Tea, page 19
It seemed to happen in little waves—a set of shivers would almost die away, John would lean forward expecting it to be over, and then the next wave would strike, and it would almost begin again. But for the uneven breathing and the rolled whites of his eyes, John would have thought it multiple seizures, instead of one.
John fought to stay still, quiet, and out of the way. He eyed his watch, counting the terrible seconds. Chris had said three to four minutes at most, and only two minutes had ticked by. He hadn’t—yet—lost bladder control. He hadn’t—yet—been sick. But could he, would he, do those during the seizure, or after it? He’d been eating. Did how long he’d kept the food down before the seizure matter? When was the last time he’d been to the bathroom? Did—
A great sigh.
A rolling relaxation.
And then it passed. Almost like a shadow ghosting past Chris’s face, the seizure vanished, and he sank into the cushions, sweat-soaked and shivering. John hesitated, hands touching his arms and shoulders in fleeting strokes, before checking his pulse and breathing—rapid, and steady, in that order—and calling his name softly.
“Can you hear me, babe?”
The loathed nickname slipped out but got no reaction. Carefully, John ran his palm firmly down Chris’s neck and back, so perfectly memorised under such different circumstances, and found nothing wrong. He felt down each limb and around his head. Nothing. No strange shifts, no breaks or dislocations.
Very carefully, he turned Chris onto his side, into the recovery position, and used a napkin to wipe his mouth clear of the foam.
His pulse was calming down. His breathing was regular and reaching into the lower lobes of his lungs, by the gentle push of his stomach.
He was fine.
Right?
John’s first-aid training said yes. Even the information Chris had given him said yes. He’d said he slept after, didn’t he? And when John pressed the beds of his nails with a key, the hand was jerked away from him. There was some level of consciousness going on. He wasn’t—
He was fine.
But this wasn’t first aid and a café conversation; this was a real, live seizure, right in front of him, and happening to someone he loved. John’s heart and head warred with one another, the former terrified and demanding an ambulance, the latter insisting Chris was absolutely fine and didn’t need one.
But John sort of needed one.
Or…
Maybe someone who knew what they were doing? Maybe—
He looked around and saw Chris’s phone on the kitchen counter, charging. Maybe he could call Gina and ask her to come over? Yes, he’d do that. Get someone else to come and just…check for him. Make sure he’d done the right things. Make sure Chris was fine.
Gina didn’t pick up. He couldn’t tell which Luke—Luke L, or Luke J—was the right Luke. And suddenly, John was faced with the next most obvious choice, and one he really, really didn’t like.
Dad.
Second top contact, right under Caroline. And the same number, listed elsewhere as ICE.
In Case of Emergency.
John swallowed and glanced at Chris, still and silent, on the sofa.
He hit call.
The phone rang only four times before a deep voice grumbled, “This had better be good, kiddo.”
“Um. Is this—Chris’s dad?”
The voice cooled. “Who is this.”
It was flat, not voiced as a question at all.
“Uh. Hi. My—my name’s—”
“I don’t care what your damned name is,” came the brusque reply, tinged with a faint undertone of a Scottish accent. “What are you doing with my son’s phone?”
“I’m at his flat. I’m—a friend. And he’s had a seizure, and he seems fine, but I’ve never really dealt with a seizure before, so…could someone…come and check on him?”
The harshness eased a fraction. “You ever done any first aid?”
“Yes. He’s breathing, clear airway, his pulse is fine.” John crossed back to sit by the sofa. “He’s out though.”
“Asleep?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Probably asleep. All right. I’ll come over. Just keep an eye on his pulse or breathing. When did the seizure stop?”
“Maybe five minutes ago?”
“How long was it?” John could hear metal jangling in the background.
“About two and a half minutes.”
“Not too bad. Keep an eye on him. I’ll be about fifteen, twenty minutes.”
And with that, the man hung up.
John, hoping that he’d done the right thing, settled in to wait.
Chapter Twenty-Four
IT WAS ABOUT half an hour before anyone arrived. Chris didn’t move, but John grew increasingly convinced he was asleep. The hand John had tucked under Chris’s face to support his airway had slowly curled into a fist. The other, hanging limp from the wrist over the edge of the sofa, twitched occasionally when John carefully stroked the fingers. And when the film—which John still hadn’t turned off—bellowed an orchestral crescendo, one leg shifted a little higher in a motion John recognised from a full week of spooning that body in bed every morning.
Then John heard footsteps outside on the landing.
“Let me go and let your dad in, bab—beautiful,” he murmured.
The jerk of the front door and the violent catch of the security chain did what John’s petting hadn’t though: Chris twitched violently and then half sat up with a loud shout.
“Fuck off!”
“Whoa!” John said.
“What the—”
“Just me,” he said quickly. “It’s just me.”
“The door!”
“That’s—”
A voice boomed. “Chris?”
“Dad?”
John jumped for the door and unhooked the chain.
And froze.
