PECTUS PECTORIS. part two: after

[somnallocution]

Every hall had been quiet since mid-morning.

The moment that news had spread that Ricardo -- Kaka, they all kept thinking, poor Kaka; who was perhaps the happiest patient in the hospital -- had tried to kill himself, every ward had gone quiet with worry. Even Jose, the loudest of all the patients, was silent with grief.

Ruud had taken it the worst, though all the nurses were shocked by what had happened. Ruud had spent some time sitting in the staff changing rooms, trying not to let the tears prickling behind his eyes fall onto his knees, where his eyes were fixed -- wide, unblinking, blank. Paul had patted him on the shoulder, worriedly, before he went to see to Ryan -- Kaka had always been friendly to Ryan. Paul knew it would have been a shock to him, and Ruud didn't want the sympathy, anyway.

The rest of the day went by in a haze. Ruud went to see Cris, who was a nervous wreck in his room. He had gained a little bit of weight, and that had made him anxious, but news of Kaka's attempt couldn't have done anything to improve the situation, either. Cristiano looked haggard, worried, and certainly hadn't eaten that day.

"Ruud," Cris said softly, his voice strained from want to cry. Ruud could hear the tears in his voice, and it broke his heart all over again.

"Ruud, will Kaka be okay?"

Ruud smiled and nodded a little. "They'll take good care of him, kleintje," he said softly, reaching out to brush Cristiano's hair back from his face.

Cristiano's eyes read nothing but worry, pain, fear. Ruud hated to see him that way. He was sure what he was about to tell Cris would hurt him even more, but he had to tell him -- the only other option was to leave without saying goodbye.

"Cris," Ruud said softly, sitting down on his bed, glancing at the seat next to him so that Cristiano would sit, too. He did, after a momentary confused look.

"My cousin," he said softly, voice pained and filled with tears, "was a schizophrenic." He didn't look up at Cristiano, couldn't have looked at him -- the sympathy he knew would be there in those beautiful brown eyes was something he couldn't face.

"He killed himself when I was sixteen," Ruud said, voice barely above a whisper. Cristiano said nothing, but slipped his thin fingers into Ruud's large hand, holding it. Ruud couldn't hold the tears in any longer, could feel them drip down his face and off of his chin. Cristiano let out a soft "oh," leaning forward and wiping the tears from beneath Ruud's eyes with desperately gentle thumbs.

"I-I'm telling you this, because…" Ruud's voice faltered. "Because I think I have to go away, for a little while. I-I need to clear my h-head."

Cristiano nodded, smiling a little sadly. Ruud knew that the moment he looked into Cris' eyes he would start to cry again. It hurt his heart to even think of leaving Cris there. He knew that he would be in good hands, that the nurses and his doctor would take care of him… but there was a sinking feeling in his chest anyway. He needed Cris as much as Cris needed him.

"You came to say goodbye," Cris said softly, the sad smile in his voice unmistakeable. Ruud looked up, and there were tears in Cristiano's eyes, threatening to drop at any moment. Ruud placed his large hands on Cris' cheeks, thumbs brushing the tears away before they could get too far.

"You need to promise me that you will still be alright when I come back," Ruud said, voice urgent, soft.

Cristiano buried his face in Ruud's shoulder, his soft words ("Eu te prometo, I promise, Ruud…") muffled by the fabric of Ruud's shirt and his own sobs.

--

Ryan had spent a good deal of time with Scholesy now. Ryan didn't feel anxious when Paul was around, when he came to talk to him in his room or in the lounge. Ryan felt like he could be getting better, like he could continue with his plan to go to Africa, as long as he could keep on going the way he was.

It was only a few days after Kaka's suicide attempt, though, that Ryan was so anxious again that he could hardly get out of bed. Ryan's whole body felt tense and stressed, and the atmosphere in the hospital didn't help. Every patient had been affected, it seemed to Ryan -- the dysmorphia patients had lost their nurse for a week. The schizophrenia patients were all shaken up -- even the ones who were lucid enough to know that they wouldn't be affected the same way by their medication, necessarily.

Ryan was glad when Scholesy came to see him, though he was still curled up tightly in his bed.

"Alright, Giggs?" Paul asked gently. That was something only Scholesy had ever called him. The way he said it was so affectionate, so caring… Ryan couldn't feel anxious about that.

He rolled over and looked up at Paul, smiling, a real smile. "Yeah," he said softly, but wrung his hands together. Paul sat down and placed a hand on Ryan's knee.

"He's going to be alright," Paul said softly. Ryan stared at his hands, cracking his joints gently, biting his lip. "Don't worry about Kaka, alright? He's in good hands. King Eric is looking after him, yeah?"

Ryan nodded a little, closing his eyes. He could feel his heartbeat thudding against his chest.

"I just. Can't stop thinking about it," he said softly, running his hands back over his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. "That poor boy," he said, voice quiet and tight.

Paul leaned forward, smiling a little, tipping Ryan's chin up gently. "I know, love. But he'll be alright, okay? Try to focus on that."

