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themockingcrows · 3 years

Text

Faint

Chronic invisible illness sucks. Sometimes we stay quiet. Sometimes we cope by giving our favorite characters our condition to get some comfort. This fic is the latter case, wherein Rose Lalonde has Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome and deals with everything that brings in order to spread a bit of awareness.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31556225

She’d thought it was normal, till she brought it up to the others. The chest pain, the exhaustion, the dizziness. The sense of running on an internal timer so precise that if she overstepped its bounds it would be time to collapse into the void itself. The darkness at the edges of her vision when she’d been upright too long, when she was stressed, when she was running, dancing.

She’d thought it was normal, that everyone just had more stamina than she did before they had the same symptoms occur.

“That’s not normal. You should maybe see a doctor!” they’d unanimously said. John had been concerned, Dave had been flippant with jokes but the worry was easy to detect, and Jade was forceful with her reasoning.

Rose had finally told her mother something was wrong, to spur a visit to the doctor. It was hard to explain at first, but when her guardian further questioned how she felt, how long she’d felt that way, it had nearly turned into a shouting match.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? What if something is really wrong, Rosie! This isn’t something to just keep quiet!”

If she’d known it was abnormal, perhaps she would have mentioned it sooner. If she’d known. If she’d had a reason, she might have even been able to keep up with ballet instead of having to quit, feigning disinterest when it still made her heart sing. Violin was hard enough to deal with, with her arms raised the entire time. But ballet was just a no go anymore.

To the doctor, then, after a few weeks of edge of seat waiting. The family physician, who they’d known for years. Who didn’t believe her. Not at first, at least.

He’d checked her weight first thing, and finding her normal range, asked about her habits. While he spoke, he checked her joints and how stretchy she was, keeping her moving while talking till she was reeling on her feet before he let her lay down. Stupid old man. Her problem felt like it was in her chest or her head, not her joints! She’d always been plenty bendy, able to pull off poses ahead of her ballet class with minimal effort, the stretches never quite feeling like enough to really pull in her body in a satisfying way.

Head swimming till she lay flat on the exam table, arms crossed over her stomach absently, Rose continued to answer questions.

She was doing okay in school. She was just more tired than usual.

Yes, this had been happening for quite some time.

No, she’d fainted before, but only once. And only because she’d been up too long dancing. She didn’t miss the curious look the doctor gave her mother, the raised brow. He checked her abdomen, he checked her glands, looking for distension or rigidity, looking for clues. Nothing. Nothing that she could see, at least. Nothing that felt any different from normal. He continued to talk, keeping her lying down for a while, and checked her blood pressure while she rested, the pulse oximeter being placed on her opposite finger.

75bpm, 120/80. Everything normal, everything fine. He left the devices in place, however, and then did something strange.

“Could you stand up for me, Rose? Nice and straight, right here by the table.”

There were no questions this time to keep her occupied. Just two sets of eyes staring at her in the small room, watching as she felt the cold sweat start up on her forehead, the shake beginning in her limbs. It was stronger when she stood still, when she couldn’t prowl around. She felt nauseated as the sweat turned to a hot flash and started to soak into the fabric of her shirt, and with it came the panic as she saw the darkness at the corners of her vision.

“Can I sit down please.”

“Not yet, try to hold out a little longer,” the doctor coaxed, inflating the blood pressure cuff once more. She focused on the discomfort on her arm instead of the pounding in her chest and head, the increased breaths. Nausea rose in her throat, bile, bitter, salt from excess saliva.

“Can I sit down. Please,” she said again, not caring that it sounded like begging.

“Nearly there, just a moment longer.”

She didn’t have a moment. She felt her knees quaking, felt the floor rushing up to meet her, but gratefully felt her mother’s hands hurrying to catch her waist and balance her till the doctor finished his data gathering.

80/50. 145bpm.

The monster had a name now. Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. There were hopes she’d just grow out of it, but there was a chance it might be long lasting. In her case it seemed to be at least partly linked to how bendy she was, how loose her skin felt, how stretchy it was, how easily she bruised. That, too, had a name. Ehlers Danlos Syndrome.

What had been a slow appointment was suddenly moving very fast. Referrals were being made, appointments with different doctors at the big hospital in town, and paperwork was being handed to her mother in a thick stack. Informative pages, recommendations for diet, for exercises, safety precautions, warnings, risks. A whole new world was opening up below her and swallowing her whole, and Rose didn’t know how to feel about it.

One thing was certain, however.

She didn’t plan on telling her friends. Or anyone, for that matter.

It would be her little secret.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“...Is it going to hurt?” was Rose’s only question. She felt very small, much smaller than she’d felt at the clinic with her mother. The room here was bigger and more sterile, with strange looking machinery and electronics. She’d asked the same when she had her first EKG earlier, and had been relieved that the most painful part was having the gummy electrodes pulled back off after the painless test was performed. Something about being in a hospital gown and swinging her legs on a different looking exam table just made her feel even more fragile than the long walk through the building had. At least her mom was there with her.

“No, not at all. It might be a little uncomfortable, or a little cold, but there’s no pain,” promised a technician with a smile. She smiled back a little uncertainly, unconvinced. “All we’re going to do is get some pictures of your heart. I promise, an echocardiogram doesn’t hurt. It’s just a paddle with cold jelly, you’ll hold your breath when I tell you to and stay very still, and we’ll see how things look from different angles.”

“And you’ll tell me if I’m going to die or not.”

“No,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll be telling you if you have any issues with your heart valves or not.”

“Same difference.”

“You underestimate just how much the human body can handle before needing intervention,” he chuckled. “C’mon, legs up on the table and get laid back. I’m sorry for having to keep the shirt open, I know it’s embarrassing. Mom, you can see everything, yes?”

“Yes. Rosie if you need to hold my hand, I ca-”

“I’m fine, Mother. Thank you.”

“Well. If you change your mind, I’m right here.”

