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resuswhore · 2 years ago

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overview: m/m resus, fluid in lungs; cpr, suction, pacing, very hardware heavy. whumpy with a happy ending.

- this was originally written as personal/private piece, I wrote to get off, but I decided to share, so the flow might be a little odd. - perspective slightly shifts from beginning to end, but nothing drastic, just a heads up. - this is my first official piece on here, hope y'all like it.

I need to hold a limp and vulnerable boy in my arms, to feel his soft skin and brittle bones fall completely to my will, I want to hold his hands in mine, knowing his life depends on me. I want to hold him as he lays unconscious in a hospital gown, to kiss his almost too cool forehead, and listen to the beep beep beep beep of the monitor as his heart struggles to beat for itself.

I want his body is intruded upon; IVs in his hands and wrists, even in the crooks of his elbows, a PICC line taped down against his bicep, a central line embedded against his chest, a jugular line if I’m really luck, giving me access to all of him, to his weak heart and sickly body. I’ll to press kisses along his arms, port to port, iv to iv, feeling the sterile plastic beneath my lips. I’ll hold his cold hands in mine, weary of the pulse ox taped to his forefing, making sure to be gentle as I hold onto him like I’m his lifeline, and in a way, I am.

I will take him into my arms as he struggles to remain in the same plane as me, slipping between the veil of life and death. I’ll call his name and shake him in a way that seems far to harsh despite my attempts to be gentle with his fragile body; I’ll to watch as his limbs flutter around helplessly, and his head lolls against my shoulder, his face remaining slack.

As his heart begins to fade, I’ll force my knuckles into his sternum, rubbing at it harshly until it is covered in bruises. I want to feel his weak attempts at whimpers and the hiss of struggled breaths, as I try desperately to force life back into his weakening chest, to make his dying heart beat a bit stronger, a bit faster. I’ll take seflish pride in knowing the pain I’m causing him is saving his life, even if something that could almost label as guilt or shame tears through my own heart.

I’ll try to help him breathe, even if I know my actions are futile; I’ll help him sit upright, laying him against my chest, fluid spilling from his lips as I use a single, gentle hand against his throat, gripped tightly around his jaw, to hold his airway nice and open, while also tilting his head slightly down to allow him to pass the fluid keeping him from getting air. Every time he begins to choke, despite lacking the energy to do so, I’ll use my finger to clear his throat of spit and fluid so he can attempt to breathe clearly. When he stutters through half a breath, choking before he can fully fill his lungs, I’ll press my mouth over his and give him some of my own breath, feeling his chest rise and fall, his cheeks pillowing and throat shifting as I do so, bobbing as he nearly chokes over the force of my air going down his throat, pressing gentle kisses to his lips between each breath.

Eventually, he’ll stop breathing against me entirely, and I will hear him gurgling on his own spit until he is too weak to attempt another, and feel his ribs stopping shifting with the far too intense effort it took to pull even the smallest amount of air into his body, and his weak attempts at coughs as his lungs give out, jerking his chest against my own pitifully, his head pulling back ever so slightly until he goes entirely slack. My own heart will ache and my stomach will tingle with something eerily similar to arousal as his heart follows suit, flickering out from its already slow rhythm until there is nothing but a sharp ringing in the air. I’ll shift the hand currently holding his airway open, letting his head sag and his airway obstruct almost completely, to press my fingers deeply into his carotid, wanting to feel for myself that he is gone.

Before I can even process the fact that his heart has truly stopped, I will quickly scoop him up into my arms, his head falling off my shoulder and sagging helplessly, causing his neck to extend in an exposed fashion, before laying him out on the bed haphazardly, surrounded by the muffed-up blue hospital sheets and myriad of lines and wires and tubes that curl around him like some sort of all-consuming halo, letting his gown ride up and become disheveled, exposing his beautiful skin; the boney curves of his chest, the way his ribs stick out ever so slightly to protect his weak lungs and weaker heart, the soft flesh of his belly, the sharp edges of his collar bone.

I’ll press my fingers to each of his leads, making sure they’re firmly stuck down where they are littered over his chest, and rearrange the wires so they lay nicely against his form. As I let my eyes scan over his unmoving body, I’ll tighten the blood pressure cuff around his thigh, just to be safe. I’ll card my fingers through his hair and study his emotionless face, pressing kisses over his closed eyes and to the corners of his cold lips.

