Chapter Text
When Coco was born, she was as silent as the way the room held their breath, waiting for a cry. It never came, and the world thought she was dead.
When Coco was two, she suddenly stopped breathing and was rushed to the hospital.
When Coco was three, she coughed up blood that it scared her mother. She was rushed to the hospital again.
It was the same for every year that Coco lived. The same pattern that she memorized more than the multiplication table her mother gave.
And in every visit, she would ask her mother, “When will my lungs be strong?”
Her mother would cry softly.
The fluorescent lights of the pediatric ward hummed. It was a constant, buzzing static that had become the soundtrack of Coco’s rather miserable life.
It was an unforgiving sound, one that seemed to vibrate right against her ribs.
Outside, the night sky over the city was likely painted in soft purples and deep indigos, perhaps even starry.
But in here, time was measured only by the rhythmic, mechanical clicks of the oxygen concentrator and the slow, heavy drip of fluid into the plastic tubing that snaked into her arm.
Coco sat propped up against her pillows, her small chest rising and falling with a hitched, labored cadence that felt far too heavy for a seven-year-old.
Even at this age, her body felt like a brittle thing, like a doll that had been dropped one too many times and held together only by sheer will and medical intervention.
Her lungs, riddled with the relentless, cruel damage of the diseases that claimed her the moment she breathed, felt as if they were lined with lead.
Every breath was a negotiation. Every exhalation was a desperate, quiet plea to her own cells to just keep working for one more hour.
The door had clicked shut twenty minutes ago, the heavy, echoing footsteps of her mother fading down the corridor until they were swallowed by the cavernous silence of the night shift.
Her mother had kissed her forehead, her skin smelling of lavender and that underlying scent of forced composure.
Her eyes had been red-rimmed and glassy, masked by a smile that never quite reached them.
“Sleep tight, my brave girl,” her mother had whispered, as if the illness were something she could simply tuck away under the blankets, as if "bravery" was a cure.
Coco traced the blue, map-like veins on the back of her hand, right next to the bruised site of her last IV puncture.
It felt so unfair. So incredibly heavy to carry a weight that adults couldn't even name without their voices breaking.
Why is it so hard to just exist? Coco wonders, her gaze fixed on the plastic tubing.
Other kids are running. Other kids are scraping their knees on playgrounds and crying because they want ice cream, not because their lungs are screaming for air.
Her mind inevitably drifted, as it always did in the dead of night, to the stories her mother told. She thought about her father.
The story about a father who succumbed to an illness was a story she had memorized.
Sometimes, she felt a sliver of resentment. Not toward him, never. She would never resent her dear late father. Her resentment was toward the unfairness of it all.
It ran naturally through her veins more than oxygen through her lungs.
Did he look at the ceiling like this? Did he have to bargain with his own heartbeat?
She didn't know if it was worse to be the one lying in the bed, waiting for the shadows to lengthen, or to be the one forced to watch a child slowly fade away.
“I'm only seven,” she thought, her tiny fingers clutching the thin, scratchy hospital blanket until her knuckles turned white. “I haven’t even learned how to draw a single house yet. I’m just a worry that mama carries.”
She shifted, and the familiar, sharp pain bloomed in her chest. She gasped, a small, wet sound, and reached for the glass of water on her nightstand with a trembling hand.
The air felt thin. Starved, insufficient, a mocking reminder that her body was betraying her even when she did absolutely nothing at all.
She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the world outside the hospital walls.
The smell of grass that her lungs could take in, the sensation of wind that didn't feel like a medical necessity, the sound of laughter that didn't have an expiration date.
But there was only the hum of the machine.
The sun bled through the vertical blinds the next morning, casting long, barred shadows across the floor that looked like a prison cell.
Coco blinked, her eyes feeling gritty, her throat dry and raw. The night had been a blur of fitful, shallow naps and the terrifying sensation of being buried under a mountain of wool blankets that she couldn't push off.
When the nurse, a kind woman named Mrs. Gable, came in to check her vitals, Coco didn't wait for the usual gentle, patronizing talk.
"I want to go out," Coco said, her voice a thin, raspy thread.
Mrs. Gable frowned, adjusting the monitor on Coco’s finger. "Coco, honey, you know your oxygen saturation levels are—"
“I know,” Coco interrupted, her small hands balled into fists on her lap. “I know they're bad. But if I have to stay in this room, I'm going to turn into a bed. I want to see the hallway. I want to see anything besides these stupid walls...”