“Can you see the screen?” he asked Rose. She nodded, then went very still to watch the technician lift a bottle of gel and squeeze a splurt onto the paddle's end instead. “Right. Sorry this will be chilly, just try to bear with it. And-”

“Stay very still,” Rose finished for him as he opened the front of the gown and pressed the paddle to her chest. She hadn’t been watching the screen at first, but when it lit up with a fluttering white and gray form it was hard to ignore. She knew what it was, of course, though not what the technician was looking for. Seeing your own heart pushing blood around, flaring and calming as it cycled pulses, was kind of amazing. There it was, the only thing keeping her alive, and they were checking to see if any potential defects inside of its valves from the EDS were making her sick.

The procedure was quick enough. A roll here or there, a drop down section of the table for him to do further measurements underneath of her as she lay on her side, and soon enough she was done.

“What’s the verdict, am I dying,” Rose said, voice carefully calm and face deadpan. The papers from the physician had said this was a non-deadly condition, that neither of them would kill her, but the concept of damage to a heart valve of all things being real had brought out the morbid part of her brain.

“There’s a bit of a leak,” he admitted. “But your measurements are just fine and within normal ranges. I wouldn’t be too worried about it, but if you start feeling worse or new symptoms we might recheck within the next few years.”

Rose wiped off the gel with the offered cloth and covered back up while the technician spoke with her mother, the words flowing quick and easy as she asked questions and they discussed the findings. Rose herself stared at the blank screen for a moment before setting her hand over her heart, feeling the pulse, remembering how it had looked.

She was fine then.

All the more reason not to make anyone she knew worry.

She informed her friends that it had been a vitamin issue and that she was going to be just fine before changing the subject, getting swept up in conversations about games and comics and music all over again. Same as ever.

Same as always.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Treatment wasn’t much. Increased water consumption, and a stupid amount of salt. Compression stockings, when that alone wasn’t enough. Rose drank gatorade till she could smell it in her dreams, ate pickles and pretzels till salty foods lost their amusement and her mother had to get creative in the kitchen and with the ordering in catalog. Everything was salt and fluids, compression stockings just tight enough they gave her the will to live back. Thankfully they came in black and she could just pretend they were normal stockings, and for anyone just looking in passing, they would be just another part of her wardrobe.

Yet none of it was enough. The weakness persisted, the fatigue, and through it all that awful, stupid racing heart. If the sound of a beating heart could drive a man mad from beneath floorboards then, surely, the persistent throbbing in her ears and the pain in her chest from her own rushing tempo would be enough to drive her mad. Going to the grocery store made her sweat through her clothes, made her vision blur even as she clung to the cart for balance. More than once, she had to go find a deserted aisle to sit down on the floor in, legs stretched out in front of her, waiting for the worst of it to pass as she debated just how much she might regret laying down flat to hurry it along.

Rose assumed this was just how life was going to be. Stockings, salt, water, constantly living on an internal timer to get things done. Annoying, but not much of a burden. She could imagine living her life like this, one way or another. Others did it every day.

Then had come SBurb.

Fire from the sky and the end of the world, rushing, hurrying, breaking the bottle. She hadn’t been wearing her stockings for the day, but was grateful for the opportunities to sit, few and far between as they were. There was plenty reason for her heart to be beating out of her chest then; plenty of scary, inexplicably stressful things were happening. She had entered the medium with grim determination, and set about the task of destroying imps with a bit of glee.

She had to be quick in dispatching them, there was no alternative. Fainting around these things was unthinkable, and she had plenty of stress to get out with her knitting needles. Rose combined aggression with ballet and her own trained limberness for maneuvers that, in a normal situation, she’d never have reason to use.

It was thrilling.

It was-

Gasping and out of breath, Rose settled on her knees and held her chest after her latest kill, needing time to recover. To rest. It was like she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t open her lungs enough. Like she was drowning on dry land. She gagged, saliva thick and sticky from exertion and, somehow, early dehydration. Slowly, she flopped onto her back and threw her legs up against the wall, feeling the ache and throb as the pooled blood rushed back towards her torso and brain.

Maybe she should get her stockings before continuing, given she had no idea what to expect going forward…

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The game up through getting to the meteor had been quite the experience. She’d been able to pace herself somewhat, exerting herself in bouts that she could control better once she’d gotten some thoroughly upgraded weaponry in hand. Now, godtiered and being able to fly, she found she was able to handle being upright longer than usual.

Well.

Mostly.

She still had an affinity for walking normally. Maybe it was because it let her track her internal timer better, a long ingrained pattern she was comfortable with. Maybe it was the fear of falling from height, knowing it wouldn’t kill her but that it would still hurt unless someone caught her. There was also the setback of getting enough fluids and salt.

Gatorade was too much to hope for, but water was doable at least. Salt as a base was also available, but drinking straight salt water would have been anything but subtle.

...Maybe it was time to be honest. Rose was fairly certain that Dave already had an idea something was up, having been around her for some time by then. He always seemed to be watching her carefully, and after a few conversations with Kanaya she’d walked in on, even Kanaya had begun to have a more cautious air in their interactions.

Would that just get worse, if she told everyone?

How would Vriska react to such a thing? Such a weakness? The Seer of Light, waylaid by darkness brought on by standing for too long, she could hear it now. Brought on by sitting upright too long, sometimes. It had progressed in ways that she was frustrated about, spending time reading and trying to figure out how to make compression stockings of the right elasticity out of her god tier outfit in her down time. A dress? Sure! Simple! A garment that would help her out without cutting off all circulation to her legs or being useless? Bit more difficult.

At least Kanaya was content to let her recline whenever she wanted. She never asked, never brought it up. Instead she welcomed the blonde head to her lap, the subtle tug on her hand that meant she was going to slide to sit on the ground against the wall for a time to watch the vast space they were traveling through.

Maybe she would just keep it quiet forever. Or, at least, till after their final battles were done. When there was time to rest, when there were doctors again, Gatorade or something similar, she could get this under control and go back to her plans of dealing with it like she had imagined on Earth. Whatever lay ahead of them could be handled.

She’d keep it quiet. It would be her little secret.

Till she’d fainted in front of everyone, at least.

Another argument had broken out between Karkat and Vriska, Terezi egging on from the side and Dave adding the occasional beatbox for effect much to everyone’s annoyance and amusement in equal measure. Rose and Kanaya were observing and commenting for the most part, following them all up the stairs, but the growing intensity of the clog meant that the foot traffic had come to a stop.

