1 2 3 step back 4 5 6 step up 1 2 3 step back 4 5 6 step up left right 3 4 and—
Thire falters, thrown off his rhythm by the sound of Fox trying to cough up every organ in his body. He drops his hands and steadies the bag, pushing his hair back from his face and turning to face the gym at large. Fox is braced against his bag, practically hugging it as he coughs into his elbow for what seems like the millionth time in an hour. Despite the sweat pouring down his arms and face, he’s shivering, and his arm trembles where it’s braced over his head.
Finally, the fit comes to an end and Fox rights himself, wiping his mouth on his arm and settling back into a ready position. Before he can throw the first punch, Thire clears his throat.
“I really don’t like the sound of that.”
Fox huffs, dropping his hands and turning out to face Thire. “I’m fine, Thire. It’s just a—” he breaks off and twists to cough once into his shoulder “—just a cough.”
“Yeah, well, it sounds like you’re dy—”
Thire’s reply is lost to the slam of Fox’s hand against the bag, followed near-immediately by the other hand, then a forearm.
Great. He loves being ignored by fully grown adults. Not at all a childish tactic. Definitely not a temper tantrum. Nope.
He sighs and returns to his own workout.
The bag swings back at him and he catches it with both hands, stumbling back on shaking legs. Gods, but he’s out of shape.
Since the war’s end, the Guard’s been spending a lot of time escorting Jedi and politicians and humanitarians around the galaxy, keeping the backlash to a dull roar while the galaxy tried to put itself back together.
Thire has been groundbound, stuck in the Guard complex with Fox and a few of the others who ended up a little worse for the wear, and it’s starting to drive him up the wall. It was just a little concussion, practically no brain injury at all, and his knee only had to be replaced twice. He should be out there, dammit!
Awesome. Now he’s starting to sound like Fox. Speaking of…
“Hey, Fox, time’s up. Let’s go shower and grab lunch.” Since their release from the medbay (one much earlier than the other, an advantage of not being mostly dead), Fox and Thire have been on nearly the same medic-mandated schedule, which consists largely of sleeping, eating, and attending doctors’ appointments. He’s already bent the rules by letting Fox work out for half an hour over his limit, and he’s not in the mood to incur Hemlock’s wrath.
“Fuck you,” comes the initial response, indignant despite the telling lack of noise from Fox’s bag. It’s quickly followed by a harsh, wet cough. “I’m not finished.”
Thire shoves his gloves in his gym bag and starts unwinding his hand wraps. “Yes, you are,” he says, coming up beside Fox and tossing him his bag. “You’re shaking and you look like death.”
“What’s new?” Fox snarks, taking off his own gloves. “You smell like a bantha.”
“And you smell like Amidala’s rose garden. Come on, vod, shower time.”
Fox looks like a drowned tooka kit. Thire would laugh if he didn’t seem so miserable. Water drips from his overlong bangs and onto the hoodie he’s ninety percent sure belongs to Vos. He’s wearing those stupid fluffy socks Hound got him last Lifeday. He’s coughing into his elbow, painful-sounding and loud enough that he doesn’t notice Thire until he’s right in front of him, leaning against the arm of the couch.
“Yeah,” Thire decides. “You’re staying right here. I’ll bring you something from the caf, alright?”
Fox frowns up at him, bristling. “I’m fi—”
“Commander, if you say you’re fine one more time, I’m going to throw you out the window.” He pushes Fox back onto the couch. “Get comfy and put on a holo or something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Surreptitiously, he slides a hand up Fox’s arm as he pulls back, feeling his temperature at his bare wrist. Cool enough, he supposes, but there’s no guarantee he’ll stay that way.
“Fine,” Fox huffs, and Thire thinks he might try to follow anyway if it wasn’t for the coughing knocking him back on his ass as Thire slips out the door.
Me: fox is sick
Me: he’s got a cough again and he doesn’t look good.
Me: hemlock
Hemlock: is he throwing up?
Me: no
Hemlock: is he feverish?
Me: no
Hemlock: does he seem out of it at all?
Me: yeah
Me: a little? I guess?
Hemlock: he’s probably just caught a cold or something
Me: he sounds really bad
Me: i left him in our room so i could go get lunch
Me: he didn’t even argue with me that much
Hemlock: thire, I’m sure he’s fine. People get sick sometimes
Me: I know, but what if he’s SICK again
Me: like last senate session
Hemlock: it’s just a cough thire
Hemlock: you’d know if he was that sick
Me: when are you going to be back?