She pushed, using every ounce of the stubbornness she had inherited from her mother and possibly father before he gave up.
“I promised to be careful,” Coco insisted.
“And when you're dizzy?” The older woman asked. Coco knew she should probably back down, but the childish curiousity and the yearning for freedom that hammered in her already weak chest made her keep on going.
“I'll promise to sit down,” She answers.
“What about-”
“I'll promise to keep my mask on!” Coco interrupts.
After a long, tense negotiation that involved calling the head physician, they finally relented, but with a condition.
They strapped the clear, plastic non-rebreather mask over her face. It smelled faintly of ozone and rubber, a suffocating, artificial shield.
It felt like she was being muzzled. Muzzled like a dog. It was vague, but she remembered seeing a dog with a leash around its neck, with a black muzzle clinging on its snout. She asked about it, to which her mother responded with “aggressive” or “loud”, which Coco nods in satisfaction.
The mask was a constant, physical reminder that she was a broken thing that couldn't handle the very air that everyone else took for granted.
But as they helped her into her small, orthopedic shoes and handed her the small portable oxygen tank, a spark of something almost like excitement ignited in her chest.
Freedom, she thought, though the word felt ironic given the heavy tank she was tethered to.
As she stepped out into the hallway, the world exploded into a sensory overload. The lights seemed brighter, the polished floor cleaner, the smells, bleach, floor wax, overcooked cafeteria food, became sharper despite the fact that she was wearing a mask. She walked slowly, her gait uneven, the wheels of her portable tank clattering rhythmically against the linoleum.
She felt like an astronaut exploring a foreign planet. A planet that does not belong to her. People walked past her. Nurses with clipboards, doctors with grave expressions, parents carrying weeping babies, and people on wheelchairs.
None of them looked at her for long. To them, she was just another piece of the scenery, a quiet, girl moving through the corridors of sickness.
She turned a corner, her breathing ragged beneath the mask, the plastic digging into the bridge of her nose. That was when she saw him.
He was sitting on a wooden bench, staring at a vibrant mural of a garden painted on the far wall.
The mural was bright. Blaring green, red, and oranges, but he was tilting his head, his brow furrowed in deep, quiet concentration, as if he were trying to solve a riddle.
Coco hesitated, her heart doing a nervous flutter, but the loneliness of her room was still too fresh in her mind. She adjusted her mask and took a shaky step toward him.
"It's a garden," she said, her voice muffled behind the plastic.
The boy jumped, turning his head quickly. He looked to be about her age, with hair that seemed to fall into his eyes constantly. He blinked, looking at her, then back at the painting, then back at her.
"A garden?" he repeated. His voice was curious, devoid of the pity she usually received. “Ah, I didn't know...”
Coco raised a brow. “How?” She asks curiously.
“Well, I have this strange syndrome,” The boy starts. “I see the world in grey and white. Kinda like what you'd see when drawing on a paper with a pen” He explains.
Guilt immediately seeped in Coco's guts.
“Wait- oh, I am so sorry!” She apologizes, followed by a cough which she winces. “I didn't know, I-”
“No, no!” The boy waves his hands. “Its okay, its okay!” He insists. “No one really sees anything wrong until you say it, so it's okay that you told me.” He gives her a small smile, to which Coco reciprocates.
“I'm Tartah, by the way.” He speaks. “My grandfather works here. He says I shouldn't be wandering, but he's always busy with charts and papers, so I like to see what's on the walls.”
“I'm Coco,” she breathed, the act of talking making her lungs hitch. She leaned against her oxygen tank for support.
Tartah stood up, his movements fluid and easy, so different from her own rigid, calculated motions. He walked over to her, his eyes scanning her mask with an intense, frank curiosity. “Why are you wearing that? Does it help you smell the garden better?”
Coco let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn't turned into a coughing fit.
“No,” she rasped, finally calming her chest. “It's to help me breathe. My lungs... they don't know how to do it right on their own.”
Tartah didn't recoil. He just nodded, as if she’d told him she was wearing a coat because it was raining.
“My grandfather says doctors are like mechanics for people. He's a doctor. He says when things break, you just have to find the right tool to fix them.” He gestured toward the far end of the hall. “He's very important. He knows where everything is hidden.”
“Do you want to see if we can find where they keep the extra juice boxes? I'm thirsty...”
Coco looked at him. This strange boy who talked about doctors like they were just people who fixed broken toys, and for the first time in months, the heavy, crushing weight of her own body felt a little lighter.
