Chapter 9: The Doctor's Revelation
The hospital corridor stretched endlessly ahead, a gauntlet of pale green walls and flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed with a frequency Jensen felt in his teeth. He walked with his hand clamped around Leonid's elbow, guiding him past gurneys and vending machines and elderly patients shuffling with IV poles, his jaw set so tight it ached. The intake nurse had given them a clipboard and a number, and now they sat in a row of plastic chairs that smelled faintly of bleach and despair.
Leonid sat beside him, thigh pressed against thigh, his hands folded in his lap like a schoolboy awaiting punishment. He'd gone quiet on the drive over—not the comfortable silence they usually shared, but something denser, more fragile. His knee bounced intermittently, a nervous tic Jensen hadn't seen since their freshman year finals.
"You don't have to stay," Leonid said, for the fourth time since they'd parked.
Jensen turned his head slowly, fixing Leonid with a look that could have curdled milk. "Say that again and I'll carry you into the exam room myself. Banshee-style."
A ghost of a smile flickered across Leonid's lips before dying. "You're being dramatic."
"You're being stupid. Which is worse, because you're supposed to be the smart one."
"I never said I was the smart one. You just assumed that because I don't talk as much as you."
Jensen snorted, reaching over to lace their fingers together. Leonid's palm was clammy, his grip slightly too tight, but he didn't pull away. Progress.
At the end of the corridor, a nurse in scrubs called out, "Leonid Manoban?"
The sound of his full name in that clinical setting made Jensen's stomach clench uncomfortably. He stood, pulling Leonid up with him, keeping their hands locked together as they followed the nurse through a set of double doors and into a small examination room.
The room was cold. That was the first thing Jensen noticed—a bone-deep chill that seemed to emanate from the stainless steel table in the center, from the glass cabinet stocked with gauze and syringes and things Jensen didn't want to think about. The walls were bare except for a single poster about hand-washing hygiene. The air smelled sharp and chemical.
"Dr. Park will be with you shortly," the nurse said, her voice pleasant and impersonal. She checked the blood pressure cuff, adjusted the paper roll on the exam table, and then left, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound of finality.
Leonid stood in the middle of the room, looking around like he'd been dropped into hostile territory. His shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He looked smaller than Jensen had ever seen him, and that was saying something, because Jensen had held him through nightmares and panic attacks and the aftermath of his parents' disgust.
"Sit down," Jensen said, gesturing at the exam table. "You're not going to feel better standing."
"I don't want to sit on that thing. It looks like it eats people."
"It's a table, Leo. It's not going to eat you."
Leonid shot him a look that was equal parts fear and irritation. "You don't know that."
Jensen wanted to laugh, but the humor died in his throat when he saw the genuine terror flickering behind Leonid's eyes. He crossed the room and took Leonid's face in his hands, forcing eye contact. "Hey. Look at me. You're going to be fine. Worst case scenario, they give you a shot and some pills and we go home. Best case scenario, they tell us you have a weird rash and we laugh about this later."
"There is no version of this I'm going to laugh about later."
"Fine. Then I'll laugh about it enough for both of us."
Leonid's lips twitched. Jensen pressed his forehead against Leonid's, breathing in the familiar scent of him—coffee and cheap soap and the sweat of anxiety. "I've got you. Okay? I've got you."
Leonid nodded, a small, jerky motion. Jensen guided him to sit on the table, the paper crinkling beneath Leonid's weight, and then took the plastic chair in the corner, dragging it close enough that their knees touched.
They didn't speak. There was nothing to say that wouldn't sound hollow and insufficient. So they just sat there, hand in hand, while the clock on the wall ticked away the minutes.
The door opened, and a middle-aged man in a white coat entered, his hair thinning, his glasses perched on a nose that looked like it had been broken once or twice. He carried a clipboard and wore the expression of someone who had seen far too much and was no longer surprised by any of it. "Leonid Manoban?" he said, reading from the chart.
"That's me," Leonid said, his voice steadier than Jensen expected.
"I'm Dr. Park." The doctor closed the door behind him and crossed to the sink, washing his hands with careful, deliberate motions. "The nurse mentioned you've been experiencing some discomfort. Can you describe the symptoms?"
