Suho is not happy with his crewmen when he wakens to discover himself in Yixing’s treatment bed. He calls them a number of extremely unpolite names and loudly declares them in mutiny between wracking coughs. Some of the younger members of his crew seem shaken by this clearly out-of-character behavior, but Baekhyun calmly tells his captain they will be back in a year’s time and that he had better not die in the meanwhile. The knowledge that there is a very real chance this is the last time they will see their captain alive weighs heavily on the entire room, and Yixing leaves them alone to say their goodbyes.

Baekhyun, last to leave, catches Yixing on his way out. He hands Yixing a rather heavy bag of coin and a handwritten parchment with the address of a sympathizer in the Floridian Keys, saying that they will stop there every two months to check for letters and Yixing should keep them appraised of the Captain’s condition. Yixing agrees to write, thanks him again and sees him off. When they are all gone, he opens the door to his back room to check on his patient. Suho is asleep already, his brow glistening with sweat and furrowed uneasily. By the timing Luhan had noted, he will be entering a cycle of fever tonight; Yixing will need to keep an eye on him lest he fall into convulsions again.

For a nearly two weeks, a pattern forms. Suho spends two days in fever, sweating and coughing and sometimes delusional, then he spends two days shivering and weak but awake enough to listen as Yixing sits with him and tells him stories of growing up in Cornwall. Each day, twice a day, no matter whether fevered or chilled, Yixing makes Suho a tea with a tincture of cinchona powder and forces him to drink it all.

In the meantimes, when Suho is asleep, Yixing sees his regular patients in the sitting room and reads every publication on malaria he can get his hands on. As one of the world’s most widespread and deadly ailments, Yixing of course studied malaria in medical school, but as it is not common to either England or the New World he has never seen a case of it in person. The common thread in every account he reads is exactly what he told Baekhyun - fighting malaria is an uphill battle that might take months, and will almost certainly get worse before it gets better.

He’s not wrong. One evening late in the middle of a fever cycle, Yixing hears noises from the treatment room and goes running across the house. Suho is convulsing on the bed, tangled in his blankets and foaming blood-tinged spittle at the mouth.

It’s never a good idea to restrain a convulsing patient, but Yixing manages to get one hand behind Suho’s head just before he works it around to the nightstand. The sharp corner of the heavy, old piece of furniture rips the back of his hand open, but better his hand than Suho’s head. Yixing grabs the blankets wrapped around Suho’s sweat-soaked body and yanks. It takes all his strength but he manages to re-center the man on the bed, where his extremities are no longer in danger. That done, he gingerly tugs the blankets until they come loose and fall away, eliminating the danger of Suho ripping them or strangling himself.

Long, long minutes tick by before the convulsions slow and finally stop. Suho is awake, but his eyes are glassy and he is unresponsive when Yixing calls his name.

Yixing checks him over. Pulse racing but steady, breathing a bit labored but strong. The blood in his mouth appears to be from a bitten tongue, nothing serious; the foaming has stopped now that his swallow reflex is again functional. Between the July heat, the fever and the unexpected exercise his skin is flushed deep red and his clothes are soaked through, so Yixing brings over a bowl of cool water and a rag and attempts to bring his body temperature down a bit while he waits for Suho to come back to himself. It’s only a few minutes.

“You’re bleeding,” is the first thing he says, voice hoarse and shaky.

“Just a scrape,” Yixing assures him, soothing the wet cloth over his forehead. “Are you pained anywhere? I came as quickly as I could.”

Suho closes his eyes, taking stock of his body. “Don’t think I hit anything vital,” he murmurs. “Just...tired. And hot.” He opens his eyes again, looking up at Yixing. “The rag feels good. Thank you.”

His eyes don’t focus correctly because the right eyeball is twitching minutely.

Yixing hides his dread and nods silently.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

As July becomes August and the heat somehow gets even more stifling and unbearable, Suho’s condition worsens. The nystagmus in his eyes becomes more prominent, to the point where Suho himself notices something is wrong with his vision and has trouble keeping his eyes open for long periods, and is joined by increasingly apparent jaundice, giving his skin, eyes and nails a yellowish cast and making Yixing double his intake of water for fear of his liver failing. Suho is asleep far more than he is awake now, and the few moments each day that Yixing can manage to rouse him, he is too exhausted to speak more than a few words.

