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Zandik moved around the sterile recovery room, his hands adjusting the IV stand and double-checking the drainage tubes connected to his patient's abdomen and hands. The monitors beeped, displaying stable vitals after the complex liver transplant he had performed just barely twenty-four hours earlier. He straightened a folded blanket at the foot of the bed before pivoting on his heel to face the man resting against the pillows. He then went over to check the incision site through the thin hospital gown. His fingers traced the edges gently, ensuring no excessive swelling or leakage. It was completely fine and clean. He nodded to himself before turning from the monitoring parts, his gaze sweeping across the room one last time. The water jug was full, the straw placed at just the right angle for easy reach. The call button sat within arm’s length on the bedside table, next to a small vase of flowers. One of the segments had brought it as a gift to Pantalone for a fast recovery.
Besides that, the morphine pump was calibrated. The wound dressing was clean, no signs of seepage though the bandage.
Everything was as it should be.
He let his eyes finally rest on Pantalone, who was propped against a mound of pillows, his pale face tilted toward the window. The harsh overhead lights were off, per request, only the soft lamp by the bed and the daylight from the curtains illuminated his features. He looked fragile in a way that Zandik rarely allowed himself to acknowledge, weak, powerless and utterly vulnerable. The sharp lines of his cheekbones stood out more than usual, his skin carrying a slight translucence that spoke of blood loss and surgical trauma. But his eyes were open, aware, tracking the slow move of a cloud across the sky beyond the glass. He was alive, that's all that mattered.
"Feofan." Zandik's voice came out lower than intended, roughened by hours of silence. He crossed the few steps to the bedside, the soles of his shoes making soft sounds against the tiled floor. "Do you need something?" He asked, his hands immediately busying themselves with the sheets, straightening them. Then, without even waiting for an answer, he lifted his hand. The gesture was automatic, his palm settled against Pantalone's forehead, the skin warm but not feverish, a good sign. His thumb traced a gentle arc across the temple, pushing aside a strand of black hair that had fallen out of place.
Pantalone's lips parted slightly, a shallow breath escaping. He didn’t turn his head, but his hand shifted beneath the blanket, fingers curling toward the warmth of Zandik’s presence.
The morphine kept the worst of the pain at bay, but it also dulled him, leaving him suspended in a haze of half-awareness and heavy calm.
"Thirsty" he murmured, the word dragging across his tongue. "...But not yet. Later."
Zandik’s hand remained on his forehead, thumb continuing its slow, soothing motion. He wasn't sure why Pantalone even brought up that he was thirsty if he added 'later' to it, but whatever, maybe he wanted to start a conversation.
"You're getting enough liquid through the IV so your body won't be dehydrated, worry not, but of course you'll have to also orally take some water. I made a schedule. At around 3.... –" he trailed off.
"The schedule can wait." Pantalone's eyes slid closed, then opened again with visible effort. "You’ve been hovering for hours. Go do something else. Read. Experiment. Bother someone."
Zandik listened to him before chuckling. "I am exactly where I need to be." He pressed his lips to Pantalone's forehead.
Pantalone's eyes closed again and his brow furrowed slightly, as if he had felt the kiss but hadn't been able to respond in time.
Zandik rested his palm on the mans cheek, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side and towards himself. He hesitated then lowered his head more, this time meeting his husbands lips with a soft, careful peck. The kiss was brief, barely a brush of skin, just a way to quickly show his love and that he wasn't going anywhere. His lips were dry, and he pulled away almost immediately, not wanting to disturb the mans rest. "Rest some more and then later I'll bring dinner." But as he straightened, he saw Pantalone's eyes flutter open again, this time more fully. There was a flicker of awareness in them, a glimmer of consciousness that hadn't been there a moment before. His hand moved, a clumsy, uncoordinated gesture. He raised it from the blanket, his fingers trembling with the effort, and made a small motion, a wave, a beckoning that tugged at the wires conneced to his veins. His lips parted. "Again." He was so sluggish and tired it was almost too quiet to hear.