Moments ticked by, then minutes.

Rose felt the shake in her knees, the cold sweat on her brow starting up.

“Dear, are you quite alright? You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” she promised with a smile, looking ahead at the group who took up the stairwell. Surely they’d move any moment. Any time now. Any second. They couldn’t argue forever, not even Karkat and Vriska on a bad day, it would end any time. She just needed to hold on, and then she’d be back upstairs with her book on the sofa, feet up, recovering stealthily yet again.

The argument dragged on, and the pain in her chest started up. Vision blurring, Rose turned her head to glance down the stairs, half turning. Maybe she could go back downstairs and use the restroom or something instead, buy time for them to move while having an excuse on hand so nobody would be suspicious.

“I’m-” she started to say.

Her legs buckled beneath her, and she knew no more.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“See, if you’d just moved your ass instead of backing up into the wall like a cornered meowbeast, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“It’s not like I pushed her! I don’t know who pushed her!”

“Nobody pushed her, she just collapsed, I was right there. We’ve been over this.”

“Well, why did she collapse then!”

“Has she been drinking or something?”

“No, not that I’m aware. She ate earlier, too.”

“Sleeping?”

“Plenty.”

Rose slowly opened her eyes and stared up quietly at the ceiling, the view from the floor at the bottom of the staircase. The argument had a new source now, the squabble more contained than before, but still lively. Kanaya was watching Terezi pull Karkat and Vriska physically apart like she wanted to jump in and do it herself, but she kept her cool hands on Rose’s arm instead, immobilized. Dave had a notebook he was using like a fan over her face, cooling her off, drying the remaining sweat on her brow. He stopped when he realized she was awake, setting it aside and pushing his shades up the bridge of his nose.

She knew that look. Worry. Suspicion. It made her stomach ache a bit with guilt.

“You good now?”

“...Yeah. I fell?”

“Swan dived face first for the concrete, more like.”

Kanaya’s head jerked her direction and she smiled broader, leaning down to hug Rose tight around the shoulders.

“I was so worried! You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No,” she admitted, surprised. “How-”

“I’m quick,” Dave shrugged, glancing to the side. Kanaya pressed a kiss to her cheek before carefully helping her to sit upright. “Hey, yo, shut the fuck up, she’s awake now. Everyone can stop the blame game, new topic after a quick five.”

“Lalonde, what was that about!” Vriska said immediately. “Did you just trip over your own feet?”

“Kanaya said she collapsed,” Terezi sighed. “Not tripped.”

Karkat glowered, but crossed his arms and was quiet for a moment before speaking. “Thanks for not painting the floor with your thinkpan, we’ve got enough problems around here witho- UGH” he grunted, Terezi’s elbow making swift contact with his side, halting his contribution to the subject.

“Are you sick or something?” Terezi asked.

Rose furrowed her brow, looking around at everyone. Looking back to Dave, looking to Kanaya, both of whom briefly exchanged knowing glances. It appeared the jig was up. Now to just let the cat out of the bag properly so it would stop suffocating.

“I fainted,” Rose said.

“No fucking shit,” came Karkat’s helpful response.

“It’s. ...I’ve done it before,” Rose said, trying to measure her words, trying to figure out how to explain quickly not only to Dave but to members of an entirely different species. “On Earth I was sick. I’m still sick.”

“So we just need to get you medicine or something, right?” Dave said.

She shook her head.

“I’m already taking my medicine best I can.”

“Man, if you know how to make meds can you whip up some pepto or somethin’, because I think I’m gonna die if I don’t get hold of some before the next time we eat makeshift Alternian shit,” Dave said. Rose shook her head again.

“Water and salt.”

“What about it?” said Kanaya, rubbing Rose’s upper back when she still looked a bit woozy. Rose accepted the invitation and leaned into her shoulder, hugging her with one arm to give herself a bit more courage.

“That’s the medicine.”

“...I don’t follow.”

Rose groaned and dropped her head against Kanaya’s neck for a moment before sighing and straightening once more.

“I’ve got a condition called POTS.”

“Like-”

“No, not like fucking weed. It’s Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome.”

“What the fuck does all that mean? Are you contagious?” Karkat asked, getting another sharp elbow from Terezi, hard enough he slapped at her arm afterwards a few times in annoyance. “Will you knock that the fuck off?!”

“Don’t you think she would’ve mentioned something if she was?”

“SHE’S A FUCKING ALIEN! How do we know if it’s not contagious to US?” he argued, taking a quick step back to avoid yet another elbow coming his direction. Vriska caught him around the neck and scrubbed her knuckles deep against his scalp till he cringed.

“Preeeeeeeetty sure she would’ve said something that important before no- YOW!”

More than a little annoyed, Terezi yanked a section of Vriska’s hair till she released the thrashing Karkat, then quickly slapped a hand Karkat’s direction to keep him at bay.

“What’s it mean,” she said simply.

“It means my body is stupid and my brain doesn’t get enough blood to it when I’m upright. It all goes to my legs and can’t get back up to my head fast enough,” she said. “My heart races very badly and I feel like I’m dying and I get very weak. I get tired. I get sick. And if I’m not careful, I faint.”

“So it wasn’t a vitamin problem,” Dave mumbled. “Fuckin’ knew it.”

Kanaya frowned a bit, lifting a hand up to stroke a section of Rose’s bangs away from her face, to stroke down the side of her cheek with her thumb. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner? We could have watched out for you.”

“I didn’t want to hold anyone back,” Rose shrugged. “I thought I could handle it. And I didn’t want-”

“UGH great! Now we’ve got a whole person who’s useless to cope with!” Vriska shouted, rubbing her eyes with one hand.

“That,” Rose said flatly, more than a little annoyed.

“She’s not useless, she’s sick,” Dave said.

“SAME DIFFERENCE! It’s a weakness! A BIG weakness! We’re heading towards a huge fight and we can’t count on you at all now!”

Rose set her jaw. “I can handle myself. I just have to be quick an-”

“You can’t handle yourself, you just fell down the stairs from standing still! What if you collapse during battle, huh? What then? I’m sure as shit not sweeping in to save you, and we need all the god tier powers we can get to be FUNCTIONAL during a fight!” Vriska continued, yanking her hair free from Terezi’s hand to stalk closer, staring down where Rose sat, arms crossed. “What can you do? Ranged attacks while sitting down?”