True to his word, Yixing writes to the crew of the Two Moons with their captain’s progress. He does not gloss over or sugar-coat, but nor does he go into excruciating detail. He writes that though the symptoms are worsening, there is yet hope for a full recovery, and wonders as he seals the letter if maybe he’s not trying to convince himself.

Returning from the docks, where he has paid a goodly amount to ensure the letter, now in the hands of a French mercantile ship, will make it to its destination, Yixing hears frantic gasping from the bedroom and runs to Suho’s side. The captain’s fists are balled in the sheets, his head arched back as he fights to take in enough air, and as Yixing arrives his wide, terrified eyes flick shakily to the door.

“Suho,” Yixing says, keeping his voice as calm as he can possibly manage with his heart about to beat out of his chest. “Listen to me, do exactly as I say.” Suho can’t answer him, but his eyes are more focused as they have been in weeks, so Yixing hopes he’s conscious enough to obey. He scrambles onto the bed and straddles Suho’s hips, carefully keeping his weight held off him, taking one of Suho’s wrists in each hand.

“Breathe in,” he commands, and Suho tries to comply. Yixing lifts Suho’s arms above his head as he does so, opening up his ribcage and aiding his breath. “Hold it for a moment. Alright, now, let it out, slow as you can.” Suho purses his lips in a feeble attempt to control his exhale, and Yixing brings his hands back down and forces them to cross over Suho’s chest, pumping the air out of him like a bellows. “Good man. Again.”

He keeps a careful count as he does so. Sixteen cycles per minute, forcing the lungs to slow down, to fill to capacity and empty completely; forcing the diaphragm to stop spasming. Six cycles in and Suho’s panic begins to fade, his breath stronger and deeper; within two minutes Yixing asks “Has it passed, then?”

Suho lets his breathing cycle return to normal and considers. After a moment, he nods. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice scratchy and almost non-existent.

Yixing nods and drops Suho’s hands, weak with relief. “You scared me,” he murmurs.

A tiny flash of a smile, frail and precious. “Never...would've...guessed,” Suho breathes. “So...calm.”

Flashing him a smile in return, Yixing points out, “I’m a doctor. A second of panic could cost a patient their life.” He notices a mosquito land on Suho’s flushed skin and gently crushes it with one hand. “Bloody hell. I need some netting if we’re going to keep the windows open like this.”

Suho’s chuckle turns into a coughing fit, and Yixing immediately regrets the comment. He soothes Suho with a hand on his stomach until the hacking ceases. Suho looks up at him, the humor drained from his eyes, yellowed and sweating and far thinner than he should be, and Yixing feels tears prick behind his eyes.

“I’m...dying...aren’t I?” Suho asks.

Yixing grits his teeth and - very unprofessionally - leans down to embrace his patient.

“Not if I can help it,” he mutters. “Captain Suho, I swear on my life I will do everything in my power to make you well again.”

Weak, shaky arms slide around his back, balling desperately in his shirt. “Joon...myun,” he whispers.

Yixing blinks. “What?”

“My...name.” A wheezing cough, right in his ear; Yixing flinches but does not pull away. “Kim...Joonmyun. You should...at least...know...the name...of the man you’re...sworn to save.”

“Shhh, don’t talk,” Yixing murmurs. The sickly rasp of Suho’s - of Joonmyun’s - voice feels like a death knell. “Alright, then, Kim Joonmyun. You rest now. I’m fighting for you, so that means you have to fight too, understand?” He pulls back and looks Joonmyun in the face. “You cannot give up.”

Because if he does, there will be nothing Yixing can do.

Another sweet, fleeting smile. “Me?” he whispers. “Never.”

Yixing nods, accepting that. He lets Joonmyun go and climbs off the bed, but stays close for a while, reading. They’ve exhausted stories about Yixing’s childhood and have moved on to Yixing reading aloud from books; currently it’s Gulliver's Travels. Gulliver has just been found by the Brobdingnagians when Yixing realizes Joonmyun is asleep and puts the book down.

