Beyond the Breaking Point

Chapter 3

Notes: This took far longer than I thought it would. Unfortunately, real life really got in the way. And, as I was predicting, I'm back to monster-length chapters, haha. Still, thanks a lot for the support, it really helps the motivation in spite of all the real-life duties. :)

Warnings: Once again, I have to stress that I'm not a medical professional and some research does not replace it. I apologize for any mistake.
Moreover, you will find some intentional misconceptions due to the narrators' own biases.

That said, I really hope the wait was worth it and you'll enjoy the chapter. And if you can, please review! :)

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Chapter Three

Alfred couldn't move. He knew that he should do something – anything – to help and ease his little brother's suffering, but he didn't know what. All he could focus on was Matthew's wan face, the way his features were contorted in agony. His lips were moving among the sobs, but the words were drowned by the ringing in Alfred's ears, so loud that he couldn't even hear his own thoughts.

Arthur's voice was the only thing able to pierce through the mud that enveloped Alfred's brain. "Bring me a phone and the thermometer," he had ordered, his tone so firm and determined that Alfred wasn't left with the opportunity of formulating his own opinion – he could do nothing but obey.

Alfred didn't know how Arthur could do that. Desperation and concern were etched in the lines around his eyes, there was a slight tremble in the fingers moving around Matthew's frame – but every action they performed was purposeful and confident. Somehow, Arthur had managed to swallow down his panic in order to help Matthew at the best of his abilities, and, instead of shaking and crying, he was talking to a first responder. He didn't let the slight wavering of his voice tamper with the clarity of his words.

Alfred should have been able to carry out the task himself: he was the one who had found Matthew, he should be perfectly able to report how his little brother was curled up on himself and in visible agony, awake but not coherent – yet, it had taken him some minutes only to make his tongue connect with his brain and explain what had prompted the scream that had summoned Arthur. He had stumbled over the words, everything feeling hazy and distant. Only Arthur's oddly soothing voice and direct questions had helped him go on.

When the thermometer finally beeped, lighting in red with the worst answer Alfred could have ever imagined, he felt his legs go weak. He stumbled back, the horror flooding his body making his limbs useless. His eyes were stuck on the numbers on the screen.

105.98

Alfred was sure he had never even heard of such a bad fever, and he didn't have the slightest idea of how to deal with it. A high-pitched wail went past his lips. His brain was buzzing with suggestions – a wet cloth might help, maybe an ice pack, or even alcohol instead of water, somebody had told him it worked better... – but he couldn't bring his body to move.

Alfred wrenched his eyes away from Matthew's face – from the thermometer – only for them to fall on his brother's right hand. It had been pulled away from his abdomen and had now taken a spasmodic grip over the sheets, twitching unnaturally with each sob. And, while Alfred was ensnared by the sight, Arthur reported the thermometer's reading at the phone without missing a beat.

A corner of Alfred's brain wanted to believe that Arthur was so collected because he didn't care as much as Alfred did. That Alfred's inefficiency wasn't a fault of his, rather, another proof of the fact he cared for Matthew more than Arthur did or had ever done. At the same time, Alfred couldn't help but notice the tight lines around Arthur's eyes, the glimmer of barely concealed panic in them.