CHAPTER 12. OXYGEN
Breathing is a struggle. Something heavy pins me down, making it impossible to move.
“Newt…” a raspy voice whispers in my ear.
It’s not a dream. This is real. My eyes snap open. In the dim room, a dark figure looms over me.
Xavier.
His face is twisted in fear, eyes glassy and wild. Tears streak down his cheeks. His fingers grip my T-shirt, twisting the fabric, pulling—
“Xavier?” I grab his trembling hands instinctively. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer. He just gasps for air like he’s drowning, every breath ragged, his chest heaving with wheezes.
“Xavier!”
Clutching his wrists, I feel his pulse racing under burning skin, his breath hot against my face. When I press a hand to his cheek, my fingers slide over damp skin.
Fever, I think. Probably inflammation. There must still be poison in his system…
“Newt…” Xavier whispers my name like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. “Newt…”
“I’m here. Are you okay?” I sit up quickly, squeezing his shaking hands. “Xavier?”
He gulps in air, eyes darting around the room, still trapped in whatever nightmare had him gasping for breath.
“You had a bad dream,” I murmur, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “Just a nightmare…”
Without warning, Xavier lunges forward, arms locking around me in a tight, desperate hug.
“Xavier…” I say gently, my hands moving instinctively, rubbing his back. He trembles, face buried against my shoulder, holding on like he’s afraid to let go.
I hold him tighter, warmth spreading through my chest—but underneath it, the worry won’t settle. I keep thinking about the symptoms of severe chemical poisoning. Nervous agitation. Disorientation. Hallucinations…
“Hey, hey, shh…” I try to meet his eyes, but he clings to my shoulders, his grip unrelenting. “It’s okay…shh…you’re safe…”
Then I freeze.
His lips find my neck—planting a wet kiss there, then trailing up to my cheek, sliding down to my jaw, my chin, then back to my neck. His mouth is warm, a little desperate, as a quiet moan slips from him.
The room tilts. Heat floods through me in a slow, dizzying rush. My blood pulses—to my head, my core, my cock—everywhere at once, everywhere we’re pressed together.
“Xavier,” I breathe.
I cup his feverish face and gently pull him back, my fingers slipping into soft curls.
In the dim light, glassy blue eyes meet mine and go still—wide, teary, pleading. His hands tremble against me.
I want to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a whisper. “Xavier…”
I know the tears, the kisses—it’s all just a symptom of the poisoning. I know that. But looking into those red-rimmed eyes, I hesitate.
What are you waiting for? Do something.
“Newt…” Xavier breathes, barely audible.
Beneath my fingertips, I feel the frantic pulse in his neck.
A tear slips from his lashes…
…lands on my throat, trailing toward my collarbone…
Then Xavier leans in.
His burning lips graze my chin, then slide down my neck, tracing the tear’s path. His tongue flicks into the hollow above my collarbone, licking it away.
I gasp as his teeth sink into the base of my neck. Heat surges through me, coiling low in my gut, and I already know there’ll be a bruise there in a couple of hours. My mind scrambles for something to say, but all that comes out is, “Fuck…Xavier, stop—”
Xavier freezes, like he’s only just now hearing his own name. His fevered gaze clears, finally coming into focus.
I sit up against the headboard, my cock hard and aching in my pants. “You’ve got a fever,” I pant. “You need to lie down. Can you hear me?”
He blinks, and realization flickers in his eyes—then shame, tangled with panic. It’s as if he’s suddenly woken and finally understood where he is and what he’s just done. He nods, uncertain, then abruptly pulls away, scrambling to his feet.
“Sorry,” he mutters, breathless.
“Xavier.” I reach out, catch his elbow, and hold him there. “Wait. You’re burning up…we need to get you to a hospital.”
He shakes his head, eyes darting away. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, then he lets out a ragged breath. “So hot…” he croaks, tugging at the collar of his sweater. “Can’t…can’t breathe…”
The panic in his voice sends a wave of anxiety crashing through me. God, I’ve never seen him like this. I flick on the bedside lamp to get a better look—he’s flushed, not pale. Panic attack, then. Not the poisoning.
“Easy,” I murmur, cupping his cheek. “Slow breaths. Through your nose. That’s it… just breathe.”
Xavier stares at me, silent, bewildered, fear written all over his face.
I take his hand and squeeze it lightly. “Breathe. You’re okay.”
Another shaky inhale—still uneven, but steadier.
Xavier squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose as he exhales, trying to pull himself together. He stays like that for a moment, eyes closed.
I’m still holding his hand when he finally stirs, pushing himself off the bed.
“Where are you going?” I ask, standing with him as his fingers slip from mine.