Just froze solid at the thunderous look he was given by the man on the threshold. And then that man was shoving past him and into the flat, and John was simply…
Stuck.
Stuck by the socks. Shaking. The look, that look, that angry and aggressive stare—
John’s lungs weren’t working. His fingers were shaking. He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t, he hadn’t, he hadn’t—
“What’re you doing here?”
“Your mate called—”
“Well, you can go. I had a seizure; I’m fine—”
“Who’s he?”
“You know who he is…”
John bent at the waist, raking in air. Gulping at it. He hadn’t done anything. He’d just—watched, and called Chris’s dad, and—and why the look, why did the man look at him like that, why—
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Leaving you alone with—”
“With what?”
With you, John’s brain supplied. With you, with you, with you—
He pushed his feet into his shoes, numb. He had to get out. Had to go. Chris’s dad was right. It would be a bad idea. Leaving an unconscious person along with a bloody great thug like—
“That’s John, you moron.” The sofa creaked. “I just spent a whole week alone with him!”
John walked out. Down the stairs. Out through the communal door. There was a Land Rover where the Suzuki had been. It had had snow on the roof, last time John had seen it. Outside number sixteen. In Greenhill.
He slammed into his van, shoved the keys into the ignition, and drove.
Just drove.
Not a good idea. Leaving Chris alone with him. God, that look at the door. That scowl. It was—it was—it was like that copper who’d arrested him. That defence lawyer who’d come to give him advice. Tasha.
That man believed John to be a—to be a—
No, no, no, no—
The anxiety balloon swelled so far that it cut off his air. The next breath was thin and reedy. Black spots danced around the edges of his vision. His fingers—his fingers—
Numb.
John swallowed and scrambled for some sense.
Indicator. Lay-by. A car horn beeping. The van shuddered to a halt.
He leaned his head on the steering wheel and took a deep breath.
Another.
One more.
The spots receded slowly. Air came back. Awareness followed it. The indicator was clacking loudly in the otherwise silent van. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. The heater was off, and he was freezing.
He needed to go home.
“Go home,” he told himself croakily. “Call by in the morning before work.”
He’d have nightmares again. Knew it, sure as he knew his own name. He’d barely sleep. Hit the gym early to try to work out some of the panic. Probably do his shoulder in again. Have to take painkillers, and then be groggy at work. Make mistakes. Get annoyed with himself, cancel a few jobs, go home to sleep, and—have nightmares all over.
“Why are you so fu—”
His phone started ringing.
John finally lifted his head from the steering wheel and arched his hips to squirm it out of his pocket. It was Chris. John swallowed. He wanted to not answer, have his freak-out in private, pretend it hadn’t happened.
But Chris had had a seizure.
And the last time John had melted down all over him, he’d been so good.
The tiny part of John’s brain not quite fizzled out from the panic piped up with the other thing.
He’d called his dad a moron.
John answered.
“John?”
“Hey.”
John’s voice sounded terrible, even to his own ears.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“In—in my van.”
“It’s not outside. Dad said so.”
“I’m—no. Some road. Not sure.”
“Can you come back?”
John hesitated.
“John?”
“I—”
Chris’s voice dropped into something very low. Soothing. John closed his eyes and drank the sound in.
“Are you having another panic attack?”
“Y-yes.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“I just—I just—”
“Was it Dad?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Talk to me.”
There was a note of soft sympathy. There was a note of crisp command. John swallowed, and something about the combination unlocked his throat.
“The way he looked at me,” he breathed. “And he said—said it would be a bad idea.”
“Said what would be a bad idea?”
“To leave you alone with me.”
Chris snorted. “Yes. John? He finished that sentence off after I called him a berk.”
“Moron.”
“What?”
“You said moron.”
“Well, he’s both. I can have both. Ssh.”
John sshed.
“He meant because you’ve never dealt with a seizure before.”
Something very tight in John’s chest creaked.
“Really?” His voice sounded high. Childish. Weak.
“Yes. Really. Sometimes I have another one quite quickly. And you did call him in a bit of a tizz.”
John found a smile warping his face. “A bit of a tizz?”
“Oh shut up, my mum says it.”
John sniffed, taking a deep breath. Chris was okay. Chris was calling him. Chris—
“Come back?”
—wanted him to come back?
“What?”
“Come back? There’s still Chinese. And the movie. And you were giving me this lovely foot massage before my epilepsy fucked things up.”
John stared blindly out of the windscreen.
“Is—is that a good idea?”
There was a long pause.
“John?”
“W-what?”
“I know—I know right now you’re having one of your ex-related freak-outs, and…and if you really need to go away and calm down on your own, then you do that, okay? You do what you need to do to feel better. But…but, firstly, I think maybe you don’t need to do that—that you’ll try and wrap what Dad said around what your ex said and make it worse. And, secondly, you know that thing you were talking about when you know something to be true, factually, but your emotions aren’t listening to you, and you feel something else?”
“Yeah?”
“I have a bit of that right now. I know you’ve done a runner because Dad stomped all over your issues with your dickhead ex. But…right now, my emotions are all like, I had a seizure and you took off.”
