If this has mistakes, I'm sorry, I sent it to a beta but haven't gotten it back yet.
Eren I am sorry if you see this in your inbox later but...Patience may be a virtue but it's never really been mine. (It's a contrary virtue anyway, so who cares.)
You don't know that you've ever run so hard in your life. You do your best to keep Karkat from bouncing around too much in your arms, but you're really much more focused on getting him home and out of the cold. God, you can barely feel him breathing. You can see his breath in the faint cloud puffs that come out of his mouth in time with your footsteps, but the rise and fall of his chest is so weak...
The air curls up out of your own mouth like smoke. The snow keeps falling, and you remember somewhere in the back of your mind that running during a snowstorm is kind of a motherfucking deathwish, but you're already about five minutes away from home and you don't care, you just don't motherfucking care.
You're still whispering to him, begging him not to leave you. Because dammit, you can't lose him. If he leaves you alone here, you'll fall apart, no chance of recovering this time.
As you come up to the house you and Karkat have been sharing for the past two months, you force yourself to slow down. Karkat shifts a little in your arms, blinking, a vague impression of confusion mixed into his tired features, as you stop in front of the door. You pick up one leg and press it against the wall so that you can balance Karkat on your knee while you rummage in your pocket for your keys. (What the hell possessed you to lock the motherfucking door?) He makes a small protesting noise, encouraging you to dig for your keys faster and hold him a little bit tighter with the arm that's still firmly wrapped around his shoulders.
You wonder if he even knows where he is, or if he's too far gone to know anything anymore. He probably has no clue, judging by the way he's looking around slowly, dazedly.
The thought digs a spike through your heart.
Why the motherfuck didn't you leave sooner?
You finally dig the keys out of your pocket, after what was really only about twenty seconds but all up and felt like a whole motherfucking lot longer. You jam it impatiently in the lock, twist, and shove the door open. After placing the key in your jacket pocket, you pick up Karkat's legs again. You walk quickly into the house, kicking the door closed behind you. You feel him leaning into your touch, probably because you're warm and he's obviously not. He's still shaking, if not as much. At this point, that worries you, because you think it could mean one of two things. Either he's warming up, or he doesn't have the energy to shiver. He's either getting better or worse, and you don't know which one it is, you just don't know.
You'd left the lights and the TV on, and yet you apparently still had time to lock the motherfucking door. Sometimes you understand what Karkat means when he calls you a fucking idiot.
You desperately search your mind, trying to think of what to do in these situations. Trouble is, everything you know about caring for people who are hurt or sick or whatever Karkat is right now comes from watching movies with him. Your mom didn't stick around, so you hardly remember her, and your dad was always gone because of his work. It's a good thing your immune system has always been an iron motherfucking fortress, because no one was ever home to take care of you when you were sick.
One thing you do remember from watching movies with Karkat is, whenever someone's trapped in the cold, the number one thing they avoid is getting wet. Karkat's hoodie is damp, and his hair is half soaked, so the first thing you need to do is get him out of his clothes and into something dry. You set him gently down on your bed - your room is closer to the door, and you have a feeling that right now, every fucking second counts - and run to the bathroom for a big, dry towel. Coming back into your room, you hurriedly grab a pair of sweats out of the dresser across from your bed. They're gonna be huge on him, but you really, really don't give a damn right now. You hear him give a soft moan, and you're at his side in a heartbeat.
"Karkat?" you say, hesitantly. He's squinting like he's trying to focus, trying to look at you. "Karkat, can you hear me? I...I need to...you gotta get out of those wet motherfucking close, bro. Do you got any understanding of what I'm saying, or are you," you swallow, painfully, before choking the words out, "you all up and too far gone to make out what I'm saying?"
He just looks in your direction, maybe seeing you, maybe seeing right through you.
His cheeks are reddish, for some reason. Timidly, you rest a hand on his forehead, and flinch. Somehow, despite the chill of his skin, it feels like there's a heat building underneath. Like he's getting the beginning of a fever. Maybe that's why his eyes are still so cloudy, like he's been at your drugs or something.
You move gently to pull at his hoodie, hoping somehow he'll not resist. To your surprise, he does the opposite, actually helping in his own way. He lifts his arms, weakly, and you slip off the hoodie and t-shirt. You drape the towel over his head and shoulders. Next to come off are his shoes and socks, and oh god they are soaked right motherfucking through. Trembling, you peel off his jeans. He barely notices. Thankfully it seems like his jeans weren't as wet as the rest of his clothing, so you decide that it's safe to leave him with his boxers.
He's damp and cold everywhere, and shaking, and you can't stop thinking about how this is all your fault.
You start rubbing the towel roughly through his hair and over his skin, hoping that maybe you can improve bloodflow or something. At least, that's what Karkat told you happens, when you watched that one movie with all the spot-dogs. That one had less to do with cold, but that itty-bitty little dog Lucky all up and came back to life when the man rubbed it kinda roughly, and maybe Karkat can be Lucky, too. You start with his head and his shoulders, rubbing away the moisture, and noticing that his skin starts to flush red wherever you do so, and you think that's a good sign. You move down, targeting any moisture you can find on him, and his shivering keeps lessening. You're pretty sure that this time, that's definitely a good thing.
It takes a while for you to realize that you're shaking worse than Karkat is now. You look at him, and to your shock, his gaze looks focused, if still a bit dazed. You meet his stare, grateful for whatever brief moment of clarity has come to him.
He's mostly dry right now, so far as you can tell. He's barely shaking now, and his hair is maybe still slightly damp, but not enough for you to really be worried about it anymore. It's more motherfucking important right now to get him covered up. You slip him into your sweats - yeah, they're way big on him, but they're dry and they'll keep him warm - and move to pull back the sheets on your bed.
"I'm so sorry," you whisper to him, and lift him up. You treat him now like his body is made of super thin glass, because he looks and feels so fragile in your arms, you're afraid that he'll shatter at any moment. Carefully, carefully, you rest his head on the pillow and pull the covers over him.
He looks so small as he drifts off to sleep. Small and helpless.
He was always the strong one, the one who couldn't be broken, ever since you were kids. Seeing him like this...it shakes you to your core.
He sighs, and closes his eyes, drifting off into an uneasy sleep.
For the rest of the night, you hardly leave his side.
This is all your fault.