To Build a Home

Chapter 7

Derek held Stiles close as he did a second breathing treatment in the reclining chair beside Isaac’s bed, mask fogging up each time he exhaled against the plastic. His wheezing had caught the attention of Dr. Laska, who’d then offered up a nebulizer without having them fill out paperwork or making Stiles wear a bracelet because she had felt horrible about their situation.

So Derek listened to the steady humming and whooshing of the many machines in the room as he watched the clock on the wall reach 8 AM, focusing on the way Isaac’s heart monitor beeped evenly because it helped steady his own heart rate. He thought about letting it lull him to sleep since he’d barely gotten any on the plane or at home or sitting in the most uncomfortable chair he’d ever sat in, but he couldn’t get his mind or anxiety to shut off. Not with his child on a ventilator a foot away and his husband fighting an asthma flare in his arms.

Asthma. Stiles had kept it a secret for eight months until that night their first August together when Derek woke suddenly, yawning for a few seconds before he realized Stiles was not in the bed beside him. He could hear that there was a light buzzing coming from the bathroom, light visible through the crack between the door and floor. Worried, he’d tried to pull the door open, only to find it was locked.

“Stiles? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” he’d heard before Stiles broke into a coughing fit similar to the ones he’d been experiencing all week, the ones he’d brushed off as a late summer cold.

“Why is the door locked?”

“M’fine. Go back…go back to bed.”

“You’re obviously not. Let me in,” Derek demanded as he wiggled the knob. Thankfully it was old and fell apart in his hands after he applied a decent amount of pressure and turned the knob completely to the left.

Once inside, he watched as Stiles’ shoulders lifted and fell continuously, quickly, as though he didn’t have any control over how fast he was breathing. His lips were tight around a clear plastic mouthpiece of some sort with a reservoir of liquid attached at the bottom, tubing running from it to a small machine on the carpet.

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek whispered as he sat on the edge of the bathtub and put his hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder. His eyes fell on the red inhaler atop the counter, prescription sticker on the canister reading ‘Genim Stilinski’. “You have asthma?” Stiles had just closed his eyes and nodded, breathing still shallow and strained as he continued to suck in the medicine.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I…I didn’t w-want-” he tried, but another coughing fit took over, and by the time he was done, the reservoir of the nebulizer was dry and his breathing wasn’t any better.

“We’re going to the hospital,” Derek announced as he pulled out his cell phone and called for an ambulance, giving them the address and situation. “Is there anything else I can do while we wait?” he asked as he held the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could hold both of Stiles’ hands.

“No,” Stiles mouthed as he shook his head, wheezing audible now that the nebulizer had been turned off, and Derek’s stomach dropped at the thought that maybe the paramedics wouldn’t make it in time.

“Der?” he heard Stiles whisper breathlessly as he shifted slightly against his chest in the hospital room. “How’s Isaac?” he wheezed.

“Shh,” Derek instructed softly. “You shouldn’t be talking.”

“I just need to know,” Stiles wheezed.

“He’s stable,” Derek assured him. “Just like he was ten minutes ago.”