Chapter Text
Luke wakes to noise.
Not a loud noise of any kind - nothing sharp or sudden or unexpected. Just the low drone of the television still running somewhere across the apartment, muffled deep beneath static and late-night adverts and the buzz of cheap speakers left on for too long.
His eyes stay shut. Or mostly shut, anyway.
The room is dark except for the TV, flickering blue-white against the unpainted walls, and even that hurts. Light presses against the backs of his eyelids like knives. He tries opening them properly once, barely a slit, and instantly regrets it. His eyes snap closed again, eyelashes fluttering like the legs of an overturned beetle.
Everything's too bright - too much. It hurts.
He makes a small sound and turns his face deeper into the cushions of the settee beneath him. Settee. Not bed. Right.
His thoughts move slowly, sluggish and sticky, like trying to skate through wet cement. He can't really remember falling asleep out here, or even getting out here in the first place to be honest. He can't really remember anything much at all right now, and the tightness in his head certainly isn't helping matters.
His head throbs.
Not just a headache - it's worse than that - like a billion times worse too. There's a deep, splitting pressure behind his eyes and through the base of his skull, each pulse making his stomach twist. It's like there's something inside, gnawing away, trying to burrow its way out through his temple. His muscles ache too. Arms heavy. Legs sore. Jaw painfully tight.
His tongue feels wrong in his mouth, like its too big and too small all at once - like it doesn't fit right against his teeth. Then he swallows thickly and tastes copper, blood. It sits uncomfortably against the nasty, sour taste coating the back of his mouth. He feels yucky, dirty, the realisation dawing slowly. So slowly.
Oh.
Oh no.
He must've had a seizure.
He lies there breathing shallowly for a minute, trying to piece together the edges of things. The TV. The settee. The blanket tangled halfway around one of his legs. He isn't conscious enough to work out whether it's his left or right one, but it's too hot either way. His phone is somewhere. Maybe. He can't remember where he put it - it could, quite literally, be anywhere right now.
His apartment smells stale and overheated, the heavy air cloying at his skin, his lungs. Why's this got to happen now? He'd been doing so well.
Sticky sweat coats the back of his neck, his chest, damp beneath the collar of his shirt. He feels disgusting. Cold and clammy at the same time. He doesn't know what time it is, whether it's ten pm or five am or something in between.
The TV drones on and on to nobody and he wonders just how long it's been like that. Just how long he's been out.
"...call now and receive-"
Luke squeezes his eyes tighter.
Everything hurts.
Usually after seizures there was someone. Not always right there when he woke up - sometimes the seizure itself happened alone - but afterwards, somebody came. Eventually, someone always came. That's just how it worked.
His mom sitting on the edge of the bed brushing damp blonde curls off his forehead when he was little.
Jack shoving gatorade into his hands with forced casualness, reminding him that it's important to get his electrolytes up.
Quinn sending him small out-of-character smiles, pretending not to hover whilst simultaneously hovering more than anyone else.
Whether he was 6-months old crying in his hand-me-down cot, or 16 years old and trying to keep a brave face on the morning of Jack's potential NHL draft, there was always someone there with him, holding him, telling him that everything would be fine.
Not today though.
Now the apartment is silent except for the television. The stupid stupid television. The only voices he can hear are the synthetic Southern drawl of the couple on the screen, their words blurring round the edges too much for him to pick out anything much of substance.
Luke shifts slightly and immediately regrets it, his entire body buzzing along with the sound of the TV. Nausea rolls through him hard enough that he freezes again, breathing carefully through his nose. His limbs feel disconnected from the rest of him. Heavy. Tingling.
He thinks maybe he threw up earlier. He can't remember, can't think straight enough to form a clear timeline. Or any timeline really. God, he feels awful.
The TV flashes brighter suddenly and pain spikes through his skull. Luke groans quietly and drags one shaky arm over his face. Even that feels exhausting. His muscles tremble from the effort, the bone-deep ache within his body screaming at him to stay still.
He wants water. His mouth is so dry, sour-tasting, vile. He almost feels like throwing up. Again.
He wants more than just water though, his half-awake brain finally beginning to turn back on, reboot. He wants help.