Releasing Kanaya, Rose stood up quickly, immediately regretting it when her vision swam again. She braced herself and bent her knees before locking them in a wider stance for balance. It was a weak spot. A point of pride was that she’d come this far just fine as it was, and now that the cat was out of the bag her worst fears were coming true.

“Hey, easy, don’t go down again,” Dave said from behind her.

“Shut up, I’m fine!” Rose insisted. “What do you want me say, Vriska! That I promise I won’t collapse? You don’t know what I’m capable of in a fight! You don’t know what options I have on hand! Don’t discredit me just because I have this bullshit to deal with. If I can work around it, so can you. If you can’t then which of us is weaker in the end, me or you?”

It was spoken as a challenge, pure and simple. Tension was thick in the air as they stared each other down, Rose with her hands balled into fists, Vriska with crossed arms. Everyone was waiting for something to give, for the other shoe to drop.

“...Whatever,” Vriska muttered, the first to break position. She turned around and lifted her arms behind her head to stretch as she went up the stairs. “Humans are so fragile and booooooooring! Terezi, come help with dinner, I don’t know what to aim for this time.”

A collective breath was released. Terezi smirked a bit.

“That was pretty good, Lalonde. Normally she’d have kept going, but I think you got her in a corner now.”

“TEREZI, COME ON, I’M HUNGRY!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming, keep your rumble spheres tethered!” she shouted, before turning with a laugh like broken glass to run up the stairs after her friend.

Karkat, alone with the trio, watched Terezi run off before looking back towards Rose. She shuddered, then quickly sat back down on the ground and flopped onto her back with a heavy sigh.

“I’m fine!” she was quick to say. “Just. Need to be down for a second. Just a second. Holy shit.”

“What, think you were gonna get into a catfight?” Dave asked, picking up the notebook again to sway over her face a few times just in case it was useful again.

“Yes!”

“Would’ve been funny,” he admitted.

“Would’ve been hilarious if this is what finally got us at each other’s throats,” she said sarcastically.

“How do you feel now that everyone knows what has been wrong?” Kanaya asked, stretching her legs out before scooting closer to Rose’s side and laying back as well. “Relieved?”

“Yes. ...Though. What if she’s right…?”

“First time for everything,” Dave shrugged. “Here, lift your heads up,” he instructed as he dropped the notebook and instead lifted his cape, scooting it in a wad beneath their heads. He settled opposite Rose and stretched out as well, one knee bent up so he could tap his foot occasionally, arms splayed out.

Karkat waited for a moment before Dave patted the open space in the circle, then came closer and flopped down as well, hands on his stomach.

“...So you’re SURE you’re not contagious.”

“Dude, with how often she swaps spit with Kanaya I’m pretty sure you’re safe just breathin’ the same air if she’s unaffected,” Dave pointed out.

“Well, good. ...Sorry for asking earlier,” he muttered. “I just didn’t know what to think! Lalonde being sick out of nowhere is-”

“It was rather obvious, if you watched her closely. Something was wrong even if I didn’t know what,” Kanaya said. Dave nodded as well, making Rose groan and cover her face with her hands.

“How obvious was I?”

“Real obvious,” Dave snorted. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got your back now, and we’ll have your back durin’ a fight. You know that.”

“I’ll slice anything that comes for you if you go down,” Karkat said helpfully. Given how much work he’d done hoping to be a threshcutioner before,

Kanaya reached for Rose’s hand as it came away from her face and gave it a squeeze. “We all do.”

“Yeah,” Rose sighed. “Yeah. I know. You’re right.”

She had backup now. And a while to think of how to explain everything to the others when they met up with them.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It felt like years ago, that final battle. Maybe because it had been years by then. It was kind of hard to keep track sometimes, really. She’d held her own, had backup, and they had all come out on top. They’d made a new world, populated it, let it grow and come back to live amongst everyone. She’d been hopeful that after all that, after all the advancements, there would be progress in her own disorders. Treatment options beyond salt and water, beyond stockings.

The fact there wasn’t, that it was still a chronic illness, that there was no magical cure in a special pill to take even after all of that, felt a bit like a slap in the face. Somehow, despite everything, having that bit of hope crushed had been enough to send her into a depression deep enough that it took months for friends and family to help pull her out of it.

There was no ‘better’. There was just coping. And she had to be okay with that.

She had options at least, thankfully. She could fly to get places faster than walking, even if she was on a harsher timer than before. She could drive. Her home was comfortable and easily accommodated a wheelchair that she could use outside of the home as well, half the time pushing herself along and the other half of the time being pushed by Kanaya when she got too tired. Life was good in many ways, even if there was no miracle to be had.

She was alive, married to the love of her life. She had friends and family surrounding her. She had aspirations for a long future, and hobbies that kept her plenty busy. It was enough for her.

When Kanaya leaned down behind her to kiss the side of her neck, sharp fangs barely there on her skin, Rose pulled the brakes on her chair and reached back to stroke Kanaya’s hair fondly. Her wife sat down beside her on the dock, overlooking the vast lake, and squinted out over the shimmering surface to make out where their friends were. A boat was heading this way and that trailing a water skier behind on a tow line, while two people flew above it keeping an eye on whoever was below kicking up wake behind them.

“Are you sure you didn’t want to participate?” Kanaya asked, amused when the skier went down into the water and was pulled up by the two flying lifeguards. “They said they had an innertube as well. You could sit and be towed.”

“Mmm. I’m fine,” Rose said with a smile. “Maybe next time, I don’t much feel like getting wet today. What about you? It looks plenty safe. Roxy and John wouldn’t let anyone drown.”

“I’d rather be near you,” she shrugged. “Perhaps we can have a turn in the boat instead later. We could take a tour around the lake without getting wet.”

“I love how your mind works,” Rose chuckled. She stretched a bit, then pushed the legs of her chair straight out, propping her legs straight out in front of her with a grateful sigh, pooled blood circulating somewhat easier again.