Zandik leaned in again, slower this time, giving his beloved time to see him coming. He saw his gaze focus on his face, saw the slight parting of his lips in anticipation. When their lips met, Zandik pressed more firmly, his mouth warm against Pantalone's. The kiss was still gentle, Feofan was too fragile for anything more. His lips moved against his, a weak and determined pressure. Then, Pantalone's hand found its way to Zandik's cheek, palm flat, fingers splayed. The touch was shaky, fingers trembling slightly, but it was there. Zandik's eyes closed. He let himself sink into the kiss. He cupped the back of Pantalone's head, careful not to jostle him, or move him too much as his fingers began threading through the tangled hair. He'll brush it for him later.
Then, just like that, they pulled away.
Feofan breathed, exhausted.
Zandik withdrew himself slowly, letting his fingers trail down the side of Feofan’s face before coming to rest on his shoulder. He could feel the subtle tremor in the muscle beneath his palm, the body’s ongoing battle to heal. The transplant had gone smoothly, exceptionally so, by any standard, but recovery was harder than anything. The next few days would be critical. Infection, rejection, complications... they lurked behind every successful surgery.
"Won't you open those pretty eyes for me now?" He whispered and Feofan listened, his eyes opened slowly, Zandik checked them for any sign of blown pupils, nothing, just the usual beautiful shade.
"I’ve adjusted your pain medication regimen" he added, his tone shifting back to something more serious, though the gentleness in his touch remained. "You’ll have better coverage through the night without the grogginess. If there is nausea, I'll get you an antiemetic. We cannot risk strain on the new organ."
"You already told me that. Twice." Pantalone murmured.
"Then I’ll tell you a third time, until it sticks. Until you tell me as soon as you feel the symptoms."
Feofan let out a sound that might have been a laugh, if he had the strength for it. The corner of his mouth twitched. "..Bossy. Even now."
"Someone has to be." Zandik pulled the visitor’s chair closer to the bed and sat, the wood creaking under his weight. He didn’t lean back, instead resting his forearms on his knees, his gaze fixed on his husband's face. "How is the pain? On a scale of one to ten."
"Two. Maybe three if I breathe too deep." Pantalone replied.
"That’s normal. The incision will ache for several days. Phantom pain, sensations. It will pass." Zandik sighed as he watched him. "Rest now" he reached out to adjust the blanket, tucking it more securely around Pantalone's shoulders. "I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere. Are you cold? Do you want to lie down? I can adjust the bed."
Pantalone shook his head at the questions before he let his eyes close, the fight going out of him as the morphine pulled him back towards sleep. His hand found Zandik’s on the bed, fingers curling loosely around his wrist.
Zandik sat still, not daring move.
And after that, dinner.
The afternoon bled into evening.
Zandik had not moved from his chair, save to adjust Feofan's blanket when it slipped, or to check the monitor readings with a quick glance. His hand remained loosely cradled in Feofan's grip. But when the clock struck seven, he slipped his fingers free with almost apologetic gentleness, crossing to bring a tray of food from the hallway. One of the segments had made it per his own recipe. Clear broth. A cup of warm water with a bendable straw. A small dish of gelatin, pale and wobbly. It was bland, very much so, but needed, Pantalone could just jump in to chewing barbecue and ribs after a major operation.
Zandik moved quietly from one room to the other. And by the time he came back and turned on the overhead lights, Feofan was stirring. His eyelids fluttered and a low sound escaped his throat, not quite a groan or a yawn, but close.
"What time…" The words came out slurred, barely a whisper.
"A bit past seven. You slept through the afternoon." Zandik set the tray down and approached the bed, helping lift Pantalone into a proper sitting position.
The other groaned at the shift but allowed the doctor to move him.
Zandik then sat on the edge of the bed and lifted the bowl of broth, testing its temperature against his wrist. Acceptable. "You need to eat. Small amounts, but regularly. The body burns tremendous energy healing, even at rest."
Feofan's lips pressed together in a faint grimace. He didn't argue, couldn't really with the weight of sedation. Instead he simply watched, half-lidded as Zandik adjusted the pillows behind him, sliding a hand beneath his shoulders to ease him upright better. The movement sent a sudden spike of pain through the incision and his breath hitched.