The thought arrives suddenly and embarrassingly raw - he wants someone here. Needs someone. Anyone. He doesn't even care who, doesn't even care if it's some stranger from outside. He just needs somebody.
Just somebody to tell him what happened. Somebody to bring him water and a bucket and painkillers and make sure he doesn't choke if he throws up again. Somebody to check his med rota, to make sure he hasn't fucked it all up. Somebody to say 'hey, you're okay, Lukey, you're alright'.
But nobody is coming. Nobody is coming, because he lives alone now.
The realisation lands heavier tonight for some reason.
Maybe because after seizures he always feels younger somehow. Stripped down to instinct and pain and confusion. The independent adult version of himself disappears, leaving behind something small and exhausted and scared.
Maybe because it's his first seizure since him and Jack stopped being roommates. His first seizure whilst living completely alone, with just his pool table and oversized television for company.
The TV audience laughs at something canned and artificial, and Luke hates the sound immediately. It's so loud - he swears he didn't leave it that loud. Why would he ever have the TV that loud? Or that bright? Okay, maybe his postictal state is the problem.
With a soft noise of frustration, body still drowning in a cotton-thick fog, he forces one arm out from beneath the blanket and blindly reaches towards the coffee table. It's further away than he remembers - or maybe his arm isn't fully stretched - but he makes it. His trembling fingers knock against empty cans first, then the remote.
It takes three tries to angle it right, but the television finally clicks off. Finally, darkness crashes over the apartment, and almost at once, Luke feels the ebbing pain in his skull begin to fade. Just a little. He isn't sure right now whether it will ever leave.
He can hear himself breathing, can hear the faint ringing in his ears, the weak, uneven hitch in his own breath that sounds dangerously close to crying.
Luke presses the heel of his hand hard against his eyes. He's twenty-two years old.
Twenty-two. An adult. An NHL defenseman. Living on his own. Paying for rent and grocery shopping and doing interviews and flying across the continent without his parents holding his hand.
And yet after seizures he still feels like a terrified little kid, his aching hands waiting and waiting for someone to grab them and just hold on. Just be there.
His throat tightens painfully. He wants Jack. The thought comes instantly.
Not because Jack is the most responsible (Quinn definitely wins that), but because Jack never makes him explain things after seizures. Jack just gets it. He talks enough for both of them, fills silences automatically, keeps things moving whilst Luke's brain catches up.
Luke remembers one road trip years ago, somewhere in junior hockey maybe, when he'd had a seizure in a hotel room. He'd come around confused and sick and wet and crying from frustration more than anything else, and Jack had just sat cross-legged on the other bed eating crisps and talking absolute nonsense for like two straight hours.
Jack didn't ask stupid questions or tell him he'd fucked up, or worse, pity him. Jack just stayed, steadfast and steady.
Luke swallows hard against sudden emotion. His phone. He should find his phone, probably should text someone - or call someone. Do anything other than lie here, broken and alone.
His neurologist would tell him to document it. Team medical staff too. Especially because he doesn't actually remember the seizure itself this time. That's usually a bad sign. But even thinking about moving feels impossible, let alone writing.
He finally manages to crack his eyes open a little wider. The apartment swims blurry and tilted around him. His retinas burn despite the absence of light, every single inch of his body finding some reason or other to groan in protest.
Silver moonlight spills faintly through the blinds, reflecting shadows against every surface. The coffee table is cluttered with old takeaway containers and chargers and a half-empty water bottle just out of reach.
Water. He needs water, yet from his place on the settee, Luke just stares at it miserably. It may as well be halfway across the country - may as well be up with Quinn in Minnestoa.
He tries sitting up next. Pain explodes through his skull instantly. His stomach lurches violently enough that he nearly gags, and he collapses back against the couch cushions with a weak groan.
Okay.
Not yet then.
Definitely not yet.
His body feels wrung out completely, like every muscle fiber has been individually drained and twisted dry.
He hates this part. He hates the aftermath more than the seizures themselves sometimes.The seizures are quick. Violent and terrifying and humiliating, sure, but quick. Afterwards lasts for hours. He hates being stuck in this stupid postictal limbo, where he knows exactly what's happening, but is unable to do anything about it. Is unable to feel fully human.