The skier was, apparently, Karkat. At least that’s what the shouting and cursing indicated as he struggled in the air with the duo holding him up safely. He dropped back into the lake with a splash, only to be carefully fished out again and deposited on the boat. Rose snorted a laugh before giggling at just how silly the situation looked from a distance, knowing she’d hear all about the details of it later from everyone involved. Kanaya looked at her with a soft smile before leaning against the side of the chair, nudging Rose’s leg till she stroked at her head and horns as one would pet a cat.

“I’m so glad to hear that sound…”

“Laughter? I’ve laughed a lot recently, haven’t I?” Rose asked, a little confused.

“Yes. You’ve been in such a good mood lately, compared to before. Every time I hear you laugh or see you smile it’s like sunshine.”

Rose leaned forward to press a kiss between Kanaya’s horns, making her wife hum softly, blissfully.

“You know just what to say to make an already good day better.”

Somehow, Rose felt, every day was just more proof that everything was going to be okay now.

((If you would like to learn more about POTS please visit this website for information!

http://www.dysautonomiainternational.org/page.php?ID=30))

#Homestuck #Rose Lalonde #chronic illness #pots #postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome #EDS #my fic

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huphilpuffs · 5 years

Text

flares

chapter: 30/? summary: Dan’s body has been broken for as long as he can remember, and he’s long since learned to deal with it. Sort of. But when his symptoms force him to leave uni and move into a new flat with a stranger named Phil, he finds that ignoring the pain isn’t the way to make himself happy. word count: 4760 rating: mature warnings: chronic illness, chronic pain, medicine a/n: As always, immense thanks to @obsessivelymoody for beta’ing!

Ao3 link || read from beginning

It’s too early when Phil gets out of bed to get ready for work.

His arm slips from around Dan’s waist. He presses a quick kiss to Dan’s shoulder before crawling out from behind him. The alarm clock on the bedside table tells Dan it’s just past seven in bright red lines that make his eyes burn.

He’s been staring at them since they said 5:27.

He’d woken up to a sharp breath that made his chest ache, tears in his eyes and sticky on his cheeks. His feet were numb and his hands all prickly with sleep and he’d stared into the black of Phil’s bedroom for long minutes waiting for his body to recover from whatever it was that woke him up. It had taken him until two to fall asleep last night.

Dan didn’t fall asleep again.

His legs ache now that they’re not sleepy. His arm hurts from having his weight on it for so long. Without Phil’s body holding him up, Dan rolls onto his side. It makes the muscles in his chest spasm, has him choking on nothing and groaning into the silence.

Phil comes over to the edge of the bed, reaching out to brush his fingers across Dan’s forehead.

“You okay?” he whispers.

Dan’s eyes get teary again. He blames the too-tight feeling wrapped around his heart, the thoughts that have been circling the back of his mind for the last two hours. His body hurts from not having slept and his brain keeps telling him that his mum was right, it is all his brain’s fault, that’s what Dr. Kissel will tell him today.

He reaches up, snags Phil’s hand to hold on tight, and hums something that isn’t quite affirmative.

It’s the best he can muster this morning.

A frown draws at Phil’s mouth. He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to Dan’s forehead. And then a second one, like he doesn’t really want to pull away.

Dan doesn’t want him to. If this broken feeling wasn’t so perpetual, he might ask Phil to call in sick and stay home with him, keep him company when the drone of TV programs isn’t enough to keep him out of his own head. But Phil’s done a lot. Dan’s needed a lot.

He hopes that’ll diminish today.

Hope’s never been his strong suit before doctor’s appointments.

He tugs on Phil’s hand until he leans down, fringe tickling Dan’s brow, and kisses him, soft and gentle and slow.

And then he lets Phil go.

---

Dan: i hate weekdays

Phil doesn’t respond. Not that he should. Dan knows he probably has to do extra since he’s leaving early to come to Dan’s appointment. That doesn’t keep him from flicking his phone on and off over and over again for too many minutes after he sends the message.

It’s been a long morning. The clock on his phone tells him it’s only half eleven and Dan almost wants to cry.

There’s four and a half hours until his appointment. He’s been staring into space for so long his brain is starting to go numb and yet there’s too much going on inside his mind to focus on anything else.

He’d considered sitting down, rambling into the void, also known as his laptop webcam, again. It helped last time. But it feels almost silly, when he’s by himself, without Phil to recommend he do it. That, and the idea of setting any of it up sounds like way too much effort today.

He double taps the screen, copies the message and sends the exact same thing to Taylor.

His phone vibrates when she responds. It stings the skin of his palm, feels like it rattles the bones in his wrists. He doesn’t much care.

Taylor: why?

Dan: phil’s not home

Dan: and my appts this afternoon and i cant stop thinking about it

He swallows, looking back up to stare at the TV. He’s definitely seen this episode of Doctor Who before, probably on another day like today, watching the endless marathons of the same few shows for hours on end when his body doesn’t really let him do much else.

His brain can’t process it today. It’s too busy replaying every appointment he’s ever had in the most painful sort of slow motion.

Taylor: :(

Taylor: i know that feeling

Dan: yea well it sucks

He rests his phone on his leg, where the pressure makes a dull ache bloom like a new bruise. His thumb hovers over the home button until the three little dots of Taylor’s typing pop onto the screen. He watches, because it’s better than staring at white walls and waiting for minutes to tick by.

Taylor: want some company?

Taylor: I know i’m not phil but I also don’t have a job

Dan: pls

---

He has to stand up to let her into the flat.

His steps are slow. The blanket he has wrapped around his shoulders flutters over his skin and leaves phantom burns in its wake. His hand almost feels too weak to turn the doorknob when he gets there. There’s a stabbing pain in his wrist that makes it feel like it might shatter as it twists.

Taylor’s smiling on the other side. It falters, just slightly, when she sees him.

“I’d hug you hello, but you look like you’re dying,” she says.

Dan manages half, or maybe a quarter of a smile. “Feel like it too.”

He leads her back to the sofa, still limping. Walking past the breakfast bar reminds him he hasn’t had anything to eat today, and barely a few sips of water to drink. The thought makes his stomach churn, something burning at the back of his throat. He won’t eat until after the appointment.