They talked a little while longer. Paul tried to make Ryan smile, and Ryan did -- only Scholesy could make Ryan smile despite his tension. They talked about nothing, about football, about how well Ryan had been doing before the incident. Once Paul had him smiling, his face was even -- not grave, but serious -- and he touched Ryan's hand.

"King Eric wants you to have a roommate," he said softly, his voice almost delicate. He didn't want to startle Ryan. They had tried this before, with rather disastrous results; Ryan had been so nervous about sleeping in the same room as someone else, he had instead fallen asleep hiding in the nurse's station, tear tracks clear against his pink cheeks when he was found.

Ryan bit his lip, but then smiled, though it was a nervous expression, and nodded. "Of course."

--

"Sergio."

The voice was very soft over Sergio's head. It had been some time (Sergio couldn't tell exactly how long) since the schizophrenic patient that everyone seemed to know had tried to kill himself. Sergio felt for him -- he was sure from experience that all the boy wanted was to be left alone to die.

He'd mostly detoxed, had spent several days feeling better physically. He could practically feel the blood running faster in his veins, feel his eyes less stuck with sleep every morning he was clean. He couldn't deny that he felt better.

"Sergio."

The voice came again, a little louder, trying to wake him up, he was sure. Sergio was already awake, he just didn't want to be.

Sergio didn't care that his blood was running faster and thinner without all the drugs he'd pushed and pulled into himself running with it. He didn't care that his head wasn't throbbing anymore, felt clear and even. He didn't care that he wasn't withdrawing anymore -- he wanted more drugs.

"Sergio."

Sergio opened his eyes, which were clear, but sad. Like he had given up. It was the nurse in the lavender scrubs, Iker, the one who had come around at least once a week to see if he was alright.

"Buenos días," he said softly, smiling down at Sergio. Sergio smiled back, sitting up slowly. Iker grinned even wider at him now, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Your eyes look so much clearer, mi'jo." Iker's voice was always kind, always sweet -- Sergio didn't wonder why he worked with children. He seemed so loving. Sergio was counting on it, at that moment.

"I-I feel better," Sergio murmured softly, moving closer to where Iker sat on the bed. He had pulled his knees up to his chest, eyes wide, deep brown and soft as they looked at Iker. "Gracias."

"Oh, no, Sergio… you were very brave. I wouldn't want to go through what you've been through in the last few days…" Iker smiled, his eyes a little worried. "But it's more than that, isn't it?"

Sergio bit his lip, looking away from Iker now. He didn't expect that, didn't expect that anyone would care about what happened to him.

"C-can I go now? I'm, I want to go home."

Iker frowned a little uneasily at him, and Sergio closed his eyes tightly. It didn't look good for him, not with that expression spreading across Iker's face. He just wanted to go back to the apartment where he had been staying, wanted to do a few lines of cocaine and relax. If he felt like it, maybe he would pump himself full of heroin and go to sleep, and never wake up.

"The doctors are very worried about you, Sergio," came Iker's voice again, very softly. Sergio shook his head, tears leaking out from underneath his eyelids.

"¿Por qué no todos entienden?" he asked hoarsely, refusing to open his eyes for a long moment before fixing his dark, pained eyes on Iker's warm, startled ones.

"What -- what do you mean, pequeño?"

"W-why don't you understand," Sergio murmured again, his voice cracking and breaking with every other word, "that I just want to feel better or die?"

A sob wracked Sergio's slender body, his arms, which had begun to heal nicely, coming up so that Sergio could press the heels of his hands to his eyelids.

Iker leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Sergio's shoulders, pulling him into his chest. Sergio stayed slumped there for a few moments before pushing back from Iker, angrily.

"N-no! Don't, don't pretend that you care what h-happens to me because as soon as I'm o-out that door you couldn't give a f-fuck if I just j-jumped off a bridge!"

Iker drew back a little, and just looked at Sergio for a few moments, worrying his bottom lip. His eyes were fixed on the way Sergio hunched, the way angry tears flowed out of him, the way he seemed ready to fight Iker now.

"I-I want to see whoever is in charge."

--

Nemanja had tried to keep his temper under control, and so far, it had been working. He had had a few minor outbursts, but he, like the rest of the hospital, had been relatively quiet. Kaka's suicide attempt had made his heart sink -- nobody in the hospital had been less likely, in Nemanja's eyes, to try to kill himself; the boy had always been so cheerful. (Truth be told, he seemed to be the only patient in the hospital that didn't avoid Nemanja at all cost.)

The minor outbursts wouldn't have been minor in anyone else. He turned over a table at dinner -- but nobody else had been sitting at the table, and he hadn't hurt anyone. Rio had talked him down, and he'd felt better. Another time, he had put a dent in the wall of his room with his head. Rio had cleaned him up, and tried to keep him calm -- had managed to make him breathe slowly, slow his heart rate.

Rio had looked tired lately, to Nemanja. Ever since Kaka had tried to kill himself, Rio had been working double shifts, one in Nemanja's ward, and one in the ward with the body dysmorphia patients. His eyes had looked less lively, his laugh had seemed more forced and hoarse. Nemanja didn't like it.

