Warning: If you are easily squicked by vomit, please give this chapter a pass.
“You OK, bro?”
“Can’t sleep.” Sören heaved his shoulders with a deep sigh.
It had been four days since Anthony and Mark had rescued Sören from his abusive living situation in Los Angeles with his ex-roommates and brought him to their ranch home just outside of Seattle. The first couple of days, Sören slept quite a lot, between the exhaustion of intense stress, and the pain medication he was on for the rib injury his ex-roommate Raven had given him, kicking him with steel-toed boots.
But Sören usually took THC gummies to sleep - and had been doing so ever since he quit drinking a few years ago - and Anthony didn’t want him mixing those gummies with his pain medication. And now he was having trouble sleeping. He felt tired into his bones… into his soul.
Here and now, Anthony pursed his lips. “When was your last pain pill?”
“A few hours ago. My final dose is tomorrow morning.” It was eleven PM, he was scheduled once every twelve hours. Sören narrowed his eyes. “And… because that was a few hours ago, and it’s halfway out of my system, I think it would be safe to take a gummy.”
Anthony shook his head. “No.”
Sören's jaw tightened. "Anthony, I haven't slept in two days. I'm losing my fucking mind here."
The kitchen light cast harsh shadows across Anthony's face as he leaned against the counter. "I understand you're struggling, but mixing —"
"You don't understand shit," Sören snapped, then immediately regretted it. He ran a hand through his tangled curls. "I'm sorry. I just... I need to sleep."
Anthony pushed himself off the counter and filled a glass with water, sliding it across to Sören. "There are other ways to help with sleep."
"Like what? Counting fucking sheep?" Sören's voice cracked with exhaustion.
The floorboards creaked behind them. Mark stood in the doorway, his tall figure silhouetted against the dim hallway light, long hair loose around his shoulders.
"I thought I heard voices," Mark said, his voice a low rumble. He padded into the kitchen, barefoot and wearing navy pajama bottoms, his chest bare. "Everything all right?"
Sören's eyes lingered on Mark for a moment too long before he looked away. "Can't sleep. Anthony won't let me have my gummies."
Mark exchanged a glance with Anthony, some wordless communication passing between them. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down. "Come sit, Sören."
Reluctantly, Sören slumped into the chair opposite Mark, his body heavy with fatigue. His hands trembled slightly as he wrapped them around the water glass.
"When I was in grad school," Mark began, "I had terrible insomnia. Went three days without sleep once. Started seeing shadow people in the corners of rooms."
“Wait, you did grad school? I thought you were a professional musician.”
“Music theory,” Mark said, drawling the words. "I couldn't take sleeping pills because they interfered with my playing," Mark continued, his fingers absently drumming a silent rhythm on the table. "My hands wouldn't respond right the next day. I had to find other ways."
Sören swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the water. "So what did you do?"
Mark's eyes met his, calm and steady. "I learned to meditate. To train my mind to let go."
"Meditation." Sören snorted. "I can barely sit still when I'm not exhausted. Now? Impossible."
Anthony moved to join them at the table, his chair scraping against the floor. "It's not just about sitting cross-legged and chanting. Mark taught me techniques that helped with my anxiety."
"Great. So now I'm getting a two-on-one intervention." Sören's leg bounced under the table.
Mark's mouth quirked into the ghost of a smile. "It's not an intervention. It's an offering."
"Doesn't feel like one," Sören muttered, but the fight was draining out of him, replaced by the hollow ache of exhaustion.
Mark reached across the table, not quite touching Sören but close enough that the warmth between their hands was palpable. "You don't have to sit still. There are moving meditations. Walking. Even just focusing on your breath while you're lying in bed."
Anthony nodded, his expression softening. "The first night I stayed over at Mark's place, I couldn't sleep. Too nervous." A slight blush colored his cheeks. "Mark taught me to count my breaths instead of sheep. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight."
Sören's eyes darted between them, seeing the intimacy in their glance, the way Anthony's fingers brushed against Mark's arm with casual familiarity. Something twisted in his chest — envy, perhaps, for what they had, or loneliness for what he'd never found.
"I've tried that breathing stuff before," Sören admitted, his voice rough. "My therapist in Reykjavík suggested it, before I moved to the States. Never worked for me."
Mark tilted his head. "Were you trying to make it work, or were you trying to prove it wouldn't?"
The question hit Sören like a slap. He opened his mouth to snap back, then closed it, the fight draining out of him. "Fuck. I don't know."
"The mind can be stubborn," Mark said, his voice a soothing rumble that seemed to resonate through Sören's weary bones. "Especially when it's already convinced of failure."
Sören's shoulders slumped. "I just want to sleep without feeling like my skin is crawling."
Anthony leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Is that what it feels like right now? The withdrawal?"
"Among other things." Sören rubbed his arms where goosebumps had formed despite the warm kitchen. "It's like... electricity under my skin. And when I do manage to drift off, I wake up a short while later drenched in sweat.”
Mark stood, his movement fluid and graceful despite his size. "Let me make you some tea. Not as a cure-all, just something to hold while we talk."
As Mark moved to the stove, Anthony said, “I can teach you to meditate, you know. Mark is the master, but I know you and I have known each other much longer and have a better rapport -”
“No.” Sören pinched the bridge of his nose.
Anthony's face fell, and Sören immediately regretted his harshness.
"I mean —" Sören backpedaled, "I appreciate the offer, but I don't think meditation is going to cut it right now." He gestured to his shaking hands. "This isn't just in my head."
Mark returned with a steaming mug that smelled of chamomile and something else — lavender, maybe. He set it gently before Sören.
"The physical symptoms are real," Mark acknowledged, resuming his seat. "No one's suggesting otherwise."
Sören wrapped his fingers around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into his trembling hands. "Then why won't you just let me have one gummy? Just to get through tonight?"
Anthony and Mark exchanged another of those looks that made Sören feel like an outsider witnessing a private language.
Anthony cleared his throat. But before he could lecture...
"Nobody gets addicted to weed," Sören snapped, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. The tea sloshed in his mug, nearly spilling over the rim. "It's not like fucking heroin."
Mark's expression remained neutral, but his eyes held something that made Sören want to look away. Not judgment — something worse. Understanding.
"Dependency doesn't always look like what we think it should," Mark said softly. "Sometimes it's subtle. Sometimes we don't realize until we try to stop."
"I'm not —" Sören's voice cracked. "I'm not dependent. I just need to fucking sleep."
