It started out as a tickle. Just a little tickle in his throat. An annoying little tickle that caused Jim to have to clear his throat just a little more often. He blamed it on the weather changing. Just as soon as the weather cleared up and decided what it wanted to do, his cough and runny nose would go away. He pointedly ignored that the cough was getting steadily deeper, quickly reaching into his lungs, causing his to shake and shudder with the particularly severe ones. No, he didn't need to carry his inhaler around. It wasn't that severe. He didn't care if his asthma might be making his cough worse. It was just an annoying cough.
That stubbornness was how Jim found himself on the kitchen floor, gasping for air as his lips slowly turned blue. His inhaler, on the kitchen table, wasn't doing him much good in that instant. Jim could feel his mind slowly going dark as his throat tried to close, illness having triggered his asthma. This was it. This was his he was going to die. Not with a bang but with a whimper. He would just cease to be. Just like that, alone, how he probably deserved to die.
...
Jim just barely heard the door open; he was too far gone to recognize the creak of the hardwood or Richard's shrill cry. He didn't even notice the groceries crash to the floor and the glass break. It was all just a dull roar that interrupted his certain death.
Richard rushed to his brother's side, crashing to the floor hard enough that his knees would surely be bruised later. He let out a little whimper at the blue lips, his mind starting to panic and he searched Jim's pockets for the inhaler. Albuterol was what he needed but where was it?
Sebastian managed to get his armload of groceries to the table before addressing the situation. He tossed Richard the inhaler with a sharp shout of his name as he began to dial emergency services. While he was on the phone, explaining what was going on, Richard reached for the inhaler as it skidded across the floor, just past his reach. After what seemed like an eternity, he had the cap off and was shakily pressing the device past his brother's lips to administer a dose.
...
Jim finally awoke to a white hospital room with an IV in one hand and a thick tube down his throat. At least he was alive, he thought, though a bit worse for wear. He looked over at the twin, curled up in a small plastic chair, his knees tucked up under his chin and his reading glasses just barely on the tip of his nose. If Jim had had his phone nearby, he would've liked a photo. It wasn't long before he was extubated and the IV followed soon after, once the antibiotics had run their course. Richard, of course, hovered at the bedside the entire time, only leaving when Sebastian insisted on taking him home to freshen up and pick up some real clothes for Jim.
Two days later, Jim insisted on walking out when he was discharged. There was no need to use that damn wheelchair Sebastian was pushing. His belongings could be wheeled out, but he would walk.
Richard was stricter, after this incident, about illness. Any sniffles or coughs needed to be checked out, no matter who they came from. He was determined to not let Jim's cough turn into pneumonia again. He wasn't a baby by any standard, but he hated the idea of coming home to find his brother dead and this was something he could influence, if only a little. And Jim didn't mind the increased attention for once. He, too, wasn't keen on Richard discovering him in such a state again.