He had been lonely since Rio had been working in the other ward; he'd been on the night shift in Nemanja's ward for a few days now, and rarely would the other nurses speak to him. Even his doctor, Henry, had barely had time to see him; had been counseling his patients' on their grief, but hadn't really had time for Nemanja, especially not now that he had been quiet for several days.

Nemanja waited and waited and waited, but he could scarcely stay calm anymore. He would sit for hours trying to breathe slowly, like Rio had taught him, in his room, even in the common area. But still his heart rate kept rising, his breathing kept getting shorter and shorter.

Now, he sat in the common area, listening to a tourettes patient muttering obscenities under his breath. Rooney was speaking softly, at first, then at full voice; finally, he was nearly shouting, and no nurses could hear him -- or they were ignoring him. Nemanja couldn't take it anymore.

"Fuckin' what, fuckin' what!" Rooney kept shouting, and Nemanja finally stood from his seat quickly, blood beginning to boil, pupils dilating sharply. Everything was red for the first time in weeks, and before Nemanja could even process what was happening, he could feel the burn of the anger in his hands, which had locked around Rooney's arms, and he was shaking him, relentlessly.

He closed his eyes, desperate to come down from the adrenaline rush to his system, but it wasn't working. He could feel his lips moving, knew he would be muttering in Serbian now, and could vaguely recognize the words -- "Prestani rekao da!" ("Stop saying that!") -- but couldn't stop them. He could feel his grip loosening on Rooney's arms, could feel an orderly's arms around his waist.

He was trying, now, like he had never tried before. He clamped his mouth shut, though he was still holding onto Rooney's arms, forced himself to breathe slower, to breathe through his nose. The redness in the corners of his eyes was going away, but the hands around his waist only got more insistent, pulling him off of Rooney.

"Put him in solitary," he heard shouted behind him, and he shook his head, accented voice speaking in English again. "No, no, I'm sorry…"

Doctor Henry was suddenly in the room, brow furrowed, looking at Nemanja. Nemanja looked back at him, shaking his head, hands falling away from Rooney's arms. "Doctor," he said softly, shaking his head. Henry frowned a little, and backed up from Nemanja.

"Solitary."

Nemanja slumped against the arms around him, eyes locked shut, and tried to keep breathing slowly.

--

Kaka's face was stained with tears, his eyes stuck shut with them. He went in and out of consciousness, tears leaking out from underneath his eyelids every time he was awake.

He could feel the bandages around his wrists, collecting the blood and sticking to it. There were no voices. God didn't say a single thing to him, didn't tell him it would be alright -- didn't come back even after he had tried to find him.

Kaka was alone, utterly alone, for the first time in his life.

But he wasn't alone, not really; he was constantly being watched. Doctor Henry (and, though he had never seen him watching, Doctor Berbatov) had been watching him, and nearly all the nurses, too -- it didn't matter when he woke up, whether it was the middle of the night or late in the morning, early in the afternoon. Always, there was someone watching him.

It had been what seemed a long time since he tried to kill himself. He had been visited by nurses only, no other patients. Some nurses had tried to talk to him, tried to ask him questions, but the only thing Kaka could even muster was a soft whimper.

When Berbatov came to see him, Kaka opened his eyes for the first time in what felt like days. His eyelashes stuck together as he opened them, and he lifted both hands to wipe away the sleep glue that had formed over the nearly two weeks he had been there. For the first time, he registered that there was a heart monitor on his finger, an IV in his arm. Tears streamed from his eyes as he looked at the tubes and clips, feeling his finger pulse. He tried to sit up, to look at Berbatov, but he couldn't do either.

Berbatov was sitting down on a chair next to Kaka's bed, looking worriedly at the machines that were monitoring Kaka's brain and heart activity. He smiled at Kaka, though his eyes were nervous, his eyebrows furrowed.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, looking down at his hands (which, for the first time, Kaka noticed, didn't hold a pad or a clipboard), wringing them together.

Kaka said nothing, just whimpered softly, and closed his eyes tightly again for a moment. Berbatov sighed heavily, and Kaka opened his eyes again, still unable to look directly at Doctor Berbatov.

"I never thought that this would be as difficult as it is for you," came Berbatov's soft, gentle voice. Kaka had always liked that about him, had always felt warm towards him. Now, he felt nothing but pain and doubt, doubt that God had ever existed.

"I didn't know that you would react this way, and. And in hindsight, it was stupid of me." Berbatov was shaking his head, and Kaka could see it out of the corner of his eye. "I should have -- I'm. I wasn't thinking about how." Kaka heard him swallow. "How it would affect your faith."

Kaka looked up at that, finally looked at Berbatov, shaking his head.

"I h-have no faith."

Berbatov's face fell. Kaka's tears kept falling, and he rubbed at his eyes harshly, a soft sob entering his voice next.

"G-God has abandoned me," he whispered, the next sob that came wracking his body sharply. He could feel his wrists tense for a moment, pulling at the scabs on his wrists. "I-I. I-I don't want to l-live anymore."

Berbatov shook his head, leaning forward in his seat and taking Kaka's hand suddenly. Kaka leaned back in his bed, sharp sobs shaking him to the bone, but he didn't pull his hand away from Berbatov's grip.