He kills another mosquito, this one on his own arm, and makes his way to the kitchen to prepare dinner and Joonmyun’s medicine.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Three more weeks pass. It’s September now, not that that makes any difference in the Caribbean. The cycles of fever and chills have faded, replaced by extreme weakness and several more respiratory attacks. Yixing has closed his regular practice and employed a boy from town to run errands for him twice a week; he is too afraid to leave Joonmyun’s side. The cinchona has lasted him longer than he expected but he estimates he has perhaps two weeks’ worth left before he needs more.

And Yixing is tired.

It’s a bone-deep weariness, the kind that comes from constant worry and no sleep. In the mirror Yixing can see that Joonmyun’s not the only one who’s gotten too pale, too thin; he knows he should be seeing to his own health as well but it’s just that he has found it increasingly difficult to eat in the past month.

Joonmyun wakens for bare minutes each day, his voice basically gone, but somehow, he always manages to smile at Yixing, as if to say, I’m still here. I’m still fighting. Those smiles keep Yixing going.

Then, one day, Joonmyun doesn’t wake up.

It isn’t dramatic. Yixing doesn’t even realize anything is wrong, at first. He’s still breathing, resting on the sheets with his head tilted to the right as usual, but when Yixing brings him his morning tea and touches his shoulder, he does not rouse. Yixing pushes at his shoulder, then shakes it, calling his name increasingly loudly until the strain to his voice triggers a coughing fit.

Joonmyun’s slipped into a coma.

Yixing falls to his knees by the bedside, taking Joonmyun’s lax hand in between his own. He’s losing. The disease is winning and he is losing and Joonmyun put his faith in him but it isn’t going to matter, he’s going to die. Joonmyun is going to die.

Yixing weeps for a long time, his face pressed helplessly to Joonmyun’s wrist.

Eventually, the tears dry out. Breathless and wrung out, Yixing drops his lips to Suho’s hand and, for the first time in decades, he prays. Prays to a God he thought had abandoned him years ago, a God he is not sure he ever believed in in the first place, but he needs something now, something to give him the strength to get off his knees and on his feet and to keep fighting this unwinnable battle.

Joonmyun’s fingers tighten, closing around his own.

Yixing’s breath stops. He looks up, but Joonmyun has not moved. Has not woken.

It’s enough.

Yixing manages to pull himself to his feet. He scrubs his shirt sleeve across his eyes to dry them and stares down at his patient, his friend. There has to be something he can do. Think, Yixing.

Joonmyun’s swallow reflex is still active, clearly, or else he would be drowning in his own spittle. That means, with care, Yixing can still force him to take liquids. How long will Joonmyun last, on a liquid diet? Broths can only take a man so far; as it is the disease is eating his body from the inside out. At this point, it’s just a matter of which organ fails first.

No. He can’t think that way. There must be something.

Staring down at the fingers still entwined with his own, Yixing has an idea. Well, a glimmer of one, anyway. He turns Joonmyun’s hand over and examines the inside of his wrist, of his elbow, crisscrossed with bluish veins.

Perhaps, were he to administer the cinchona intravenously, it would have a greater effect.

It’s risky. As far as he knows, such a thing has never been attempted; moreover administering anything intravenously inherently carries great risk. One false move could introduce air bubbles into the blood vessels, which would be deadly. But, at this point, if he doesn’t do something drastic, Joonmyun is facing certain death anyway.

It’s a difficult decision, impossible to know the right answer. Normal practice would be to present the options to the next-of-kin and place the decision on their shoulders, but clearly that is not an option here. Yixing must make the decision himself.

What would Joonmyun choose, were he able to decide for himself?

The answer is obvious and immediate. Joonmyun would choose to take the risk. Wasn’t that the life he had willingly chosen for himself in the first place - trading the risk of death for the chance at reward?

Well, then.

Yixing lifts Joonmyun’s fingers and kisses them again, a silent prayer in his heart. Please don’t let this be wrong. Then, he goes to his cabinet and pulls out his syringe kit. He’ll start with a half-dose, just to be certain there are no side effects.

The tea he’d originally brought in sits cooling at the bedside. Yixing refuses to waste it, but he can’t just inject tea into Joonmyun’s veins. He’ll force Joonmyun to drink it afterwards. Instead, he prepares the cinchona in a saline solution while his needle is sterilizing in boiling water from the kettle.

