There's total silence for maybe 5 seconds- they're all just staring, unable to react- and then everything interrupts into chaos.

Most of the Elders have never seen anyone faint before, so they're useless. They flutter around him, knock into each other, get into the way of the Ugandans already checking Connor over.

They roll him onto his back and check his breathing, then pick him up and transfer him to the shade. He looks tiny- frail and puny and fragile (all words that would definitely not have described him a month ago.) The Elders gather quietly around him, eyes wide and horrified.

"Give him some space."

"But-"

Gotswana glares. "He will wake soon. Give him some space."

He moans in his sleep, confirming the doctor's words, and his arm flops out.

"Is he- dreaming?"

Gotswana frowns. "He shouldn't be." He checks Mckinley's pulse again, then his temperature, and his frown deepens. "When has he last slept?"

The Elders glance at each other guiltily. "He's not-"

"Or eaten."

Price swallows. "He's been having his nightmares."

On the ground between them, Connor gasps weakly and makes a move like he's trying to turn over. The Elders all make involuntary moves towards him.

The doctor takes several deep breaths, then clenches his fist. "You are fools- you are in Africa now, you can't go for days without sleeping or eating or drinking water like you can in America."

"He's been having his nightmares," repeats Price defensively. "And... other things."

"Take him back to your house," Gotswana says. "He'll wake soon, but likely he won't be able to walk very well. Make him rest, make him eat-" He holds up McKinley's limp wrist and shakes it slightly. "His heartbeat's up, that's a bad sign."

"And the fainting, that's a pretty bad sign too," mutters Cunningham. Gotswana glares.

"You-"

"Guys," says Poptarts, catching their attention. Connor's eyes are open, but strangely blank. The elders fall all over him, fussing and helping him to his unsteady feet.

He doesn't say anything, and they fall silent one by one. His usually neat hair is a mess, and his eyes are wild, and his smile is stretched too wide.

"Elder McKinley?" asks Elder Zelder tentatively, and steps back when his mission leader turns those eyes on him. "Are you-"

They all rush forwards as his knees buckle again, catching him under his elbows. He sways, never losing that manic look. He's shaking.

"What're you all doing standing around me? Come on, boys, let's get out! You look worried," Connor says, focusing on Price. "You don't have to be. Just turn it off!"

"McKinley, you're not... we're taking you back home, okay?" Elder Poptarts ducks under his arm and holds him up. He tries to jerk away.

"No, I'm fine- no, get off of me," he snaps; his blue eyes turn hard, then seem to melt (or maybe crack). "You've got to- turn it off-"

And then he doubles over, retching dryly, and collapses for the second time that day.

He mumbles in his fever dreams, about fire and pain and everything he tries to keep deep down inside himself.

(There's a lot. There's Steve, for one, and there's his countless hours spent alone with only his thoughts for company.) (His thoughts are not happy.)

Poptarts sits vigil at his bedside, holding his hand, with tears puddled in his eyes. (They all know about his sister, all know that he's doing this partly because he didn't for her.)

Kevin spends as much time as he can in there too, although he doesn't really know why. (Maybe he feels guilty.) At any rate, he putters around the room, tidying the already scrupulously neat dresser and desk just for something to do. When Elder Thomas leaves for bathroom breaks, Kevin takes his place at Connor's side- smoothing ginger hair off his damp brow, squeezing his hand when he starts tossing again. Talking to him in his most soothing voice when he gets worked up again.

Kevin's only now beginning to realize just how much the mission leader's had under wraps- how much he hides every single day.

"I'll behave," is his most common whisper (or whimper). "I know it's a sin. I'm not, I'm not-"

"I know you're not, McKinley," he murmurs. "You're not, it's okay-" (When Poptarts comes back in, he asks what his real name is. It feels too impersonal to call him by his last name, even if it is proper.)

He won't drink anything unless they hold him up and coax him through every single sip- and by every sip, Kevin means every sip. He turns his head away, mewling weakly, until they're able to actually get whatever it is in his mouth. Water, mostly, but sometimes tea. Or broth, although his stomach usually doesn't hold that for long.

It's the middle of summer, and they're all miserable.

Kevin lies stretched out of the (mercifully shaded) couch, grinding the heels of his palm into his eyes. He's exhausted- he's not slept a wink in nearly a day- and the almost-softness of the couch feels so good compared to the dining chair they'd dragged to Connor's bedside that he's nearly asleep by the time he hears footsteps tentatively approach. He sighs- can he get away with just pretending to be asleep? Probably not- and cracks open his eyes.

Connor's swaying in the doorway, flushed pink with fever. Kevin curses softly to himself- Poptarts must have fallen asleep, again- and drags himself off the couch reluctantly.

"What're you doing up?"

He shakes his head, eyes glassy, and Kevin darts forward to catch him before he falls.

"Hey, now- let's get you back to bed, okay?"

"No," whimpers Connor, relaxing all his muscles at once so Kevin has to grab at him to keep him up. "Stay."

"Why on earth would you rather the couch over your room?" asks Kevin, but lugs him over anyway. Connor just blinks at him, slowly. It's better than yesterday, he supposes. Yesterday was hallucinations. "Are you going to do anything while you're out here, or..."

Connor yawns, still staring at Kevin. It's almost unsettling.

"Alright," he says. Sometimes Connor talks at them, without his normal reservations, but it doesn't look like today's one of those days. "How about-"

"It's the worst with you."

Right. You can never judge too soon.

"What's the worst with me?"

"It," he says, gesturing vaguely. "It. Light bulbs, boxes, pretending- 'm still good at pretending," he cautions Kevin, lifting up a drooping finger, "but... it's harder. So I had to try harder. Try more, lock more- like Steve! But less..." Connor chews his dry lip. "Less... young. Less-"

"Con, you're not making sense."

"'You got a lot of stuff packed away'," says Connor, and it sounds like he's quoting someone. "'Lot's of stuff all packed up'. That's me, isn't it?" And there are tears shimmering on his eyelids again. "It's all out now. All of it. I've been- lying's a sin, and that's all I've been doing. And I go to hell in my dreams but now I'm really going, and it's-"

"Hey," Kevin says, and grabs his hand on a whim. Connor hisses and jerks back like he's been burned, tears spilling over, and Kevin's heart aches for him. "You're not going to hell, okay?"

"Already do," he mumbles. "Already do, it's horrible- you've been, right?" His eyes flick up to Kevin's, but they're cloudy and not-quite-there. "I was there, you said. What was I doing?"

"Dancing," murmurs Kevin guiltily. "You were dancing."

"I like dancing," he sighs, so softly it's almost hard to hear- and then he closes his eyes and burrows into Kevin's chest before he can stop him.

He's uncomfortably warm, especially for summer in Uganda... but Kevin doesn't have the heart to get up. (Plus, he's completely drained.)

In moments, they're both snoring.