Page 39 of Beautifully Savage Butterfly

I can feel the loose threads that hold him together fraying. He’s been dealing with the weight of all this alone for too long, but he’s not alone anymore. I mentally pull myself together, slipping easily into the familiar position of control that I may not love, but that Orion needs right now.

I stride across the room and flip on the light. He blinks and squints, not even pausing his fruitless search of the floor to let his eyes adjust. I yank open the top drawer of my dresser and grab two pairs of briefs, stepping into one of them and tossing the other to him. He catches the underwear without even looking, his finely honed reflexes working even when he’s half asleep and fully panicking.

“Put those on,” I say firmly.

His lips twist into a frown, but he does as I say, his movements jerky and robotic as he steps into them. I hand him a pair of jeans next, and finally a t-shirt. He puts them on, then pulls his hair up into a knot while I get dressed in a hurry.

“I need to call a cab. Do cabs run this time of night?”

“You don’t need a cab.” I put a hand on his shoulder and steer him towards the bedroom door.

“I have to get to the hospital,” he argues, picking up his pace when he realizes we’re heading towards the front door.

When we reach it, he goes for the handle, but I grab a fistful of his t-shirt and tug him to a stop.

“Shoes,” I say, not bothering to respond to his comment about the hospital. Obviously, that’s where we’re going. And no way am I going to stick him in a cab and leave him to deal with whatever’s happening alone. But I don’t think any of that information is going to get through to him right now, so I stay focused on action.

I let go of his shirt and drop to my knees, reaching for his tennis shoes on the rack at the same time. It takes a little coaxing to get him to lift his foot so I can help him get them on, but eventually I manage it. As ridiculous as I look wearing my Oxfords with a pair of sweatpants and blatant bedhead, I can’t remember where I left my other shoes right now, so they’ll have to do. I stand up and shove my feet into my own shoes, then grab my keys and nudge Orion out the door.

By the time I get him into my car, he seems to be thinking a little more clearly again. He rolls down his window and drums his fingers impatiently against the door.

“That was Jack’s doctor. He said something about a thoro-something-or-other. Dammit, I hate when they use that bullshit medical jargon.” He looks out the window, almost sounding like he’s talking to himself.

“They need to drain fluid from his lungs?” I guess without having enough context to know if I’m even in the ballpark or not.

“Is that what that means? Yeah, I guess that makes sense. He has pneumonia and they’ve got him on antibiotics, but I guess they’re not working.” He bounces his knee.

I peel one hand off of the steering wheel and reach over to put it on his thigh. He stills at my touch, letting out a few shaky breaths before putting a hand over mine.

“Do you know anything else so far?” I ask.

Orion gives a jerky shake of his head that I catch out of the corner of my eye, trying to keep my focus on the quiet street stretched out in front of me.

“Just that the last time he was sick like this, the doctor kept making a point of telling me that pneumonia is the leading cause of death in quadriplegics. I just wanted to grab the guy and fucking shake him. Stop fucking trying to prepare me for the worst and do your goddamn job, you know?” His voice cracks.

I squeeze his thigh and turn at the next traffic light. “Sometimes a little intimidation helps.” My lips twitch, and he huffs.

“You’re such a fucking mobster,” he mutters. There’s enough amusement lacing his voice that I don’t think it’s an insult this time.

“Guilty,” I agree, pulling into the hospital parking lot and coming to a stop. “And you’re about to see why that’s not always the worst thing.”

I kill the engine and open my door. Orion eyes me warily for a second, then gets out on his side.

There’s something unsettling about hospitals, and I don’t just mean the life and death aspect of it all. There’s no real sense of time under the fluorescent lights and unending activity. Three in the morning looks the same as noon. Of course, that doesn’t stop us from getting looks from staff on our way down the long corridors to the intensive care wing. I’m sure a few of them are about to inform us that there are set visiting hours, but a dangerous look is enough for them to keep their mouths shut.

I’m one step behind Orion as we reach the circular nurses’ station that sits right in the center of the ICU. Nurses and orderlies shuffle by, and machines beep from all directions.

“I got a call from Doctor Ross about my brother, Jack,” Orion says to the middle-aged woman behind the desk.

“Mr. Barros.” A man in a white coat, who I’m assuming is Doctor Ross, greets us from the mouth of a room, the privacy curtain fluttering as he pushes it open wider. “I just sent Jack to the surgical suite to be prepped for the thoracentesis. I’m about to head down there to join the nurse and get started. It shouldn’t take long if you want to wait.”

“Yeah, I’ll wait.” Orion nods. “But what happened? He’s on antibiotics. I don’t understand why he’s getting worse.”

“We’re still waiting for his cultures to come back to figure out exactly what we’re dealing with, but my guess is that this is a viral pneumonia rather than bacterial. And his paralysis is complicating his recovery. Pneumonia is the leading—”

“I know,” Orion barks, cutting the doctor off. He drags his fingers through his hair, freeing several strands from the bun. “I’m sorry. I just… is there anything else you can do for him?”

The doctor’s lips stretch into a patronizing smile that makes my fingers twitch for something to throw at him. The way Orion’s hand balls into a fist, I’m guessing he feels the same way.

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