Maybe later, if it goes poorly.

Probably later.

Taylor tucks herself against the armrest as Dan sits down, knees drawn up to her chest, face pressed against one. Being sat with her, like this, reminds him of being back in uni. Except she looks better. There’s less darkness under her eyes and less oil in her hair, and Dan wishes he could relate.

His whole body feels heavy. Worse than it did even then.

“That bad, huh?” says Taylor.

“Can’t sleep,” says Dan. “I don’t know what to expect.”

“So you’re expecting the worst?”

He can’t be bothered to nod. The corner of Taylor’s mouth quirks up knowingly, and she reaches out to rest a hand right by Dan’s knee, without touching.

“We should talk about something else,” she says. “Something happy. Keep your mind off it for a while.”

“Like what?”

She shrugs. “Just tell me something good that happened? My therapist makes me do it sometimes.”

“Oh,” says Dan. He stares down at the table, where his phone’s resting, screen down, and his laptop’s closed. His hand curls tight around his blanket.

When he looks back up at Taylor, her brow’s furrowed, smile fallen into a straight line. “You look like you’re thinking about something,” she says.

“I am,” Dan mumbles. He swallows, thumb sweeping across the fleece of his blanket until his fingertip’s gone tingly. “Phil kissed me.”

Taylor’s jaw drops. Her eyes go happy. She reaches over, actually touches Dan this time, just enough to grab his hand and squeeze it once in glee. “Oh my god. That’s, like, the best kind of happy,” she says. “It is happy, right?”

Dan wants to point out that he wouldn’t have mentioned it if it wasn’t, but the smile on her face finally has his anxiety unfurling just enough for him to breathe a little easier. Maybe Taylor’s therapist actually has some useful ideas.

He forces himself not to follow that thought to the next, the ones saying maybe all he needs is therapy over and over again in his mum’s voice in the back of his head.

“Yeah, it’s happy,” he says. “You know that.”

“And you’re not having some sexuality crisis you need me to talk you through?” she says, half laughing now. “I’ve been there. I can try to help.”

Dan actually manages half a chuckle, like he did when she first told him she liked girls, halfway through a complaint about how everyone at uni somehow had a love life except them. “Reckon I got over that when he started kissing my head all the time,” he says. “Thanks for the offer though.”

She nods, still holding his hand, staring at the side of his face with a smile. “So this is just happy, right? No inner turmoil about what it means or anything?”

It’s been so long since Dan’s had anything be that simple that his brain doesn’t quite grasp the concept. He almost tells her no, just because it makes more sense, because his brain is really good at finding problems where there’s probably non right now.

It doesn’t feel like he can be just happy now.

But then he thinks about the soft goodnight kiss Phil brushed against his lips before they went to bed to bed last night, and an actual smile cracks past the fear.

“Yeah,” he tells her. “That’s just happy.”

---

They talk about Phil for a while.

It’s easy, with Taylor, to just ramble about sleepy cuddles and soft kisses and the way it all makes him feel good for the first time in ages. It reminds Dan of being twelve again, before everything went wrong and his body broke and any chance at normalcy crumbled before his very eyes.

Maybe there is room for a sexuality crisis, if he thinks too hard about the crushes he might have had if he’d been healthy.

Dan doesn’t think about it. He lets his head fall back against the sofa and feels his thoughts lapse into everything that came after age twelve. His story about their kiss ended a bit ago, faded into discussions about where he wants things to go from here, and then into silence.

There’s a lot of things Dan wants now. Most of them have nothing to do with kissing Phil.

“Hey,” says Taylor. He’s not sure how long they’ve just been sitting here, but her smile has fallen into a frown. “You okay?”

He shrugs. Vaguely, he processes that people are still talking on the TV, that Taylor’s hand has fallen to rest on his knee. “Just thinking.”

“Not about happy things?”

His chest burns when he chuckles. The rush of giddy conversation has faded, left Dan’s body more exhausted now than it was before. He almost wants to nap, except he knows his brain wouldn’t let him. Days like today are just days where he’s meant to be sore and tired and feel all of it acutely.

“No,” he says. “Not about happy things.”

Taylor squeezes his knee. It hurts. It’s comforting anyway.

“Do you want me to try and distract you with more happy things?”

“Don’t think you can,” he admits. “I think I’ve used up all my happy energy for today.”

His head falls back again, gaze drifting up to the ceiling. His vision goes blurry. It’s not from tears. Dan’s pretty sure his eyes are just tired, too. It takes too much energy to force them to focus again.

He takes a breath. It hurts his throat, his head being bent back like this, and tugs at the tendons in his neck.

“I don’t think it’s going to be a happy day,” he whispers, voice cracking “I’m–”

Scared. He doesn’t say it.

“I know,” says Taylor.

They sit there, listening to the same drawl that Dan usually does. His eyes have fallen closed. He can hear his own breathing, loud compared to Taylor’s, but he doesn’t much care to worry about it. Taylor’s never been bothered by the little ways Dan’s body is different.

She just leans forward, snagging the remote from where it was sitting on the coffee table, and says, “Let’s put on a better film, at least.”

If Dan had the energy, he’d smile.

---

Phil gets home from work earlier than Dan expected.

“I worked my lunch,” he explains. “And my boss deemed me completely useless today. Apparently I was distracted.”

He’s sitting on the armrest, leaning over Dan. Whatever lighthearted smile he’s attempting lasts about half a second before it falls. His hand lands on Dan’s head, drawing his curls back. Taylor’s still sitting next to them, but Phil hardly hesitates before leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of Dan’s brow.

“Wonder why,” says Taylor. It’s a whisper, like she’s trying not to interrupt. “I should get going, though. I’m sure you guys have to get ready or some shit.”

Dan almost asks her to stay, just so he has an excuse to pretend that three thirty isn’t slowly sneaking up on him.

“Thanks for coming over,” says Phil.

“Yeah, of course.”

Dan can hear her smile, can see Phil’s. It makes his chest go warm.

Taylor looks down at him before she leaves. “Good luck,” she says. “Text me when you’re ready to talk about whatever the doctor has to say.”

“I will,” says Dan. He hopes his smile is enough to tell her how much he appreciates the space she permits him.

