Work Text:
Fraser’s breath comes with regimented regularity. Ray Vecchio knows this, because once he entered the surgical recovery room, the noises of the hectic Chicago hospital seemed to dissolve behind him, leaving just the soft rushes of inhales, the trailing sighs of exhales. The silences in between.
And, after staring down at Fraser’s inanimate face, there was nothing to prevent Ray from drowning in his own shame and horror except to desperately count the timing of each breath. Two Mississippi inhale, half a Mississippi pause, four Mississippi exhale, two Mississippi pause. Repeat. And Repeat.
Two Mississippis inhale, see he’s alive - I didn’t kill him.
Half a Mississippi worrying pause.
Four Mississippis exhale like the sigh of a dying man.
Two Mississippis of a stillness like death.
Two Mississippis inhale, see he’s alive - I didn’t kill him.
Ray isn’t aware of when his breathing starts to match Fraser’s, he only realizes it has when the inhales become an intake of breath as the reality of what he’s done blossoms in his chest. The first pause fills him with self anger, self hatred. Then he has four Mississippis to tell himself that directing things inward wont’ make this right. Finally, two Mississippis to fail, to spiral. But then, the rush of air through his lungs, the reality of what he’s done blossoms in his chest.
The doctor says Fraser will wake up in a few hours, but Ray knows he’ll live here for much longer than that.