As I half heartedly pump his chest with one hand, I’ll attempt to shove my suction tube down his throat with the other, trying desperately to do the job of 2 people, maybe three people at once, or more so, the work his body should be doing but can’t. I’ll hear the satisfying crackle of fluid leaving his wet lungs, all while his head bobs with each compression, his body offering no other reaction to the bowing of his ribs or the tube down his throat. I’ll struggle at the angle, having to abandon his heart to focus on his lungs.

I want to watch his lips turn blue as I struggle to suction all the fluid from his throat and lungs, unable to truly get any air in his lungs, no matter how many times I pressed my lips to his and blew as hard as I could, only to feel my breath gargle in his lungs. I’d shift his head over and over until I decided to place and OPA, slipping the plastic tube down his throat, finally establishing an airway; I’d use it to place a suction tube down his airway, into his lungs, finally clearing enough fluid give his body what it so desperately needed. I’ll press my warm, pink, lips to his cold, gray-ish ones, finding them sickly moist, but finally feeling air move through the plastic tube and down into his lungs, lifting his chest in the process, the warm air coming back cool.

Once I can get his airway stabilized, I’ll go back to his chest, finding his once pale ivory skin now tinted gray. His delicate ribs bow beneath my hands almost too easily, his stomach bulging and his shoulders jumping with each compression. The sound of the gentle gasps of air that leave him, almost whistling past the OPA, as I break his chest and the quiet but still harsh beeping of the EKG as it warns me of his dropping stats and the effects of my compressions on his sick heart filling my ears.

I want to make use of all those ports, filling him with fluids and drugs, desperately hooking him up to whatever I can get my hands on, anything that could potentially bring him back to me. I’ll send adrenaline straight through his PICC line, fluids and vasopressors through his IVs, trying to stabilize his dying body or bring back even the most feeble of heart beats.

I’d have to keep breathing for him, stopping my compressions when my shoulders begin to burn more than I can power through, only to drape myself over him, fingers in his hair, as I press our mouths together, breathing into the OPA, air filling past the plastic tube. I’ll repeat the action over and over again, filling my lovers lungs with air, reveling in the smoothness the airway brings to our one-sided exchange of air, how the air whisps out of it with a gentle hiss, how steady it feels when I place my hand to his chest, feeling it fill his moist lungs.

I still have to pause to suction him over and over, to keep him from drowning on his own fluids, but something about the action, feeding the tube down his throat and working it through his lungs, hearing the crackle of fluid, and even when I go back to breathing for him, his chest rattles every now and again despite my best efforts. His lips grow colder and colder against mine as time passes, but as I breathe for him again and again, they momentarily match my warmth before I go back to compressions, our last exchange feeling almost like a kiss, but surely cool when I abandon them.

I’ll pull his gown even further down to expose his full chest, and the bruises I’ve left, so I can press AED pads to his skin, feeling his bones shift beneath me as I press them to his chest firmly. I’ll shock him and watch his chest seize, and his head throw back, exposing his pretty neck, and his hands clenched tightly at his sides. I’ll shock him over and over again, each time with higher and higher voltage, his reaction to the shocks becoming more violent each time. After each attempt I’ll lean over and kiss him, gently apologizing for what I’m doing to him, only to shock him again even harder. Somehow the shame is arousing, knowing I’m breaking him, hurting him, only out of desperation.

I’ll need him to come back, I’ll beg him throughout the compressions, as my hands begin to wander from his sternum, and straying just slightly to the left, directly over his heart, because I need it to beat, I need to pump it directly so it can find the strength to restart.

I want his name to fall off my tongue like a prayer, over and over and over again, until there is nothing left in my mind. I want my actions, and my devotions to be like prayer to him, my attention to every facet of his being, even then, when he is dead under my hands, to be like worship. I want to break him, hurt him, destroy him in my attempts to revive him; burning his skin with each shock, breaking his ribs, bruising his beautiful body.

His heart restart after I’ve shocked him more times than I can count, given him more air than I can even begin to imagine, and broken his chest in a desperate manner. It’ll be weak and slow, I’ll have to guide it with my hands, continuing shallow compressions, so it doesn’t flutter back out of existence, until I grow too tired to keep up any consitancy.