"Easy." Zandik's hand flattened against his back, steadying him, waiting until the tension in Feofan's frame subsided. "Breathe through it. The pain will fade in a moment." Yet his face was filled with worry. "I know it hurts, I'm sorry." he murmured, the apology slipping out before he could stop it. Zandik rarely apologized. But for Feofan, he would beg forgiveness for every twinge if it eased the burden.
The paid bled into a to a dull, persistent ache that Feofan had already grown accustomed to. He let himself be positioned, head resting against the elevated headboard, the blanket pulled up to his chest. Zandik's hand remained on his shoulder a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing the collar of the hospital gown.
Then Zandik settled onto the edge of the bed once more. He balanced the bowl of broth in one hand, the spoon already lifted, steam curling upward. His other hand found Feofan's where it lay on the blanket, fingers sliding over knuckles, palm settling over the back of his hand.
"Open your mouth" Zandik said softly.
Feofan's eyes drifted to the spoon, then up to Zandik's face. He looked tired, more tired than he would ever admit but there was no impatience in his expression. Only a focused attention that made Feofan feel, despite everything, like the most important thing in the world.
He opened his mouth per request.
The broth was warm, savory and barely thick enough to cling to the spoon. Zandik tipped it carefully, letting the liquid pool on Feofan's tongue before sliding down his throat. It was a small act, almost absurdly mundane, but he did it with such care.
Feofan could not feed himself. Could not lift his arms without the pull of stitches and wires reminding him of the wound beneath, plus the pain medication. He could not even stay fully upright without adjustments.
So he let himself be fed.
Spoonful after spoonful, Zandik continued. He wiped a stray drop from the corner of Feofan's mouth with his thumb. He paused between each bite to let the man swallow, to breathe, to gather the strength for the next. His free hand never left Feofan's, fingers curled loosely around his.
"You're doing well" Zandik murmured, dipping the spoon again. "Halfway done. Then water."
Feofan made a small sound of acknowledgment, too tired for words. The broth coated his throat and settled in his empty stomach. He focused on the pressure of Zandik's hand, the slight shift of his weight on the mattress. These small details held him together, kept him from dissolving into the haze.
When the bowl was empty, Zandik set it aside and reached for the cup of water. He guided the straw to Feofan's lips, tilting it gently, watching his throat move with each swallow. The water washed away the salt of the broth. Feofan drank until his lungs demanded a breath, then turned his head away.
"More later" Zandik said, setting the cup down. He didn't release Feofan's hand. Instead he lifted it, brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to the knuckles.
"Thank you." Feofan's voice was barely a rasp. He let his eyes close, leaning into the pillows, trusting Zandik to hold him steady.
"Nonsense." The other tsked. "Don't thank me for anything, let alone this."
As the day progressed Zandik moved across the room again.
He glanced at the urinary catheter bag hung at the side of the bed. Zandik lifted the bag, inspecting the tubing for any kinks or obstructions. His fingers ran along the length of the foley catheter where it emerged from beneath the sheet, checking the inflation port for the balloon that held it in place. No leaks. No signs of hematuria. The flow was steady.
"Adequate output" he murmured, more to himself than to his patient. He recorded the volume on the chart hanging at the foot of the bed.
Feofan stirred. His hand moved weakly, searching for something, and Zandik caught it before it could reach the surgical site.
"Don't touch" he said, his voice low but firm.
Feofan's brow furrowed, the haze of morphine doing little to mask the unfamiliar sensation that had drawn him from the edge of sleep. His hand moved instinctively toward his lower abdomen once again before Zandik caught it once more, redirecting it gently back to the bed.
"It feels uncomfortable" Pantalone murmured.
Zandik leaned closer. The shift was subtle, from husband to physician, from the man who held his hand to the man who had rebuilt him from within.
"How so? Describe it to me exactly."
Feofan blinked, trying to focus. The ceiling tiles swam slightly, and he fixed his gaze on a small water stain near the light fixture to anchor himself. "There's... something. A pressure. Like I need to... but I can't." He swallowed, his throat dry. "And a burning. Not bad, just... there."
Zandik nodded slowly, his expression unchanged, but Feofan caught the way his eyes darted to the monitor, he began mentally cross-referencing symptoms against possibilities. "Where and how? Be specific. Is it at the tip of the penis? Along the shaft? Deeper, in the bladder itself?"