Phil escorts her to the door. They hug before she leaves. Dan hears the murmur of her voice, too far for him to pick up on any words. He listens to the door open, then close, and then Phil returns by himself, dropping into the seat Taylor was just occupying.

Dan should probably feel bad for how relieved he is that Phil’s here now, but he doesn’t, not really.

His head falls back against the cushions, too, turned so he’s looking at Dan. He looks exhausted, eyes puffy and face all drawn.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Shit,” says Dan. “You?”

“Scared,” Phil whispers.

Dan nods, awkward and crooked with his head still tilted back. He reaches into the space between them, taking Phil’s hand in his. Their fingers interlock, and the pressure against his knuckles is not very comfortable, but it makes the corner of Phil’s mouth quirk up.

“Yeah,” says Dan. “Me too.”

---

They get to the doctor’s office early.

Sitting at home, waiting for the minutes to tick by, had become unbearable. Dan forgot that waiting rooms are always exponentially worse. Phil’s arm isn’t wrapped around him here. They don’t hold hands. Their feet are pressed together between their seats. It’s not enough.

Across from them, a mum is rocking her baby as he fusses. And older man is reading one of the magazines left out for them. Phil had tried to pick one up, and had put it down about thirty seconds later. The secretary who booked this appointment is talking on the phone. The other is checking someone in.

There’s a poster about heart failure on the wall.

Dan stares at it until his chest starts to hurt and the anxiety makes his eyes water.

Phil grabs his hand, holds on tight.

“Your heart's fine,” he says. “You’ve had that tested before, right?”

“Yeah.” Dan lets out a breath. “Yeah. It was fine.”

“Okay,” says Phil. “Okay. That’s good.”

His grip on Dan’s hand loosens, his breath coming easier.

Dan’s stays locked painfully between his ribs until a nurse steps out from the hallway and calls his name.

---

She checks his height, even though he hasn’t grown in over a year. And then his weight, as though it’s fluctuated much since his last growth spurt, since he lost his appetite and ability to exercise all at once.

“Looks good,” she says, like she thinks that’s what Dan cares about.

She leads him into a little room and asks him questions, the familiar kind with automatic answers. No, he’s not diabetic. No, he doesn’t smoke. No, he hasn’t had caffeine in the last couple hours, because just the thought of putting something on his stomach makes him want to be sick.

He doesn’t say that last bit.

She wraps the blood pressure cuff around his arm. Dan squeezes his eyes shut against the pain when it tightens. He should be used to it. Part of him doesn’t think he’ll ever be.

His pulse is high, his blood pressure low. The nurse points it out.

“It’s always like that,” he explains.

She looks back at him, brows furrowed, skeptical. Dan hates it. He manages a shrug and a smile, an unspoken apology for something stupidly out of his control like his heart not beating quite right.

He tries not to think about chronic obstructive heart failure.

The nurse jots something down on her triage paper and leads him into an exam room to sit and wait some more. Phil grabs his hand again the moment she closes the door behind her.

---

Dr. Kissel is smiling when she walks in. Dan’s not sure if that’s supposed to be comforting or not.

“How are you doing today?” she asks as she sits down, turning to log into the computer.

“Uh,” says Dan. “As okay as to be expected?”

She hums, turning back to him in her spinny office chair. The collar of her lab coat is popped awkwardly at one side. There’s a pen hanging from its pocket, a stethoscope draped across her shoulders. Her smile hardly falters as she says, “So, not very well at all, I assume?”

It’s so not what Dan expected that he chuckles. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“I take it you want to get straight to your test results, then?” says Dr. Kissel.

He swallows hard. If the nurse thought his pulse was high before, he’d half laugh at what she’d have to say now. “Please.”

Dr. Kissel turns back to her computer at that. He watches her click through what he vaguely recognizes as his chart. Just above the notes from his last appointment are the last things his old doctor ever wrote about him, at the appointment where he counted Dan’s tests one by one and told him that if they were all fine there was nothing he could do unless Dan was willing to accept he was imagining it all.

Dan doesn’t read them, doesn’t want to. He never wants to be exposed to those words again.

He watches Dr. Kissel click on a link of some kind, and a monochrome image fills her computer screen. It takes him a second to realize he’s staring at his own brain, at the results from his MRI, autoplaying on a loop through his entire head over and over again.

Something in his chest spasms. Phil squeezes his hand. He never let it go.

“Okay, so first we have your MRI, which are the results I was most concerned about,” says Dr. Kissel. She turns back towards him, grabbing her pen to use it as a pointer. “If there was any signs of deterioration or abnormal structures like a tumour or aneurysm, we’d see it here.”

Dan stares. He can’t really see anything in his brain. He doesn’t know what a sign of deterioration looks like. He almost doesn’t want to ask.

He doesn’t have to, because Phil says, “And?”

“And I see no signs of any abnormalities with your brain,” says Dr. Kissel. “Your brain appears healthy, Dan.”

“Oh,” he says.

His eyes are burning now. He hates the fact that it’s not from relief, that he doesn’t really know what’s welling in his chest, putting pressure in his skull, but it doesn’t feel good when he knows it should.

“What about the, uh, bloodwork?”

She doesn’t open those results, just leaves the screen playing a morbid cycle of his perfectly healthy brain.

Dr. Kissel smiles, and says, “Those results also came back normal.”

Dan just about breaks down right there in the middle of her office. A tear falls down his cheek. His leg starts shaking. Phil has to reach out and rest a hand on his back just to keep him from giving up on keeping his breathing even at all.

Dr. Kissel reaches out, rests her hand on the armrest, close to Dan’s elbow.

“That doesn’t mean anything, you know,” she says. Her voice has gone soft. Dan’s never had a doctor, not even a therapist, speak to him like that. “I reviewed your medical history and I’m aware of the conclusions drawn by your past physician. That’s not where I’m going with this.”

“It’s not?” says Dan. It sounds choked. He feels like a kid.

Except when he was a kid he didn’t have to deal with any of this.

“It’s not,” says Dr. Kissel. “Rather, I suspect you might have a condition that doesn’t show up on any of our current tests, at least not to our knowledge. Ruling out other conditions is the first step to diagnosing it.”