Anthony reached across the table, his fingers hovering near Sören's arm without touching. "You're right," Anthony said, his voice gentle now. "You do need to sleep. And we want to help you with that. But we also care about you, Sören. That's why we're having this conversation."
Sören took a sip of the tea, wincing as it scalded his tongue. The heat distracted him momentarily from the crawling sensation beneath his skin. "You don't understand what this feels like."
"Actually," Mark said, his grey eyes meeting Sören's, "I do."
Something in Mark's tone made Sören pause. The kitchen fell silent except for the subtle ticking of the clock on the wall.
"Before I met Anthony," Mark continued, "I had my own... dependencies. Different substance, similar struggle." He ran a hand through his long hair, a gesture that seemed uncharacteristically nervous for someone who usually moved with such deliberate grace.
Sören stared at Mark, the admission hanging in the air between them. The crawling beneath his skin momentarily forgotten, he leaned forward. "What was it for you?"
Mark's eyes grew distant, as if looking through the kitchen wall into the past. "Alcohol, primarily. Though there were... other substances. After a while, they all blur together."
Anthony's hand found Mark's shoulder, a gentle squeeze of support. The gesture made Sören's chest ache with a strange longing.
"It was a different time," Mark continued, his voice taking on a quality that made him sound far older than he appeared. "I lost years to it. The worst part wasn't what it did to my body, but what it did to my mind. How it dulled everything that made life worth living."
Sören wrapped his hands tighter around the mug, letting the warmth seep into his palms. "But weed doesn't do that. It doesn't dull things; it helps me see things differently."
"Perhaps," Mark acknowledged with a slight nod. "But anything that becomes a requirement rather than a choice creates its own kind of prison."
The words settled uncomfortably in Sören's chest. He took another sip of tea, buying himself time to think.
"Look," Anthony said, his voice gentler now, "we're not trying to control you or judge you."
Sören's irritation flared again. "Sure fucking feels that way."
"No," Anthony replied, his voice steady even as hurt flashed in his eyes. "You're not. You're my friend, Sören. A friend I care about."
Sören felt a pang of guilt for his outburst. He stared down at the tea, watching the surface ripple from his trembling hands. The silence in the kitchen felt heavy, charged with unspoken words.
"I'm sorry," he finally muttered. "That was... uncalled for."
Mark's gaze was penetrating, as if he could see straight through to the turmoil churning inside Sören. "Fear often speaks with anger's voice."
"I'm not afraid," Sören protested, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
"No?" Mark's eyebrow arched slightly. "Then why fight so hard against trying something different for just one night?"
The question hit Sören like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to retort, but found the words dying on his tongue. Why was he fighting so hard? The silence stretched between them as he searched for an answer that wouldn't make him sound pathetic.
"Because..." Sören's voice came out smaller than he intended. "Because I don't know if I can handle what happens when I try to sleep without it."
Anthony leaned forward. "What happens, Sören?"
Sören's hands trembled harder, sloshing tea onto the table. Mark silently passed him a napkin, their fingers brushing momentarily. The brief contact sent an unexpected jolt through Sören's overwrought nervous system.
"I dream," he finally admitted. "Not just regular dreams. It's like... being dropped into someone else's memories. Someone else's nightmares. Places I've never been, faces I've never seen, but they feel..." Sören struggled for the right word, "...familiar, somehow. Like I should know them."
Mark's expression shifted subtly, something flickering in his grey eyes. "How long has this been happening?"
"Since I was a kid." Sören's voice was barely above a whisper. "That's why I started drinking in the first place, back in Iceland. To drown them out. And the flashbacks from... what happened to me. When I quit drinking, the gummies were the only thing that worked."
Anthony's brow furrowed with concern. "You never told me about this."
"Because it sounds fucking crazy," Sören snapped, then immediately softened. "Sorry. I'm just... tired."
Mark and Anthony exchanged another one of those looks that made Sören's skin crawl with irritation. He hated being discussed silently, as if he were a problem to solve rather than a person sitting right in front of them.
"It doesn't sound crazy," Mark said finally, his voice low and melodic. "Dreams can be... significant. Especially recurring ones."
Sören gave a hollow laugh. "Significant? They're torture. I see wars I've never fought in. I watch people I love die, except I've never met them before. There’s this one where I’m being chased by a pack of fire demons and they have flaming whips and I go up in smoke and ash. There’s another one where I’m the one setting things on fire. A bunch of ships. Like Viking ships, but not." His voice cracked. "I feel... everything. Like it's happening to me, right then."
Anthony shifted in his chair, leaning forward. "Have you ever talked to anyone about this? A therapist, maybe?"
"Yeah, and they wanted to put me on medication that made me feel like a zombie." Sören ran a hand through his tangled curls, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'd rather feel too much than nothing at all."
The kitchen fell silent. Outside, rain began to patter against the windowpanes, a gentle percussion that seemed to underscore the tension in the room.
Mark took a slow, deliberate breath. "When I was at my lowest," he said, "I had dreams too. Not like yours, perhaps, but vivid enough that waking felt like a betrayal."
Sören looked up, curiosity momentarily overtaking his exhaustion. "What did you dream about?"
A shadow passed over Mark's face, something ancient and sorrowful. "The sea. Always the sea. And music that could make the waves rise." His long fingers splayed across the tabletop, as if playing invisible strings. "I drowned my dreams in whiskey for longer than I care to admit," Mark finished, his fingers stilling on the table. "But they never truly went away. They waited for me, beneath the surface."
The rain picked up intensity, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers. Sören found himself mesmerized by the rhythm, by Mark's words, by the weight of his own exhaustion pulling him down.
"How did you make it stop?" Sören asked, his voice hoarse. "The need for something to dull it all?"
Mark's lips curved into a sad smile. "I didn't. Not at first. I substituted one crutch for another, over and over. Music became my obsession, then work, then..." He glanced at Anthony, something intimate passing between them. "Eventually, I learned that the path is never around. It's always through."
"That's just philosophical bullshit," Sören muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Sounds nice but doesn't help me sleep tonight."
Mark's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his grey eyes — not offense, but a patient understanding that made Sören feel simultaneously seen and exposed.
"Perhaps," Mark conceded. "But I'm offering what worked for me, not a universal solution."
Anthony shifted in his chair. "Look, I know this sucks right now. But maybe just try something different tonight? One night."
Sören's leg bounced frantically under the table. "And if I can't sleep? If I lie there all night staring at the ceiling while my skin tries to crawl off my body?"