Leonid's face flushed a deep, mortified red. He glanced at Jensen, then away, his jaw working. "I went swimming in a lake a couple weeks ago. A few days later, I started having burning when I urinate. It's gotten worse since then. Swelling, redness, and today—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "There's discharge now."
Dr. Park's expression didn't change. He made a note on the clipboard and set it down. "I'm going to need to examine the area. Would you like your friend to step out?"
"He stays," Leonid said immediately, his voice firmer than Jensen expected. He reached out, grabbing Jensen's hand like a lifeline. "He stays."
Dr. Park nodded, seemingly unfazed. "Alright. If you could lower your pants, we'll take a look."
Watching Leonid disrobe was normally a source of pleasure for Jensen—a slow unveiling he never tired of. But this was different. Leonid moved with a painful stiffness, his hands trembling as he unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down to his thighs. When he pulled down his briefs, Jensen heard his own sharp intake of breath.
Leonid's cock was swollen, red and angry, the skin mottled with an inflammation that looked utterly wrong on his usually perfect body. The flesh was hot to look at, and Jensen could see a faint yellowish discharge beading at the tip. Leonid refused to meet his eyes, staring fixedly at a spot on the ceiling, his Adam's apple bobbing as he struggled to hold himself together.
Dr. Park's face remained professional as he pulled on a pair of gloves and gently examined the area. Jensen watched the doctor's careful movements, the way his gloved fingers probed and pressed, and resisted the urge to push him away.
"Any fever? Chills? Lower abdominal pain?"
"The first two," Leonid said. "Abdominal pain, not really. Just—it aches. All the time."
The doctor nodded, removing his gloves and discarding them in a biohazard bin. "Based on your symptoms and the timeline, I'm fairly confident this is a bacterial infection. Swimming in untreated freshwater can expose you to any number of pathogens. We'll run a few tests to confirm, but I'm going to prescribe a course of antibiotics that should clear it up within a week."
"A week," Leonid repeated, relief and exhaustion warring in his voice.
"Two weeks for the inflammation to fully subside," Dr. Park continued, writing on a prescription pad. "During that time, no swimming, no strenuous activity, and no sexual intercourse." He glanced between them, his expression neutral. "Sexual contact can exacerbate the infection and prolong healing. I'd recommend abstaining until you're fully cleared."
Jensen felt the words land like a slap. No sexual contact. No Leonid under him, arching and gasping. No Leonid's hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer. Two weeks at minimum.
He glanced at Leonid, searching for a reaction, but Leonid was already pulling his pants up, his face a mask of carefully controlled neutrality.
"You'll get a call from the lab in a few days with the full results," Dr. Park said, handing Leonid the prescription. "The pharmacy is on the first floor, just past the main entrance. Take the antibiotics with food, and make sure to finish the entire course even if you start feeling better. And stay hydrated."
"Thank you," Leonid managed, his voice rough.
Dr. Park offered a brief, impersonal smile before departing, leaving them alone in the cold, sterile room.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Jensen stood and pulled Leonid into his arms, holding him tight, pressing his face into Leonid's neck. He could feel the tension in Leonid's muscles, the way he was still trembling, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap him in a cocoon and never let anyone hurt him again.
"I told you," Jensen whispered. "We figured it out."
Leonid's arms came up around him, slow and hesitant, before tightening with a desperation that made Jensen's heart ache. "I was so scared," he admitted, his voice muffled against Jensen's shoulder. "I thought—I don't know what I thought. That it was never going to get better. That you were going to finally see me the way I am and leave."
"I'm not leaving. I'm never leaving. You're stuck with me, Manoban. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, all that shit."
Leonid let out a shaky laugh that nearly turned into a sob. "You're quoting wedding vows at me in a hospital exam room."
"Seemed appropriate." Jensen pulled back, framing Leonid's face in his hands. "Now let's get you those antibiotics. And then we're going home, and you're going to rest, and I'm not letting you out of my sight for the foreseeable future."
"You're going to follow me to class?"
"If I have to. Don't test me."
Leonid rolled his eyes, but there was warmth there now, a spark of the man Jensen knew. He took Jensen's hand as they left the exam room, and Jensen clung to it like a drowning man.