“Sure," she whispered. “I'm thirsty too.”
The duo wandered down the corridor, a strange, mismatched pair. Coco, with the rhythmic 'hiss-click' of her portable oxygen tank and the suffocating plastic of her mask, moved with the measured, careful steps of a girl who knew exactly how much energy she had left in her battery.
Tartah, on the other hand, bounded ahead, his movements loose and kinetic, though he checked over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure Coco was still within reach.
“My grandfather told me the hospital is like a giant, stone maze,” Tartah whispered, his voice conspiratorial as they passed a set of double doors.
“He says that if you get lost, you just have to follow the floor tiles. The blue ones lead to the pharmacy, and the grey ones lead to the exit. But I think he’s hiding the good stuff somewhere else.”
Coco watched him, her chest fluttering with a mix of exhaustion and genuine intrigue.
‘He’s not looking at my mask,’ she realized, a small, triumphant warmth blooming in her chest. ’‘He’s not looking at the IV bruises, or the tank, or the 'sick girl' label.’
They rounded the corner near the oncology wing, the air here cooler, smelling of antiseptic and something faintly metallic. That was when they saw him.
He was sitting slumped on the floor, leaning heavily against the wall as if he were trying to merge with the drywall.
A tall, silver IV pole stood next to him like a crooked, silent metallic friend, the bag hanging from it looking nearly empty.
He was a boy, no older than they were, but he looked like he’d been through a war.
His skin was alarmingly pale, contrasting sharply with the dark, bruised circles under his eyes, and his breathing was jagged, punctuated by sharp, wet wheezes that sounded like he was trying to swallow water.
He was gripping the pole with white-knuckled intensity, his fingers trembling. Yet, even in that state of obvious, wretched fragility, he looked up as they approached.
“Hey, kid!” the boy rasped, his voice cracking. He didn't sound like a victim. He sounded like a commander trying to rally a dying platoon.
Coco froze, her hand tightening on the handle of her own tank.
The boy pushed himself up, his knees shaking, a big, proud, and incredibly shaky smile breaking across his face.
It was a terrifying but beautiful smile. One that defied the IV pole, the hospital gown that hung loosely off his frame, and the sheer implication of some disease that were currently staging a riot inside him.
“Come join us!” he pleaded, his voice a strained, hopeful rasp.
Tartah didn't hesitate. He practically lunged forward, grabbing Coco’s wrist with an excited, infectious energy, tugging her toward the boy.
“Come on, Coco! This is my friend, Custas! He’s the toughest person in the whole building, I bet. He’s got a pole, look!” He excitedly points at the IV pole. “It’s like a sword!”
Coco stumbled forward, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at Custas and saw the reflection of her own internal winter.
The fever, the sickness, the sheer exhaustion.
“I'm... I'm Coco,” she whispered, her voice barely audible through the mask. Yet somehow, it manages to reach the boy's ears.
Custas beamed, though he had to grab the IV pole to keep from swaying as he let go of the wall. “Coco... Like the drink?” He joked, which made Coco smile.
“That’s cool. I’m Custas. I’m waiting for a guy called Dagda.” He looks around a little, before looking back at Coco.
“He’s the guy who looks like a huge mean guy, but isn't. He comes back and tell me if I’m allowed to have a popsicle today.” He pauses a little. “Want to stay? It’s boring being a statue by the wall."
Coco giggled, a soft airy sound that didn't set off a coughing fit. It was a small miracle.
She looked at the IV pole, then at the mural of the garden they had passed, and then at the two boys who were currently deciding whether or not they were allowed to sit in the hall to play pretend.
"Okay," she said, her voice stronger than it had been all day. "I'll join."
The “play” was less of a game and more of a fragile, quiet exploration, which Custas called “epic adventures”.
They knew, without needing to say it aloud, that their bodies were not built for running, jumping, or the rough-and-tumble antics of the other children they saw in the waiting rooms.
They were a trio of small, young, and curious children, carefully navigating a world that wanted to break them.
They found a secluded alcove near a service elevator where the floor was carpeted and relatively clean.
"The floor is lava," Tartah declared, his eyes scanning the patterns in the carpet that, to him, were just varying shades of grey, though he spoke with the confidence of someone seeing the brightest colors. "But we have to save the kingdom. The kingdom is... that trash can over there."