"Then we'll be right here with you," Anthony said simply.
The sincerity in his voice made Sören's throat tighten. He swallowed hard against the sudden emotion. Anthony had been his best friend for years, but Mark was practically a stranger. Yet here they were, both of them, Mark also offering to sit vigil through his misery.
"I can teach you some techniques," Mark said, his voice a low, soothing melody. "Not meditation, if that word bothers you. Just... ways to be with discomfort without drowning in it."
Sören drained the last of his tea, the warmth of it spreading through his chest. "I don't know if I can."
"You don't have to know," Mark replied. "You just have to try."
The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence that followed. Outside, the rain continued its steady percussion against the windows, a natural metronome counting the seconds of Sören's indecision.
Sören's gaze drifted from Mark to Anthony, then down to his empty mug. The tremor in his hands had lessened slightly, though whether from the tea or the conversation, he couldn't tell.
"One night," he finally conceded, his voice rough. "Just one."
Relief flickered across Anthony's face. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Sören warned. "I might be a raging asshole by morning."
Mark's mouth quirked into that ghost of a smile again. "We'll manage."
The three of them moved from the kitchen to the living room, where soft lamplight cast warm pools across the hardwood floor. Rain continued its steady patter against the windows, punctuated occasionally by the low rumble of distant thunder.
Mark gestured toward the large sofa. "Lie down. Get comfortable."
Sören hesitated, then slowly settled onto the sofa, his lanky frame tensing as he positioned himself. He crossed his arms over his chest defensively.
"I feel ridiculous," he muttered, but there was less bite in his voice now, the edge worn down by exhaustion.
Mark knelt beside the sofa, his movements fluid and graceful. "Close your eyes."
"I don't —"
"Just try," Anthony said softly from where he'd settled in an armchair nearby.
Sören exhaled sharply through his nose but let his eyelids fall shut. The darkness behind them seemed to pulse with the same electric energy that crawled beneath his skin.
"Focus on the sound of the rain," Mark's voice came, low and melodic, closer than Sören had expected. "Don't try to control your thoughts. Just notice them, like clouds passing overhead."
Sören snorted. "My thoughts aren't clouds. They're fucking hurricanes."
"Then listen to them roar," Mark said, his voice unwavering. "Acknowledge their power without trying to fight them."
A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the gentle patter of rain and the occasional creak of the old house settling. Sören's breathing remained shallow, his body rigid against the cushions.
"This isn't working," he finally muttered, eyes still closed. "My mind won't shut up."
"It doesn't need to shut up," Mark replied. "It just needs to be heard."
Anthony shifted in his chair. "When Mark first tried this with me, I thought it was new age bullshit too."
"I didn't say —" Sören began defensively.
"You didn't have to." There was a smile in Anthony's voice. "Your face says everything. Always has."
Sören cracked one eye open to glare at Anthony, but found his friend watching him with such naked affection that the retort died on his lips. He closed his eye again, swallowing hard.
"The rain," Mark reminded him gently. "Listen to its rhythm."
Sören tried, focusing on the patter against the windows. It did have a certain cadence, rising and falling like breathing. His own breathing unconsciously began to match it, slowing ever so slightly.
"There's a technique," Mark continued, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through Sören's chest, "where you tense each muscle group and then release it. Start with your toes."
"Seriously?" Sören muttered, but he curled his toes.
"Yes, curl them tight," Mark instructed, his voice a gentle rumble. "Hold it... now release."
Sören did as instructed, surprised at the small wave of relief that traveled up his feet. "That's... not terrible."
"Now your calves," Mark continued. "Tense them... hold... and release."
Working methodically, Mark guided Sören through each muscle group, from his legs up to his shoulders, neck, and finally his face. With each release, Sören felt a fraction of the electric tension drain from his body. Not gone completely, but... manageable.
"Your breathing has changed," Mark observed quietly.
Sören hadn't noticed, but his chest was rising and falling more slowly now, no longer the shallow, anxious breaths of before. The rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows, punctuated by occasional distant thunder.
"Now imagine each breath carries this tension further from your body," Mark continued, his voice a hypnotic cadence that seemed to flow with the rainfall. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
Sören followed the instruction, surprised at how his lungs expanded more fully with each breath. The crawling sensation under his skin hadn't disappeared entirely, but it had receded somewhat, like waves pulling back from shore.
"This is... weird," he murmured, eyes still closed.
"What feels weird about it?" Mark's question was gentle, without judgment.
Sören's brow furrowed. "I feel... heavy. Like I'm sinking into the couch."
"That's good," Mark assured him. "That's your body finally relaxing."
From across the room, Anthony's voice came soft and encouraging. "The first time Mark did this with me, I fell asleep halfway through and didn't even realize it until I woke up the next morning."
A faint smile crossed Sören's lips. "I doubt I'll be that lucky."
"Don't focus on the outcome," Mark said. "Just be in this moment."
Sören tried to follow Mark's guidance, but his mind kept circling back to the same anxious thought: what if the dreams came? What if, after all this effort, he finally fell asleep only to be plunged into those vivid nightmares?
As if sensing his thoughts, Mark said, "Your breathing changed. What came to mind just now?"
Sören hesitated. He'd already admitted more tonight than he'd intended. But something about the gentle darkness behind his closed eyelids, the steady rain, and Mark's soothing presence made it easier to speak the truth.
"I'm afraid of what I'll see.”
Mark's voice came from closer now, a low vibration that seemed to resonate in Sören's chest. "What are you afraid you'll see?"
Sören's eyes remained closed, but his fingers curled into the fabric of the couch. "I told you. The dreams. The memories that aren't mine."
"If they come," Mark said, his voice a gentle rumble, "they come. But you won't be alone with them."
Sören's eyes flew open. Mark knelt beside the sofa, his face level with Sören's, grey eyes luminous in the dim light. Behind him, Anthony watched from the armchair, concern etched across his features.
"What do you mean?" Sören asked, voice hoarse.
The words settled over Sören like a warm blanket, unexpected and oddly comforting. Something in Mark's gaze held him, those grey eyes somehow ancient and knowing in a way that should have been impossible for someone who couldn't be much older than forty.
"You mean... you'll stay up all night?" Sören asked, his voice small in the rain-filled quiet.
Anthony leaned forward in his chair. "If that's what you need, yes."
The simple certainty in his friend's voice made Sören's throat tighten. He looked away, focusing on the ceiling, unable to bear the naked compassion in their faces.