The pharmacy was a fluorescent-lit cave of white shelves and beige tile, the pharmacist a bored-looking woman who scanned the prescription with practiced efficiency. Jensen paid without blinking, sliding a black card across the counter before Leonid could protest, and pocketed the small white bag like it held something more precious than gold.
Back in the car, Jensen turned the heat up and watched Leonid fumble with the pill bottle, his fingers clumsy with exhaustion. "Here," Jensen said, taking it from him. He shook out a single white pill and handed it to Leonid with a bottle of water. "Drink."
Leonid obeyed, swallowing the pill with a grimace. He leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes, and Jensen drank in the sight of him. Pale, tired, but here. Still here.
"I'm sorry," Leonid said suddenly, his voice barely audible.
"For what?"
"For being an idiot. For hiding it for so long. For making you worry." Leonid opened his eyes, meeting Jensen's gaze. "I should've told you right away. I just—I was ashamed. I thought if you saw me like that, you'd stop looking at me the way you do."
"Leo." Jensen's voice was soft, almost tender. "There is nothing about you that could make me stop looking at you the way I do. You could lose every limb and I'd still think you were the most beautiful creature on this planet."
"That's not healthy."
"Never claimed to be."
Leonid's lips curved into a genuine smile, small but real. Jensen's heart swelled, and he reached over to rest his hand on Leonid's thigh, gentle, careful.
"We should get you home," Jensen said. "You need rest."
"I need a shower. I feel gross."
"You need rest first. Shower later, when you have more energy." Jensen started the car, pulling out of the parking lot. "I'll order food. Something with rice and vegetables. Antibiotics need food."
"You sound like my grandmother."
"Your grandmother loved me. She always said I had a good head on my shoulders."
"She said you were trouble."
"She said that with affection."
Leonid laughed—a real laugh this time, warm and bright. Jensen felt it in his chest like a physical warmth, spreading through him and chasing away the lingering chill of the hospital.
They drove through the city in comfortable silence, the streets bustling with evening traffic. Neon signs flickered to life as dusk settled, painting the world in shades of electric pink and blue. Leonid's head lolled against the window, his eyes half-closed, exhaustion finally catching up with him.
By the time they reached the dorm, Leonid was barely staying awake. Jensen helped him inside, guiding him to the bunk bed with a gentle hand on his lower back. Leonid collapsed onto the mattress with a sigh, already reaching for Jensen.
"Stay," he mumbled, his voice thick with fatigue. "Don't go."
Wasn't planning to.
Jensen kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the narrow bed, careful not to jostle Leonid too much. He wrapped himself around Leonid from behind, his chest pressed to Leonid's back, his arm draped over Leonid's waist. He pressed a kiss to the back of Leonid's neck, then another.
"Sleep," Jensen murmured. "I'll be here when you wake up."
Leonid's hand found his, their fingers intertwining. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, his body going slack with sleep.
Jensen lay awake for a long time, listening to the steady rhythm of Leonid's breath, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. The words Dr. Park had said echoed in his ears: no sexual contact. Two weeks minimum. It felt like an eternity.
But Leonid was safe. Leonid was getting better. That was what mattered.
He pressed another kiss to the nape of Leonid's neck, letting his lips linger. "You scared me, you idiot," he whispered, the words barely audible. "Don't you ever do that to me again."
Leonid stirred slightly, letting out a soft, contented hum. Jensen smiled against his skin, his hand sliding down Leonid's stomach, resting just above the waistband of his sweatpants.
He felt the shape of Leonid's cock beneath the fabric—still swollen, still healing—and a fierce tenderness swept through him. He cupped it gently, just holding, not moving. Leonid shifted, a sleepy sound escaping his lips, and Jensen felt the faint stirring of arousal against his palm.
"When you're better," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "I'm going to worship this until you forget your own name."
Leonid didn't respond, lost in sleep, but Jensen felt the heat of him through the fabric of his sweatpants. He allowed himself one slow, careful stroke, feather-light, before withdrawing his hand and pulling Leonid closer.
Outside, the city hummed on. Inside, wrapped around the only person who had ever mattered, Jensen closed his eyes and let himself dream of a future where Leonid was healthy and whole, where every touch was given freely, and where the weight of his love didn't feel as heavy as it sometimes did.
But for now, this was enough. Leonid in his arms, breathing steadily, alive. That was enough.