Phil’s hand starts rubbing circles against his spine at that. If Dan looked over, he’s pretty sure Phil would be smiling.

But he doesn’t. He can’t look away from Dr. Kissel, not now. “What’s the next step?” he whispers.

“Well, there’s two. The diagnostic criteria is in the process of evolving, so I’d like to perform both,” she says. “One of them might be painful.”

“Can we do that one first?”

It’s probably the wrong order to want. Dan doesn’t care. Part of him wants the pain to remind him that she’s actually looking for something physical. For once. For the first fucking time in seven years.

Dr. Kissel smiles like she knows that and nods her head just once. “I’ll need you to stand up for this,” she says. “I’m going to press against specific spots on your body, and you need to tell me if it hurts, okay?”

He nods. His heart’s still racing when he stands. His legs feel weak with something other than exhaustion.

Something almost thrilling, like anticipation.

Dr. Kissel starts by pressing her thumb against the base of his skull, right where his head meets his neck. Dan almost screams at the burst of pain it causes.

It turns into a laugh, delirious and bubbly and out of control. When he turns, Phil’s smiling at him. Dr. Kissel is staring at him expectantly.

“Yeah, that hurts,” he says, so she does the same thing to the other side of his head.

He laughs again, because it hurts and it feels like that’s what it’s supposed to do for whatever mystery illness Dr. Kissel’s testing him for. Phil laughs with him. He’s probably confused, but he doesn’t seem to care. Dr. Kissel moves onto the next spot, right where Dan’s neck meets his shoulder, and mumbles a quiet three under her breath when he squirms away from her touch.

In the end, he gets sixteen out of eighteen spots. Dr. Kissel tells him the minimum for a diagnosis is eleven.

Dan probably shouldn’t be proud of that.

He settles back into his seat. The pressure of it hurts. Pain has bloomed all across his body and Dr. Kissel offered an apology that it would probably take a little while to fade and Dan doesn’t care. His leg bounces even though there was a spot in his hip that almost made it give out completely.

His knee stings from when she pressed there. Dan rests his hand there anyway.

“What’s next?” he asks. He probably sounds insane.

Dr. Kissel just reaches over and draws a packet of papers from her folders. She sets it down on the desk by him. The front page has a picture of a gender-non-specific person with arms spread and eyes closed. The top of it has a header that reads Fibromyalgia Diagnostic Criteria.

Dan has no idea what that means.

“You just need to fill out this assessment,” says Dr. Kissel. And then, “I told you this one would be less painful.”

Phil chuckles. Dan does, too. He grabs the pen she offers him and starts reading.

The first question asks him to check off every area of the body where he’s had pain in the last week. Dan reads the list once, twice, three times before looking up at Dr. Kissel.

“Is it stupid of me to check off all of them?”

“Not if it’s the truth,” she says. “That’s a very common response for people with this condition.”

“Oh,” says Dan. Something twists in his stomach at being included in that. “Okay.”

So he checks off all of them, his shoulders and arms and upper and lower back, and jaw and neck and chest and legs and buttocks. The only thing that goes unchecked in the last option that reads None of the above . Dan’s brain can’t even wrap around that idea.

The second question is called the Symptom Severity Score. It asks Dan to rate some symptoms on a scale of zero to three. It feels like a failure when he needs to check the box next to 1: slight or mild problems when it comes to cognitive symptoms.

Dan’s pretty sure that part of his brain is the only part of him that still works properly. Most of the time.

The last question is just a list of symptoms that tells him to check off all the ones he’s had in the last week. He has to ask what some are. Some are things he has but never really thought were related. His gaze lingers on the word seizures for the first time, printed on a list that includes rashes and dry eyes.

It’s the first thing that’s really scared him. That box stays unchecked. He wonders how much it matters.

When he hands the test back to Dr. Kissel, she’s already nodding like she knows the answer it’ll contain. Dan’s pretty sure he does, too.

She writes a giant 28 in blue pen at the bottom of the page, and looks up at him with a sad sort of smile.

“Okay, this confirms my suspicions,” she says. “Your symptoms appear to be caused by Fibromyalgia.”

Dan swallows, bobs his head. “Okay. Okay,” he says. “Uh, what does that mean?”

---

His legs feel different when he walks outside. Maybe because they still ache from the pressure point test she did, or because there’s a residual tingling from how much he was shaking during the appointment. Except the rest of Dan’s body feels different too.

The sunlight burns his tired eyes. Holding his head up takes too much energy. They stand on the curb waiting for their cab to show up and Dan’s chest aches and yet feels lighter than it has in days.

Weeks. Years, probably.

Dr. Kissel explained to him what it was, with a bunch of fancy medical terms he’ll need to google later. Something called central sensitization means his brain is fucked up and doesn’t know how to process shit and makes everything hurt and it fits so very well with how his body seems to experience the word that Dan doesn’t care that he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t know much right now. She recommended lifestyle changes as a first step and he has no idea what that’s going to entail. He doesn’t know what meds he might end up on, or how much better he’ll get. Dr. Kissel told him this was usually a life-long condition.

Dan feels like that should be terrifying. Except he’s grown to expect that whatever it was wouldn’t be an easy fix.

He’s not dying, though. She told him that a few times, like reassurance among all the supposed-to-be-bad news.

His weak legs sway under him after standing for too long. Phil reaches out to wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him close so Dan can lean against the steadiness of his frame. He doesn’t seem scared anymore. Maybe he will be again, once everything’s had time to sink in.

Phil leans in close, pressing his nose to the side of Dan’s head. “How are you feeling?”

Maybe Dan will be scared again, too. But he’s really not right now.

“Can I say something crazy?” he asks.

“Go ahead.”

He pulls back, just enough to catch Phil’s gaze with his own, and says, “I think this is one of the best days of my life.”

Phil doesn’t look at him like he’s crazy. He smiles, and leans forward to press a kiss to Dan’s forehead, and holds him even tighter when his legs start to feel weak again.

The cab that pulls up looks just like the one that drove them here. Dan climbs into the back seat next to Phil, letting his head fall against the headrest, and feels himself smiling.

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #dan and phil #flares #callie writes words

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