"That's ridiculous," he muttered. "You both have work tomorrow."
Mark's lips curved into that ghost of a smile again. "I've gone without sleep for far longer than one night."
"Besides," Anthony added, "I can trade a shift at the vet clinic if I need to. There’s a few people who owe me favors.”
Sören swallowed hard, fighting the sudden tightness in his throat. He wasn't used to this kind of care — this unquestioning support. It made him feel vulnerable in a way that was both terrifying and strangely comforting.
"I don't..." he began, then stopped, unsure what he was even trying to say. I don't deserve this? I don't know how to accept this? I don't understand why you care?
Mark seemed to hear the unspoken words. His hand came to rest lightly on Sören's forearm, the touch so gentle it barely registered. "You don't have to understand it. Just allow it."
Sören closed his eyes again, if only to escape the intensity of Mark's gaze. The weight of Mark's hand on his arm was like an anchor, keeping him tethered when he felt in danger of floating away on the waves of exhaustion and anxiety.
"Fine," Sören relented, his voice rough with emotion he refused to acknowledge. "But I still don't think this will work."
"Maybe not," Mark conceded, his hand remaining on Sören's arm. "But trying and failing is better than not trying at all."
The rain continued its steady percussion against the windows as Mark guided Sören back to the breathing exercise. This time, Sören found it easier to follow along, his body already remembering the pattern of tension and release. The electric crawling beneath his skin hadn't disappeared, but it had receded to a dull hum, like background static rather than the overwhelming roar of before.
"Now," Mark's voice came, low and melodic, "I want you to picture a place where you feel safe."
Sören snorted softly. "That's a short list."
"It doesn't have to be real," Mark continued, unperturbed by Sören's skepticism. "It could be imaginary. Or a memory. Somewhere your body remembers peace."
Sören's first instinct was to make another sarcastic comment, but exhaustion had worn down his defenses. He let his mind drift, searching for a place that didn't hold shadows.
"There was this beach," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "In Iceland. Near Reykjavik. I used to go there to paint when I was in art school."
"Tell me about it," Mark encouraged, his voice a gentle current pulling the words from Sören.
"Black sand. Grey sky. The ocean was always cold, even in summer." Sören's voice softened with the memory. "But there was this one cove where the waves weren't so rough. Protected by these tall cliffs on either side. I'd go there early in the morning when no one else was around."
As Sören spoke, he could almost feel the cool Icelandic breeze against his face, hear the rhythmic crash of waves against volcanic sand. The memory was so vivid he could taste the salt in the air.
"What did you paint there?" Mark's voice seemed to come from very far away now.
"The sea, mostly. The way the light hit the water." Sören's voice had taken on a dreamy quality. "Sometimes I'd paint the cliffs. They had these strange formations... like they'd been carved by giant hands."
Mark's touch on his arm remained steady, grounding. "And how did you feel in this place?"
Sören was quiet for a long moment, considering. "Small," he finally said. "But not in a bad way. Like... my problems were small too," Sören finished. "Against something that vast and ancient... my worries didn't matter so much."
The rain drummed steadily against the windows, its rhythm melding with Sören's slowing breaths. Mark's hand remained on his arm, a warm anchor against the pull of memory.
"Hold that feeling," Mark said. "Let it expand through your body with each breath."
Sören's chest rose and fell more deeply now, each exhale seeming to sink him further into the couch. The black sand beach filled his mind — the crash of waves, the cry of seabirds, the solitude that had never felt lonely.
"The water is so cold there," Sören mumbled, his words beginning to slur with exhaustion. "But I used to wade in anyway... just to feel... something real."
From the armchair, Anthony watched as Sören's features gradually softened, the tension in his face easing like a tide receding. Mark remained kneeling beside the sofa, his hand a steady presence on Sören's arm, his voice a low melody that seemed to weave with the rhythm of the rain.
"Let yourself be there now," Mark said. "Feel the cold water against your skin. Hear the waves breaking against the shore."
Sören's breathing had slowed to a deep, steady cadence. His lips parted slightly, the furrow in his brow smoothing out as he sank deeper into the memory.
"The birds," Sören whispered, his voice thick with approaching sleep. "Arctic terns... they dive so fast... like arrows..."
Mark's voice dropped even lower, becoming almost a hum. "Watch them dive. Feel the wind against your face.”
Sören's words became more disjointed, his sentences fragmenting as sleep began to claim him. "The terns... they scream... like they're calling..."
"What are they calling?" Mark asked, his voice barely audible now.
"A name," Sören murmured. "Not mine... but I know it..."
Sören's body finally surrendered to exhaustion.
Sören jolted awake, consciousness roaring back to him like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. His eyes flew open, pupils dilating in the dim, pre-dawn light filtering through the half-drawn curtains. His heart hammered against his ribs like a wild animal trying to break free, and his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps that scraped his dry throat raw.
No dreams this time, but somehow that was worse. The formless darkness had simply swallowed the hours whole, leaving him feeling as though he'd spent the night running, fighting invisible enemies. His body hadn't gotten the message that there was no actual danger; adrenaline coursed through his veins, making his hands tremble against the sweat-dampened sheets twisted around his legs.
He peeled himself from the couch, grimacing at the clammy sensation of his t-shirt clinging to his back. The living room was awash in the pale blue light of early dawn, transforming familiar objects into ghostly shapes. Sören's eyes swept across the room, momentarily confused to find himself on the couch rather than in the guest bedroom he'd been using.
Mark was still there, seated on the floor beside the sofa, his back against the wall, head tilted slightly to one side in sleep. His long hair had fallen across his face, obscuring his features, but his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of deep slumber. Across the room, Anthony had curled up in the armchair, his lean frame somehow fitting into the confined space, one arm dangling over the side.
They'd stayed. All night. Just as they'd promised.
Something twisted in Sören's chest — an emotion he couldn't name, too raw and unfamiliar to properly identify. He swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat.
Carefully, trying not to disturb either of them, Sören disentangled himself from the blanket that someone had draped over him during the night. His body felt heavy, like he was moving through water, his muscles leaden with exhaustion despite having slept. His skin still crawled with that electric sensation, and a dull headache pulsed behind his eyes — but they seemed slightly muted, as if viewed through frosted glass.
He padded silently to the kitchen, wincing as the floorboards creaked beneath his feet. The digital clock on the microwave read 5:47 AM. He'd slept for almost six hours — not enough, but more than he'd expected. More than he'd managed in two days.