"I promise you," he heard Berbatov say, "I promise you that we will find something that works. G-God still loves you," he said, and it sounded to Kaka like Berbatov had never meant anything more in his life.

--

Nearly three weeks had passed. Ruud had gone home, to the Netherlands, to see his parents… he had needed it. He had needed to see his family, needed to clear his head. Kaka's suicide attempt had hit him so hard, and he had needed to collect his emotions; to remind himself how much good he could do at the hospital. King Eric had understood his need for a leave of absence, and he had taken it that afternoon, and gone back to the Netherlands the next morning.

Now, he was back at the hospital, prepared to go back to work. He had put on his scrubs, had spent a full day preparing himself. He went to talk to King Eric before he started, to show him that he was in a good mindset to start working again. He was sure that he was.

But in the ten minutes he had spent talking to King Eric, he had gone from being pleased to being worried. He had wanted to go back to his old ward -- to Cristiano, more specifically. He had to check on him, had to see him. (Had to see if Cristiano had kept his promise.)

King Eric had reassigned him to a ward of PTSD-sufferers. Ruud felt like he couldn't breathe when he left Eric's office -- how was he just supposed to go to work in this other ward, like nothing was wrong? King Eric said he thought the change might do Ruud some good -- that Ruud had needed a change when he had gone on leave, and King Eric intended to give it to him. Ruud understood the decision, but he couldn't stand by it -- not knowing how attached the dysmorphia patients had grown to him.

It was only a few hours into his shift in the ward he had been reassigned to that he snuck away, brow furrowed in frustration. He needed to be sure that Cristiano was alright. He went to the ward while he was meant to be doing his rounds, knocking gently on the door of Cristiano's room and entering slowly.

The sight that met him nearly knocked him down. Cristiano was laid in bed, maybe sleeping, breathing slowly. Ruud was sure he could see Cristiano's heart thumping in his chest, his ribs pulsing with every beat. He was absolutely skeletal. Ruud felt tears in his eyes already, looking at the tubes running into Cris' arm, the ones that would be bringing him nutrients enough to stay alive -- looking at the tube attached to his nose to keep his oxygen saturation levels up. Ruud let a few tears fall at the sight of a heart monitor; he couldn't bear seeing Cristiano being pumped full of fluids this way. He looked worse than he had ever been.

Ruud stepped up to the bed, running one large hand back over Cris' hair gently, hearing him moan softly in the half-sleep that had clearly overtaken him in his physical exhaustion.

"Kleintje," he said softly, the tears unmistakable in his voice now. "You promised me…"

Cristiano's eyes fluttered open quickly at that. For a moment, he didn't believe that he was awake; he had to be dreaming if Ruud was back, if Ruud was sitting there on the edge of his bed, stroking back his hair. But his hand on the side of Cris' face felt so warm and solid and real, the way it always had. He knew Ruud had to really be there.

"Y-you came back," he said softly, eyes wide, the circles beneath them dark. He looked exhausted.

"Of course I did, fraaiheid," he said gently, pulling closer to Cris, placing a hand on either side of his bony face, tears still collecting in his eyes. "Of course I came back."

"What's going on in here?"

The voice came from the doorway, where Henry stood, eyebrows furrowed.

"Ruud? Weren't you reassigned?"

Ruud didn't look away from Cris, smiling a little. "Yes, Doctor, but I had to see this boy. He made me a promise."

"Ruud, you know I have to report this to King Eric."

Ruud nodded. Cristiano looked up at him, eyes concerned, but Ruud shook his head.

"Don't worry, kleintje. I'll be back."

Not half an hour later, Ruud stood in front of King Eric for the second time that day. Henry stood next to him, frowning, though his expression was somewhat smug and overly satisfied with himself.

"He was supposed to be on my main ward and instead of doing his job he is sitting in the Ronaldo boy's room just talking to him." Thierry looked at Ruud, who looked defiant.

"I had Cristiano eating on a regular basis and well on his way to recovering before I left. He'd gained nearly all the weight he needed to." Ruud's voice was deep, his arms folded over his chest. "You can't tell me I haven't been good for that boy. I know that I should have been doing my rounds, but I had to be sure that he was alright."

Thierry rolled his eyes, looking with a great deal of contempt at Ruud. "You're out of line, Van Nistelrooy," he said practically snarling Ruud's name in his french accent.

"Enough."

King Eric's voice boomed through the room as he stood, hands braced against the desk in front of him. "I have heard enough. Ruud, go back to your post… and if you are caught away from it outside of your break, I will not be so lenient."

Ruud's frown didn't leave his face, but he nodded, and turned to leave the room. "Yes sir."

Thierry was smiling smugly now, still standing before King Eric, and Eric moved around the desk, shaking his head.

"You're a self-satisfied little prick, Henry."

The words were deadly, and Thierry looked up in surprise.

"I just brought you a nurse who disobeyed a direct order--"

"To visit a patient who may be dying, who he is very close to," Eric said, eyes narrowing. He needed to cut Thierry down to size -- this was too much, coming from him.

"If you ever got close enough to your patients to truly help them, maybe you would know what it feels like to care about one of them."

Thierry was speechless. Eric pointed to the door, his face final, his words low and commanding.