He hates the exhaustion, the confusion, the aching loneliness of it.
Especially now that there's no one next to him. He'd even take Frank and his terrified 911 calls over being alone. Because yeah, living alone had sounded exciting at first - normal, independent, adult. He has his own place, his own routines, his own life.
And most days it is good. He likes the quiet. Likes cooking terrible pasta at midnight and leaving hoodies on the floor and playing video games too loud without Quinn telling him to shut up. He likes not having to listen to Jack bringing girls home, or his dad waking up early for work.
But nobody talks about this part.
Nobody talks about waking up postictal and alone on the couch floor at three in the morning, barely able to think a coherent thought.
Nobody talks about the fear. Not a fear of dying, exactly - just the aching, never-ending fear of nobody knowing if something goes wrong.
Luke stares at the ceiling, breathing shallowly. His eyes burn unexpectedly and he blinks hard, then harder, but exhaustion has worn him too thin, and suddenly tears are sliding sideways into his probably-greasy hair before he can stop them.
"Fuck," he whispers hoarsely.
His voice sounds wrecked.
He scrubs angrily at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, because this is stupid. He's fine.
Probably fine.
He just needs sleep, water, maybe food eventually. He's twenty-two, he can survive a seizure without having someone to hold his hand through it. Still, after another long minute lying in the dark, he blindly reaches for the coffee table again. Further this time. Apparently his brain isn't convincing enough for his body.
His fingertips finally brush his phone and relief hits embarrassingly fast.
Luke fumbles it into his hands with shaking fingers. The brightness nearly blinds him when the screen lights up.
2:47 AM.
A handful of notifications.
Nothing important.
His thumb hovers uncertainly over his contacts.
Jack would answer, even now at some hairbrained early-morning hour.
Same with Quinn.
His mom definitely would too, though she'd panic immediately and probably book the first flight out before sunrise. She'd always pretended to be calm when he was a kid, but then he'd see the way she'd cry into his dad's shoulder afterwards. He doesn't want to make her feel that way again.
Luke stares at the screen for a long time. He doesn't want to worry any of them. But also, he doesn't want to be alone right now.
The apartment suddenly feels enormous around him. Too quiet. Too empty, and before he can overthink it, his thumb is pressing Jack's contact.
He doesn't pick up at first. Of course he doesn't - it's nearly 3am, he'll be asleep - but something in Luke has lost all sense of caring. He presses call again.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
Then immediately:
"Lukey?"
Jack sounds asleep, his voice thick and sleepy, yet there's a certain level of alarm there too. Jack is concerned already, he can feel it.
Luke's throat closes and for a second he can't actually speak.
Jack wakes up properly on the other end, "Luke?" he presses again, that same concern from before flooding his voice.
"I..." Luke's voice cracks badly, like he's fifteen and going through puberty all over again, "I had a seizure."
Silence.
Then sheets rustling violently.
"Okay," Jack says quickly, all traces of sleepiness suddenly gone from his voice, "okay, hey, you with me?"
Luke squeezes his eyes shut, "Yeah." He's not sure yet how true that is.
"You hurt?" Of course Jack is asking the important questions.
"My head."
"Yeah, probably. Did you hit it?"
"I don't know."
"Okay. Okay." Jack exhales sharply. Luke can practically hear him thinking. "Are you bleeding?"
Luke touches his mouth vaguely with shaking fingers. "Bit my tongue," he mumbles out, feeling the wetness against his hand, his lips.
"No, I meant your head, idiot."
Despite everything, Luke lets out a tiny broken laugh.
Jack hears it too.
"Alright," Jack says softer now, "can you sit up for me?"
Luke grimaces, "Maybe." How does Jack even know hes still lying down?
"You gotta try, Lukey."
The familiar words hit something fragile in Luke's chest, and slowly, painfully, he forces himself upright against the couch cushions. Jack keeps talking the entire time, because of course he does. It's random nonsense mostly, yet it grounds him through it.
By the time Luke manages to sit up properly, breathing hard from the effort, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.
He's still alone, but he's not abandoned. Not anywhere close to it, and for tonight, that helps.