John took a sharp breath.
“No.”
“I know that’s not why. But I don’t feel like that’s why. So, if you need to take a breather and regroup and come back tomorrow, then you do that, okay, I don’t want you to—”
John took a deep breath. “Is—is your dad still there?”
“No.”
No?
“Really? He’s just—gone?”
“You hearing me okay? I’m fine. I had a nap. Usually happens.”
“Are you—are you feeling okay?”
“As okay as you would feel, waking up after a seizure to your dad and your boyfriend having a paddy with each other.”
John snorted and choked on a sob.
“Oh, hey, no. No-no-no. Come on, John, come back here. There’s a sofa and Chinese food and we both need a good hug, don’t we?”
“Sorry. Sorry, Jesus—”
“Ssh, don’t be. Hey. Hey. You wanna exploit the chink in my armour? I’d totally let you get away with a snuggle right now.”
John coughed a feeble laugh and scrubbed his wrist over his eyes. “Okay. Okay. I’ll—yeah. You sure?”
“Yep. Come on. We’ll both feel better if you stay the night, I think.”
“Okay.”
“How far away are you?”
“I don’t know. Ten minutes?”
“I’ll reheat the food and reset the film. You get yourself back on my sofa, okay?”
“’Kay. Chris?”
“Mm?”
“Love you.”
A short pause.
“Passion you.”
John laughed and hung up. He blew his nose on a scrap of tissue from the glovebox, only to discover it was a receipt, and tossed it out of the window before turning the indicator to the other side and doing a very illegal U-turn. The phone glowed brightly on the seat. Rain had started up again, and John squinted against the streetlights. He had a headache. His body wanted to go home, have a shower, and go to bed.
But his mind wanted Chris.
It couldn’t have been more than half an hour, but the Land Rover had gone, the Suzuki had returned, and the fluffy-nippled Peugeot was being de-iced by a man not much smaller than John. They grunted hellos, and John hunched his shoulders as he paced to the communal door, bitterly regretting leaving his coat behind.
No answer to the buzzer, but the door clicked open.
John took the stairs slowly, wondering what to say, or if Chris would even need anything to be said. A sense of shame was creeping over him. One scowl, and he’d fallen apart. He’d not even listened to Chris’s dad’s reasoning before freaking out and running off. And Chris was right. His boyfriend had had a seizure, and John had done a runner. Jesus, what was wrong with him?
Chris met him at the door and simply lifted his arms. John stooped into the hug and sighed with the power of it.
“Hey.” Chris’s voice was a soft whisper against his shoulder. “You okay?”
“No. Are you?”
“Nope. C’mon. Let’s get ourselves back to okay.”
The Chinese had been reheated. The sofa cushions had been refluffed, and a blue blanket had been rustled up from somewhere. John perched carefully on the end of the sofa, and Chris—rather than sit beside him, as John had expected—sat right down into his lap, brought his feet up onto the sofa cushions, and relaxed into John’s neck and chest like he owned them.
John twisted his face to bury it in Chris’s curly hair and breathed. Stroked a hand up a cotton-clad thigh. Looped the other around his back.
And relaxed.
“Better?” Chris murmured.
“Little bit.”
Chris nuzzled into his shoulder a little.
“So,” he said, “Dad meant he didn’t think leaving me with someone who hadn’t dealt with seizures before was a good idea.”
John swallowed and nodded.
“I told him to naff off because, clearly, you’d done fine, and that would have happened at the coast anyway if our timing hadn’t been so weird.”
“Yeah,” John croaked. “And—and it was—I just wanted to make sure, you know? You…you weren’t waking up, and I wanted someone to tell me I was doing okay. I tried Gina first but she didn’t answer, and then I didn’t know if Luke was Luke L or Luke J—”
“J.”
“Okay.”
“So you wanted Dad to double-check?”
“Yeah. That was all. I was planning on staying anyway. I…the way he looked at me when he got here, and then what he said, I—freaked.”
“Like with Lauren?”
“Yeah. Like with Lauren.”
Chris stroked his fingers idly up and down John’s chest.
“You can’t keep doing that,” he said softly.
“No. I know.”
“Lauren didn’t even think twice about you. And you know what Dad’s single comment on you was?”
“What?”
“That you better not be the driver of that weird little Peugeot with the tits on the mirror.”
John choked a wet laugh.
“Are you?”
“Christ, no.”
“See? Fine.”
“I—I rang a counsellor the other day,” John mumbled. “I’m going to get some help, see if I can’t get rid of what Daniel’s left behind. But I can’t even get an assessment until the seventh of February.”
Chris’s fingers hooked in the neck of John’s T-shirt.
“You want to put off dinner until after that?”
“No point. She won’t be able to do anything in that session.”
“Okay,” Chris said. “Do you maybe want to try dinner here instead of out somewhere? And maybe break them up a bit?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Well, maybe if I get Lauren to come over? Just Lauren? Or—”