"Now get the hell out of my office and for once, go do your job."

--

Cesc had gotten steadily worse. He'd spent several days unable to sleep -- every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was blood and sand and gunfire. He could feel his eyes twitching as he blinked, from need of rest, from need of quiet sleep. Cesc hadn't had a quiet sleep in weeks.

Part of him wished that he could have really killed himself that night in his house, alone. Anything was better than feeling constantly afraid -- feeling the tension in his shoulders and throat every time he spoke, in his arms and legs every time he moved. His muscles weren't even working right anymore.

There was no chance of him going back into the army, not with a psych eval in his jacket. It scared Cesc plenty, and kept him awake at night. He didn't know how to do anything else. They had taught him to kill from two hundred yards, how to shoot a gun and twist a kabar knife between a man's ribs to collapse a lung so he couldn't scream, a silent kill. They had taught him how to live for days without food, with limited water, how to keep the sand out of his eyes.

But they had never taught him what to do when he couldn't make his mind stop, when he couldn't make his eyes close without seeing the people he had killed. They had never taught him what to do if he was dishonorably discharged, as he surely would be, now; for misuse of his service revolver if nothing else.

Cesc had a run-in with another patient, Nando, who had cornered him for murmuring under his breath. Cesc could feel his training kicking in as soon as Nando stepped close to him; another thing the army had taught him was to always feel threatened.

He shoved Nando back, getting him on the ground, his eyes wide and glassy. He couldn't stop hitting him, couldn't stop pressing Nando's arms down onto the floor, surely bruising his wrists.

Cesc was brought back to his room, silent sobs wracking his body, though there were no tears on his face. If there was something he couldn't do, for sure, it was cry. He hadn't slept in days, and his body finally exhausted itself. He passed out cold in his bed, though it was early in the evening when he did.

Yoann came back in the evening at lights out. He smiled a little at Cesc's finally sleeping form; Yoann knew he hadn't been sleeping. He had been getting closer and closer to Cesc; Cesc would tell him about his family sometimes, about when he had traveled on a goodwill mission to Africa and Germany; all over the world. Yoann liked listening to the simple way Cesc talked. Cesc was still so young, like Yoann, still had so much life. He'd even started to understand some of Yoann's expressions, responding aloud to him when he could figure out what Yoann meant.

In the middle of the night, though, Yoann knew something was wrong. Cesc's body was shaking, his eyes squeezed shut, hands clenched in fists. Yoann clambered from his bed, staying a short distance from Cesc's bed -- he knew that Cesc might hit him, might have another panic attack if he tried to wake him.

Yoann knew what panic attacks felt like. He knew what it felt like to be hopeless, to react in fear without even knowing what he was doing. Yoann had been in trouble, too, for fighting -- he had ended up with a bloody lip and a bruise above his eye little more than a week ago. He could scarcely remember the fight -- could only remember being terrified for his life in those five minutes.

The boy he'd fought with had called him stupid, had badgered him to talk, thrust hands against his chest. Yoann had panicked, unable to breathe, had swung at the boy. He had done a number on him, but the boy had gotten a few good hits in on him as well. King Eric had asked him why he'd fought, but Yoann couldn't answer. He had only shrugged. King Eric had sighed.

Yoann knew he was frustrating. That not talking made everyone around him annoyed; that he disappointed them. His speech therapist had told him that the average number of words spoken by an adult per day was sixteen thousand. Could that really be possible? Could someone really speak that much in one day? Yoann doubted he had ever said that many words in his life.

Now, watching Cesc thrashing in his bed, clearly having a nightmare, Yoann stood frozen for a moment. He had to do something. He didn't know what he could do, what there was that wouldn't possibly hurt him and Cesc both.

A split second later, Yoann clambered onto the bed, pinning down Cesc's hands on the bed, gripping tightly, hoping it would wake him up. He tried twice to say his name, but only a soft whimper came out, one in a voice that Yoann had never heard before.

Cesc woke from his dream, still thrashing and fighting. He didn't know where he was, for a few moments, begged Yoann to let him to home to his family, to go home to his own country. Yoann shook his head, looking down at Cesc with wide eyes. A look of realization collected with the tears in Cesc's eyes, and Yoann let go of his hands, placing a hand on either side of Cesc's face, the gesture gentle, empathy and worry filling Yoann's eyes.

Cesc shook his head, a sob wracking his body, but this time the tears came, streaming down his cheeks. Yoann shook his head, moving next to Cesc, wrapping his arms around him gently, closing his eyes. He wanted to say something, to speak to Cesc, to tell him it would be okay, to tell him he needed to talk to his doctor, to Henry. But he couldn't make a single sound.

Cesc must have felt him straining, because he turned to Yoann and shook his head. "Th-thank you," he said softly, his voice hoarse, his throat raw. Yoann smiled worriedly at him, and Cesc nodded.

"I-I promise I'll talk to him."

--

Ryan had been steadily improving. He had been moved in with Javier, who was delightful and sweet, of course, especially with someone as gentle as Ryan, who had become close to him fairly quickly. When Paul would come to visit them, he would find them sitting together, both on one bed, talking or just sitting. Paul was happy, because Ryan was happy.