He is very, very careful about picking out the vein. There can be no mistakes. Here, though, Joonmyun’s extreme weight loss, his sickly pale skin are actually a blessing; the veins are very easy to see, pressed clearly between atrophied muscle and paper-thin, translucent skin, like dried leaves pressed between pages of a book. Yixing judges the angle, inserts the needle, and slowly depresses the plunger.

There’s no immediate effect, of course. Yixing cleans his needle and returns to the now-cold tea, propping Joonmyun’s limp form up and spoon-feeding it to him in increments, tilting his head back and his throat with his fingers to trigger the swallow reflex. It’s very slow going, but eventually, the full dose is gone.

When Yixing stands, his vision momentarily grays. He freezes and breathes deeply until it comes back.

He really does need to eat more, it seems.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

A new pattern emerges. Yixing administers the cinchona by needle twice a day spends the rest of his waking time painstakingly feeding Joonmyun water, broths, teas, bit by little tiny bit. The medicine will do no good if Joonmyun dies of dehydration or starvation. For two days, this continues, and as luck would have it they are two of the hottest, sweatiest, stickest days Yixing can remember. He gives up entirely on his shirt, reasoning that there need be no propriety in a house where he’s the only one conscious, anyway.

When he wakes up early on the third morning shivering violently despite the Caribbean heat, though, the obvious hits him.

Malaria. He’s got it too, of course. The exhaustion, the dizziness, the lack of appetite, the coughing. And now the paroxysmal cycles have begun, and two days out of every four he will be feverish, the disease eating away at his brain and body until he cannot function.

Yixing wraps himself in his expensive dressing gown and stumbles into the treatment room to stare at his apothecary jar. There’s barely an inch of powder left in the bottom. He’d hoped, since the intravenous solution required less, that the medicine would last another three weeks; but if he has to start dosing himself as well he’ll be lucky if it lasts ten days. And he does need to dose himself, even though his instincts scream that he should save it all for Joonmyun; he’s still early enough in the disease’s progression that there’s a chance he can eradicate it quickly. After all, he’s Joonmyun’s only hope - he can’t let the disease incapacitate him when he is so needed.

He needs more, and he needs it now.

For the first time in weeks, Yixing dresses for the public and leaves the house. It’s a risk, leaving Joonmyun unconscious and alone, but he has no choice. His errand-boy will not be coming to the house for another two days and anything could happen in that time, and in any case he would not send a child for something so important.

The walk down the mountain and into town is near an hour on a good day; today it takes Yixing close to two. He has to stop several times to rest, his legs shaky and threatening to give out. Though he left before the sun rose, by the time he gets to market it is in full swing, busy and bustling.

Yixing reaches the hovel and immediately knows something is not right, for the door is ajar. He steps inside and finds it utterly empty, devoid not only of cinchona powder, but also of furniture, possessions, people.

Stunned, Yixing manages to catch a passerby and ask about the house. He finds out that the Quechua native couple were driven out of town near two months ago, accused by the townspeople of witchcraft.

The walk home is even longer than the walk out, but it passes in an ugly gray blur. Yixing isn’t even certain how he manages to get home at all, so deep in shock is he.

Joonmyun is right where Yixing left him, sleeping unnervingly like the dead. Coming into the sickroom from being outside, the smell of sickness hits Yixing across the face like a wall. Having lived in it for weeks, he hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten.

He doesn’t care. Yixing kicks off his boots and climbs into the bed next to Joonmyun, wrapping his arms around thin, sharp shoulders and absorbing some of the feverish heat he’s emitting.

“I’m an idiot, Joon,” he whispers, as if the other man can hear him. “Why did I wait so long to go back to market? I should have gone every week to check on them.” Shivering violently, he heaves a sob that is more breath than tears. “Witchcraft. Ignorant fools, all of them, attacking something simply because they don’t understand it.” His eyes fall on the jar, sitting across the room. “If I treat myself,” he thinks out loud, “we run out in two weeks or less. If I don’t, I probably will only be able to function that long.” Turning his head, he looks at the Captain’s lax face and asks, “What should I do?”

Joonmyun doesn’t answer. Yixing holds him tightly and cries himself to sleep.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Administering the intravenous treatment is difficult with his hands shaking so badly, but somehow, Yixing manages it. He also manages it on himself, because once he wakens he realizes he knows full well what Joonmyun would tell him to do. There’s a chance he can save himself, so of course he must try.