He moved his hands to the sheet, pulling it back and exposing Feofan's lower body. The hospital gown had been tied loosely, and the catheter tubing snaked out from beneath it, secured to Feofan's inner thigh with medical tape. Zandik's fingers hovered over the site, not quite touching, waiting for Feofan's answer.
Pantalone's eyes tracked his movements. "The tip. Like something's pulling. And inside..." He paused, trying to parse the sensation. "Like a cramp. Low, below the incision. But different. It's not the surgery."
Zandik sighed, trying to understand what his husband thats so drugged with pain killers was trying to tell him. "Alright." His fingers found the catheter tubing where it exited the urethra, palpating gently along its length. "The balloon is inflated inside your bladder to keep it in place. It holds about 10cc of sterile water. Sometimes patients feel the weight of it, especially if the bladder is emptying well and there's less urine to cushion it. The burning at the tip is common in the first 24 hours, the urethra is irritated from insertion."
He traced the tubing down to where it connected to the drainage bag, checking for any tension or pulling, maybe he put it back wrong. "Does it feel worse when you move? When I adjust the line?"
Feofan's jaw tightened as Zandik gently tugged the tube a fraction of an inch, testing the anchor point. "A little. When you did that. It's... sharper."
Zandik immediately stopped, his hand hovering. He reached for a small syringe from the tray beside the bed, not the one filled with medication, but a plain 10cc syringe with a blunt tip. "I'm going to check the balloon volume. Sometimes it settles against the bladder neck and causes discomfort. I can decrease the fill slightly." He connected the syringe to the inflation port, the smaller port, clearly marked, separate from the drainage line. With slow, careful suction, he withdrew the fluid, watching the markings on the barrel. "10cc out." He then pushed back in a measured amount. "I'm reducing it to 7cc. That should still be enough to keep it secure."
Feofan felt the subtle shift, the pressure inside his bladder adjusting. The sensation was not gone, but it changed, less intrusive, more of a dull presence rather than an urgent discomfort. He exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
"Better?" Zandik asked, his voice softer now.
"A little" Feofan admitted. "It's still there. But less... bad."
Zandik taped the tubing again, repositioning it so it ran more directly toward the bag, reducing any angle that might create torque. He checked the bag itself, ensuring it was properly below the bed's level, and then straightened, his eyes meeting Feofan's.
"The burning at the tip will fade over the next day or so as the urethra heals. If it becomes too much, I can order a topical lidocaine gel to apply at the meatus. The bladder cramping should improve with less volume in the balloon. If it persists, we'll check for bladder spasms, there are medications for that."
Feofan stared at him, his eyes saying something that could only be translated as 'I have no idea what you just said to me, but sure.'
Zandik reached for a cup of water holding it to Feofan's lips. "Drink. The more urine you produce, the less concentrated it is, and the less it will irritate the catheter itself."
Feofan took a sip, then another until he let the straw slip from his lips.
"How long?" he asked.
Zandik set the cup away. "Until the catheter comes out? Typically three days to five days, depending on your recovery. I'll remove it when you're stable enough to leave the bed on your own." Zandik paused, his hand coming to rest on Feofan's arm. "I know it's uncomfortable. But it's necessary. And I'll monitor it constantly."
Feofan's face grimaced ever slightly. He didn't seem to like that answer at all. Three to five days. In bed. With that tube snaking out of his body. "You can take me, can't you?" His voice was something between plea and demand, the words escaping before he could fully consider them. His hand moved again, this time toward the catheter tubing where it emerged from beneath the gown, his fingers brushing against the plastic. "Take this out. I can manage."
Zandik caught his wrist, firm enough to stop the movement. His thumb pressed against the inside of Feofan's wrist, feeling the pulse there, steady, a little fast now, but within acceptable parameters. He held Feofan's gaze.
"I can" Zandik said slowly, his fingers still wrapped around Feofan's wrist, "but I also can't. You shouldn't be moving too much. You should heal."