Paul was good at keeping his feelings of attachment to patients under control. He would send patients letters sometimes, once they were out, but eventually, they wanted to move on, and Paul could respect that.

That's why it bothered him so much that he couldn't get Ryan out of his head. Paul knew how to let go, was very good at letting go. He knew when to do it, too, never let go of a patient who needed him. But this, this was different. He couldn't stop thinking about Ryan even when he was off duty -- what he might be thinking, if he was talking to Javier, if he was asleep yet, if he had smiled enough that day (Paul smiled just thinking about Ryan's smile).

Getting attached was something Paul knew not to do, but he couldn't help it. The way Ryan needed him, the way Ryan would talk to him like nobody else would… it was all too much for him to ignore now.

Paul had come in on him in the middle of the afternoon, his anxiety medication in hand -- it had been working well, and Ryan had been more able to stay calm, even in the face of things that normally made him panic. He grinned at him when he sat down on Ryan's bed. Javier was down the hall in the lounge with Wayne, who'd taken a shine to him. Paul thought it was sweet, though he'd never say it.

But something was wrong. Ryan smiled back at Paul, but it was forced, so terribly forced and Paul could read the panic in Ryan's eyes immediately.

"Alright, love?" he asked gently, placing a hand on Ryan's shoulder, not removing it though he flinched.

"F-fine," Ryan whispered softly, and Paul shook his head.

"No, come on -- are you alright?"

Ryan closed his eyes, breathing starting to quicken. Paul could tell he was fighting back the panic attack that would have been certain a week earlier.

"What's got you worried, Ry?"

Ryan shook his head, swallowing hard, fingers trembling where they rested in his lap. Paul reached for Ryan's hands, taking one of them gently and holding it between his own, looking at Ryan's closed eyelids, at the tension in his face. He hated seeing Ryan so panicky. It had never gotten to him like this before, but he couldn't help it. There was no question that Ryan least of all deserved to feel anxious.

"I-I was supposed to go to Africa."

Paul frowned a little, squeezing Ryan's hand encouragingly. "Yeah?"

"I-I was supposed to go and h-help people and instead I'm in here because I'm. B-because I'm f-fucking useless."

Ryan's voice sounded wrong swearing just there -- Paul had never heard him do it before, but more than that, it was the hushed way he said the words, like there could be nothing more true than what he was saying.

Paul knew from experience that anxiety patients were sometimes the most vulnerable to things without even knowing it. Kaka's attempt might have made Ryan think about his own reasons that he had wanted to die when he had first checked in. Paul could see the pain in the way he leaned forward, curled in on himself; could hear it in his strained, soft voice.

Paul shook his head and squeezed Ryan's hand again.

"You're not. You're wonderful."

--

Iker had been hesitant to bring Sergio to King Eric, but Sergio wouldn't accept anything less. He hadn't begged, the way Iker had come to know him to do, but had instead demanded, refused to speak or move until Iker had relented with a sigh, and a soft, "Okay."

Sergio had scarcely been out of his room since he had been in the hospital, had imposed a kind of room-arrest on himself; he left almost exclusively for meals, and even considering that, would often skip them. Iker had noticed, of course, how skinny he had gotten, how his ribs poked at his skin, how sunken his eyes looked. But he couldn't force Sergio to eat, just as he couldn't make him stop wanting the drugs he so desperately asked for every time he thought there was a chance.

Iker stopped outside King Eric's door, sighing, frowning a little at Sergio, but then smiling a little. He knocked at the door, turning the knob and opening it just a little, biting his lip as he looked at Eric sat behind his desk, looking over some paperwork, looking incredibly intimidating (and Iker was not easily startled).

"King Eric?"

Eric looked up in surprise, as if he had been absorbed in thought. "My apologies, sir…"

"Iker. Is something wrong?"

Iker opened the door a little further to reveal Sergio standing there, hospital clothes nearly hanging off of his gaunt frame (though, Iker couldn't help noting, it didn't diminish the luster or colour of his skin, the beauty in his deep brown eyes. Iker wondered what Sergio's smile looked like.).

"He wanted to see you, he wouldn't take his medication until he came to see you," he said softly, eyes on Sergio before they looked back at Eric. "Sergio, this is King Eric."

Sergio didn't move for a moment -- just stood in the doorway, dark eyes wide and somewhat intimidated for a split second. He entered the room and looked at Eric, who nodded at Iker. Iker frowned a little, and closed the door behind him as he left.

"I am Eric Cantona. I am the head doctor and director here. What can I do for you, Sergio?"

Sergio just looked at the man for a moment, at his thick beard and his moustache and the eyebrows that were furrowed in what seemed to be confusion.

"I want to go home," he said, hands folded across his chest, trying to stop his fingers from shaking.

Eric sighed and rubbed his eyes. This had not, thus far, been his day; the hospital was normally fairly quiet, but ever since Kaka had tried to kill himself, all hell had broken loose. "I think you and I both know that is not a possibility. You don't have a home to go to, little one."

Sergio frowned, moving closer to Eric, who had stepped back behind his desk as he had spoken. "Yes I do. My home is anywhere I like. That's why they call me Gypsy." He bit his lip, stepping with a slow kind of sway in his hips now. He had learned how to be seductive, to get what he wanted, and he was going to use it as best he could.

