That was a really rough motherfuckin' night, no two ways about it. You'd sleep for maybe twenty-minute intervals, before you'd wake up, worried about Karkat and wishing you just knew what you're supposed to do in this situation. You can't get over how awful he looks, between the pain on his face, and how pale he is...and his breathing sounds like a cross between a 50 year old chain smoker and a wood chipper. Every motherfuckin time he opens his dark mahogany eyes, they're clouded over with this red mist, and you don't know if he sees you or not. He's just so damn sick, and you really wish someone, anyone would come and give you even just the smallest of hints so that you knew how to help him. He's the light in your world, the indisputable best thing to happen to you in the entire history of motherfuckin ever, and you just...
Can't...lose him.
When morning finally comes, you're dead tired, but you hardly notice. Anything you feel is immensely overwhelmed by the fact that as horrible as his breathing is, it's still there. He's still alive, he made it through the night. That's the most important thing, you tell yourself, he's alive, you haven't killed him (yet). You have to chase that last word out of your mind, shaking your head violently, because you can't let yourself follow that motherfuckin thought path...you just can't.
Wearily, reluctantly, you drag yourself out of bed. You loathe to leave Karkat's side, but you gotta eat something, because you're not gonna do him much motherfuckin' good if you wind up in bad shape from not taking care of yourself. You drag yourself over to the kitchen a lot faster than you normally would. Normally making and eating a bowl of cereal is no big deal for you, especially since Karkat made you quit the drugs, but you're so focused on returning to your vigil over him that you barely manage to avoid dumping a whole motherfuckin' lot of milk on yourself.
It takes a lot of self control, but you manage to force yourself to eat slow enough that you don't choke. Right as you're getting up to drop your empty bowl in the sink, this loud motherfuckin noise rings out and startles the hell out of you. While scrambling to keep the bowl from getting introductions on with the floor, you register somewhere in your mind that someone's at the door, ringing the doorbell. Which is weird, not just because it's morning, but because hardly anyone comes out and visits you and Karkat, and they generally call first or some shit. Once that pesky bowl is safely in the kitchen sink, you hurry over to get the door.
When you open it, John smiles back at you. You're really not sure why he's here, and he seems just as surprised that you're the one who answered the door. After a second, his smile broadens and he greets you with his usual cheer. You've always sorta liked John. He's a lot nicer than most of Karkat's other motherfuckin friends, and he's one of the few people who Karkat doesn't act completely different around. You smile back after a moment, knowing that it's probably not very convincing, but what the fuck ever.
"Why you all...up and here, bro?" you drawl after a moment, thoughts still consumed by your best friend's condition.
John's response is to hold up a small bag. "Me and Karkat have plans," he says. "We're gonna watch some movies and eat popcorn, we've been planning this for a while now!"
The speed your heart drops at cannot be healthy. The intense shame you feel at knowing you're the one who has to disappoint someone as nice as John compounds with the guilt that's been gnawing at you nonstop ever since Karkat wouldn't pick up the phone. You're suddenly glad that you're holding the door frame, because without it the motherfucking force of your emotions would have knocked you right off your feet, and pushed you down hard into the ground. You'd be a hole in the floor with the weight of it all.
Somehow you manage not to shatter from the imagined pressure on your shoulders and chest, instead swearing quietly as you look away and run your fingers through your messy hair. You really don't want to face John right now, you want all of this to just motherfucking go away, you wish none of this had ever happened...But you've gotta tell him, because this is all real and there's nothing you can do to change that. You sigh, and force yourself to meet his eyes. His head is tilted slightly, like a dog, and he looks confused, but he waits for you to speak.
"I..." you mutter after a second, and then you have to squeeze your eyes shut and force the words out. "I fucked up...I fucked up bad, bro, and shit happened last night, and...bottom line is, Karbro's sicker than I've ever seen motherfucking anyone. I don't think...movies aren't happening, bro, he's just - " That's as far as you get, because as soon as you say that he's sick, John's expression changes and his smile disappears, and the next thing you know he's ducked under your arm and headed down the hallway. When you catch up to him, he's looking in Karkat's empty room. You tap his shoulder and, figuring he's not leaving without seeing Karkat, gesture at your room. He nods gratefully and heads in that direction, pausing in the doorway before entering.
He kneels by the bed, just looking at Karkat, who's pretty much the same as he was when you left. You just lean on the door frame and watch, because you're pretty motherfucking sure Karkat wants nothing to do with you right now. John starts talking after a minute, and it takes you a few moments to realize that Karkat's awake, and responding to John in a pitifully weak voice that somehow magnifies the weight on your shoulders by a motherfucking thousand. You swear you feel your legs shaking, but when you look down, the only thing you notice is that you should probably change your motherfucking socks. You allow yourself a small, mirthless chuckle. That's exactly the sort of thing Karkat always gets on you about.
They talk for a bit longer, and then John gets up to leave. You just stand there, watching Karkat sleep, until a thought hits you like a thunderclap, and you dart down the hallway. You yell after him to wait, and he pauses at the door, turning.
"Hey, do you know anything about...about what the fuck I'm supposed to be doing?" you ask him, desperate. He raises an eyebrow at you. "You know, sick people. I mean, how am I supposed to help him? I've never motherfucking done any of this shit before." John gives you a small smile, and agrees to help. He drops his bag by the door and heads into the kitchen. You trail just behind him like a puppy, wringing your hands anxiously. He opens the cabinet and looks at the contents, then starts telling you what's okay for him to eat, and that you need to make sure he does. John also gives you a ton of other advice, like putting a wet cloth on his forehead, which he says doesn't actually help with the fever much but will make him a bit more comfortable, and making sure he drinks plenty of water, which John insists is vital. You make a mental note of every single thing he suggests. It's normally hard for you to remember shit, but this is Karkat. All bets are motherfucking off.
When John seems sure that you've got everything you need, he drops his phone number on the counter - Karkat's got it memorized, so there was never any need to write it down before - and gently tells you to call him if you need any more help. You thank him, struggling to keep the weight on your shoulders from straining your voice. He picks up his bag and walks out the door, leaving you leaning your weight against the fridge, wondering how this could possibly end well.
You heave a sigh, fill up a glass of water for Karkat, and head back to your room, where you simply sit and wait for him to need you.
Best to cross that motherfucking bridge when it's all up and under your motherfucking feet.