The first cycle of chills passes, and Yixing starts into his second cycle of fever with despair in his heart. It’s all he can do to remain on his feet now; yet somehow - it’s a mystery precisely how - he still finds it in himself to bring water in from the well, to make the broth and feed it to Joonmyun, to sterilize his needles and administer the dosages for them both. When he’s not doing one of these things he sleeps at Joonmyun’s side, unable to stomach the thought of leaving him. Joonmyun has been unconscious for five days now, and Yixing is very, very seriously considering giving up, just laying at his friend’s side and holding him close until death comes for them both.

So glazed and feverish is he that when there is a knock at his door, it doesn’t register at first. The second time, the knock is a pounding, and Yixing starts to consciousness, the image of Suho at the door with his bloodied crewmen the first night they met flashing through his head. He stumbles to the door, remembering as he goes that his errand boy is due today.

He gets a startled look from the child when he opens the door shirtless and sweating and flushed, and belatedly realizes he should have thrown on his dressing gown, at least. Oh well. It hardly matters.

“I’m here to bring ye’re order, sir,” the boy says slowly, indicating the wheeled cart he’s dragging. “And there was a box fer ya at th’ docks.”

Yixing blinks, uncomprehending. “A box?”

“Aye, sir.” The boy lifts it out of the cart; it’s really more of a crate, sealed and waterproofed wood, easily large enough to hold a good-sized dog. Yixing takes it and promptly drops it again, his weakened arms giving out; the boy catches it with a noise of alarm and gives Yixing a look.

“Sir, if ye’ll pardon my saying, ye don’ look well.”

It’s so absurd that Yixing actually smiles. It cracks the corners of his fever-dried lips. “I’ll pardon you saying, boy,” he murmurs dryly. “I’m afraid in my current state I will need you to bring these things inside for me.”

The boy does as he’s bade, his nose crinkling in disgust at the smell as he steps in the house. He sets the box on the table and takes the provisions to the kitchen. Yixing gets the boy’s payment from his purse and realizes that’s running low as well; he hasn’t had a source of income for a few weeks now.

“Anything else I can do, sir?” the boy asks, and there is real concern in his eyes. Yixing distantly thinks that if they were to die here, this boy would be the only one to realize it, and Yixing doesn’t even know his name.

It’s probably better that way.

He shakes his head, presses the coin into the boy’s hand and sends him on his way.

The crate is sealed all around with wax; Yixing gets a knife and breaks the seal, levering the box top off. For a moment, he does not understand what he is looking at.

Then, it hits him.

Cinchona. It’s the raw bark, not powdered, but there’s quite a lot of it. Enough for another few months, at least.

For the first time in weeks, hope glows somewhere deep in Yixing’s chest. He smiles so widely that his lips actually do crack and bleed. Ignoring the blood, he reaches gingerly into the crate, pulling out the letter resting on the bark. It’s sealed in deep green wax, stamped with a pair of crescent moons.

The letter is dated six weeks previous, and it is quite short.

On a recent foray to the market in Maricaibo, Chanyeol spotted a native seller and recognized the name of the plant. The alchemist who sold it to us warned us that the bark is best used freshly-ground; it loses potency the longer it remains in powdered form. As the powder is all you had at the time we left, we thought it best to buy out his entire stock and send it to you. I pray this reaches you in time to do some good.

We head for the Keys next. I hope to find word from you there. Until then, the best of luck, my friend. Pass the crew’s regards to the Captain.

Byun Baekhyun

That’s it then. That’s why the medicine has not been working; it’s stale. How long had it been sitting on the shelf in the natives’ hovel before he purchased it? Perhaps it had enough potency left to stave off immediate death, but now…

Now, there is hope.

Yixing practically runs for the kitchen. He puts the kettle on to boil and digs in his cupboards for his mortar and pestle.

Waiting for the water to boil is far more stressful than usual; he busies himself putting away the provisions the boy has brought him with a strength in his movements he thought lost to him just minutes previous. When the kettle finally whistles, Yixing uses the boiling water to sterilize his mortar and pestle and sets to work, breaking off a chunk of bark and grinding it to a fine dust.

He administers the powder to himself, first; just on the off chance it’s not fine enough or something and it would cause complications. When a half-hour goes by with no reaction, he prepares a second dose for Joonmyun.