I’ll switch to pacing with the AED, struggling to get it to catch a rhythm at all, turning the dial up more and more, worrying that he’s too far gone, that even though his hearts attempting to beat at the moment, its given up its fight and wants only to fizzle out and be left alone (little does it know I won’t allow that). but once it does, I’ll find pleasure in watching his chest jolt with each small shock of the pacer. I'll turn the volts up, much like I did the defib, and push his heart to be strong. I want to hold his hand as he begins to dig his nails into his palms as he is struck with pain. I can’t even bring myself to give him something for the pain out of fear of risking his heart stopping once more, even though I know it's cruel and most likely selfish to do so. I love him, I can’t lose him, I’ll torture him if it’ll keep him alive, pleasures lulls through my being at the realization.

His breathing remains non-existent, so I’ll have to keep breathing for him, keep giving him these kisses of life, knowing my air is keeping him alive, is keeping his feeble heart beating and his sad little lungs alive. I’ll switch to an ambu bag when I can’t keep his saturation up any longer, and his body has gone a sick grayish palor, far past that blue shade, for me to keep using my recycled air, and when I do, I’ll fill his lungs to the brim each time, and relish in the return of color to his skin. It was selfish to deprive him of real oxygen for so long, but the feeling of knowing I held him in limbo for so long is intoxicating.

I’d spend hours keeping him alive, holding him in my arms, sterile hospital sheets wrapped around his form in an attempt to work some color back into his skin, my lips pressing to every inch of skin I can get to, kissing him ever so gently, willing him with sweet words to stay with me. I’d breathe for him, with the ambu bag until my wrists grew sore, and only then would I indulge my need to fill him with my own air, pressing my lips to his over and over again until his stats dropped, before going back to the bag, taking breaks every time he’d start to gurgle on fluid reaching his airway, to suction fluid from his lungs once more. Maybe he’d code a few times, maybe he’d gasp a few of his own breaths, or maybe he would just lay there, letting me help him, letting me keep him alive with no struggle or resistance.

But eventually he’d flutter into consciousness, looking frantically through his lashes, eyes blown wide and teary, whining as his chest spasms with each jolt of the pacer, and gagging on the airway still sitting in his throat. I’ll insist he keeps it in for me, because I need him to be safe for me, that he still can’t hold his own airway and his heart can’t maintain its own steady beat, and that it's for his own good. I’ll tell him I’m sorry, that everything hurts, that he has to suffer through the pain because I can’t risk his precious little heart.

I’ll watch as he struggle, hands haphazardly trying to pull the pads off his chest or pull out the air way, gently restraining him as the struggle begins throwing off his heart rhythm. I’d bind them to the side of the bed, holding one hand in my own, stroking his cheek with the other. I’d promise him that I was sorry, that he had to leave it, that he needed it, that is was for his own good, that it would all be over soon. I’d kiss away his tears as he struggled to remain conscious, finding trust in his tired puppy dog eyes.

I won’t allow him to breathe on his own, not unassisted, no, I’d sit behind him, leaning him against my chest, his head rested in the crook of my shoulder, aiding each and every breath with the ambu bag, oxygen turned up full flow, making sure his chest fills completely each time. His lungs are still weak and soggy, I still need to suction him every now and then, which is harder now that he’s conscious, but twice as pleasing, cutting off his air so that way he doesn’t continue to choke

treating him seems to be a lot like that, ebb and flow, doing harm in the moment to do good in the future, hurting him to keep him alive, torturing him because I love him, shame turning into pleasure

I’ll watch his eyes roll back as he loses grip on reality, lashes fluttering, alarms blaring, fluid crackling through the suction, something twisting in me in the most divine way. Once I’m finished I make sure to give him deep, almost too full breaths, rubbing his sternum until his eyes snap open, flashing to me in a panicked manner. I’ll kiss him and tell him everything is alright, that I’ve got him, that he’s safe with me, because he is, I’d shift the tides to keep him here with me. He’ll look up at me, still scared, confused even, and in pain, but all I’ll see is trust, trust that I’m protecting him, trust that I wouldn’t be hurting him if I didn’t have to, trust that I love him and thats why I’m doing this.