Hemlock: thire take a breath. Where are you?
Me: the barracks
Hemlock: what’s around you?
Me: the hallway
Me: the doors to the csi wing
Me: should I get one of the medics to come look at him?
Hemlock: what time is it?
Me: 1323
Hemlock: what can you feel?
Me: it’s cold in here
Me: i can hear the massifs barking
Me: I’m sitting down now
Me: sorry
Hemlock: don’t be
Hemlock: you’re alright
Hemlock: and Fox is, too. It’s just a cough. If he gets worse, you know where to go.
Me: I know
Me: it’s just
Me: I don’t know
Hemlock: it’s okay, vod’ika
Hemlock: I’ll be back in the evening. Do you want to talk then?
Me: yeah
Me: thanks
Hemlock: of course. Stay alive, thire
Me: stay alive
Thire drops his comm into his lap, letting his head fall back against the wall. He’s dizzy with the adrenaline crash, panting like a shiny running his first half-marathon. He hadn’t even known, hadn’t realized he was getting worked up until Hemlock started talking him down. He just…
“Fox, hey, breathe, Hemlock’s almost here, he’s coming, just hang on, breathe, please, breathe…”
Breathe, he reminds himself. Breathe. It’s over. Hemlock is right, it’s just a cold and he’s getting worked up over nothing.
Fox is fine.
He gets up and keeps walking.
By the time he gets back, Fox is out cold, bundled up in one of their softest blankets with the hood of his sweater pulled so far up Thire can hardly see his eyes. Thire doesn’t want to wake him, but Fox isn’t supposed to be skipping meals, and Thire doesn’t want to get him back in the habit when he’s just started to put weight back on.
“Hey, Fox,” he says, setting the soup on the end table and dropping onto the couch next to him. Fox blinks awake, fixing Thire with a disgruntled, sleepy glare. “Brought you food,” he says before Fox can take his head off. “Chicken noodle soup.”
Fox looks in the direction Thire points in and, try as he might to hide it, his face lights up. “Thanks,” he rasps. He frees his hands from the blanket and pulls the soup close to his chest like he’s trying to absorb the warmth from the container. “Did you eat?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Fox stares into his soup, stirring it slowly. He’s quiet for a minute longer, then he takes a bite and says, “I’m okay, you know.”
Thire frowns, looking up from his ‘pad. “What do you mean?”
Fox shoots him a knowing look. “I’m okay. I’ve got a cough, and I’m tired, but I’m okay.”
Thire sighs. “...I know.”
“Do you?” Fox takes another bite, then sets his spoon down and sips from the bowl like it’s a mug. He has to set it down almost immediately, though, to protect it from spilling during yet another coughing fit.
Thire looks back down to his ‘pad, scrolling absently through a report from Alderaan. “Yeah.” Hmm, looks like the Organas might need to update their security protocols. He forwards a notice to Pickles, then goes back and CCs Dogma and Getup. Hopefully, they’ll be able to handle it without bothering the security division.
“Thire.”
Interesting. Master Vos is taking a new padawan and wants to know if they can use the urban combat course in the training center. Sure, Thire shoots back. Let me know some rough times and I’ll get you the keycodes. Make sure you hit up Goggles and reserve a spot, though.
“Thire.”
“You scared me!” bursts out before he can stop it. “You scared me, and I couldn’t stop thinking about, about, about the last time you got sick, and you couldn’t breathe, and they thought you were going to die, and no one could figure out what was wrong and, and, I know you’re better now, and we’re safe, but—”
Somehow, in the last month, Thire’s forgotten that Fox will always be stronger than him, even on his deathbed, and he squeaks when strong hands grab him by the shoulders and haul him into a crushing hug.
“I’m right here, kih’vod,” Fox says into his hair. “I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere any time soon, okay?” Thire nods, burying his face in Fox’s sweater like he can hide his tears. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”
Thire breaks down and sobs. “I don’t want you to die.”
“And I’m not going to, kih’vod. I promise.”
Hemlock lets himself into Fox and Thire’s room around 1700. Neither of them had responded to his messages when he landed, and he’s pretty sure that—
Yup. There they are, tangled up in blankets and each other and so dead to the world they don’t so much as twitch when the door slides closed. Good. They need it. He turns the lights off and goes to leave, but stalls just before opening the door. Maybe just this once…
Thire stirs as Hemlock crawls over his legs, mumbling something into the blankets and wrinkling his nose. He doesn’t wake, though, nor does he move. Good. Hemlock fits perfectly in the space between him and the couch.