“I suspect we both owe Chanyeol our lives,” he murmurs as he presses the plunger. The needle comes smoothly out of Joon’s skin, a tiny pinprick next to a half-dozen others on the inside of his arm. He’s been alternating arms but two shots a day has taken its toll on both of their skin, matching sets of purpling bruises on them both. Letting his hand drop, Yixing stares at Joonmyun’s face, handsome and still and pale as death.

“I almost broke my vow,” he murmurs. “I almost gave up on you. I’m sorry.” As has become his habit, he lifts Joonmyun’s lax hand and presses a kiss to the knuckles. “I’ll never give up again.”

He writes his second letter to the crew, thanking them over and over again for the cinchona and writing that he hopes he will be able to send them good news soon. That night, pressed against Joonmyun’s side, Yixing gets the first full night’s sleep he’s had in weeks.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The next day brings his newfound hope crashing down around his ears. Yixing is in the kitchen, grinding more bark, when he hears something from the treatment room. Thinking - hoping - that Joonmyun is waking up, he runs for the room with a smile on his cracked lips.

Then he takes in the scene on the bed and his stomach drops through the floor.

“No,” he whispers. “No, no, nononono Kim Joonmyun don’t you dare.” He’s panicking, he knows he is, but Joonmyun is fully arched off the bed, his back one long curve through the air, balanced improbably on the top of his head and his heels. It looks like nothing so much as a demon possession, and if Yixing hadn’t seen it before in medical school he would probably be running for a priest, atheism notwithstanding.

His professor had called this opisthotonus, and the patient in which he’d seen it demonstrated had suffered from a severe head injury, the kind that leaves a man simple for the rest of his life. In all his readings on malaria, he’s only ever read of this particular symptom happening in one other recorded case, when the disease entered the brain and triggered the muscles of the spinal column to flex.

Yixing runs to Joonmyun and very, very carefully eases him down onto his side on the bed. His spine is extended as far as it will go, trembling with strain; if he doesn’t do something soon the muscles might tear. But there is no known treatment for the condition. The only thing he can do is try to make Joon as comfortable as possible and treat the malaria itself.

If the disease is in the brain now, Yixing doesn’t have much time. He’d once likened malaria to a siege; well now the walls of the keep have been breached and the battle is at hand. It’s war.

And so Yixing decides to take his biggest risk yet.

Praying that Joonmyun will be alright for the time it will take, Yixing runs back to the kitchen and his half-ground bark. Determination gives his movements a feverish strength; he grinds twice the powder in half the time it would normally take and dissolves it in saline. The dosage is high, as high as he dares - close to triple what he had been administering. Yixing fills the sterilized needle and returns to the treatment room. Joonmyun is still arched, terrifyingly unnatural.

Yixing carefully searches out Joonmyun’s jugular vein. With his neck stretched out like this, Yixing must call up every anatomical chart he has ever studied. He cannot afford to miss - injecting this into an artery, or worse, raw tissue, will almost certainly kill him.

He places the needle, measures the depth visually, and presses it in. The jugular is deeper than the veins in the arm, and there’s no real way to tell if he’s got it right. He can only guess, and push, and pray. When the needle is empty he pulls it out and waits. This close to the brain, if he’s missed, he’ll know fairly quickly.

For ten minutes, he does not move from the bedside. There is no change. He takes that as a good sign and gets up to clean his needle and prep his own dose, listening intently for any sound from the treatment room.

When he has finished with his own dose - which he has doubled, because he is very done with malaria - he returns to Joonmyun’s room. To his shock - and joy - Joon’s spine has eased; he’s resting in a much more comfortable position on his side.

Yixing collapses to the bed with relief, the release of adrenaline leaving him feeling giddy and lightheaded, and he allows himself to hope that’s done it - that the disease has been pushed back from Joon’s brain. He must hope it, because he can’t risk using the jugular again. But, if there are no side effects from the triple dose, perhaps he can continue to use such a high dose in his regular administration.