“Bathroom,” he mutters. “I feel sick…”
He stumbles to the door, pulls it open, and disappears onto the stairs.
I hurry after him, but just as I reach the landing, a thud echoes below—followed by a crash and a sharp, “Fuck!”
“Xavier?” I call, hurrying down the steps, the pale morning light spilling in from the living room. “Are you okay?”
“Just…slipped…” His hoarse voice drifts up from the floor.
I grab his elbow and pull him to his feet, scanning him quickly.
“You didn’t break anything, did you?”
“No,” he mutters. “I’m fine.”
I follow as he staggers from the living room to the kitchen and into the bathroom. He flicks on the light, drops to his knees by the toilet, and heaves, retching hard.
“Jesus,” I mutter, wetting a washcloth. I kneel beside him, watching as he gasps for air, eyes screwed shut, knuckles white against the toilet bowl. This is worse than I thought.
When the nausea finally eases, he slumps back against the wall. I hand him the washcloth, and he takes it with a shaky breath, cleaning his face before letting out a long exhale.
“How long were you in that underground lab?” I ask, brushing a sticky strand of hair off his forehead.
Xavier shakes his head weakly. “I don’t know…a couple of minutes, maybe.”
“We need to cool you down, get you into fresh clothes,” I say, crouching in front of him. “You’re drenched. Then I’m either getting you to a hospital or calling a doctor.”
Xavier drops the cloth to the floor, eyes shut, pressing his fingers into his temples as he shakes his head.
“I’m fine.”
“Like hell you are.”
“I’ll go to the hospital. Just not today. Please.”
I sigh. God, he uses that word like a spell—and the worst part is, it works on me every damn time.
“We’ll see,” I mutter.
Xavier pushes to his feet, unsteady, and I grab his elbow before he can tip over. His hands tremble.
“Sit,” I say, lowering the toilet lid.
He exhales sharply and sinks onto it, head bowed.
“My head hurts,” he mutters. “Can’t focus. Can’t think…”
“I know,” I say, standing over him. “I’ll run you a cool bath. It’ll help. Promise.”
Xavier gives the faintest nod, eyes still fixed on the floor.
I move to the tub, plug it, and turn on the tap. Water hisses as it streams out. Adjusting the temperature, I glance back—he hasn’t moved, his face buried in his hands. We stay like this for a few long minutes, just waiting.
“Are you hungry?” I ask quietly, stepping toward him. “Thirsty?”
“No,” he mumbles, barely audible. “I might be sick again.”
I nod, and we wait, water still hissing in the background. After a few more minutes, I say, “Alright, let’s get you in.”
He gives me a weak nod. I move closer, help him up, and his hand clamps onto my shoulder for balance.
“Easy…”
I take hold of his sweater—well, my sweater—and ease it over his head. The cool air makes him shiver, but he doesn’t say a word, his fingers still resting on my shoulder, his gaze fixed on my neck.
I unbutton his pants and slide the zipper down, but as I reach for the waistband, his fever-warm hands close over mine.
“I’ve got it.”
I meet his eyes, then nod and step back. He hesitates before tugging his pants and boxers down in one motion, stepping out of them and standing there, bare, a little uncertain.
I grip his forearm and guide him toward the tub. When his hand moves to steady himself at the edge, I turn away. A splash follows a moment later, and I glance back just long enough to make sure he’s alright.
“I’ll be nearby if you need anything,” I say quietly. “Don’t lock the door. I’ll check on you soon…”
“Mm.” The reply is soft, barely there.
I linger for a moment, then step out, leaving the door cracked as I head into the kitchen.
I yawn as I flick on the kettle and glance out the window. Outside, rooftops and empty streets lie under a heavy blanket of snow, first light tinting everything in blue.
I make a strong cup of tea, drink it in silence, then head to Xavier’s room to grab some clean clothes.
For all the chaos he leaves in the living room and kitchen, his closet is meticulous.
Pressed shirts and suits hang in neat rows on the right, stacks of folded casual clothes line the left, everything precise.
I pull out his blue checkered pajama pants and a dark blue tee from the top shelf, but something catches my eye—a black box tucked into the upper shelf.
I reach for it, and the moment my fingers brush the surface, I realize it isn’t a box at all.
It’s a laptop. My brow furrows. Why would Xavier keep it there?
I don’t give it much thought—just shut the wardrobe, toss the clothes onto the bed, and head back to the bathroom. Knocking lightly on the open door, I call, “Coming in. You okay?”
Silence.
“Xavier?” I step inside and find him stretched out in the tub, eyes closed. “Hey.” I move closer.
The water laps at his chin, his wet hair plastered to his neck.