Sören filled a glass with water and drank it down in long, desperate gulps, his parched throat grateful for the relief. As he set the empty glass on the counter, Sören braced himself against the kitchen sink, head hanging low between his shoulders. The crawling sensation under his skin had intensified again, like tiny electric ants marching through his veins. His stomach lurched uncomfortably, a queasy rolling that had nothing to do with hunger.
"Fuck," he whispered to the empty kitchen, squeezing his eyes shut.
He knew where his stash of gummies was hidden — tucked inside a hollowed-out art history book in his duffel bag. One would be enough to take the edge off, to quiet the buzzing beneath his skin. Just one, to get through the morning.
Anthony and Mark wouldn't even have to know.
Sören pushed away from the sink, his decision made. He would take just one gummy — not his usual two or three — to ease the crawling sensation beneath his skin. His feet carried him silently through the living room, past Mark's sleeping form and Anthony curled in the armchair. He paused at the doorway, glancing back at them with a twinge of guilt.
They'd stayed up with him, watching over him like guardian angels, but they didn't understand. Couldn't understand the electric current running through his veins, the way his skin seemed to belong to someone else. One gummy wouldn't hurt. Just enough to take the edge off.
In the guest bedroom, Sören's fingers trembled as he dug through his duffel bag, pushing aside clothes until he found the hollowed-out art history book. He flipped it open, revealing the small plastic bag nestled inside. The gummies glinted in the dim light filtering through the curtains, their sugar coating sparkling with tempting promise. Sören's fingers trembled as he reached for one, his mouth already watering in anticipation. Just one. To steady himself. To quiet the buzzing beneath his skin.
He popped the gummy into his mouth before he could reconsider, the familiar sweetness blooming across his tongue. A small sigh of relief escaped him as he swallowed, already imagining the calm that would soon wash over him. He carefully replaced the bag in its hiding spot, snapping the hollowed book shut.
Sören returned to the kitchen, moving quietly past his still-sleeping friends. He filled his glass with water again and leaned against the counter, waiting for the gummy to take effect. Outside, the first birds had begun their morning chorus, a gentle counterpoint to the rain that still pattered against the windowpanes.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty. The familiar calming effects of the THC should have been washing over him by now, but instead, something felt wrong. The electric sensation under Sören's skin intensified rather than diminished, and a new discomfort bloomed in his stomach — not the usual munchies, but a churning nausea that rose like a tide.
Sören swallowed hard, setting his water glass down with a shaking hand. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool morning air. The nausea twisted his insides into knots. He braced himself against the counter, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to will the sensation away.
It didn't work.
Without warning, his stomach heaved. Sören barely made it to the sink before the first wave of vomit surged up his throat. He retched violently, his body convulsing as it expelled the meager contents of his stomach.
"Shit," he gasped between heaves, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. The nausea didn't subside after the first round — if anything, it intensified, clawing at his insides like a living thing.
Behind him, he heard movement, then Anthony's sleep-roughened voice: "Sören? What's wrong?"
Sören couldn't answer, another wave of vomit forcing its way up his throat. He felt a hand on his back, gentle but firm, as Anthony's concerned face appeared in his peripheral vision.
"Oy gevalt, are you sick?" Anthony asked, his voice tight with worry.
"I don't know," Sören managed between heaves, his voice raw and broken. "Something's wrong. I don't —" Another violent wave of nausea cut him off, his body convulsing as he emptied what little remained in his stomach.
Mark appeared in the kitchen doorway, sleep-tousled but instantly alert. "What's happening?"
Anthony kept his hand on Sören's back, steadying him as he retched. "He's sick. Really sick."
Mark crossed the kitchen in three long strides, his expression shifting from concern to focused intensity. He pressed the back of his hand to Sören's forehead. "No fever. When did this start?"
"Just now," Sören gasped, his throat burning. "I was fine, and then —" His stomach lurched again, but there was nothing left to bring up. The spasms were relentless, coming in waves that left Sören gasping for air between bouts of dry heaving. His knees weakened, and only Anthony's steady hand on his back kept him from collapsing onto the kitchen floor.
"This isn't normal," Anthony said. "We need to get him to a hospital."
Mark's grey eyes narrowed as he studied Sören's face. "Sören," he said, his voice gentle but firm, "did you take something?"
Sören tried to shake his head, but another wave of nausea hit him, doubling him over the sink. When the spasm passed, he found both men watching him intently.
"Just... one gummy," he finally admitted, his voice a ragged whisper. "Just one. To take the edge off."
Anthony's face fell, disappointment and concern warring across his features. "Sören..."
"I'm sorry," Sören gasped, another wave of nausea twisting his insides. "I didn't think... one would hurt."
Mark moved closer, his expression not judgmental but deeply concerned. "When exactly did you take it?"
"Maybe... half hour ago?" Sören's voice was weak, his knuckles white as he gripped the sink edge. "Never... reacted like this before."
Anthony and Mark exchanged a meaningful glance over Sören's hunched form, then another violent heave washed over him like a tsunami. His body convulsed with the effort of expelling contents from an empty stomach. His vision dimmed at the edges, dark spots dancing before his eyes.
"Hospital," Anthony said firmly, no longer a suggestion but a decision. "Now."
Mark nodded, already moving toward the door. "I'll get the car."
Sören wanted to protest, to insist he was fine, but another wave of nausea stole his breath. His legs gave out entirely, and he would have collapsed if Anthony hadn't caught him, sliding an arm around his waist.
"I got you," Anthony husked, supporting Sören's weight. "Come on, one step at a time."
The world tilted and swayed as Anthony guided him toward the front door. Sören's skin felt simultaneously too hot and too cold, sweat pouring down his face and back while chills racked his body. The electric crawling beneath his skin had intensified to an unbearable degree, like a thousand ants marching through his veins. Each step toward the door was a monumental effort, his legs trembling violently beneath him. Without Anthony's arm around his waist, Sören knew he would have collapsed in a heap on the hardwood floor.
"Mark's getting the car," Anthony said, his voice tight with concern. "Just a few more steps."
Sören tried to nod, but another violent wave of nausea crashed over him. He doubled over, dry heaving painfully as his empty stomach continued its desperate attempts to purge itself. Anthony's grip tightened, keeping him upright through the spasm.
"Never... been this sick," Sören gasped when he could speak again. His throat felt raw, his voice a ragged whisper. "Even after... drinking binges.”
