Once I get his soft, strong hands off me, I’ll feel more like myself.
“Can you help me back onto the couch, please?”
Hopefully, this will change the subject forever and we can never talk about it again.
Micah
I’m so confused.
I was expecting disgust. Possibly anger, or disappointment, or whatever echo of Patrick’s normal toxic behavior Tadhg is used to repeating when it comes to encountering homosexuals in the wild.
I was hoping he would be able to temper it because of his childhood affection for me, and I could gradually chip away at all that toxic masculinity until I eventually revealed the sweet, gentle brother I used to know.
I wasnotexpecting tears.
Why the fuck did he cry? Was he so angry and disgusted, but too weak to do anything else about it in his wounded state? Or maybe he realized that I’m too different to ever fit into his life, and once he’s better, he’s going to leave and we’ll never see each other again, and he was sad about it?
It’s all weird and nonsensical.
And stupid. Obviously. There’s no reason for my gayness to upset him at all, but I was never naïve enough to expect a neutral reaction. I was just hoping for a non-violent one.
I’ll let it go for now, because he’s had enough of a day already and he just woke up. But we’ll be circling back to this eventually, I guarantee it. Patrick has had twelve years to plant toxic shit in my brother and I’m going to pull it all out, root and stem.
For now, I need to fix whatever he just fucked up about his physical health, though.
I help him get back onto the couch and more or less comfortable. I clean up the mess, and then give him a quick wipe down and look over his wounds. He seems sleepy and goes quiet as I work. His eyes are open, but he’s barely responsive. Almost like he’s dissociating.
It actually freaks me out, so I talk while I work. I talk to him about my job and try to reassure him that while the whole situation is awkward, me caring for him feels completely normal, so there’s no reason for him to be self-conscious about it. I’m not sure how much it sinks in, but hopefully he takes the point. I let him know that I’ll call in some favors and get my shifts covered for the next few days. I’ll tell my department head I had a family emergency.
She’s not going to like it, but it is what it is. I can’t exactly leave him here alone when he’s like this. Who knows what he’ll do next.
Tadhg gradually becomes more and more tired until his eyelids are drooping, and I know he’s not hearing a word I say.Luckily, he’s so sleepy that when I remind him he probably needs to pee, because I’ve been pumping fluids into him after all the blood that he lost, he’s too tired to make it super awkward. It only takes a second for me to convince him that there’s no way in hell he’s walking to the bathroom. Instead, I bring over a water jug with a wide opening for him to use as a urinal that I can throw away whenever this is over, then move to the kitchen to give him some privacy while he relieves himself.
It takes him a painfully long time to fumble with his blankets and boxers when he’s this weak. If he were a patient, I would never let him piss unassisted at this point. Nobody has time for this, let’s be honest.
But after the crisis we just got through, plus his awkward reaction to me coming out to him, I don’t want to push any more than I have to. Activities that involve his naked cock—no matter that helping a sick person urinate is quite literally one of the least arousing activities you can participate in—would be opening up another can of worms, I’m sure.
Instead, I take over a wipe to quickly clean up any mess once he’s done and then flush the contents down the toilet. At least there’s no blood in his urine, thank fuck. If his kidneys were injured, we’d be way, way beyond the boundaries of my emergency couch medicine.
And Tadhg continues to slip closer and closer to sleep through all of this.
By the time I have him clean and another round of fluids and antibiotics running through his new IV, he’s out cold. I’m guessing he’ll sleep for a long time, given the amount of stress he put his body under in the last hour.
I take the time to clean up the apartment. The goons didn’t leave too much of a mess, thank god, even if they ate a ton of my food. There’s a small pile on the table of Tadhg’s crap that they left for him, including a gun that I firmly refuse to touch.
Not that I can’t. I’m an Oklahoma/Missouri boy, after all. But I don’t believe that guns are good for the world, and just because I know how to use one doesn’t mean I think that doing it is beneficial.
Hard pass.
I spend a long time on the phone arranging my time off work, which really means arguing with people. By the end of it, I’ve given up on subtlety. I’m straight-up telling people my brother has a life-threatening medical condition and needs me to take care of him.
None of them knew I had a brother, and I seriously doubt they’re able to track down the kind of paper trail that would reveal his identity. I know Tadhg is lying low here, but we’re a long way from the people looking for him and a handful of ER nurses in a middle-of-nowhere hospital in a different state aren’t going to be the key to him getting caught.
He sleeps for so long, I’m able to get a full eight hours myself after I detach him from his empty IV bags once the infusion is done. Which feels unnatural because I’m more used to catnaps here and there, followed by the occasional binge-sleep during my days off to catch up.
Which, as a nurse, I’m aware you can’t do. But buying into thateight hours every single nightcrap is quitter talk. Daywalker talk that doesn’t apply to nightshifters, who are fueled by caffeine and willpower alone.
When I wake up, Tadhg is thankfully in exactly the same position I left him, sleeping peacefully. I’m able to shower, make myself some coffee, and tidy up a little more before he starts to stir.