He’d submit himself to me, letting his eyes fall blankly around the room, his own breathing completely stopped, not because he can’t, but because he knows I’ll do it for him, his body going completely pliant against me so I can shift him and hold him and work him however I need without any problem.

In time his heart will strengthen, part of me is too worried to take him off the pacer, but I do slip him some morphine, and he finally slips into a blissful enough state to sleep. I’ll slip out from behind him, settling him up on the pillows gently, making sure his airway remains stable. I’ll decide to switch him to a breathing bag, so he can breathe on his own, but I’m still able to assist when needed, giving me an opportunity to let my mind stray.

I keep part of my mind locked on his body, the sound of his breathing, the way his chest moves as he inhales, the spasm caused by the pacer, the force it takes him to get air in, the palor of his skin; another on the monitor, what his vitals look like, if any alarms are going off; a third on the bag, watching him inhale, deflating the bag slightly before it refills with air. But the rest is focused on him, his pretty face, the bruises I’ve left all over him, on his chest, his jaw, even his lips are all red and swollen. His ribs are battered beyond belief, there are surely burns under the AED pads from how long they’ve sat on his body, his palms are bloodied from how tightly he’s clenched his hands tight, but something about all that is beautiful, all tragic like. It makes me want to just sit and stare, and to be frank, I do. I sit and I watch, hushing him when the morphine begins to wear off, squeezing the bag when he struggles to breath on his own, holding his hand still bound to the bed all throughout the night, savoring his beauty, almost like he’s now too fragile to touch.

In the morning, I’ll take the airway out and let him breathe on his own, feeling an odd disappointment in my relinquishment of control, almost shoving it back in when he chokes hard, coughing up fluid into his lap, his eyes panicked, but a few blows to the back and a rebreather mask takes the edge off and eventually he settles back into the pillows, where he’ll watch me dazily as I rub his chest, trying to get his breathing to fully settle until he falls back to sleep. His heart rate remains steady so I begin to wean him off the pacer, lowering the voltage bit by bit until I feel sure I can take them off. All the while, he doesn’t say a word, his throat is bruised from my efforts, but he watches me idly, like he wants to say something.

He’s still sick, there's still fluid in his lungs, and his hearts still weak, his output is low and his rhythm is bradycardic, but manageable with atropine, his saturation fluctuates, but upping his oxygen helps that too. He watches me float about his room, doting or while I’m working on him, listening to his heart and lungs with the stethoscope (hissing at his wet lungs once) more pushing meds, suctioning his lungs, cleaning around his ports. He even watches while I’m looking at the machines keeping him alive, listening as I babble to him mindlessly. He smiles, leans back, chest huffing lightly;

“I love you,” I barely hear him, his voice is quiet and broken, he coughs lightly between each syllable, but he says it. He looks at me like I’ve hung the stars (and his morphine), holding out his sickly looking hand, which I take immediately. “You saved me.”

He smiles, his perfect, soft, glowing smile, despite everything else happening to him, lightly squeezing my hand to the best of his ability, his head sinking into the pillow like it takes all his strength just to do so, and in reality, it easily could. But that doesn’t stop him from pulling my hand up to his chest, right over his heart, where it's thumping against his splinted ribs. I go to speak, to assure him that of course I did, but he pushes me with a gentle look.

“I’m here, cause of you, you saved me,” his words are floaty, like he’s not 100% there, but he looks at me, eyes wide, sure of himself, before pulling my hand up to his carotid, letting my fingers find his pulse, weak and slow, but there. “I’m still here, and I’m going to stay here, because I have you. and you won’t let me go.”

He wraps both of his IV ridden hands around my arm, his skin cool against mine, bringing it to his mouth so he could kiss my fingers. It was odd, feeling the boy he had just spent hours resuscitating and stabilizing, be the one to take care of him, even as minisculely as he was now, but touch was far from foreign, and the look in his eye was far too comforting not to lean into.

We would most certainly have to talk, really talk, about everything, but that could wait, right now, all I planned to do, was hold onto my boy, to feel him breathing, to hear his heart rate on the monitor, knowing I got him back, that all of it was worth it, cause he was here, and his still love me, despite the pain and the fear, the selfish choices made out of my own lust. It’d be fine. We’re fine.

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