"I know," Anthony said, his voice gentle but strained. "That's why we're going to the hospital."
Outside, rain still fell steadily, washing the pre-dawn world in shades of grey and blue. Mark had pulled their SUV to the front of the house, and he jumped out to help as Anthony guided Sören down the porch steps. Between them, they managed to get Sören into the backseat, where he immediately curled in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his midsection.
"I'll sit with him," Anthony said, sliding in beside Sören. "Drive fast."
Mark nodded grimly, closing the door and hurrying to the driver's seat. The engine roared to life, and they pulled away from the ranch house, tires splashing through puddles on the gravel driveway.
Every bump in the road sent waves of agony through Sören's body, triggering fresh heaves that left him gasping. Anthony kept one arm around his shoulders, the other holding a plastic shopping bag they'd grabbed on the way out — a makeshift sick bag that Sören had already used twice in the ten minutes since they'd left the house.
"Almost there," Mark said from the driver's seat, his voice tight with tension as he navigated the rain-slicked roads with careful urgency. His eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, watching Sören's hunched form in the backseat.
Sören barely registered the words. The world had narrowed to the relentless waves of nausea and the burning pain in his throat. His skin felt wrong — too tight in some places, too loose in others. The crawling sensation was as if his very cells were trying to escape his body. Another violent heave wracked his frame, and Sören whimpered as his abdominal muscles contracted painfully around nothing.
"It's okay," Anthony whispered, his hand making gentle circles on Sören's back. "We're almost there. Just hold on."
The car swung into the hospital parking lot, tires squealing slightly on the wet pavement as Mark pulled directly up to the emergency entrance. He was out of the driver's seat before the engine had fully stopped, rushing around to help Anthony with Sören.
Between them, they half-carried Sören through the automatic doors into the bright fluorescent glare of the emergency room. The sudden light stabbed at Sören's eyes, making him wince and turn his face into Anthony's shoulder.
"We need help," Mark called out, his voice carrying across the waiting room with a commanding presence that turned heads immediately. "Our friend needs medical attention now."
A triage nurse rushed forward, her face a professional mask of concern. "What's happening?"
"Uncontrollable vomiting," Anthony explained, still supporting most of Sören's weight. "It came on suddenly about an hour ago and hasn't stopped. He can't even keep water down."
As if to emphasize the point, Sören doubled over with another violent heave. The nurse immediately signaled for a wheelchair, which appeared within seconds.
"Get him into Bay Three," she instructed a nearby orderly as they eased Sören into the chair. "I'll alert Dr. Turner."
The next few minutes passed in a blur of movement and voices. Sören was vaguely aware of being transferred from the wheelchair to an examination bed, of hands touching him, voices asking questions, bright lights shining in his eyes. The nausea continued to roll through him in relentless waves, his body convulsing with each new spasm. A basin appeared in his hands just in time for another round of painful dry heaving.
"Has he taken any medication or substances?" a doctor asked, her voice sharp with professional concern.
Anthony hesitated, looking at Sören with an expression that mingled worry and apology. "He took a cannabis edible about an hour before the symptoms started."
The doctor's eyebrows rose slightly. "How much?"
"Just one gummy," Sören rasped, his voice barely audible. "I've never... reacted like this before."
"Has he been using cannabis regularly?" the doctor asked, directing the question to Anthony and Mark.
"Yes," Anthony admitted. "Daily, from what I understand. But he stopped a few days ago when he started a course of pain medication.”
The doctor nodded, something like recognition flickering across her face. She turned to Sören, her expression softening slightly. "And you just started using again this morning, after a few days without it?"
Sören managed a weak nod before another wave of nausea crashed over him. The doctor stepped back, speaking quietly to a nurse who immediately moved to prepare an IV.
"I think I know what's happening," the doctor said, addressing all three men. "Based on his symptoms and the pattern of use you've described, this looks like Cannabis Hyperemesis Syndrome. It's not common, but we're seeing more cases as high-potency products become more widespread."
Anthony's brow furrowed. "Cannabis Hyperemesis? I've never heard of that."
"It's a condition that can develop in long-term, regular cannabis users," the doctor explained, her voice clinical but not unkind. "The exact mechanism isn't fully understood, but essentially, in some people, cannabis begins to affect the digestive system in the opposite way it's supposed to. Instead of preventing nausea, it triggers severe, uncontrollable vomiting episodes."
Another spasm wracked Sören's body, validating her words with painful clarity. The nurse returned with an IV stand, and the doctor continued speaking as she efficiently inserted the needle into Sören's arm.
"We're going to give you fluids for dehydration, anti-nausea medication, and something for the pain," she explained, her voice gentler now as she addressed Sören directly. "The episodes can last from 24 to 48 hours, but the medication should help manage the symptoms."
Sören nodded weakly, too exhausted and miserable to speak, feeling like thousands of needles were pricking him from within. Sören clutched at the hospital bed rail as another wave of nausea crashed over him.
"Is there anything that helps with the symptoms?" Mark asked, his melodic voice steady despite the concern etched across his face.
The doctor nodded, adjusting the IV drip. "Hot showers or baths sometimes provide temporary relief, though we don't fully understand why. But the only true cure is cessation of cannabis use."
"Permanently?" Anthony's voice held a note of alarm that matched the panic flaring in Sören's chest.
"I'm afraid so," the doctor confirmed. "Once CHS develops, even small amounts can trigger episodes. And they typically get worse over time."
Sören closed his eyes, a different kind of nausea washing over him.
The doctor's words hit Sören like a physical blow. No more cannabis. Ever. The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through him, distinct from the nausea that continued to roll through his body in merciless waves.
"There has to be some mistake," he managed to rasp between spasms. "I've been using for years without —"
"That's actually typical of CHS," the doctor interrupted gently. "It develops after prolonged, regular use — often years. The body's receptors essentially become oversaturated and begin to malfunction." She adjusted something on his IV. "This should start helping with the nausea soon."
Sören's eyes sought Anthony's, silently pleading for some alternative explanation, some way out of this diagnosis. But Anthony's face held only concern and a dawning recognition.
Mark moved closer to Sören's bedside, his tall frame casting a shadow across the hospital sheets. His grey eyes held a depth of understanding that made Sören look away.
"The medication is entering your system now," the doctor said, checking the IV. "You should start feeling some relief soon. I'll be back to check on you in a bit." She turned to leave, then paused. "And Mr. Sigurðsson? I know this isn't what you wanted to hear, but continuing to use cannabis with CHS can lead to severe dehydration requiring hospitalization, electrolyte imbalances, kidney failure in extreme cases, and..." She hesitated, then continued with professional directness, "The episodes tend to worsen over time. We've had patients who became so dehydrated they developed serious complications."