“Take that,” he whispers, giggling a little under his breath. It’s possible the fever is driving him mad, but Yixing couldn’t care less at the moment; he just lays there helplessly laughing until he falls asleep.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

In the evening of the seventh day since Joonmyun has fallen unconscious, Yixing is in the kitchen preparing Joonmyun’s broth when he hears a noise from the treatment bed. Fear spikes through him, and he runs across the house, skidding into the doorway fully expecting to see Joonmyun’s body a deathly parody of the London Bridge again.

Instead, he sees the thing he thought he’d never see again.

Yixing blinks in shock. Joonmyun blinks back at him.

“You’re awake,” Yixing murmurs in awe.

“Yes,” Joonmyun replies, voice gravelly with unuse, and Yixing thinks he might faint with joy. No human’s voice has ever sounded so sweet.

Joonmyun furrows his brow in confusion. “You’re not wearing a shirt,” he notes, and then blinks again, and says, “And my voice is back?”

Yixing grins like a maniac. “You haven’t coughed in a week,” he explains, a bit breathlessly. “I suppose your throat has had time to heal.”

The furrow between Joonmyun’s brows deepens. Yixing kind of wants to kiss it. He’s pretty sure his lips have split again and he cannot find even a tiny bit of himself that cares. The fact that Joonmyun’s making facial expressions, let alone speaking, has him internally crowing in victory.

“A week?” Joon mutters in confusion. “What do you mean?” He sees Yixing’s face and the confusion starts to be replaced with panic. “Yixing? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he says, and realizes, somewhat belatedly, that he’s crying. “It’s just. You were unconscious for the entire past week. I thought...I was sure I was losing you….that I’d lost you.”

Joonmyun’s brow smoothes. “Oh,” he breathes. “I see.” He reaches out a hand. It’s feeble, and shaky, but it’s movement, movement under his own power, and it’s the most beautiful thing Yixing has ever seen. A tiny sob escapes Yixing’s throat. “Come here,” Joonmyun says, and Yixing moves forward, dropping to his knees by the side of the bed. Joonmyun’s hand wraps around his shoulder, and for a long moment they just stare at one another.

“You’re burning up,” Joonmyun notes quietly. “And sweating. And you’ve lost a lot of weight.”

It’s easy to see him putting the pieces together, realizing the truth, but all Yixing can focus on is the fact that Joonmyun can feel Yixing’s fever on his skin - because that means Joon’s own fever is breaking.

“I’m entering my third paroxysmal cycle,” he explains, and Joonmyun’s eyes widen when he realizes what that means.

“Yixing, no.”

“It’s okay, Joon,” Yixing whispers. “You woke up. That means it’s working.”

Another frown, and this close, Yixing’s urge to kiss it is becoming problematic. He manages to refrain.

“What is working?”

Yixing holds out his arms to display the needle bruises and explains. Joon listens with wide eyes as every complication, every trial, every hope, doubt and fear of the past month comes tumbling out of him like a waterfall. He looks especially affected when Yixing describes the opisthotonus, murmuring something under his breath about how that explains why his back is so sore. Yixing finishes with “And then, tonight, you woke up,” and Joonmyun reaches out to take his hand.

“You are an incredible man, Zhang Yixing,” he murmurs. “I owe you everything.” He shakes his head in amazement. “A lesser man would have given up, or gone mad, or both.”

Yixing barks a sharp, rasping laugh. “I think I have gone mad,” he points out. “You should have seen me, walking around the house practically and chattering on to no one at all. And now you’re awake and I can’t stop laughing.”

Joonmyun smiles at him, and it’s weak but it’s real. “It does sound quite a sight,” he says, and though his eyes are still yellowed there’s a bit of a twinkle in them, and Yixing starts weeping again, he’s so deliriously happy. “But you must concentrate on taking care of yourself, now. Look at you, sweating and shivering and laughing and crying all at once.”

Yixing lets out another short, sharp chuckle. “At least two of those are your fault,” he shoots back, with no malice. “I was preparing broth but if you are awake you should have something more solid. I’ll make us soup.” He attempts to stand, but the change in altitude has him dizzy and he stumbles onto the bed. Warm, thin arms catch him, shaky and weak but there.

“Careful,” Joon murmurs, and Yixing looks up at him, at his black eyes and his sweaty, messy dark hair that’s gotten too long and his yellowed skin and the concern on his too-sharp face and realizes something very, very obvious.

Somewhere along the line, he’s fallen in love with Kim Joonmyun.