Custas let out a wet, rattling laugh, which immediately turned into a series of short, painful coughs.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his hand white-knuckled around the IV pole. Coco instinctively moved closer, her own breath hitching in sympathy. She didn't offer pity. She simply sat down beside him, her portable oxygen tank clattering softly against the base of his IV pole.
"Don't talk too much," Coco murmured, her voice masked and muffled but kind.
She reached into the pocket of her gown and pulled out a clean, folded napkin she’d saved from breakfast. The only 'treasure' she had. “Use this. My mom says it helps catch the... the bad stuff.”
Custas looked at her, his eyes glassy with fever but bright with sudden, fierce gratitude. He took the napkin, wiping his mouth with trembling hands. "Thanks, Coco. I’m okay. Just... my insides are having a dumb fight."
"My insides are always fighting too," Coco whispered, a sad, knowing smile touching her lips. "I have lungs that don't like air. What about you?"
"I've got mean bugs," Custas said, pointing vaguely to his chest and then his stomach. “Sah... Moe-nelia?”
“Salmonella” Tartah corrects. Custas giggled.
“And the Bird Flu.” He adds. “Dagda says I have to stay in the bed, but beds are for people who give up, and I’m not giving up!”
Tartah sat cross-legged between them, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "Well, luckily I don't have bugs," he announced.
“My eyes just see everything in shades of grey. But I'm going to be a doctor. I'm going to learn how to fix the machines that keep the air moving for Coco, and the machines that give the medicine to Custas.”
They sat there for what felt like hours, though it was likely only minutes. They didn't play a game of tag or a race. They played a game of talking and imagination.
They built elaborate castles out of thin air, describing places they had seen in books or dreamt of behind their eyelids.
Coco described the ocean she’d seen in a picture book. Not the color, but the sound, how the waves sounded like a giant, rhythmic breath.
Tartah explained how, if he squinted just right, he could see the "invisible" lines that connected the hospital lights.
Custas talked about the “bear”,his caregiver Dagda, and how he secretly saved the best crackers from his meal trays to feed to the “hospital ghost” he swore lived in the vents.
It was a strange kind of happiness. It was the joy of children who knew they were different, huddled together in a fortress reinforced with IV poles, oxygen tanks, and medical gowns.
Every now and then, the rhythm of the room would break.
Custas would have to stop and breathe, his chest hitching, his face turning a terrifying shade of pale.
Coco would have to adjust her non-rebreather mask, the sound of her own intake becoming a harsh, mechanical roar in the quiet alcove.
And above it all, Tartah would go still, acting as the guardian, watching the hallway for nurses, his monochromatic vision hyper-focused on movement.
They were gentle. They were careful. They handled each other’s fragile states with the delicate precision of surgeons.
When Custas grew too tired, Coco offered to share her blanket.
When Coco’s breath became too labored, Tartah would tell a story about his grandfather’s funny glasses to make her laugh without the strain of moving.
There was no judgment. There were no pitying looks from parents. There were only three children, existing in a bubble where illness wasn't a tragedy.
It was just the landscape they lived in. And in that landscape, for the first time in a long time, the shadows didn't feel quite so cold.
The afternoon light had shifted, turning the sterile, white-walled hallway into a corridor of long, melancholy shadows.
The hustle of the hospital, from the squeak of rubber soles, the distant chime of call buttons, the muffled announcements over the intercom, all of that had reached a quiet lull, a quiet hum that seemed to match the quiet stillness of the three children.
"I have to go back," Coco said suddenly, her voice sounding smaller than before, the plastic of her mask feeling heavy against her cheeks. "The nurses get... jumpy if I’m out too long."
Custas gripped his IV pole, his knuckles a stark white against the grey metal.
He looked at the floor, his breathing a wet, shallow sound that seemed to rattle deep in his chest. "I don't want to go back to the bed.” He huffs stubbornly. “The bed just waits for you to get worse. It’s boring."
Tartah stood up, brushing off his shirt. He looked between them, his eyes darting with a kind of serious, adult-like determination that sat strangely on his seven-year-old face.
“We have to,” he said, his voice firm. “If we get caught, they'll lock the doors. We won't be able to meet tomorrow.”
The thought hung in the air like a promise.
Tomorrow.
It was a word that felt fragile, like a soap bubble drifting through a room full of needles. For any of them, tomorrow was never a guarantee, but for the first time, it was a destination worth fighting for.
"Tomorrow?" Coco asked, her hand trembling as she adjusted the strap of her oxygen mask. "Do you guys promise?"