He released Feofan's wrist and instead took his hand, threading their fingers together. His thumb traced along Feofan's knuckles, a familiar motion, one he used when Feofan was anxious or angry or both. "As your husband, I would take you anywhere at any time of the day but as your doctor, I can't. Let me explain exactly what happens if I remove it now" Zandik continued, his voice dropping, that Feofan knew meant he was about to receive an education whether he wanted it or not. "Your bladder has been emptied continuously since the surgery. The detrusor muscle, the muscle that squeezes to push urine out, hasn't contracted in almost eighteen hours. If I take the catheter out now, your bladder will fill, but the muscle will be sluggish. It may not contract strongly enough to empty. You'll retain urine, which means we'll have to catheterize you again, this time through a urethra that is already irritated and swollen from the first insertion. That will be significantly more painful. Not to mention, you won't be able to register your bodys needs through the haze. If you urinate on yourself it could lead to infection and more unwanted medical needs. Plus, you'll have to be moved off the bed, undressed, washed, and changed, all which will make your incision site hurt more and more."
Feofan's jaw tightened, but he didn't pull his hand away. Zandik continued.
"Beyond that, there is the question of mobility. The liver transplant is a major abdominal surgery. Your incision runs from just below your sternum nearly to your pubic bone. I have closed it in three layers, peritoneum, fascia, and skin. The external sutures are absorbable, but the internal ones need time to hold. Every time you sit up, stand, or walk, you increase intra-abdominal pressure. That pressure pushes against the fresh anastomoses, the connections I made between your bile duct, your hepatic artery, your portal vein. If any of those leak, you will be back in surgery within hours. If the bile duct leaks, you will develop peritonitis. If the artery leaks, you will bleed internally. If the portal vein leaks, you will bleed faster than I can transfuse you."
He paused, letting the weight of those possibilities settle. Feofan's eyes had not left his face, but something in them had shifted, the stubborn defiance softening into a grudging understanding.
"I can take the catheter out" Zandik said, his voice quieter now. "But the question is not whether I can. The question is whether it is safe. And right now, it is not. Not for you. Not for the liver that is still learning to live inside you. Feo, its not your first time, we always have this song and dance about the catheter specifically."
Feofan's throat worked, a dry swallow that seemed to cost him effort. "Well sorry I don't like a tube going inside my dick."
Zandik's expression softened. He leaned forward, his elbow braced on the edge of the mattress, bringing himself closer to Feofan's level. "I understand but you'll have to deal with it, so please, if anything feels uncomfortable do tell me and I'll try everything in my power to soothe it."
Pantalone sighed "I can't wait three to five days.."
Zandik crossed his arms "Shall I bind you to the bed then to assure you won't move? Maybe if you hadn't smoked so much there wouldn't have been a need for this surgery at all, hm?"
At the mention of that Feofan's eyes shifted, not listening to the reprimanding "My cigars... you just reminded me. Where are they?"
Zandik's face turned into absolute disbelief. "Go to sleep now."
Feofan's eyes nevertheless held a stubborn glint. "They're in my coat."
Zandik's eye twitched as he moved to the bed, grabbing the remote with which he made the bed lower. "Good night Feo. I hope you know that the liver I spent eight hours implanting is currently perfusing beautifully."
Despite it all Pantalone still eyed his coat "Check? And then I'll go to sleep...I promise"
"You are in no way capable of making me do so, you will rest now." He said and yet he moved to the coat which was in the corner of the room, along with Pantalone's other belongings he just NEEDED to bring. He retrieved the cigar case from the inner pocket of the coat and held them up. Feofan's eyes tracked the movement.
Zandik turned the package over in his hands. He opened it, revealing the five cigars nestled inside, five out of 20, his eye twitched again.
"These will remain in my possession until you are recovered. And then, if you choose to smoke them, you will undo everything I have done. The immunosuppressants will keep rejection at bay, but the toxins will still damage the new tissue. You might buy yourself a few more years, perhaps. Or you might trigger a rejection episode that kills you in a week."
He closed the pack with a snap, knowing very well that Pantalone would not listen no matter what. He accepted that awhile ago yet kept on trying to make him stop. Nothing worked.
Pantalone only nodded along, he won't smoke, until he heals.
They agreed on that.