"I can't release you without a place to go. If you receive treatment here and recover, we can place you in outpatient and find you an apartment and a job. But until then, you have to stay here."

Sergio pushed back the urge to utterly break down, to fall to the floor screaming the way he wanted to, or the lunge at Eric and hurl his skinny, shaking fists against him. He moved around the desk, behind which Eric was now sitting, one skinny, frail leg on either side of the older man's. Eric sighed before he looked up, closing his eyes before furrowing his eyebrows at Sergio, not moving or changing his expression even as Sergio settled himself in his lap, pressing himself against Eric wantonly.

"I wouldn't tell anybody… n-nobody would ever need to know that, that I was ever here." His voice was smooth, seductive, but Eric could hear the shake in it that Sergio couldn't seem to get rid of, despite being clean, now.

"You could let me go and I would disappear… I-I'll let you fuck me and then I'll d-disappear."

Eric didn't move for another moment, letting Sergio's soft, raspy, ragged, tired voice continue with his wanton words; let Sergio press his hips against Eric's, let him press his lips to Eric's neck. Had Eric had any less self control, he would have given in; Sergio had tan skin and dark eyes, though there was a deep sadness in them, and a slender figure to match the fingers that trembled at Eric's waistband.

Suddenly, Eric grabbed ahold of Sergio's wrists, startling him, and pushed him up onto the desk, holding him there efficiently. He had needed to take Sergio by surprise to pin his hands down, to keep him from reacting unfavorably and hurting himself as he tried to hurt Eric. Now, his expression was terrified, eyes wide as he looked up at Eric.

"Listen to me very closely, little one," he said softly, almost warmly, but firm, clearly unwilling to budge on the issue. "It is my job to make sure you are alright when you leave this hospital. You don't leave here until we help you to figure out what is wrong."

Sergio shook his head, stuttering, but Eric held both of his wrists in one hand, placing one finger to Sergio's lips, gentle, but his expression was firm, eyes almost angry but under control.

"No. Do you see these?" He held Sergio's hands away from his body, showing the trackmarks, the bruises on his wrists and against his elbows. Sergio turned his face away, squeezing his eyes closed, but he didn't speak, too terrified, too nervous in the face of the head doctor above him.

"This is how I know you are not ready to leave, little one. I will do everything I can to help you -- and Iker, too, no? He wants very much for you to get better. But you need to let us help you."

Sergio looked up at Eric, the fear evident in his eyes, and nodded, though Eric was certain that he was only saying it to get away. He let go of Sergio and moved back from him. Sergio moved away from the desk slowly, eyes still wide, fingers shaking even more visibly now.

"Take your medication and go back to your room, little Sergio. And we will talk someday soon."

The door closed behind him, and Iker took Sergio back to his room. His movements were more ginger, and he rubbed at his wrists gently, not looking at Iker, face slightly flushed.

"Are you alright, amiguito?" Iker asked gently, tucking the sheets around Sergio's thin little body once he had climbed back into his bed. Sergio nodded, looking at his arms, unable to look away from them now, sitting up in bed though he was exhausted, even with the adrenaline coursing through his veins now.

"Iker," he said, very softly, and Iker stopped moving, looking up -- it was the first time Sergio had ever said his name that way -- inquisitively, but not begging; not pleading for medication, or to be fucked, or to die. Just questioning, soft.

"W-why does everyone here c-care what happens to me?"

Iker swallowed. "We all feel very strongly about people who hurt and don't know why," he said, his voice very quiet. "We -- I. I don't think you should have to want to die all the time, pequeño. Especially not so young. With your whole life ahead of you."

Sergio looked at Iker, finally, the deep sadness there in his dark brown eyes, and the expression almost broke Iker's heart.

"I-I've lived enough."

--

Nema had been in solitary for two days when Rio came to get him out. His voice was tired; he'd clearly been working nonstop for days; Nema felt bad, that now Rio had to deal with him, had to lecture him. The strange part was that Rio seemed to be on his side.

"Heard they put you in 'ere for gettin' at that Rooney fella."

Nema nodded, looking at his feet on the dirty floor. Rio spoke to him through the slot in the door, which had only been opened at mealtimes for Nema, though every time, he begged to be let out. "Please," he kept saying, his voice desperate in a way it never was. At first, he had been angry, had banged his fists against the walls until his knuckles bled. But after the first few hours, he had stopped fighting, and started begging to be let out.

"Yeah," he said softly, nodding again, eyes still fixed on his bare feet.

"God." He heard Rio sigh angrily on the other side of the door, saw him shake his head out of the corner of his eye. "That Henry… I swear to God he doesn't care."

Nema laughed dryly, feeling defeated, and he saw Rio look up.

"They've gone to get the keys, Nema, don't worry. We're gonna get you outta there. You shouldn't've been in there at all, let alone two days…"

Nema bit his lip, moving a little closer to the door, clenching his fists once and then relaxing them. "I. I tried, Rio," he said, voice deep and quiet and hopeful. "I counted. I, I was breathing slow… I didn't hurt him or anything…"

Nema could hear the smile in Rio's voice when he next spoke.

