Something inside Quinn pulled tight and snapped, shattering in his chest until every breath felt like he was inhaling glass.
He wished he could think optimistically like August—but sometimes cruel things happened for no reason. The universe didn’t always offer lessons or silver linings. Sometimes it just took, with no thought of the wreckage it left behind. And if Eren died, Quinn didn’t know if he had it in him to gather the shattered pieces of himself and try to rebuild for a third time.
August needed stitches and was put on IR for a week, pending a final exam before he was cleared to play. The blade had cut deep, but it didn’t damage any nerves, tendons or muscles. The vein had been nicked, which explained the blood at the time of the injury, but just as he had suspected, it wasn’tallfrom August.
When the doctor told Quinn that Eren had been hit in the head with a puck, a nurse had to jump in and stop him from falling to the floor. The extra blood was from the cut on Eren’s head, and head wounds bled a lot, even for minor injuries.
But Eren’s injury wasn’t minor. The doctors and surgeons who came to speak with him didn’t say as much, but the fact that Eren was still in critical condition was a good enough answer.
How fast did pucks go? Could they hit someone hard enough to kill them?
Quinn had never heard of anyone dying from a head injury during a hockey game. Skate blades to the neck, he knew about, but getting hit in the head?
The nurse brought him back to August’s private room so he could be there for the procedure to stitch his arm. Quinn knew things weren’t going well when he walked in and found August lying on the bed, still half in his gear with a pillow over his face, breathing through a panic attack.
The plastic surgeon and the nurse looked bewildered by August’s reaction, and it was clear they had been fighting to hold the man still so they could work.
Quinn felt numb as he walked over and took August’s other hand, holding it tight so that he knew he was there.
“August, let them help you, okay?”
August continued to take deep gasps of air, not fighting when his injured arm was pulled away from his body and set on a flat wedge so the surgeon could reach. They began prepping and sterilizing while shooting nervous glances at the pillow, like they were scared August might suddenly flip out and attack them.
“I didn’t realize he was scared of needles,” said the surgeon, a handsome man in his thirties with a stern expression. “We tried to sit him up, but he became reactive when we touched him. And he wasn’t interested in sedation, so we were contemplating our next move when you walked in.”
One day, Quinn would think back on this day and laugh at how much of a handful August was, but not for a long time.
“He’s not scared. I think he’s in shock,” said Quinn. And that was all he was willing to offer.
The nurse made a sound of agreement, and the surgeon followed her lead and returned to his task before August became antsy again.
As long as Quinn was touching August, he was calm. He made it through the stitches like a champ, only hissing occasionally when he was injected with more numbing medication or when something was pulled too hard.
The surgeon confirmed again that the internal damage was minimal and that August would be left with a very thin scar due to how sharp the blade had been.
Before the nurse left the room, she told Quinn that the charge nurse in the ICU would contact him if Eren’s condition changed and confirmed his phone number in case they needed to reach him.
Quinn could have moved them to a waiting area closer to Eren, but they had been given the room for the night because August was expected to rest, and it came with a comfortable cot to sleep on, a bathroom, and even a small kitchen so he could make food if he was hungry.
Quinn wasn’t hungry. He wanted to throw up.
Without knowing how bad things with Eren were, he didn’t know what he should do. He didn’t want to take time away from the doctors to ask a million questions, but relaxing in a comfortable room while his brother-in-law suffered didn’t feel right either.
August said something, but Quinn almost missed it because his voice was muffled by the pillow. He stood and pulled it off, and his breath stuttered when he saw the tears in August’s eyes.
“It’s too much,” said August. “Too much, Quinn—I can’t do this.”
Quinn stroked his cheek and wiped away his tears with his bloodstained fingers, painting August’s skin pink. “I know, baby. I’m sorry you’re going through this, and Eren…”
Eren could die before morning.
Quinn had already signed the papers that confirmed Eren’s boundaries when it came to medical intervention. It was a conversation they’d had several times after Esme passed, because cancer made people think of life and death scenarios, no matter how morbid it seemed.
Eren didn’t want to leave his babies; Quinn knew that. But he made Quinn promise that if machines were needed to keep him on this Earth, then he wanted to be let go.
Talking about it in theory was one thing, but signing the medical directives had made everything feel more real than he was prepared for. But Eren knew his daughters would be safe with Quinn, so even though he was conflicted, Quinn had given his signature.
All they had to do now was wait. Surgery was still on the table, something about drilling holes to deal with brain swelling, but Quinn wouldn’t panic until the doctor confirmed the plan.
