months like clockwork.

He hears Kavinsky call his name, and then his stomach flips again and he bends his head over the toilet bowl and vomits.

Whatever spike of nerves and worry, paranoia, terror there is related to metal melted into his skin, that all melts away when he hears retching from the bathroom. He slides out of the bed--don't think about it, don't think about the dream things in the house, this bed, the television, the clothes and toys and bits and baubles--and hurries toward the bathroom and the noise of his husband.

"Newt?"

His whole hand felt red hot, but he ignored it. "Sugar?"

He can hear the concern in Kavinsky's voice, but he can't answer him, not right then, not with bile bubbling out of him with every heave of his stomach. He just keeps his head over the toilet ball, shuddering helplessly.

Kavinsky shuffled over. It wasn't just the smell of bile and vomit that got to him, there was something else, some other sick smell under it all, and as Kavinsky got close, he saw that creeping veininess on Newt's arms.

Kavinsky didn't think of the hospital, of Newt pale and sickly and letting him cry next to the bed. He did think of the sludge, the ichor crawling under his skin and out of his dreams, and he shook a little bit.

What if I dreamed you.

He knelt on the cold tile behind Newt and touched his feverish back.

It comes in waves and, eventually, Newt can catch his breath. He lets his head down, rests his cheek against cool porcelain for a moment and closes his eyes.

"This isn't right, baby," he says, quietly. "Something's really shucking wrong."

"Yeah," Kavinsky mumbled, an agreement. There was a lot wrong with this, a waking nightmare, something that wasn't supposed to happen. Three months, like clockwork. Newt went in for an afternoon of pills and a simple blood transfusion, and they didn't really talk about it.

There was nothing about the process that Kavinsky's dreams had touched. He stayed as far away from it as he could. He stared at a little smear of black bile at the corner of Newt's mouth and tried to not whimper in frustrated desperation.

"I--ambulance?" He didn't know. His car, if it worked, would be faster. But neither of their cars did, the little truck having stuttered to a fitful and unceremonious halt in the driveway when Newt had gotten home the night before. At least it wasn't the terrible black sludge, like the Evo's engine block. Just quiet death. "Should I call an ambulance?"

Another wave of nausea hits him and he bends over the toilet again, retching. His body spasms and it feels like his guts are being yanked up by the force of it. It feels like he's being ripped apart.

He nods.

"Ambulance," he says.

"Yeah," Kavinsky breathed. "Yeah, I--"

He got up from the bathroom floor and fumbled back into the bedroom to retrieve his phone. It was a quick retrieval. The pain was dull in his hand now, and he could ignore it. He called. Handling calling ambulances was, unfortunately, rout for him. He'd never done it in Darrow, but a 911 routing center was the same no matter where you were.

He returned to the bathroom and knelt behind Newt again. "They should be here in a few minutes."

The nausea seems to have passed, his stomach scraped out and empty and he leans back against Kavinsky his eyes closed, even if he's aware that he's a sweaty, trembling mess.

"Sorry, love," he says, his voice raw from vomiting. "I must smell shucking disgusting."

"Hey," Kavinsky said, rubbing his hand carefully up and down Newt's back, trying to be soothing. "Hey, it's okay. Definitely not the worst, yeah? It's okay. Everything's gonna be okay."

If he said it, he could make it true. If he said it, he could make himself believe it. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He sniffled vaguely, wiping at his nose with the heel of his palm and wincing as pain shot through his hand from his ring finger and the mess of the ring melded into his flesh.

"This shouldn't be...h-..." He gags. "It shouldn't be happening. I...I went in for treatment, Joe. I d-did everything I was shucking supposed to."

Kavinsky nodded. He knew. Newt was diligent about that shit, punctual and particular, and it only ever took an afternoon at the most. There was nothing about the process, either, that Kavinsky had touched. He'd made sure of it.

But if all of this was a dream, some elaborate manifestation, then it didn't really matter, did it?

Kavinsky made himself stop thinking about that. "We'll figure it out," he promised, trying to keep his voice level and calm. "It's gonna be okay. They'll be here soon and we'll figure it out."

"I'm...Baby, I'm scared."

It's a lot to admit - Newt has been through so much, survived so much (except for what he didn't), and he's almost never admitted to feeling scared. He's kept it together for everyone else. He's been brave. But now, in his husband's arms, he feels like he's being eaten alive by it, and Kavinsky is the only one he'd admit it to. Maybe Thomas, but, right now, it's just the two of them.

Kavinsky nodded and bundled Newt close. He didn't hold him tightly, in case Newt needed to move, needed to throw up again. But he held him and pet his hair and kissed just above his ear.

"Me too," he admitted. He didn't know how to fix this, any of it. He hoped anyone did. So all he could do right now was hope, and send up a little prayer, in a way he hadn't in ages. "It's gonna be okay."