He is docile. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, and refuses to acknowledge anyone. Silent, accusatory tears flow down his cheeks. His hands shake.
He has tried everything.
Swearing did not work. They pushed him through the halls of Dalton Academy as though he were just another patient.
Struggling did not work. The restraints are tight to keep him from moving, but not so tight to hurt him. They hold firm as the male EMT tightens the tourniquet around his arm and puts in the IV lines. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.
Sarcasm did not work. He wonders if the paramedics and nurses are wearing ear plugs or were just born without senses of humor.
Finally, he feels enough like himself to try for haughty arrogance. He knows if he tried it first, he wouldn't be in this mess. But, the façade has crumbled.
He is tied to the hospital bed, an IV in each arm. Cold glucose in his right. Cold saline in his left. The saline burns like acid. It is a cold fire, eating through every internal organ until he is just an empty bag of skin. He is defeated. He is naked. No, he is more than naked. He has been stripped bare. The flesh has been picked from his bones by vultures, and they have been thrown in the fire.
Jeff and Nick sit as silent sentries by his bedside. They have not left his side, despite everything he has done.
The walked through the halls with him as he screamed and cursed and howled.
They held his shoulders as the female EMT put the second line in. "Nick, can I hold your hand?" The words echo silently between them.
They look at each other as he lashes out, his words poisonous. He was like this once before, with Santana Lopez.
They recognize him, finally, in the coolly arrogant young man. But, Nick and Jeff know that the cool, dispassionate arrogance is a lie. They know that underneath, he is just a frightened, scared little boy. Just like they are.
They don't know what to do with the silent, blank, shell of their friend. So, they wait with him.
The nurse comes in and changes his bag of IV glucose. She slides the radioreciever from the constant glucose monitor from his hand, and checks his levels. A look of worry crosses her face. The trend line, tracing the patient's history and suggesting a prognosis holds steady. But, it is steady at 47.
His hypoglycemia does not register, anymore. He has exhausted his glucose reserves. The only thing that keeps him from slipping back into unconsciousness are the IVs pumping sugar back into his blood as fast as his cells absorb it.
The nurse goes to find the doctor, where she and Mr. Smythe stand talking. She does not know what to do with the silent, shaking boy.
Suddenly, a keening fills the emergency department. It rises and falls with a constant pattern. It is lower and louder than a siren. It is the sound of despair.
It startles the three adults outside the boy's room from their discussions of another IV bag and a psych consult.
It startles the three boys within. Nick is filled with dispassionate cold, while Jeff's chest aches for his baby sister, far away.
The boy in the bed whimpers four words, which fall into strange concert with the cries.
"Mamam, Daddy, Somebody, Please."
"My Son. My Son. Oh God. My Son."
The words are controlled by raw emotion.