Sören squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the concern on Anthony and Mark's faces. The crawling sensation under his skin persisted, though the anti-nausea medication was beginning to take the edge off the violent heaving. His throat felt raw, his abdominal muscles ached from the constant contractions, and a bone-deep exhaustion permeated every cell of his body. But worse than the physical discomfort was the dawning realization: his primary coping mechanism for the past several years was now permanently off-limits.
As the doctor left, a heavy silence fell over the hospital bay, broken only by the steady beep of monitors and the distant sounds of the ER beyond the curtain. Sören kept his eyes closed, not ready to face the reality of his situation or the concerned gazes of his friends.
"I'll get you some water," Anthony said finally, his voice gentle. "Small sips when you're ready."
Sören heard footsteps receding, then felt a presence still beside him. He cracked one eye open to find Mark standing there, his expression inscrutable.
"Go ahead," Sören muttered. "Say 'I told you so.'"
Mark's expression softened, a hint of that ghost-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That's not my style."
The quiet dignity in his voice made Sören feel even worse. He turned his face away, staring at the sterile white wall of the examination bay. The IV medication was beginning to work, the violent nausea receding to a dull, persistent discomfort. The crawling sensation beneath his skin remained, but it too had diminished slightly, like a radio turned down but not off.
"I fucked up," Sören whispered, the words scraping his raw throat.
Mark pulled a chair closer to the bedside and sat, his movements fluid despite his tall frame. "Perhaps. But beating yourself up about it won't change anything."
Sören's laugh was bitter and short. "What else am I supposed to do? I just found out I can never touch weed again. Ever.”
Mark regarded Sören with those penetrating grey eyes. "And what does that mean to you? Beyond the obvious."
Sören stared at the ceiling, the harsh fluorescent lights making his head pound. The medication was working, at least; the violent nausea had subsided to a queasy discomfort, and the IV fluids were beginning to combat the dehydration that had left his lips cracked and his head spinning.
"It means I'm fucked," he whispered. "The flashbacks will come during the day. And the dreams will come back. Every night. And there's nothing I can do about it."
Mark's expression remained calm, but something flickered in his eyes — not pity, but a deep understanding that made Sören's chest tighten.
"There are other ways to manage dreams, and flashbacks," Mark said quietly.
"Yeah, like what? Meditation?" Sören's voice held a bitter edge. "We tried that.”
Mark's eyes remained steady, unwavering in the harsh fluorescent light. "And you slept for six hours. Without dreams."
Sören opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Mark was right. He had slept — deeply enough that he couldn't remember if he'd dreamed or not. The realization hung between them, fragile and unexpected.
"One night doesn't prove anything," Sören finally muttered, though the fight had drained from his voice.
Mark leaned forward slightly, his long hair falling across his shoulder. "No, it doesn't. But it suggests possibilities."
Anthony returned with a small cup of water, his footsteps hesitant as he approached the bed. "The nurse said small sips only," he said, offering the cup to Sören. "How are you feeling?"
Sören accepted the cup with trembling hands. "Like I've been hit by a fucktruck," Sören growled, bringing the cup to his lips with shaking hands. He took a tiny sip, then another, waiting for his stomach to rebel. When it didn't immediately reject the water, he let out a shaky breath. "But better than before. The meds are helping."
Anthony pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed, his face drawn with worry. "The nurse said they want to keep you for a few hours for observation and fluids."
Sören nodded weakly, too exhausted to argue. The adrenaline that had carried him through the past hour was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that made even keeping his eyes open a struggle. The IV fluids were gradually combating the dehydration, but his body felt hollowed out, scraped raw from the inside.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, not meeting either of their gazes. "For waking you up. For making you bring me here. For..." His voice cracked. "For fucking up after you tried to help me."
Anthony's hand found Sören's, squeezing gently. "Don't apologize. We're just glad you're getting treatment."
"Besides," Mark added, his voice a low rumble that somehow cut through the antiseptic hospital sounds, "addiction isn't overcome in a single night."
Sören flinched at the word. "I'm not —"
"You are," Mark interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. "And the sooner you can acknowledge that, the sooner healing can begin."
Sören wanted to argue, to insist that cannabis wasn't addictive, that he just used it to sleep, to function. But the evidence of his body's violent rebellion was undeniable. The doctor's words echoed in his mind: "Cannabis Hyperemesis Syndrome... once it develops, even small amounts can trigger episodes." His stomach twisted again, though whether from residual nausea or the weight of this new reality, he couldn't tell.
"I don't know how to do this," Sören admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to face the dreams and the flashbacks without... something to numb them."
Mark's expression remained steady, those grey eyes holding Sören's gaze. "You don't have to know yet. Right now, you just need to rest and recover."
"We'll figure it out together," Anthony added, his fingers still wrapped around Sören's hand. "One day at a time."
The phrase made Sören wince. "You sound like a fucking AA meeting."
"There's a reason those phrases become clichés," Mark said, that ghost of a smile playing at his lips again. "They contain truth, worn smooth by repetition."
Sören closed his eyes, too exhausted to maintain his defensive posture. The medication had dulled the worst of the nausea, but his body felt like it had been through a war —muscles aching from the violent heaving, throat raw, a bone-deep weariness that seemed to seep from his marrow.
"I'm so tired," he whispered, the admission escaping before he could stop it.
"Then sleep," Mark's voice came, low and melodic. "We'll be right here.”
Sören's eyes fluttered open to the soft beep of hospital monitors and the distant murmur of voices. The harsh fluorescent lights had been dimmed, and through the small window, he could see darkness had fallen. How long had he been asleep? His mouth felt like sandpaper, his throat raw from hours of violent retching. As far as he knew, he hadn't dreamt, or not that he could remember.
Anthony sat slumped in a chair beside the bed, his head tilted at an awkward angle, eyes closed in fitful sleep. On the other side, Mark remained awake, his grey eyes meeting Sören's with quiet awareness.
"What time is it?" Sören croaked.
"Just past nine in the evening," Mark replied, his voice a low rumble that somehow didn't disturb Anthony. "You've been drifting in and out for hours."
Sören swallowed painfully. "The nausea?"
