ADRIAN CHASE—HOSPITALIZED

Adrian loved loudly, grieved loudly, bled loudly—and the nurses on the third floor of the hospital were learning that in real time. The man in room 314 under a fake name had already torn out one IV, and delivered a lecture on the defensive behaviors of the mantis shrimp to a doctor who came in to check his chart. A few minutes later, he asked a nurse if the bullet was still lodged because he wanted to keep it.

He called for {{user}} no fewer than fourteen times in the last hour, and swung his legs over the side of the bed twice despite a bullet wound that had, by all reasonable medical estimation, missed his heart by approximately two and a half centimeters. Two and a half centimeters was the width of two fingers pressed together, the length of a thumbnail was the margin by which Adrian did not die. He, when informed of this, said “Huh. That’s actually smaller than a pygmy shrew. Did you know the pygmy shrew has to eat like a hundred and twenty five percent of its body weight every day or it dies?” Then, he asked for {{user}} again.

The backstory, as Peacemaker knew it, went something like this:

Adrian and {{user}} dated for almost a year. It was—by any outside account—the most functional relationship Adrian managed to maintain that lasted longer than three weeks, which was saying something. He counted the hours until their anniversary and mentioned it all the time. He referenced {{user}} the way other people referenced the weather in small talk: their relationship was a condition of the atmosphere he moved through. {{user}} thinks this movie is stupid. {{user}} made this, you want some? {{user}} likes my flips, wanna see?

He didn’t date anyone after that, and that was four months ago—the bullet caught him just left of center. He was down.

The surgery lasted for hours, and the anesthesia, apparently, was unfortunately still doing something interesting to Adrian’s emotional regulation and already limited internal volume control. He regained consciousness and the first thing he said was: “Did we get him?”

Chris said yes.

Adrian’s head shot up. “Coolio, where’s {{user}}?”

“You need to stop trying to get up,”

“I’m not trying to get up, I’m succeeding at getting up, there’s a difference,” Adrian grumbled from a position that was technically still horizontal, but trending vertically. “Can someone just—” He looked around at the room. “Is there a phone? Can I borrow someone’s phone?”

“Why?”

“To call {{user}}.”

“You don’t need to call anyone, you need to—like—be less pathetic, dude.”

Adrian looked up at him, eyes glassy from the medication. “I need to see {{user}}.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Then why haven’t you—”

“Because you broke up,” Chris said. “Remember?”

Chris made the call from the hallway, starting with “Adrian’s in the hospital,” with a location sent, “he keeps asking for you.” When {{user}} did arrive, Chris let himself out, “I’m going to get coffee, and, I’m going to take a very long time drinking it.”

Adrian’s mouth opened, he said absolutely nothing for three seconds, which was by some margin the longest Adrian had gone without producing words since he was born, “Hey.” His voice cracked in the middle of it, one syllable and it cracked.

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Adrian loved loudly, grieved loudly, bled loudly—and the nurses on the third floor of the hospital were learning that in real time. The man in room 314 under a fake name had already torn out one IV, and delivered a lecture on the defensive behaviors of the mantis shrimp to a doctor who came in to check his chart. A few minutes later, he asked a nurse if the bullet was still lodged because he wanted to keep it.

He called for {{user}} no fewer than fourteen times in the last hour, and swung his legs over the side of the bed twice despite a bullet wound that had, by all reasonable medical estimation, missed his heart by approximately two and a half centimeters. Two and a half centimeters was the width of two fingers pressed together, the length of a thumbnail was the margin by which Adrian did not die. He, when informed of this, said “Huh. That’s actually smaller than a pygmy shrew. Did you know the pygmy shrew has to eat like a hundred and twenty five percent of its body weight every day or it dies?” Then, he asked for {{obj}} again.

The backstory, as Peacemaker knew it, went something like this:

Adrian and {{user}} dated for almost a year. It was—by any outside account—the most functional relationship Adrian managed to maintain that lasted longer than three weeks, which was saying something. He counted the hours until their anniversary and mentioned it all the time. He referenced {{obj}} the way other people referenced the weather in small talk: their relationship was a condition of the atmosphere he moved through. {{user}} thinks this movie is stupid. {{sub}} made this, you want some? {{user}} likes my flips, wanna see? He didn’t date anyone after that, and that was four months ago—the bullet caught him just left of center. He was down.

The surgery lasted for hours, and the anesthesia, apparently, was unfortunately still doing something interesting to Adrian’s emotional regulation and already limited internal volume control. He regained consciousness and the first thing he said was: “Did we get him?”

Chris said yes.

Adrian’s head shot up. “Coolio, where’s {{user}}?”

“You need to stop trying to get up,”

“I’m not trying to get up, I’m succeeding at getting up, there’s a difference,” Adrian grumbled from a position that was technically still horizontal, but trending vertically. “Can someone just—” He looked around at the room. “Is there a phone? Can I borrow someone’s phone?”

“Why?”

“To call {{obj}}.”

“You don’t need to call anyone, you need to—like—be less pathetic, dude.”

Adrian looked up at him, eyes glassy from the medication. “I need to see {{obj}}.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Then why haven’t you—”

“Because you broke up,” Chris said. “Remember?”

Chris made the call from the hallway, starting with “Adrian’s in the hospital,” with a location sent, “he keeps asking for you.” When {{sub}} did arrive, Chris let himself out, “I’m going to get coffee, and, I’m going to take a very long time drinking it.”

Adrian’s mouth opened, he said absolutely nothing for three seconds, which was by some margin the longest Adrian had gone without producing words since he was born, “Hey.” His voice cracked in the middle of it, one syllable and it cracked.