"That's really good, Nema. You're gonna get out of here pretty quick if you keep that up." He sighed, a little more happily. "Where are they with those damn keys, I swear…"

Nema smiled a little, too, sitting down against the door, reaching a hand out of the slot. Rio hesitated a moment, but took his hand, running a thumb over Nema's bloodied, bruised knuckles and squeezing his hand gently.

"How'd this happen, love?"

"Punching the floor." Nema shrugged, smiling a little. "I know I'm not supposed to take out my anger that way, but… but there's nothing, in here."

Rio nodded again, looking through the slot at Nema's bright, focused, piercing blue eyes with his own dark brown ones. "Don't hurt yourself, again, okay?"

Nema nodded.

It was only another fifteen minutes before he was out of solitary, and immediately, he heaved a sigh of relief. He felt a weight lifted from his broad shoulders the moment he was outside the doorway of the small room. Rio put his arms around him, grinning at him, and Nema grinned back.

"Thanks."

Rio nodded and patted Nema on the back. "No problem, kid. You're getting better at controlling yourself, that's what matters. We're gonna go patch up those knuckles, yeah?"

--

"I don't know what to do."

King Eric sat with his hands linked together, elbows on his desk; his eyes were fixed on Berbatov, whose normally worried face looked even more crestfallen. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes lowered, his hands gesturing in his lap as he spoke.

"I don't want to take him off of the medication, n-not -- not when he could get violent, not when he'll still hear the voices… But he'll barely move, Eric."

Dimitar's voice was strained, his eyes closing with the last phrase. Eric knew it had been hard on him; he had never had a patient react to medication this way. Dimitar had always had patients who wanted the voices to stop, but Kaka seemed to have a sort of Stockholm syndrome with the voice that plagued him.

"He thinks it is God that speaks to him," Dimitar said softly, and shook his head again. "He. He says he has no faith."

Eric sighed heavily, placing his hands on the desk, frowning, and stood. "Maybe it is just too strong," he said, gently, moving around the desk to sit in the chair next to Dimitar's, facing him in it, expression understanding and worried. "You know this is not your fault."

Dimitar sighed softly, shakily, and shook his head, propping it on his hands, elbows resting on his knees. "Who else could be at fault, for this, Eric? I should have known -- I have been seeing him for months, I should have known this would happen."

"There was no way to know unless you tried it. And now you have." He reached out, placing a hand on Dimitar's back. He could feel the doctor trembling, and he frowned; Dimitar was clearly very sensitive about this issue. Eric knew he was a brilliant doctor, something of a genius, but he was still very young, as well; still had not experienced watching one of his own patients fall apart the way Kaka had.

A soft sound at the door alerted him to Henry's presence, and Eric patted Dimitar on the back, gently, saying softly that he would return in a moment. Henry stepped outside the room again as Eric approached him, following him out.

"What, Thierry, what can be this important now?"

"Kaka is awake, sir." Thierry's face was anxious, like Eric hadn't seen him over a patient in some time. "He is asking for Dimitar."

King Eric spent a short time encouraging Dimitar to go and talk to Kaka after that, patting his hand and meeting eyes with him. "You know that the best thing you can do for him is to go and talk to him now."

Dimitar had eventually swallowed his nerves and nodded, King Eric's hand on his back as he walked through the hallways to Kaka's room.

Kaka was sitting up, for the first time in what must have been an absolute age. He looked tired, thin; the sight broke Dimitar's heart, and he turned to Eric outside Kaka's door.

"I-I don't think I can do this."

"You can. You must. For your patient, yes? I know that you can do it."

Dimitar nodded a little, looking up at Eric's kind face, and bit his lip. He said nothing, but went into the room, running a hand back over his hair and sitting down next to Kaka's bed, looking at him. "You asked for me, Kaka?"

"I-I want to be taken off of this medication, I-I. I want to hear God again."

Dimitar bit his lip, closing his eyes.

"We're. King Eric and I have been talking about what we are going to do."

Kaka's eyes were wide and tired, exhausted, and he had fixed them on Dimitar, his usual smile nowhere to be found -- missing, as it had been since the morning he had woken up without God inside him.

"B-but can't you just take me off of them? I-I, I'll stay in here f-forever if I can h-have God back."

Dimitar swallowed hard, lost for words, his heart breaking and sinking all at once from the pain in Kaka's voice. He couldn't speak, spluttering for something to say.

Eric stepped into the room and sat on the other side of Kaka, who looked at him, swallowing a sob, and Eric spoke next with a hand clasping Kaka's.

"We're going to do everything we can to make this right. But we need you to understand that we can't commit you for life until we have tried everything."

Kaka nodded a little, tears leaking out of his eyes suddenly, and he looked at Berbatov.

"D-Doctor Berbatov is still going to be my doctor?"

Eric nodded, smiling across at Dimitar, who looked up at Eric hopefully, though his eyes still held tenfold the amount of anxiety they had in Eric's office. Eric knew how much he cared for his patients, even if he sometimes had trouble showing his affection the way the other doctors did.

"Yes, my dear one, of course he is."

forward