"Better," Mark said, his deep voice a comforting anchor in the sterile hospital room. "The doctor said your vitals are stabilizing. They've been giving you fluids and anti-nausea medication through the IV."
Sören nodded weakly, taking stock of his body. The violent nausea had receded to a dull discomfort, and the crawling sensation beneath his skin had diminished to a background hum rather than the overwhelming roar of before. His throat felt raw, his abdominal muscles ached from hours of convulsive heaving, and a bone-deep exhaustion permeated every cell — but he no longer felt like he was dying.
"They want to keep you overnight," Mark continued, shifting slightly in his chair. "Just to make sure you stay hydrated and the symptoms don't return."
Sören closed his eyes briefly, a wave of shame washing over him.
Mark leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower.
"You should know, they're recommending a follow-up with an addiction specialist."
Sören's jaw tightened. "I'm not an ad —" He stopped himself, the denial dying on his lips as he met Mark's steady gaze. After a moment, he sighed. "Fine. Whatever."
Mark's expression remained neutral, but something in his eyes softened. "It's not a judgment, Sören. It's acknowledgment of a medical condition."
"A condition I brought on myself," Sören muttered.
"Perhaps," Mark conceded. "But blame serves no purpose now."
Across the bed, Anthony stirred, blinking awake.
"Hey, you're awake," Anthony said, straightening up and rubbing the back of his neck. "How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," Sören admitted. "But better than before."
Anthony reached for the cup of water on the bedside table. "The doctor said you can have small sips. Want some?"
Sören nodded, his throat painfully dry. Anthony held the cup to his lips, and Sören took a careful swallow, waiting for his stomach to rebel. When it didn't, he took another small sip.
"Thank you," he whispered, falling back against the pillows. "Both of you. For staying."
"Of course we stayed," Anthony said, as if the alternative was unthinkable.
A nurse entered, clipboard in hand. "Good, you're awake. How's the nausea?”
"Manageable," Sören replied, his voice still raw from hours of violent retching. "Not gone, but... not trying to turn me inside out anymore."
The nurse nodded, making a note on her clipboard. "That's good progress. The doctor will be by soon to check on you." She efficiently checked his vitals, adjusted the IV drip, then left as quietly as she'd come.
Silence settled over the hospital room, broken only by the soft beeping of monitors and the muffled sounds of the hospital beyond the door. Sören stared at the ceiling, unable to meet the concerned gazes of his friends. Shame and fear twisted in his gut, a different kind of nausea that no medication could touch.
"I keep thinking about what the doctor said," he finally said, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling tiles. "About never being able to use cannabis again."
Mark's eyes met Anthony's briefly before returning to Sören. "It's a significant adjustment. No one expects you to process it all at once."
"But what if..." Sören's voice cracked, vulnerability bleeding through his usual defenses. "What if I can't sleep without it? What if the dreams come back worse than before?"
Anthony leaned forward, his chair creaking beneath the shift in weight. "Then we'll face that when it happens. Together."
Sören finally looked at them, really looked at them — Anthony with his worried green eyes and disheveled hair, Mark with his calm, steady presence. They had stayed by his side through this whole ordeal, through his irritability, his denial, his collapse. Something tightened in his chest, an emotion he couldn't quite name.
"Why are you both doing this?" The question slipped out before Sören could stop it, raw and vulnerable. "You've only known me in-person a few days," he said to Mark, then turned to Anthony. "And we hadn’t spoken all that much in months before this. I don't understand why you'd go through all this trouble."
Mark's expression remained steady, but something flickered in his grey eyes — not pity, but something deeper. "Sometimes connections don't follow conventional timelines."
Anthony reached across the bed, his fingers brushing Sören's arm. "You're my best friend, Sören. That didn't change just because we weren't talking very often for a bit."
Sören swallowed hard, the simple sincerity in Anthony's voice making his throat tighten. "I've been such an asshole."
"Yes," Mark agreed, that ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "And yet, here we are."
A startled laugh escaped Sören before he could stop it, the sound rusty and painful in his raw throat. "Fuck, don't make me laugh. It hurts."
Mark's ghost-smile deepened slightly. "My apologies."
The doctor arrived then, clipboard in hand, her expression professional but kind. "Mr. Sigurðsson, good to see you awake. How are you feeling?"
"Better," Sören admitted. "Still nauseous, but not violently so."
She nodded, making notes. "The anti-emetics are working, then. Your blood work shows you were significantly dehydrated, and your electrolytes were dangerously imbalanced. We'd like to keep you overnight to continue IV fluids and monitor your condition."
Sören nodded weakly. The thought of spending the night in the hospital made his chest tighten with anxiety, but his eyes met Anthony’s. Anthony gave Sören's arm a reassuring squeeze as the doctor continued her examination. The simple gesture made Sören's throat tighten with emotion he wasn't ready to acknowledge.
"The good news is that your vital signs are stabilizing," the doctor said, checking her chart. "The episodes typically resolve within 24 to 48 hours after cannabis use stops. But I want to be clear — this condition won't improve with continued use. In fact, it will likely worsen with each episode."
"I understand," Sören said quietly, the reality of his diagnosis settling into his bones like a cold weight.
The doctor's expression softened slightly. "I'm recommending a follow-up with a behavioral health clinic, which offers counseling for substance abuse, and assessments to see if you have any mental health issues - substance abuse often goes hand-in-hand, using drugs to self-medicate."
"I'm not a —" Sören began automatically, then stopped himself, catching Mark's steady gaze. He exhaled and looked down. “Jæja.”
The doctor's eyes softened with understanding. "I know this isn't easy to hear. But Cannabis Hyperemesis Syndrome is serious — we've had patients develop kidney failure from the dehydration. You're fortunate your friends brought you in when they did."
After she left, silence filled the room again. Sören stared at his hands, noticing how they still trembled slightly against the stark white hospital sheets.
"You don't have to stay all night," he finally said, not meeting either of their eyes. "I'm stable now. You both should go home, get some real sleep."
Anthony shook his head immediately. "Not happening."
"We'll take shifts," Mark added, his deep, resonant voice brooking no argument. "Anthony can go home now, take care of the critters and get some rest, and return in the morning. I'll stay tonight."
"That's not necessary —" Sören began.
"It is.”
“OK.” Sören sighed and nodded, looking down. “So be it.”
This was going to be the longest night of his life, and he knew it was just the beginning. He’d hit rock bottom, and it seemed the climb was almost impossible, and he was rolling the boulder of Sisyphus.
He had to try, anyway. He owed his friends that much.