Custas stood, swaying for a moment before steadying himself against his IV pole. He held out his hand, the one not tethered to the tubing. "
“I promise. I’ll make Dagda bring me here. I’ll tell him I need the fresh air.”
Tartah grabbed their hands, forming a small, shaky circle. “I'll be here. I know all the shortcuts anyway.”
They pulled apart, the moment breaking like a thin sheet of ice.
They retreated toward their respective rooms, moving with that practiced, slow-motion caution that defined their lives.
Coco watched them go, her heart feeling fuller than it had in months. It was a strange, aching fullness that was almost painful.
Back in her room, the silence greeted her like a physical weight.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the plastic mask still humming against her face. She looked around at the monitors, the sterile white curtains, and the stark, empty chair where her mother had sat the night before.
Usually, this silence was her enemy. It was the space where the fear grew, where the thoughts of ‘why me’ spiraled into the dark.
But tonight, the silence felt different.
‘I have friends,’ she thought, her fingers tracing the fabric of her hospital blanket. ‘Actual friends.’
No one in her old school had ever understood why she couldn't run, why she couldn't breathe, why she was always "the sick girl."
They had played tag, and she had watched from the bench. They had shared secrets, and she had been the secret no one knew how to handle.
But Tartah and Custas, they weren't looking for a runner. They weren't looking for a healthy or stable kid. They were looking for her.
She lay back, the oxygen concentrator’s clicking acting like a lullaby.
She was still sick, the ache in her lungs was still there, the cold, heavy reality of her disease hadn't vanished.
Eventually, the crushing, absolute loneliness had receded.
She closed her eyes, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, hidden beneath the mask.
Tartah skipped back toward his grandfather’s office, his feet dragging slightly as the adrenaline faded, leaving his legs feeling like jelly.
He found the door cracked open, the scent of old coffee and medical files wafting out. His grandfather was hunched over a desk, his glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.
"Grandpa!" Tartah called out, his voice bubbling with a secret, vibrant joy.
His grandfather looked up, his expression softening instantly as he caught sight of the boy. "Tartah? I told you not to go wandering off. You know the corridors are crowded today."
"I wasn't wandering, I was meeting people," Tartah said like it was the most obvious thing ever, pulling up a chair and leaning over the desk.
“I met a girl who wears a mask because her lungs are bad, and a boy who fights with an IV pole. They’re my friends now. We’re going to play again tomorrow.”
His grandfather’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a look of hidden sadness crossing his face, but he quickly masked it with a professional nod.
“Friends are important, Tartah. Especially here. But you must be careful. You’re a smart boy, you know how fragile things can be in this place.”
“I know,” Tartah said, swinging his legs. “That’s why I’m going to be a doctor. So I can make sure they don't break more.”
His grandfather smiles. “You are a kind boy, Tartah.”
Down in the ward, the door to Custas’ room opened with a soft creak.
Dagda stepped inside, his large frame casting a massive shadow across the small, pale boy in the bed. He looked exhausted, his shoulders hunched, but his eyes softened the moment he saw Custas sitting up, his back against the pillows.
"You're awake," Dagda rumbled, his voice like gravel in velvet. "I brought you some fruit. The doctor said your levels are... they're holding."
Custas barely noticed the fruit. He was practically vibrating with excitement, his hands clutching the sheets.
“Dagda, you won't believe it! I met them! I met a girl named Coco and a boy named Tartah.” He rambles, his voice loud as if there was something restraining him. “We played a game, and Coco gave me a napkin for my cough, and Tartah is going to be a doctor! He’s going to fix us!”
Dagda sat heavily in the chair by the bed, his expression a complex mix of relief and heartbreak.
He listened as Custas ranted, his voice getting breathy and thin, his words tumbling over one another.
For a few minutes, the constant terror of the Bird Flu and the sickness ravaging Custas's body seemed to evaporate, replaced by the simple, beautiful, impossible spark of a child just wanting to be a child.
"They're my friends, Dagda," Custas whispered, his voice fading as the fatigue finally caught up to him. "They’re like me... We’re going to meet tomorrow. We’re going to keep...playing."
Dagda reached out, his massive, calloused hand gently covering Custas’s small, trembling one.
He didn't tell him it might be too much. He didn't tell him how sick he was. He just nodded, his eyes stinging with tears he refused to let fall.
"Tomorrow," Dagda repeated softly. "We'll see about tomorrow."
Custas smiled, his eyes finally closing shut.
“Sleep well, Custas.” Dagda whispers.